to ward off harm
Merry Christmas and a safe holiday season to @nekyuketsuki, I was your backup @lamentosecretsanta :)
You've got BaruKono as your favourite pairing on your prompt, so here’s a little something for that. I enjoyed working on it and I hope that you like it! bardo/konoe | 2k | sfw | post-Bardo GE A year ago, Karou has fallen. This year, Bardo does his best to create some better memories for the coming of the Antou festival. read here on Ao3 or under cut:
Autumn had dyed the forests of Ransen the wildest palette of colours, the way its merchants would dye fabric in their street vendors right before the festivals hit. Bardo remembers coming here with Rai once, when they both were younger – before everything. It was just before the biggest ceremonies for Antou were on the way, and the city flourished with even more life than usual. Unfamiliar scents, music brought to life by instruments Setsura hasn’t ever witnessed – there was so much for his protégé to behold. Later that evening, a small white ball of sleepy cat had informed him that what he liked most were the flags – colourful patterns designed specifically for the day, fork-tongued ribbons, billowing coats of arms…Like Ransen, too, had been clad to be part of the autumn forest.
It was a warm memory, stored away like something precious, something that even the years of turmoil that followed could never mar.
Now, he thought the comparison was pretty accurate.
A few steps ahead of him, Konoe moves through the forest, spreading the low-hanging branches in his path, tracing each splash of lilac, mauve, orange and red beneath his hands in wonder. The trees around Karou were not the same – that’s what the younger cat has told him last year, when he first met Ransen’s autumn. It must still be a sight to behold.
The actual reason behind today’s sortie into the wild has very particular pigmentation – the leaves are a deep purple, heavy and elongated, riddled with veins that look almost golden when sunlight streams through them. He couldn’t help but smile at how Konoe holds them up to his face to examine it closely, how he marvels to himself.
Unfortunately you couldn’t exactly serve beautiful colouration for supper, or hand it out to his inn-goers as appetisers. Good thing there was more to those shrubs than their aesthetic value, huh?
He has to point out the fruit to Konoe for him to notice them – their dark, mottled skin had them blending in with the canopy almost perfectly. Just like the leaves, they’re elongated, shadowy half-moons on short stalks. Some would fit in his hand; some are the size of Konoe’s head.
‘I thought you usually got supplies off merchants?’ Tentatively, the smaller cat reaches out to poke at the curious object.
‘Well…’ Bardo rubs at the base of his neck. ‘The prices usually hike up with the festival just around the corner. Besides, there are few places left where these still grow.’
He’s also had another reason for taking a whole day off when the inn was getting busier and busier, for inviting Konoe along with him, but his treasured one didn’t need to know that for now.
They’ve brought baskets to be filled, tight-woven and sturdy; and short wood-knives, for the fruit were too hard to be picked by hand, and their peel too thick to be torn by claw.
‘What makes these particular fruit so special?’ Konoe asks him, diving into the very heart of the growth to retrieve an especially large one of its kind. They had a specific term to them, Bardo knew, but it’s not like he remembers the name of every ingredient he goes through on a daily basis.
‘How would you say it…’ He muses, wrestling his own specimen that seemed to have a tougher stalk than the rest. ‘I’ve never had a single fruit’s flavour and texture change so much just based on its ripeness, the way it’s cut and prepared. It could be a refreshing crisp desert – oof,’ – the damn thing finally gave way, coming lose, and the lack of resistance almost makes him stagger backwards – ‘A soft garnish, a stir-fry…Why tell you when I can show you! We’ve a long day of preparation ahead of us.’
Konoe never actually said he liked cooking, but he’s seen the younger cat stalking around when he took the kitchen by storm, seen the awe in his eyes when he got to openly watch Bardo work his magic.
It should prove to be a good distraction.
Before him, Konoe reaches upwards, struggling to grasp at something just out of his reach, tail twitching in irritation. He’s sighted another fruit that stands out among the rest, large and strangely curved – but its placement on the branch doesn’t seem to agree with his small stature.
‘Looks like you could use a little help,’ Bardo drawls out, coming up to rest behind him. If he shifts forwards just a little, his head will come to rest on Konoe’s shoulder. He doesn’t get a chance, though – Konoe instantly recoils, the faintest blush staining his cheek, his ears going limp.
‘Hey, what are you…’ his companion sulks, but it is without enthusiasm.
He couldn’t help it – the Sanga just looked so utterly adorable when he’d tease him. Surely he could allow himself just a little bit more?
‘You know I’m always here to come to your rescue – all you have to do is ask.’ His voice is little more than a purr; his hand finds its way towards Konoe’s shoulder before caressing down his arm, coming to linger on his waist just for a moment. Then it’s time to feign a solemn face again.
‘Now, leave the higher branches to me – there’s plenty of big ones down at the bottom, or in the undergrowth where my crude paws can’t reach.’ This is where he has to manoeuvre away, quick, before the smaller gets a chance to swat at him.
Konoe doesn’t know if he should glare daggers or laugh.
