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What goes through their lord’s mind during creation is a mystery.
There is the appearance certainly. That one is simple. Beauty and androgyny are a given whenever their lord deigns to sculpt a new medicine seller. Whether man or woman or something in-between or beyond, beauty is a quality that their lord favors: the well-shaped features reminiscent of a beast’s—the uncanny that sets both hackles and loins alight—the pleasant voice that bubbles upward from the slender throat like a stirred brook, all qualities made to coax a favorable opinion. Nothing more (nothing less) than the shape of a person.
Understandable. Pragmatic. People, after all, are frequently influenced (swayed) by first impressions.
The scent, the touch, the sight.
People eat with their eyes, the trite saying goes, and in Kon’s opinion, there is a truth to that. Millenia of experience speaks more so than frivolous posturing—the platitudes upon platitudes that humans deign to comfort themselves with.
Inner beauty? An honest character? Pah!
None of that matters in the face of aesthetics. In the face of greed and judgement. More willing to trample one another for the smallest of inches—the smallest of advantages—humans are the sort of ilk that are better watched than to be left to their own devices; entertaining at times certainly, but it would not alter the core.
People are people, and people follow routine. Rarely, do they change.
It is an opinion that his younger twin disagrees on—Ri, despite what his dour mien may suggest, believes the opposite—but really…one or two examples in a sea of centuries? Those are exceptions, not the rule!
For someone of Ri’s health and position, he should understand that. His tasks are difficult after all. Even amongst their ranks, the Medicine Seller of Ri’s missions are infamous: some bearable, others intolerable, each always shot through with a line of loneliness. If Kon were to describe them, it seems as if the refuses of society were given to his twin.
Always, always—his twin would return, buried in the grime and muck and swill of humanity, yet still, he remains steadfast (strengthened even) in that peculiar belief.
Look, he says occasionally upon returning. Look. This time, there was…
And naturally, Kon listens, his eyes flickering oft to the state: the torn fabrics a flash of color and falling autumn, the stumble of exhaustion that signals another evening of worried care, all compounded upon by that resolved gaze.
They’re good at heart, he insists even as his legs give. Natural-born weakness. Unfathomable as to the reason for everyone but their lord. They aren’t all bad.
Where as Ri finds reason for goodness, Kon finds fault. One? Two? A singular pearl does not make a species. Why…that isn’t enough for a necklace!
Admirable (arguably foolish) as it may be—any person who offers up their own body to assuage a child’s suffering must be described as such—it would not prove anything but that one person’s character!
Stubborn. Kind. Gentle.
What else could be said? People are people even if Ri wishes to think otherwise. Like a dog and its ancestor wolf, they could be taught, but it would not change the nature itself. Just as they are made to purify the mononoke, humans are made to perform. The metaphorical dancing bear as it were.
Up on the stage or in the dim-lit beams of night, the performance would continue: that of the actors and stagehands and that of the enraptured audience who care naught but for entertainment.
Etiquette. Civility. Personhood.
Those could be imitated. If man can speak, he could, thus, lie.
Examples upon examples that demonstrate humanity’s cruelty, yet still, Ri continues as he does: sharp, eloquent, frustration borne from a wellspring of love and belief.
Humans, Ri often argues, his brow furrowing as he does so, are complex. They merely desire to better their lot. They love. They hate. They grow.
By that logic, so are animals! A dog could want as well! And does a dog not care for its owner? Hell, a dog, at the very least, understands loyalty.
It is a subject that divides them. Not enough to separate—their nights together attest to that—but certainly enough to pollute the air whenever the subject is broached.
Usually some unwitting (curious) disciple to ask as it were.
Why devote one’s self to humanity?
Shaking his head, Kon sighs, a wispy noise that draws a hum from the room’s other occupant.
“Have you’ve grown tired already?” That familiar voice drifts outward, carried by the silence of before. Like the hull of a rowboat, it cuts through the air, abetted by the long fingers that comb through the off-white foam. They tangle in Kon’s hair, the points of those painted nails digging lightly inward of the scalp. Elongated, his fingers are the slightest bit too long to be a human’s. “If your health ails you, I can finish by myself.”
