April's air stirs in
willow-leaves; a butterfly
Floats and balances
~Matsuo Basho (1644-1694)

"Congratulations, Mikawa, on your promotion."

Yuuri felt the last of the hair pieces slide into his perfectly coiffed hairdo. He raised his gaze slowly to the mirror, his head weighted down by far too many ornaments, shimmering as they danced in the candlelight. Someone he didn't recognize stared back at him: beautiful, elegant, and sharp around the edges.

Equivalent to his rank, a female oiran[1] would have had an elaborate procession and a party thrown in her honor. Yoshiwara would awaken, its lowlife denizens crawling out of the woodwork to join in the festivities, dancing with the geisha and drinking the night away. It was different for male courtesans: less grand, less ceremonious. A quiet ascension fit Yuuri's preferences to the tee; he was content to rise in obscurity, rather than be paraded around and judged by ravenous eyes – men who were too keen for a taste of the latest merchandise.

"From henceforth, you shall be named Aoyagi." The tremulous voice brimmed with pride. "Aoyagi of the great teahouse of En[2]."

"Aoyagi," he repeated softly.

Names, names, names. There were times when he had almost forgotten his own.

Over layers upon layers of fabric, he was wearing pale blue robes of the finest silk, embroidered with a design of spirals and chrysanthemums over layers of fabric, and secured by a silver sash that cascaded gracefully down his front. His skin, delicately powdered, was white as snow, contrasting with red, red lips and molten eyes that singed the soul of any who dared to gaze upon his visage. Slowly, he drifted to the head of the table and sank down onto the cushion, gold hair ornaments swaying as daintily as the leaves of a wisteria tree.

Viktor swallowed, his mouth going bone-dry.

The courtesan was a vision.

Although the elderly teahouse owner bowed upon his arrival, the man's only movement was to wrap his lips around the end of a long, red pipe, long eyelashes sweeping down, low and scrutinizing.

"I am most honored to present to you, Aoyagi of En."

"Sold," Christophe breathed, far too eagerly. "How much is he worth?"

There was a pause, as their translator dutifully posed the question to the owner.

The courtesan's white teeth clacked against the pipe in a razor-sharp smile, keen as a shark on the prowl. It was he who responded, soft and delicate and airy, while his owner nodded in agreement.

"I am very sorry, Sir." The translator lowered his head. "Aoyagi says he will first decide your worth."

Viktor watched as his best friend sat back on his heels. He could tell Christophe was surprised. The stories they had heard of the infamous Yoshiwara told tales of shy young boys who gave themselves openly to older men, ranging from the noble elite right down to God-fearing monks. It was the only reason they were in the teahouse of En, after all, calling upon the most sought after male courtesan – a rarity, even in Edo.

"Ask him what that entails," Christophe said after a moment of thought.

"Chris," Viktor said sharply, but the translator was already conveying the message.

Painted corners of the courtesan's eyes crinkled as he lowered the pipe and chuckled, wisps of smoke floating into the air above him. Again, he whispered a few words to the translator, before setting the pipe back between his teeth and drawing in a long breath, chest rising. Viktor wondered how a man so wrapped and bundled in layers of cloth could be so torturously sensuous.

"He says this very meeting is the basis for his evaluation."

"Fascinating," said Christophe, grinning. "Dare I ask how I'm doing so far?"

As the translator turned once more, Viktor returned his gaze to the courtesan. The man was idly fingering the length of his pipe as he listened to the translator's words. Despite his soft features, there was a sharpness to him, an edge, as though life had him honed into a beautiful, double-edged sword. Viktor felt his insides churn; buried under all those luxurious robes was a young man who probably never knew a world beyond the red lights of Yoshiwara.

And then, suddenly, the courtesan's eyes flickered over to meet his.

He felt it instantly: a bolt that shot straight down his spine and all the way to his toes. Heat rose and twisted in his stomach, and he bit down, hard, on his bottom lip. No, no, no. He was only in attendance to accompany Christophe – no more, no less. Besides, the money he brought on this trip was hardly enough for a courtesan of such value. He would have been in Hakodate by now, assisting in the building of the Russian consul with Yakov, if his ship hadn't run into problems near Edo's port.[3] The old man would have his head for ruining Russo-Japan relations because of some hedonistic romp in the sheets.