It’s already past noon when they drag their returns into the storage room, and Bardo waltzes in front of the stove, setting everything up. It’s good to see the harvest so plentiful – the baskets are brimming with fruit; it’s equally good to see that Rai and Asato have not, in fact, tore the inn to shreds in their absence. They even stuck around to help him and Konoe unload the first batch of mystery crescents onto the table.
He helps Konoe put his apron on, rescuing him from all the straps that just won’t sit right behind his back when he attempts this himself. Bardo had sawn it for him by hand, staying up late in the evening to get the work done – that was after the kitten’s usual much-loved tunic almost got ruined by hot oil from a strir fry. He chuckles at the memory. How time seemed to fly on between then and now…
Bardo teaches Konoe how to de-skin the fruit, cutting through to the soft flesh.
‘If left sitting within its skin, it would go mushy and soft, and the sweetness will fade.’ He tells him, leaning over his shoulder to demonstrate a certain trick with the peeler. ‘Then it’s perfect to be served alongside meat dishes, but we’ll worry about that later. We’ll pickle this batch for deserts.’
Konoe’s a bit slow at first, the movements of his hands clumsy. He almost drops the peeler once; on occasion he loses his grip on the fruit and it slips out, flying off the table, but eventually he gets the hang of it. Anything his Sanga does can be compared to the way he fights, the way he sings – gentle, uncertain at first, but in his gentleness lies a different kind of strength.
‘These certainly don’t smell too sweet,’ the cat in question notes, examining yet another lump of sticky mellow something he’s produced from its shell. ‘And you said something about crispy?’
‘The crispness comes in once it’s been pickled.’ Bardo explains – he’s just finished mixing the marinade in an enormous clay pot. The trick now was to pour it into smaller jars without making too much of a mess. ‘As for sweetness, oh it’s there alright.’
When he looks at Konoe a few minutes later, the slightest stain of purple juice just above his upper lip tells the tiger cat that his words weren’t good enough a reassurance.
It takes Bardo most of his self-control and all of the reminders that his pans needed constant stirring – nonstop - to not walk over to the table and kiss it away.
‘Does the festival always happen on the same day?’
They’re finally done with all the cooking – now it’s just washing up and keeping the kitchen tidy. They should get a good rest today, for tomorrow it’s time to prepare for Antou, to grill the meats and arrange the salads and pray there’s enough food to last the following few days.
‘Sure does.’ Bardo nods, and suds of soapy water fly off his hands. The apron didn’t do much to keep him spotless, after all. Maybe they could have a bath after this?
‘How do you always manage to remember the date?’ Konoe laughs. ‘I can never even remember what day on the moon it is.’
‘Well, it’s hard not to, especially when it’s being talked about all over Ransen.’ He shrugs, hoping his smile remained just as carefree.
It may have been easy to forget the exact day with how they all went by, but neither he nor Konoe could ever forget what this season commemorated.
A part of him wished that Konoe would know Antou the way he knew it himself when he was but a kitten. Would lose himself in the colourful costumes and flags, would jump from vendor to vendor because even though he couldn’t buy anything, each stall held a little piece of magic.
A dangerous thing, wishful thinking.
Maybe keeping him distracted with affairs of the inn would keep the ache of memory at bay.
‘That’s enough cleaning for the day,’ he says, and if Konoe notices that his voice is excessively cheerful, he does not comment on it. ‘Come, I’ll treat you to a bath.’
Later, as they get ready for bed, he dries Konoe’s hair for him, and his ears flick beneath the soft white towel. It’s getting longer now – he wonders if the Sanga plans on growing it out. His tail, too, gets lavished with attention – Bardo pats it dry with another cloth, then combs it, smoothing out the bristles.
‘Does today mark something special?’ Konoe manages between fits of laughter as he completes the job – he’s still sensitive as ever, howling about how it tickles and jerking beneath his touch. ‘You’re being all...Ahh, hang on, hang on! Not like this!’
‘Not in particular.’ – a kiss pressed to the crooked curve of his tail, before Bardo scoots closer, entwining it with his – rough bristle against soft, tiger stripes against cream fur. ‘Tomorrow’s just going to be a hard day, that’s all. Wouldn’t you say you and I deserve some rest once in a while?’
His beloved cat doesn’t intend to argue.
Konoe’s quick to fall asleep, curling up on him, pawing at the blanket until he had full possession of it. Same could be said about the bed – with how little space he actually takes up on it, he has to make sure he lies square in the middle, doesn’t he? And he, the poor innocent innkeeper, has to stretch himself out along the periphery, hoping he won’t fall off the edge.
Not that he minds.
Konoe looks so peaceful as he sleeps, smile gracing his lips; a small bundle of homeliness in the centre of the bed. He had been forced to learn that peace was always the most fragile.
He’ll tell him, when time is right. Show him the things that still polluted his mind like a whirlwind of dead leaves, that kept him awake long after Konoe himself would welcome sleep.
He’ll lay his soul open for him, one day. Just not right now.
Now, let Konoe sleep, and let Bardo keep watch by his side, just to make sure his eyes never saw loss again. A year ago, Karou may have fallen, a part of Sisa no more – but he’d do everything within his power to make sure his treasured one has a better memory to store somewhere. A memory of this day in the cycle of moons that will be filled with love and sunlight and every single colour of autumn.
