The Marriage Game
As the only child born to your parents, a girl, you were raised as a boy to ensure your parents could pass on their wealth–and so far, the ruse has held. There's one little snag though… you need a wife. Lucky for you, your parents seem to have found the perfect match, the unwanted former wife of a disgraced samurai.
~~
A/N: AHHH, whew! I hope you like this, anon!! It's going to feature a slightly sweeter Mizu, since I'm trying to write her as she was in the flashback. I figured since that bad moment with the betrayal didn't happen, she would be more guarded but not AS broken and jaded as in canon. I hope it translates correctly and not too OOC. It got a little more spiced than anything I've written so far! I know that wasn't included in the ask so I hope that's okay! :,) [Not beta'd so apologies for any errors in spelling!]
Reader is wlw!
TW: Spice, loss of virginity, unpleasant parents all around, internalized self-hate, gratuitous mentions of M*kio being a dick
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“It's not going to work–she's not going to want me,” you mumble to your mother as you wait for your new bride to arrive. She hushes you.
You subside obediently, but your doubts persist. Your family might have money, plenty of it, but that hasn't stopped several fathers from looking down their noses at you as a husband. Uncommonly delicate for a man, one has said. Too short, snorted another. And the daughters, while they kept their gazes lowered demurely as they'd been taught, had let you know with one glance that they agreed with their parents’ disdain.
You hadn't wanted them anyway, no more than you wanted a man. There was something missing from them, something blank in their yielding sweetness that did not appeal to you. Is there something broken in you?
–
“This one will be different,” your mother had insisted, when she first brought home the news. “She's already been sent home by one husband for being unfit–too ugly, I heard. But strong. She'll be in no position to complain about your looks, and she'll be able to handle the chores you can't.”
You had flushed, stung by the implied insult. All you've ever really wanted to do was express yourself through art–lingering in front of painters’ displays, tracing your fingers over the wares at a pottery booth. Or perhaps to be let alone with your animals, which never wanted you to be anything but yourself. Both choices were actively discouraged in favor of menial chores that added muscle to your limbs and calluses to your hands. But nothing your parents did could make your frame taller, or your features less feminine.
–
Now, as you give her a reproachful glance, she sighs.
“Oh, don't look like that,” she waves your feelings away, as usual. “Besides, she can't refuse you. Her mother has already agreed on her behalf–this isn't a prospective meeting, it's a wedding. Your wedding. Be glad!”
Even still, that might be worse. Gods above, how humiliating would it be for your bride to walk away from the very wedding itself?
You're not even sure what your parents expect to happen here. Yes, in theory, they have a son to inherit their wealth and status.
Then what?
Again, it wasn't that you wanted a man. To be sure, your budding orientation had been a fortuitous development for your parents. But most brides are expecting you to be something that you are not. You certainly don't have the necessary parts to give your new bride an heir to follow you, and carry on the family name. Are they already assuming she'll grow dismissive of you, and take a lover to put a child in the cradle?
Probably, you think grimly. Why would they care about your feelings on the matter? They know you're too gentle to be angry with her, and they'll be happy to know there's a continuation of their name. After all, they sacrificed your happiness just to keep their wealth in the family.
There’s some commotion outside, and your stomach lurches. She's here.
You follow your parents outside, telling yourself not to trail meekly behind like a daughter; you're a son. You have to be strong, confident. Assertive. Yeah, right. Framed between them on the porch, you know you cut a small, unimposing figure, one arm nervously rubbing the other.
Two women are climbing out of the litter that's touching down in the front yard. One, the shorter one, steps forward, as the other hangs back. You hang back also, staying up on the porch, where maybe you'll look taller.
Between you and the other woman, the older folks all congregate, loudly greeting each other with exaggerated politeness and cheer. They’re happy, chatty–proud of themselves for making a deal that each person thinks benefits them the most.
Above their heads, you and your new bride lock eyes.
Oh.