In lieu of a reply, Kon merely tightens his grip upon his brother’s bare legs, just enough to hear another hum. They’re swollen tonight as well; a chronic condition that impedes the circulation and veins. How worrisome, especially in relation to tomorrow’s deployment. Six in the morning sharp. As many passions as there are, there is no time for rest. No time for anything but those beasts.
“Really…” Ri continues after a moment, grunting as Kon’s hands stroke at the back of his calf: firm, careful, slightly trembling. Ri’s hair cascades around him, a scatter of dried wheat. “You can leave if you so wish. I know that our lord has ordered for you to depart tonight. To the Ōoku.” He tilts his head. “Difficult—why not assign a woman?—but he must have his reasons.”
“Absolutely not,” Kon answers immediately. Around them, the scent of the ointment wafts, a pungent crispness that occasionally tickles his senses; it mingles with the aroma of rain and greenery of which slips inward from the open window. For as long as they have been doing this, the odor has become second nature, something that only comes to mind when reminded. Slathered upon Kon’s palms, the ointment stings, a consequence of the ingredients. Some easy to obtain and others procured from the other realms, the concoction is something that they had worked on together. “Who would take care of you then? Your condition requires the utmost level of care.”
And cut our time together short? goes unsaid.
“Myself naturally.” Ri’s fingers continue to comb through Kon’s hair. A comforting touch, Ri’s fingers continue to stroke at his scalp, touch the slightest bit more forceful. Shaky. It almost feels like a child’s. “I can make do.”
Again, Kon shakes his head, wavy bangs fluttering with the motion. Underneath his fingertips, the flesh is warm, thrumming faintly with the distinctive pulsation of life.
“Not while we’re here.” Kon’s hands slide down to grasp at Ri’s foot, squeezing and kneading gently upon the ankle before moving further downward; his fingers press on the sole and the dorsum. He would need to return to the calves later before they retire. His younger brother often complains of a numbness there after all. Even with the excess of life energy that circulates the Ten Wings, his legs stay as they are. Impaired and lacking. “I can do that much.”
At his response, Ri’s brow furrows, decorated lips parting as if to speak before closing—a perpetual smile that serves to obscure his true feelings. Though, his concerns remain clear to Kon. How could he not? They’ve known each other since birth: every dislike, every interest, every inch of skin and thought. Little escapes them.
And the touch…Kon knows that well enough too. Particularly when that calloused hand trails downward to cup at Kon’s cheek, flesh darker (but still fair) than the unnatural pallidness that characterizes his own. It is something that he craves. That he leans into without a second thought. Instinctual. Careless.
In turn, Ri’s thumb rubs against his cheek in a soft circular movement, uncaring if the makeup smears. Knowing his twin, contrary to the words of before, it would be used as another excuse to remain together for just a while longer.
Let me help you reapply it, Ri murmurs, covetous fingers and smeared lips hot along the streaked, lily-like skin. It is my mistake.
And of course—he does. He has always been weak to Ri’s pleas, to the collar of speech and affection. All brothers (all lovers) are. That is how they are made to be.
After a few moments, each fortuitously akin to perpetuity, Kon sighs, the fabrics of his patterned kimono rustling with the rise and fall of his chest. In the moonlight, the hues gleam bright, shapeless things meant to wander. Like moth scales, they flutter: vibrant reds, deep purples, a variety of visual song.
“Now, can you lie down on your front?” Kon inadvertently frowns as Ri’s hand withdraws, tremors faint but noticeable. Kon wishes that they could remain here for longer. But still, it wouldn’t do to waste time. They need that ointment to take. They need to be thorough. “Thank you.”
For his words, Kon receives a hum, one followed by the pleasant lowness of Ri’s voice.
“Be careful,” his brother says. Succinct but perspicuous.
“I will.”
Kon’s hands return to Ri’s calf, motions circular as he massages at the warm skin. His hands sting. Their flesh burns. It invariably does. That is how the medication takes.
After this, he would need to wrap them soon and pack extra supplies: more ointment, more bandages, more of everything.
Above all, it never hurts to be careful, not in their line of work.