A Waking Dream

Kiyohime tiptoed into the room, her movements as silent and graceful as a cat’s. She crept to the side of the bed and saw him. Haruka was curled up, sleeping like a baby, his breathing soft and even.

The soft, silvery moonlight caressed his face, smoothing out the sharp lines of his waking intensity, leaving only a peaceful, unguarded beauty. If an older woman were to see him like this, a wave of overwhelming maternal affection would surely stir within her.

Seeing him so peaceful, so vulnerable, Kiyohime thought, He’s much cuter when he’s like this.

She had intended to draw on his hand, somewhere easy to wash off, a small, petty revenge. But seeing him now, her heart softened, the sharp edges of her annoyance melting away. She capped the marker and slowly, carefully, sat on the edge of the bed.

The room was quiet and dim, the only sound was the whisper of her own breathing. Kiyohime could feel her own heart begin to beat faster, a soft, heavy rhythm in the stillness. She slowly slipped her geta from her small feet, and with an elegant, arching motion, swung her legs onto the bed.

Her heart was pounding now, a frantic drum against her ribs. She slowly moved closer to him, her warm, trembling breath ghosting across his face and neck. She almost couldn’t resist the urge to pinch his cheek, to feel its warmth, but she held back, afraid of waking him. Although she never thought of the servants as people, she was, in her own strange way, exceptionally good to those she considered close to her.

You’re fast asleep, Kiyohime thought. There’s no fun in waking you now. I’ll settle the score with you tomorrow.

She was about to get out of bed, but a deep, bone-weary yawn overtook her. A wave of dizziness washed over her; she was truly, utterly exhausted.

She hesitated, then turned back, thinking, So tired. I’ll just lie here for a little while.

The rain from the night before had cooled the air, and a chilly breeze occasionally blew in through the open window. Kiyohime shivered. The restless heat that had been plaguing her was gone, replaced by a deep, encroaching cold that made her even sleepier.

She lifted a corner of Haruka’s blanket and slowly, silently, slipped inside. She could feel the warmth of his body, a steady, living heat, and couldn’t help but inch closer, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

She had only meant to lie down for a moment, but in the end, she didn’t want to move at all.

A heavy, welcome sleepiness washed over her. In her hazy, dreamlike state, she thought she was in her own room and, mistaking Haruka for her pillow, she hugged him tightly, burying her face in the warmth of his back.

Haruka, constricted, felt a tightness in his chest, unable to breathe. He woke from a nightmare of being crushed to find two soft arms wrapped around him like vines. He turned in a panic and saw Kiyohime, her face peaceful in sleep, holding him.

For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming. His second thought was, Did I go to the wrong room? But after looking around at the unfamiliar walls, he was certain this was his bedroom. But why was Kiyohime here?

Kiyohime felt the movement beside her, but she didn’t open her eyes. Still half-asleep, she thought she was in her own bed, holding her favorite pillow, and she pulled Haruka closer, murmuring softly.

Haruka felt as if he were being enveloped by a giant, warm, soft jelly, a strange, sweet fragrance of flowers and moonlight filling his senses. He struggled to push her away, his voice a hoarse, strangled whisper. “Second Young Mistress…”

Kiyohime’s long eyelashes fluttered. She felt the “pillow” in her arms grow warmer and vaguely heard Haruka’s voice. She remembered her fantasies from the night before, tossing and turning while hugging her pillow, imagining it was him. Still dazed with sleep, she thought she was dreaming, and she pressed her head against Haruka’s chest. This dream is so realistic, she thought, a lazy, pleased smile on her lips. It has everything it’s supposed to have.

It was just dawn, that liminal time when a young man, just waking, would naturally be… aroused.

And Haruka, still a boy on the cusp of manhood, not yet fully awake, was being held in a full-body embrace by the beautiful, sleeping Kiyohime. It would have been difficult for anyone to control their desires. He felt as if his own hands were no longer his. His eyes kept darting to her face, to her parted lips, his breathing heavy and hot against her snow-white skin.