You are so far out of your depths.
Strong doesn't begin to cover the aura of the woman you're set to marry. All the confidence you’re pretending to have, she truly owns, carried as lightly as a cloak around her shoulders, moving with an easy grace and smooth bearing that you could never hope to manage. Even from a distance, you can tell she's got to be at least a half a head taller than you.
At least in expression, you can tell she isn't much more confident than you are. Her eyes travel from your nervous shifting to the softness in your features, to the large amount of space between the top of your head and the doorframe above you. You both have the same trepidatious look, watching each other with the mutual wariness of cats meeting for the first time.
Your mother was wrong about the other thing, though. She certainly is strong, but she is far from ugly. You can feel your breath catch as those startling eyes meet yours… and then your heart sinks as her mouth tightens, and she looks away. Disappointed by you, no doubt. It seems impossible that she could expect you to dislike her. Something inside you folds up in defeat.
This is going to be a disaster.
—
Once again, Mizu finds herself in the position of lying silently, waiting for a husband to arrive to claim his bride. This time, she feels no fear of ravishment; she knows what to expect, physically…and unlike Mikio, you were far from gruff during the ceremony and the dinner afterwards. You had carefully offered her the choicest bits of food, asked respectfully about her interests and her travels to come here. Indeed, you were shockingly kind, compared to her last experience.
In some ways, that makes this wait worse. She expected rejection already, and from you, it seems even more likely than before–and she doesn't want it. Mizu doesn't find you undesirable, not by a long shot. But next to you, she feels even less ladylike than she had with Mikio. You are the prettiest, most delicate man she's ever seen, you look like she could snap you in half one-handed. Not the kind of man that's going to go for someone like her.
No. She fears this time that her previous husband was right to call her unlovable. That you won't want her. The thought of having to go through all of this drama to be rejected again fills her with a deep depression. She recalls with horrible clarity the way Mikio had stared at her coldly when she greeted him in her bridal attire, barely bothering to form the words get out. If Mikio had been horrified by her, how much more so will you be? You're no tough old samurai.
She would love to be able to live happily with a husband as pretty and kind as you, even if it meant giving up on her demon’s path. But to do that, she'll never be able to connect with you.
She'll have to forever guard her true self or run the risk of being sent away yet again. Or worse, she wonders if unlike Mikio, you can't choose for yourself; she saw how your parents stomped all over you during dinner. What if they won't allow you to refuse? If you can't send her away, then you might hate her, leaving you both trapped.
She had argued and fought this marriage for so long; only the heavy guilt trip from her mother brought her here. Her mother… the only person ever to accept her besides Eiji; even with the woman's habits and guilting, Mizu finds it impossible to simply leave her uncared for. It’s her duty; something she would never shirk, even if it hurts.
But what about you? She knows from her mother’s long haggling that you've struggled nearly as much as she has in finding a spouse (though, seeing you, she can't understand why), so perhaps you feel as strong-armed into this marriage as she does. Do you resent being shackled to her by a pair of pushy mothers?
She searches every hint of your behavior today in her memory, looking for some clarity on your opinion. Unlike Mikio, you had made no comments on her appearance, but she could feel your eyes lingering shyly on her when she wasn't looking your way. Were you staring out of interest, or distaste?
The door slides open behind her. Mizu squeezes her eyes shut, biting her lip in prayer even though she feels foolish. She'll never be able to admit to herself how much it means to her that someone out there might want her. You were kind at dinner, that must mean something; please reach for her, please show interest, please let it work out this time…
Your footsteps, her new husband’s footsteps, hesitate, standing a few feet back, as though watching her. Then, with a pit of dread opening in her stomach, she hears the steps turn away, and the shuffling of another mat being set out. Her breath hitches in pain, before anger sets in.
No. Not this time. She can't do this again.
She's not going to lay in the dark like a heartsick girl because a pretty man didn't reach for her in the dark. She wants it laid out here and now. She won't deny her ember for another loveless marriage. Not even for mama.