But Viktor could not turn away. And neither, it seemed, could the courtesan, who kept his stare on Viktor, steady and even, smoke flowing languidly out the corner of his perfect, bow lips. Something unreadable flitted across the man's expression, too fast to catch, and then the owner spoke up, breaking the silence and pulling the courtesan's gaze to her.

Viktor fought to reel in the surge of disappointment, shrugging nonchalantly when Christophe eyed him with an arched eyebrow.

"The owner says it may be too soon for Aoyagi to pass judgment," the translator told them. "She says—"

"No," the courtesan interjected in English, and a ripple of surprise ran through the room. He removed the pipe, mouth quirking in a smile that was hard and soft all at once.

"I like him," he said softly, gesturing at Viktor, the edge of his sleeve slipping to expose more skin beyond the delicate wrist.

Christophe looked a little too gleeful despite the courtesan's rejection.

"You're out of your mind, Chris."

"C'mon, once in a lifetime, Viktor. Do it for me."

"I've never - not with a - a courtesan, before."

"This, from the man who's had more sexual partners than I can count on my fingers. Probably my toes, even."

"That's different. Look, even if I agreed, I don't have the money—"

"And I'm telling you, I'm willing to pay. Delighted to pay, in fact. I mean, look at him. They don't make men like that in Russia, do they?"

Viktor broke off their whispered conference, glancing through a gap between the paper doors. The courtesan's beauty shone in the dimly lit room, divine and ethereal. He was taking another long drag of his pipe while gazing out the window with half-lidded eyes, seemingly unfazed that Viktor had hastily yanked Christophe out of the room for a private discussion.

"No." Viktor let out a shaky breath. "No, they don't."

"It's settled then," Christophe exclaimed, wrapping an arm round Viktor's shoulders and steering him forcefully back into the room. The teahouse owner and translator swiftly shifted to face them, but the courtesan remained where he was, head still turned toward the window.

"Have you made up your mind, Sirs?" The translator flashed a nervous smile. "The owner says Aoyagi doesn't like to be kept waiting…"

Viktor glanced over at the courtesan once more, who appeared entirely disinterested in the conversation. He wondered how much of the owner's words actually reflected the courtesan's.

"We do apologize, but Viktor here was simply too anxious about spending the night with a resplendent beauty like Aoyagi," Christophe drawled. He clapped his hands and rubbed them fervently together. "Now, where is he to go?"

It was only upon hearing the translation that the courtesan turned, ornaments glinting. He exhaled, smoke wafting, before offering a quiet response to the translator.

"Aoyagi says tonight is only the first meeting. He will entertain your friend tomorrow."

At the word 'entertain', the courtesan caught Viktor's eye, and a smirk spread lazily, sultrily, across the delicate features. Viktor inhaled through his nose. Pushing and pulling; this man was playing him with the expertise and brilliance of a master chess player. And it was more of a turn-on than Viktor would care to admit.

"Tomorrow it is." Christophe affirmed, while the owner rose to her feet.

The last Viktor saw of the room was the owner bowing as low as she could go, and the courtesan watching them leave, eyes sizzling with a fire that scorched his insides.

"I am sorry, Sirs," the translator whispered frantically as they left the teahouse. Back hunching, he performed an odd little scurry in an effort to match the long strides of his foreign clients. "In Yoshiwara, a courtesan of Aoyagi's rank is of higher status than a daimyo, a feudal lord. He does not intend to offend."

"Nonsense, no offense taken," Christophe said breezily. "Isn't that right, Viktor?"

Viktor recalled the long eyelashes, the soft red lips, the heated eyes.

"No offense at all."

Beautiful. The foreigner was beautiful.

Yuuri removed the hair ornaments, piece by piece, until dark hair cascaded over his shoulders like a waterfall. He has had many foreign clients since the opening of Edo's port, but none compared to this man's radiance, with his silvery hair, piercing, blue eyes, and lithe frame beneath the western garments.

If he were to be perfectly honest, his blond-haired friend was also attractive, enticing in a way that reminded Yuuri of a wild stallion rearing in the air, its dark mane and rippling muscles spelling out sex in neon letters. He might have had fun with that one, oh yes.

But Yuuri saw warmth in the blue eyes – the kind of warmth a person in his trade could rarely hope to find, no matter how hard he looked.

His name... Viktor, was it?

"Well done, Aoyagi," the owner said. He could see her reflection in the mirror, her wrinkled face alight with approval. "Having a foreigner like that as a regular patron will surely increase your popularity. Make sure you leave him wanting more."

"I always do," said Yuuri.

