of henna and hakama
HAPPY BIRTHDAY @shxhdsstuff!! I did my best researching both cultures of Tunisian and Japanese. I tried my best. This is my birthday gift to you, I hope we'll meet each other soon!
yn as shahd
The garden smelled of cherry blossoms and jasmine. The soft wind whispered between the trees—some native to the coast of Tunisia, others carefully flown in from Japan. The setting sun kissed everything gold, and beneath it stood Y/N, draped in a rich red and gold lebsa tounsia, delicate henna curling across her hands like lace.
She stared at the arch where she and Riki would soon be wed. Two worlds tied in silk and spirit.
“You're doing that thing again,” came a familiar voice, calm and grounding. Riki appeared at her side, dressed in a formal black montsuki haori hakama, embroidered with his family crest. His hair was tied neatly, and his expression showed boyish nervousness despite his quiet poise.
“What thing?” she asked, brushing her fingers against his.
“That thing where you worry if everything’s going to go wrong when it’s already perfect.”
Y/N sighed. “I just don’t want either side to feel out of place.”
Riki gently pulled her aside, leading her down the olive tree path toward a small grove—half planted with sakura trees, half with jasmine and palm fronds. He pulled a paper from his sleeve and knelt.
“I was saving this for tonight,” he said in accented but clear Arabic, unfolding a handwritten letter. “But I want you to hear it now.”
He read slowly, reverently, pausing between each line:
"I was born on an island surrounded by quiet. You were born in a land where joy echoes like drums through the street. I used to think silence meant peace. Now, your laughter is what peace sounds like."
Y/N blinked fast. She laughed softly, covering her mouth.
“I memorized it too,” he added, switching to Japanese, this time reading the same lines in his native tongue. “Just in case your family needs translation.”
She kissed his forehead. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m yours,” he corrected with a smile. “Also… I learned dabke.”
“You what? You're so silly!” she laughed.
“I practiced with your cousin over video. I’m still bad. But I’ll try.”
of henna and blessings
The henna party was filled with colour, drums, women ululating, and incense swirling. Y/N sat with her hands outstretched, fingers adorned in darkening dye. She was surrounded by cousins and aunties, laughter flowing like honey.
Then, gasps rose. Riki stepped in.
It was not customary for the groom to attend, but he held a letter, not a grand gesture. He bowed slightly, carefully kneeling beside her and having a cloth so he didn’t ruin her wet henna. His presence hushed the room in curiosity.
“I just wanted to read something.”
Another note. This one is shorter.
"You’re beautiful when you speak your language and dance with your feet bare. When you call my name like it belongs in your mouth. I will learn every word, drumbeat, and step if it means standing beside you all my life."
Even the aunties were wiping their eyes now.
of kimonos and kaftans
The morning sun broke over a ksar in the Tunisian desert, its ancient arches now lined with sakura garlands. Guests arrived dressed in bright foutas, kaftans, and kimono. Riki’s family wore traditional Japanese wedding garments. Your father wore a jebba, and your mother and sisters draped in silk.
The ceremony began with a Shinto ritual, the san-san-kudo. Three cups, three sips each, sharing sake beneath the carved olivewood gate.
Then, the drums began. Tunisian mezuoed music echoed as the couple wore traditional Tunisian attire. Riki looked regal in his embroidered vest and sash, slightly unsure but smiling. Y/N's hand never left his.
Dancers spun. Family ululated. The air smelled of incense and jasmine water.
They exchanged vows in both languages—her in Arabic, him in Japanese, both soft-spoken but unshakably sure.
of two moons, one dance
The stars watched their first dance from high above.
The music began: a carefully mixed track of soft strings woven into the upbeat rhythm of Tunisian drums. They twirled, laughed, and stepped wrong and right. Riki tried a dabke step, and everyone cheered—especially when he stumbled and laughed through it.
“Let’s call it dabke-onna,” he joked, mixing the word with onna-odori, a Japanese dance. Y/N threw her head back, laughing.
Later, under a canopy of cherry blossoms and jasmine garlands, they stole away.
Riki pulled a box from beneath their table. Inside were dozens of tiny notes—some on rice paper, others in folded Arabic calligraphy.
“What’s this?” you asked.
“Letters I wrote every week since we started planning. Every time I learned something new about your culture—or about you.”
You read the first:
"I tried kaak warka today. I thought it was too sweet. Then I had a second one. You win."
Another:
"Your mother calls me waldi now. It means 'my son,' right? I cried after I left your house that night."
Tears brimmed in her eyes. She looked at him, overcome.
She kissed his hand.
Then she pulled a letter from her sleeve and handed it to him.
On it, in hiragana and elegant Arabic calligraphy, was one phrase:
“My heart is your home.”
of the end.
Two traditions. One love. Forever woven in jasmine and cherry blossom.
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