She rolls over abruptly, brow already furrowed.
You freeze in the middle of laying out the blanket, the whites of your eyes glinting as they widen in the dark. Your heart thumps to see the scowl on your new wife's face when she pushes herself up on one elbow to look at you. You had assumed she would not want your attentions, and would pretend to be asleep to avoid them, so you wanted to accommodate her–not as though you could ever lie with her anyway, not in the way you think she's expecting.
“S-sorry, did I wake y–”
“Am I unappealing to you?”
Her voice is different, somehow, low and raspy–nothing like the softer feminine tones she'd tried to use during the day.
Oh no. You stammer for a moment, frozen, unsure what to say, even as you feel a strange flutter in your lower belly. No. Definitely not… unappealing.
“I…I…What?”
Your eyes dart away from hers; do you dare to turn away and ignore her? Instinctively, you know better than to try and command her to hush, whether you're the “man” or not. The very air of the room tells you that you're not in charge, here.
Mizu sits up, still frowning, as dogged in her pursuit of the topic as she is with every other goal.
“It's our wedding night. Why do you want to sleep over there?” She tells herself she's not afraid of failure or rejection anymore; she already believes herself unlovable. But she's bracing for the words all the same. She wants you to say it, admit it, so she can feel justified in abandoning this duty to pursue her revenge. Tell me, she thinks, her eyes boring into you piercingly. Tell me the truth so I can be set free.
For a moment, there's silence, as you meet her gaze, looking stricken. She thinks–at first–that it’s because you're too kind to want to hurt her with the truth.
Internally, you're panicking. What if the truth makes her leave, and your parents turn on you for ruining this? What if she tells her mother, who spreads it across the region via gossip? What if she simply pounds you into a pulp for deceiving her? You saw her lean, muscled arms as she carried in her luggage–she's more than capable.
You’re about to invent some excuse, some lie to buy yourself another night, when you see the barest hint of a flicker in her eyes. Old pain, buried beneath anger and bold demand. What did her last husband say to her, you wonder. You know the humiliation you felt when the word spread that multiple fathers called you undesirable for their daughters. Did she hear the similar rumors that she was somehow undesirable? You feel suddenly sorry for her, stuck with you– a husband that can't give her what a husband should.
At least you can give her the truth.
You look away, sucking in a deep breath.
“I can't… be a husband to you.” Your voice is hushed, the tone cracking at the edges. She takes it exactly the wrong way.
“Because I am ugly to you.” She says flatly, fighting to conceal the sting of hearing her fears confirmed, but then your head snaps around to meet her gaze. So she has heard the rumors, you think.
You have no idea how often she has.
“No!” You exclaim, and the earnestness in your voice disarms her, makes her believe that you mean it even when it seems impossible. “No. You're… you're not at all… you're very–…any man should be proud to have you as a wife.” Your words are a shock, making her heart speed up rapidly as you stammer. Even in the dark, she can tell that you've started to blush, and the ice building in her chest cracks ever so slightly as her own face warms. She can't meet your eyes, suddenly…but then, you’re looking away, too.
“Don't lie.” But her voice wavers uncertainly. She recalls Mikio’s revulsion, his utter refusal to ever look at her again. You're only saying that because you haven't seen the real her, yet.
You shake your head, hands trembling. She deserves to know the truth. But the confession sticks in your throat.
“You deserve better than this,” you mutter, sinking down on your sleeping mat criss-cross, putting your head in your hands. The strangeness of that response gets her attention again.
Mizu stares at you, confused. She deserves-...? She feels suddenly cold as the thought strikes her that you could be feeling an attack of a guilty conscience. Is this all a setup? Were you going to turn her in, but now you feel badly? Was this all a trap?