He forced himself to turn his head away, biting his lip so hard he tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood. He gave her a hard shove. “Second Young Mistress, wake up!”

Kiyohime’s head bumped lightly against the headboard. She groggily opened her eyes and, seeing Haruka in front of her, was startled fully awake. She let go of him instantly. “What are you doing in my room?” she demanded, her voice sharp with confusion and alarm.

Haruka immediately turned his back to her, putting distance between them, gasping for air as if he had just surfaced from deep water. “If I’m not mistaken, this is my bedroom…”

Only then did Kiyohime remember. She had come into his room last night and had, at some point, fallen asleep in his bed. She didn’t see anything particularly wrong with this. In fact, seeing him with his back to her, she assumed he was blushing with embarrassment, and a feeling of triumphant, wicked glee washed over her. “Oh, I remember now,” she said with a light, airy laugh. “I think I came into your room last night.”

“What for?” Haruka asked, subtly adjusting his pants under the blanket, his body still humming with an uncontrollable, unfamiliar energy.

“To play a prank on you, of course,” Kiyohime said, brandishing the thick permanent marker as if it were a trophy from a successful hunt. “Guess where I wrote on you?”

“What did you write?” Haruka looked at his hands and arms, searching for any sign of ink.

Kiyohime laughed. “Don’t bother looking. It’s somewhere you can’t see.”

Haruka saw that his clothes were still intact. Did she write on my face?

Kiyohime, wanting only to tease him, to torment him, said, “You guessed it. On your face.”

A surge of pure, hot anger rose in Haruka.

Kiyohime put her hand on his shoulder and laughed, enjoying his frustration. “Are you still shy? Turn around, let me see my work. Maybe I should add a few more strokes.” She pointed. “That pig I drew on your left cheek is so cute. It looks just like you.”

Seeing her so smug, so pleased with herself, Haruka could no longer control his own impulses. He lunged, pinning her to the bed with a surprising strength.

Kiyohime was about to struggle, but the memory of her fantasies from the night before, of this exact scenario, flooded her mind, and her body went weak, pliant. She struggled for a moment, a token resistance, but he covered her mouth with his hand, and her legs went completely limp. She heard him whisper in her ear, his voice a low, dangerous growl, “You like to draw so much? Then let me draw a few strokes on your face, too.”

One of her hands was released, and the marker was taken from her. She could have struggled then, but for some reason, her heart was beating too fast, a wild, thrilling rhythm, and she didn’t want to move at all.

In the next moment, Haruka turned her head to the side. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the thick, black tip of the marker coming toward her, and she instinctively squeezed her eyes shut, her body tense with anticipation.

Kiyohime had never had her face drawn on before. She felt a ticklish, sliding sensation as he brushed a few random strokes across her skin. She suddenly remembered the steward whose face she had so cruelly defaced, and a wave of shame, hot and overwhelming, washed over her. She felt like she was going to lose her mind. She had been reduced to the level of a servant, a plaything.

I can never show my face again.

Tears of shame welled in Kiyohime’s eyes, an indescribable feeling of humiliation and something else, something thrilling, overwhelming her. But then she heard Haruka let out a “Pfft,” and he burst out laughing, releasing her.

“You…” Kiyohime sat frozen on the bed, her mind reeling.

Haruka laughed and tossed the marker aside. “What do you think? Is my drawing any good?”

Kiyohime finally realized. “You tricked me?”

It turned out Haruka had only been pretending to be fierce, just to scare her. He had used his finger, wrapped in a piece of his thin cotton shirt, to tickle her face. Kiyohime had been so nervous, so lost in the moment, she hadn’t been able to tell the difference. She rubbed her face; of course, there was no trace of ink. She was both ashamed and furious. Seeing him still laughing, she said angrily, “But I really did draw on your face.”

“So what if you did? It’s not like it can’t be washed off,” Haruka said, smiling at her without a care in the world, his earlier tension gone.

Kiyohime stared at his smile, stunned. She felt a small electric current run through her body, and her own face began to grow hot, a blush rising from her neck to her cheeks.