When the owner sank to her knees and slid open the paper doors, Viktor felt his breath catch in his throat.

The room was large and decadent, filled with gold screens of delicately painted landscapes, polished chests lacquered with gold leaves, and the painting of a rising dragon across the length of a wall. Right in the center, beside white bedding and a tray of drinks, sat Aoyagi, resting on his heels and looking for all the world like a living, breathing doll. Gone was the white powder, but his eyes were still painted at the corners, his lips still a crimson red. His outer robes had changed into an exuberant yellow, a pattern of waves and goldfishes trailing round and round the bright material. The sash was black tonight, folded neatly and hanging over his lap.

"Come," Aoyagi called in English, rich with his melodic accent. "Drink with me."

Transfixed, Viktor obeyed, sinking down into the spot next to the courtesan. "Is this a custom?" he asked, as the Japanese tipped a red kettle over small sake cups.

Aoyagi set the kettle down and tilted his head, ornaments swaying. His face took on a puzzled expression, eyes widening, and suddenly, he was a picture of innocence – a stark contrast to his lascivious behavior the night before, but no less beautiful. "What is a 'custom'?"

Viktor smiled. "Something you follow, like a practice, or a habit."

"I see." The courtesan returned the smile, his face glowing like the last traces of a setting sun. "Yes, it is a custom."

Heat rose to Viktor's cheeks. What was happening to him? He has had more than his fair share of partners in his lifetime, both male and female; the ogling and virginal bashfulness was incomprehensible for a person of his experience.

"Drink," Aoyagi said then, soft but commanding, lifting a cup.

And Viktor drank, eyes falling to the courtesan's lips, as it parted ever so slightly, brushing against the edge of the sake cup. He watched the bob of the slender throat; the marking of the red, red rouge that turned into a smudge on the cup's surface, faint and pink. Ahh, he was so desperately and fatally lost.

"More?" Aoyagi asked, tapping the kettle.

"How many should we have?" Viktor inhaled deeply. Aoyagi's penetrating gaze was dizzying enough.

"Three." Dark eyelashes lowered, spreading like a fan. "Then as many times as you want."

The double entendre lingered in the air. Trembling, Viktor knocked back another round of sake. Incomprehensible. It could be the exotic, new culture, or maybe the ambience, with flickering candles casting shadows about the lavish room and across Aoyagi's mesmerizing eyes. Or perhaps it was the courtesan's unique androgynous beauty, soft and strong and so, so alluring.

Whatever the reason, when Aoyagi pressed into him after the third drink and ghosted a whisper of shall we? against his ear, he murmured an immediate yes, low and husky.

It was Aoyagi who kissed him first.

The courtesan tasted of tobacco and sake and something overwhelmingly, intangibly sweet. Hands slid up his neck, tangling into his hair, and Viktor exhaled, a rush of air through his nose. Framing Aoyagi's small face with one hand, he tipped his head and deepened kiss, just a little, lowering them gently to the bedding with his other hand. He wanted to be gentle, to treat the man right, so he was in no hurry – pressing and tangling his tongue against Aoyagi's in a warm, languid desire, like the simmering embers of a campfire.

Aoyagi's fingers dropped to his buttons then, before Viktor shrugged off his jacket with the help of those same deft hands, careful not to break their kiss for longer than a second. Next was the tie, and the shirt, and then Viktor shifted down to suck beneath the pale throat, pulling skin between teeth and drawing out a soft sigh. (Intoxicating; Aoyagi was intoxicating.) He dipped his fingers to the sash, fumbling about to find a knot, a fastener – something that was keeping the damn thing on…

Aoyagi laughed above him. "Want help?"

"Yes," Viktor rasped. He surged up to recapture the courtesan's mouth and steal the responding giggle. With each kiss, the ashy, bitter combination of smoke and sake faded, bringing out the indescribable sweetness that was Aoyagi, as heady and titillating as a drug.

Viktor was hooked.

When he pulled away, Aoyagi had his sash undone, the fabric pooling onto white sheets. With it, heavy layers of cloth loosened, slithering off to reveal smooth skin and muscle, inch by inch by inch. And his eyes rose up to meet Aoyagi's, taking in the wide pupils blown out with desire, the sweep of dark eyelashes, the pink flush on fair cheeks.

"Wow," Viktor whispered, a reverent prayer. "You're gorgeous."

Aoyagi's lips curved, eyelashes dipping in a coy smile.