You’re looking down between your fingers, so a tiny rustle is all the warning you get. You yelp aloud when a sudden weight tackles you to the mat, and she claps a hand over your mouth to silence the noise, both of your other wrists grasped easily in her other hand. Pinned, you’re left staring up at Mizu’s abruptly fierce expression in shock. Despite your alarm, there's a sudden, illogical stab of something squirmy in your lower belly. Her eyes catch the moonlight through the paper windows, gleaming like clear ice in the dark, all shadows and pale blue. This-... this is what was missing from those other girls, you realize, even if you can't parse exactly what this is. She really is something amazing…you can feel your breath catch in your throat, a sudden twinge of mingled regret and desire choking you. If only you could be what a wife would want… you would be hers in truth if you could.
If she isn't about to kill you.
“Who did you tell that I'm here?” She demands, releasing your mouth to let you answer, ignoring her own mixed feelings at the way she can still feel the imprint of your mouth on her palm. Lying below her, your eyes wide and your hair spread across the pillow, you really are lovely. Almost feminine, with your delicate features and full lips. She feels an instant throb of desire, something that had never come on so suddenly or so fiercely in her last marriage. Damn it, she could have been so happy to be married to someone that looked like you. Why does she have to be who she is?
“What do you mean? Why would that matter?” you stammer, confusion dancing in the wide dark pools of your eyes. You've no idea she's got a bounty–you’re sheltered, your parents are wealthy, and don't concern themselves with tracking criminals.
There's something in your genuinely perplexed tone that makes her believe you. You're no fighter, no warrior, only something soft. She knows she would recognize a lie.
As her anger fades, she looks again from your eyes to the wrists that her fingers are wrapped around. Belatedly, with her heart seizing, she realizes that she's done it again.
Attacked her husband, frightened him. Her hands release their grip as she sits back.
Her eyes are stricken, wide with the remembered fallout; the harsh words, the silent packing up, mama’s unforgiving blame. Her heart begins to pound fast once more, certain she's ruined everything. Again.
You sit up, slowly. Seeing her wide eyes, a flicker of fear is building in your chest, too, for a different reason. Her distress seems almost like shock to you, as though she's seen something… You don't bind at night, did she see–...?
Fearfully, you tug the collar of your sleepwear more tightly together.
Mizu recognizes the motion instantly; recalls her own compulsive tugging… and why. Something clicks, cutting through her panic and steadying her. A suspicion, tiny but impossible to ignore, as she watches you look away, your face tight. Your soft-featured face, with that smooth, delicate throat–
It's not possible. The coincidence would be too…
Her expression shifts from guilt and horror to sudden focus. Again, she shoots out a hand, covering yours against your collar, gripping it tightly. You look up, prey-animal fear in your eyes.
“Don't…lie,” she says again, more softly, and the blue searches over your face like an illuminating shaft of moonlight. Your own eyes are luminous in the dim room, wet enough to reflecting the low light, even if men aren't meant to cry.
But… you aren't that, are you–and now she knows it.
—
You explain it all slowly, with your knees pulled to your chest. An instinctive shield.
“My parents… tried very hard to have a son to carry on the family line,” you whisper at the end. “But… after me…something had gone wrong. My birth made it so that there were no more babies. They only had me.” You hang your head, and Mizu recognizes her own guilt, that of a gaslit child, in your face. It stuns her, to see it in another, clarifying her own mother’s actions with sudden horror. She doesn't resent the freedom she's gained to seek her revenge, but in you, she sees that the disguise only came with more shackles. “So because it was my fault… they felt I had to make up for it.”
Anger curdles in her chest.
“It was the gods’ decision if it was anyone’s,” she says fiercely. “Not yours. You were a child.”
You look up at her, hope and hesitance warring on your face. In the silence, an owl cries outside, the haunting call drifting in through the open window. She stops, shocked by the impact of her own words on herself, hearing them said aloud in her own voice. It wasn't your fault. How long has she waited, without realizing, to hear someone say that to her?
“How do you know?” You ask, your smile growing crooked.
Mizu’s hands clench into fists in her lap. Only moments ago, she had felt certain to find herself rejected yet again, certain she would be slipping away before morning, finally feeling freed of obligation, having truly seen the proof that she could never live a normal life.
Now conflict dogs her conscience.
You see the consternation in her eyes, and though you could never know the reason, you rightly assume the situation is causing her some mixed feelings.
Hesitantly, you reach out, your hand covering hers.
“Don't lie.” You murmur her own words back to her, and she can't find a reason to fight the invitation in your gentle gaze.
—
You're astonished when she explains about her vow, about the similar disguise she adopted.
“But you're so beautiful,” you blurt out, unable to believe she could pass for a man, then flush when she meets your gaze with disbelieving surprise. A little scoff escapes her, but when you hold her gaze steadily, serious, she looks down.
“...I'm sorry,” she replies, stumbling a bit over the honesty. You smile shyly, your turn to be flustered, and she feels her heart turn over. Cute. It startles her to realize her attraction hasn't lessened now that she knows the truth.
“For what?”
“I nearly killed you just now. I frightened you.”
You remember the heart-pounding sight of her above you, her gaze glinting like a blade, teeth bared fiercely. The squirm in your belly has nothing to do with fear.
“You didn't hurt me,” you tell her reassuringly. “Startled me, only. You moved so fast. It was…”--hot–“...impressive.” You give a short laugh. “Perhaps you should be the husband. You're better at it than me.”
Belatedly, you see the flash of pain in her eyes. You have to be a boy, Mizu. Stricken at her expression, you begin to stammer out an apology, but she shakes her head, waving it away as though her moment of vulnerability is too uncomfortable to linger on. All she says is, “Being violent doesn't make a better husband.”
“No,” You agree, apologetically. “But I wish I could protect you the way you seem able to protect yourself.”
“I don't need protection,” she says, more harshly than she meant to. At your flinch, her brow softens. There's a little pause.
You draw your knees up, hugging them. “I guess you'll want to leave, now?” The thought is depressing, but hearing her speak of her vow, the spark in her eyes, you can't stand the idea of trapping her here as your fake wife.
“What?” She looks up, eyes widening.
“On your quest?” You clarify. “I would not force you to stay here, no matter what our parents say.” When she doesn't reply, only stares openmouthed, you add, “I can get you the things you need. We have money. I can get you a travel pass, a horse… whatever might help you.”
She closes her mouth, opens it–closes it again. She looks genuinely moved, the icy edge of her eyes softening as her hand convulsively grasps yours, gratitude bubbling up inside her; of the tiny number of people she has let past her walls, you are the first to ever offer even a scrap of encouragement towards her goals. To Eiji she was foolish, to her mother–selfish, to Mikio… well, even in the beginning he had laughed skeptically, and it had only gone worse from there.
But…
“I owe it to mama to make this work out,” she says with a sigh, though resentment burns in her heart. A disloyal voice mutters in her heart that Mama only wants her as a meal ticket, but she dismisses it.
“We could keep your mother here, while you get your revenge,” you offer, wanting to please her so badly, trying to hide your reluctance; already, you don't want her to go. Her hand over yours is warm, it feels so strong…it's the first time anyone besides family has touched you in any capacity.
She smiles ever so slightly, a rare moment of humor, tinged with the truth. “I could not leave you with them; you've done nothing to deserve such a fate.”
You smile gratefully, then bite your lip, thinking.
“Maybe you could…pretend to be me?”
Her brow furrows. “What?”
“On the travel pass–it would have my name. We could travel together, the husband and his new wife,” you expand on the thought, speculating as you go. “You can take up your disguise again when you want to, I can take it up when you don't… either way, all anyone would see would be a man and his wife, traveling legally.”
She's staring again. She looks so blankly dumbfounded that you begin to feel like maybe your plan really is that stupid.