Right there, Viktor felt a gush of want, sinking and coiling deep in his gut. He kissed Aoyagi again, messily, sloppily, while his hands smoothed up soft thighs to squeeze the curves of a bare –

Viktor broke away, lips pulling apart with a pop.

"You're not wearing underwear," he realized with a start. And then, voice dropping, "So the entire time last night—"

"It is a custom," Aoyagi said, breathless.

"Ah, god," Viktor groaned, dropping his forehead into Aoyagi's shoulder. Aoyagi's intense eyes and flirtatious overtures, the press of skin against heated skin – any of those on their own had him hovering at the precipice of madness. The added revelation of the courtesan watching him with leaded eyelids, all the while naked under those layers, had driven him clear over the edge. So much for taking it slow. "I don't think I can… is it okay if I…?"

"I don't understand," Aoyagi mumbled.

Viktor inhaled. "I want you. To be in you. Now."

"Oh," Aoyagi breathed. "Oh, yes."

Viktor pressed a kiss on Aoyagi's shoulder, tightening his grip on bare thighs. "Then tell me where the oil[4] is."

There's a beat, which prompted Viktor to lift his gaze, just in time to catch Aoyagi's wide-eyed look of surprise. And then the courtesan let out a huff of laughter.

"No oil here," he said.

Viktor frowned. "But—"

Aoyagi's fingers rested on his wrist and guided his hand down. This time, it was Viktor's turn to be taken aback, as he felt the slick wetness in and around Aoyagi's entrance. Obviously, the courtesan had prepared himself before their encounter. His gaze snapped up, trying to read the expression on Aoyagi's face, but the smile was devoid of all emotion.

"Clients don't use oil," the courtesan told him.

Viktor's heart wrenched.

No one deserved that. No one. Especially not Aoyagi. Laid bare and flushed on the sheets, legs spread wide, he looked as exquisitely fragile as Venetian glass - a far cry from the provocative minx the night before.

Viktor dropped a feathery kiss on the corner of Aoyagi's lips. "Do you want to keep going? Because if you don't, we can always—"

Aoyagi's hazy eyes seared deep into him, "I want you in me."

He took it back: the minx was still very much in there.

"Okay, all right." Viktor breathed in deeply, steadying the pounding in his ears, before grazing a thumb across Aoyagi's rim. "Just, tell me if it hurts, okay?"

"Yes," Aoyagi moaned.

Viktor wasn't sure if the response was referring to his question or his ministrations, but he pressed his forefinger in anyway, slowly, pulling out and pushing back in. Aoyagi let out mewls and whimpers, shivering encouragingly, so he added a second finger, and then a third. With each addition, he rolled them in. Curled and scissored, relishing in Aoyagi's writhing beneath him. He took his time – plunging in at different angles, listening to the breathy gasps that tumbled out the courtesan's lips.

And then he found it: the sweet spot that had Aoyagi arch into him, teeth sinking into his lower lip.

He pressed in again; a quick confirmation. Smirked with satisfaction when Aoyagi's head flew back, eyes screwing shut.

Pulling out, he latched onto the low end of the exposed throat and sucked—"Ah," Aoyagi cried—as his fingers worked open his belt and pants, thumb slipping under the waistband of his underwear to shove both articles beneath his ass.

Even with Aoyagi prepared, Viktor didn't want to rush things.

He rubbed his cock around Aoyagi's entrance first, before he wormed it in, slow and soft. Once he had the head of his cock inside, he pulled out and thrust in again, gently, gauging Aoyagi's expression. A slight wrinkle of the nose, but no hard twist of pain. And already, Aoyagi was jolting his hips up with whimpers of frustration.

"Patience," he whispered, holding Aoyagi steady, pressing a smile into the racing pulse on Aoyagi's throat. It was as though all the power the courtesan held over him the night before had flipped like a metal coin. He continued his slow rocking, sinking deeper, further, to the lilted cries of, more; please, more, until finally, finally, he was buried deep inside, surrounded by Aoyagi's velvet heat.

It felt so, so good.

"Is this okay?" he said, breath stuttering against Aoyagi's neck.