“I'm the heir, remember? I can do as I like, technically.” You grin reluctantly, even as you heart thumps at the idea of your parents' reactions. You've never defied them this outrageously before, but since you're meant to be their son, it occurs to you that they can't protest without outing themselves or losing their heir. It's funny; you've never realized how much power you had, that they need you as much as you need them. Not until you had someone you wanted to help.
“I…I can make sure we have money, and I can stay out of the way…if we can afford horses, and places to stay it will be easier for me to stay out of danger. Maybe with bigger bribes, you won't have as much trouble…”
Still, she says nothing.
“...And your mother can stay here! My parents can't say you left me if we go together, not if they want to keep their son, so they will have to…care for her as an in-law…honorably…” her staring is really starting to make you nervous. “Mizu…?”
She lunges forward again and you freeze; only to feel those hands gently cup your face instead of squeezing your wrists. Softly, at odds with the quickness of her movements, she kisses you.
All your life, you had wondered what it would be like to be kissed; you had simply assumed it was a privilege you would never be allowed. You had no desire for men, and surely no wife would want to once she knew your secret…
It's everything you had never thought you would be allowed to have; her lips glide smoothly and sweetly against yours, lighting up nerve endings you didn't know existed, sending cascades of tingles down your spine. Despite the softness of it, there's an easy sense of control in the way she tilts your face with her hands, guiding you where she wants you, one callused palm sliding down to stroke over the skin of your neck, tugging you closer. You shiver at the muted strength behind that easy tug, how it pulls you forwards against her without the slightest effort.
There's a heat coiling in your belly that you've never felt before by the time she pulls back, her eyes searching your face.
There is a pause.
“...I don't want to sleep alone,” she blurts out, cheeks flushed. Your heart, already fluttering, begins to thump hard.
“Neither do I,” You say breathlessly, watching the way she smiles again, shakily.
You stare at each other, lost as to how to proceed.
“I…I don't know how to please a woman,” she says finally, her flush deepening.
“I don't know how to please anyone.” You admit.
You both stutter out a laugh, mutually nervous, but then the laughter fades to a charged silence.
Slowly, as if trying not to scare you away, she reaches out for you again, cupping the back of your head. This time the kiss is only soft for the first moments before it grows heated, hungrier, both of you relaxing into a desire you never expected to be reciprocated.
The swipe of a tongue over your lower lip startles you; it slips between your lips when they part on a gasp. At your tiny noise, you can feel her tense; she rises from sitting, to her knees, shuffling closer to you, her hand sliding down your spine. Without breaking the kiss, she guides you back to lie down on the mat.
This time when she looks down at you, the fire behind the ice has a very different burn to it, still focused like a beam of light all on you; no less of a thrill. Desire is written across your flushed features, easy to read…along with anxiety; this is all so new to you.
Long fingers stroke your cheek. The blue eyes are intent, focused as always, but determined on something more pleasant now. “I will take care of you,” comes the whispered reassurance. She presses another kiss to your lips, then another, pulling back to watch the way your eyes slowly lose their nerves and become hazy. Her gaze roves over your pretty features, down over the smaller frame beneath her. She swallows back her own nerves; she wants to make this good for you, better than what she had.
The neck. She remembers how good that, at least, had felt with-...no. She's not going to think about him anymore–not ever again.
It's easy to redirect her thoughts; the first brush of her lips against the delicate skin beneath your jaw rewards her with the sound of you moaning her name softly, sending a pulse of desire straight down through her core, more potent than she can ever remember feeling. Without thinking, she bites down, reveling in the soft skin yielding beneath her teeth. You grit your teeth to stifle your cry, desire pooling with sudden intensity between your legs at the little spark of pain.
“Too hard?” Oh by the gods, that raspy voice in your ear…
“Mm-mm,” you manage shakily, teeth digging into your lip.
“Tell me if it is,” comes the reply, firm voice breathless, lips already finding your skin again. Your fingers tighten against her shoulders as she buries her head deeper against your neck.
Her fingers are careful when they part your shirt, while you fumble nervously with the many, many layers of her kimono. She isn't exactly helpful, more interested in letting her long fingers map the contours of your body, finding places that make your fingers stumble and your body twitch. She leaves you to puzzle out her clothes, distracted and eager, so that you’re too busy to be shy…up until the moment her hands push your thighs apart.
You freeze with a gasp, your face going deep red so fast that heat prickles behind your eyes. Nobody has ever, ever seen you like this, exposed, openly desirous.
“Mizu…”
She pauses immediately, breathing hard. Her eyes are piercing, hungry. She looks…incredible. You've managed to get her down to her hadagi, with the base layer garment falling off one lean, sharp shoulder, her hair falling in a rich dark curtain around you both. She looks like a wolf crouched above you, a feast waiting within its grasp, predatory in a thrilling way. But then she looks up at you, and you can see that she's waiting–she's used to self denial. She'll wait forever for you to be ready. “We can stop–” she murmurs.
No. You shake your head, but you’re too overwhelmed to speak. I don't want to stop. Feeling desperate to make it clear, you reach out and take her hand, pulling it down to the pulsing ache at the apex of your thighs.
The touch is a shock to you, even self-inflicted. You suck in air sharply at the feeling of her hand, cool fingers against wet heat. Wide eyes meet hers; you see the predator flare again as the blue color darkens. Cute, she can't help but think, flexing her fingers against you and seeing you arch immediately, biting your lip to stifle your cry. So…sweet.
Once she's seen your face crease in ecstasy, she will take the time to disrobe, properly; she'll teach you how to touch her. She can feel herself throb at the thought of your face in flushed, shy concentration as your hands find the places on her body that ache to be touched. For now she straddles your thigh, pressing her heated core against it as her fingers press inside you, burying her grunt of pleasure in your neck as she feels you shift your muscles to press up against her more firmly. Even in the throes of losing your virginity, you respond to her pleasure.
It's nothing like what she knew before; as she brings you forward into submission, everything is soft and slick and easy, and there is nothing but a pleasure that builds on and on. She knows that for you, this is all you know, and she is determined that this is all you will ever know; easy pleasure under her possessive touch.
–
She wakes you before the sun is up, and you gape at the person above you. It’s still Mizu, but dressed as a man, her hair scraped back into a bun, only that one stubborn curl escaping. She looks sharper, more dangerous, and you feel a pulse of delighted attraction. No matter how you dress, you are stunning.
You pack as quietly as possible. By mutual agreement, you'll stay dressed as a man for now; it's easier to ride, and all of her kimonos are at least a foot too long for you. Besides, frankly, you have no idea how to dress or behave as a woman.
She looks over her shoulder at the house, seeming guilty, as you pack up.
“She'll be fine,” you murmur, taking up your reins. Internally, you think with some vindictiveness that the three of them will probably drive each other completely crazy, and they'll deserve it. But Mizu has honor, and duty, on her mind, and you want to save her the conflict.
“We can come back to visit, or stay, when you're done,” you offer, and she turns to you with a grimace. You have to laugh. You agree with the unspoken thought of how unpleasant that could be.
“Then we’ll settle somewhere new, when this is all over,” you promise her, your chest bubbling with happiness at the thought.
“Hm,” she grunts. Something about her male disguise in the light of day seems to make her more taciturn, more guarded from the soft openness you saw last night in the darkness.
But there's still a tiny hint of that same smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she glances sidelong at you from under the brim of her wide hat.
“How do you feel about raising horses?”
You smile. “How do you feel about becoming artists?”
Something about the word artist seems to brighten something in her eyes, even behind the glasses; she looks almost light for a moment at the prospect.
“An artist,” she says, low and contemplative, turning back to face the road, thinking with a pang of her sword father, how much she can't wait for you to meet him. “Perhaps that is my fate.”
.