"Please, faster," Aoyagi sobbed, "Harder—"

Ah, fuck. Any more of that, and he was sure to lose his sanity and hurt the courtesan in the process. Viktor leaned up to cover his mouth over Aoyagi's, swallowing the soft pleas. Pulled back out and rolled in again, taking care to keep his thrusts slow and measured, angled just right. It was hard. So damn hard. He wanted to hook his arms beneath Aoyagi's knees and fuck in; take heed of Aoyagi's wishes and roll his hips faster, harder; ruin him, utterly and thoroughly. But Aoyagi was the stained glass of a church window – too precious, too fragile. Against his mouth, Aoyagi mumbled words he couldn't understand, but Viktor focused on the gentle, steady rhythm, the tight burn around his cock.

And gods, the sounds, the sounds Aoyagi was making… The courtesan had started with quiet, dignified noises, restrained moans trickling out from his throat like water in a gentle stream, but with each press into his prostate, he grew louder, so much louder, and Viktor took pride in knowing that he was the one to remove Aoyagi's inhibitions – to make him feel this good.

"Mhh, your voice… you're doing so well with your voice," Viktor panted, mouthing sloppily at Aoyagi's jaw. He skittered one hand around the smooth naval, and pinned a slender wrist into the sheets with the other.

Maybe, if he played the courtesan right, he could even make him scream.

"Ahh," Aoyagi choked, bucking up as Viktor gripped his cock then, stroking in time to his thrusts.

"I want to hear more of you," Viktor breathed, hot against the courtesan's ear. "I want the whole teahouse to hear you."

"I can't – " Aoyagi broke off, shuddering, as Viktor rolled, again, into his prostate. "It's not – "

"Not the custom?" Viktor kissed Aoyagi wetly, before the courtesan mewled a stuttered y-yes into his mouth; so sweet, so hot. "All these, ah, these customs…" He kept pumping the hot length in his hand; kept rocking forward, maddeningly slow, feeling Aoyagi keen and shake under him. No underwear, no oil, and even a restriction on the sounds he could make. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

"Once," Viktor whispered raggedly. His vision was spotting now, white, and then dark. He was used to a hard fuck, skin on skin, pounding into his partner until their voices rubbed raw from screaming. The measured slowness was unraveling him in a whole different manner, driving him closer and closer to the edge with an achingly slow burn. Releasing Aoyagi's wrist, he slid the hand down, flitting teasingly across bare skin, to grip the man's hips. "Let me hear you once, when you come."

Aoyagi's eyelids fluttered. The flush on his cheeks had spread to his neck and across his chest, as exquisite as the faded ink of a straw blown painting. He arched against another thrust, raking his nails down Viktor's back, "I, ahh, I, I'm – "

He hadn't said yes.

But he hadn't said no.

"Sing for me," Viktor crooned, stroking up and twisting his thumb just so at the head of Aoyagi's cock.

And, oh, he did, so beautifully, spilling hot and white over Viktor's hand, his voice ringing in Viktor's ears like a nightingale.

One thrust, two, and Viktor followed soon after, sinking his forehead into Aoyagi's neck, fingers trembling as they dug deeper into soft skin.

As the last wave of his orgasm ebbed away, he collapsed bonelessly onto Aoyagi, his cock still softening inside the courtesan. Aoyagi's hands carded through his hair, ruffling the silver strands almost absently like he would a puppy - a lulling sensation that had Viktor close his eyes with a sigh of content. For a long while, they laid motionless, pressed into each other, bodies slick with sweat and exertion.

Eventually, Viktor forced himself to move, muscles groaning. It was tempting to stay like this, but they were sure to regret that decision in the morning. He pulled out of Aoyagi slowly, breath hitching as he watched his cum seep out, staining the sheets—

He shook his head violently. Focus, Nikiforov.

"Do you have linen, or spare cloth, or uh…" At the courtesan's baffled expression, Viktor sighed. "No, I guess not."

Aoyagi offered him a soft smile, softer than any he had seen thus far, before reaching a hand into the robes under him. "Here," he said, tugging out a handkerchief. It was made of cotton, decorated with an embroidery of lilies.

Taking the handkerchief, Viktor wiped them both, soft and gentle. He could feel Aoyagi's gaze on him, questioning, and again he felt his heart clench painfully in his chest. Had no one treated this young man with kindness, or any semblance of respect?

"Thank you," Aoyagi said, after Viktor tossed the handkerchief aside and sank back down to wrap his arms around the smaller man.

"You're welcome," Viktor mumbled, pressing his lips on Aoyagi's temple.

They fell asleep with their limbs tangled together, Aoyagi's head resting on his arm.

When Viktor's eyes opened again, it was dark; the candle wax long melted, and the warm weight on his arm gone. In his sleep, Aoyagi had rolled onto his back, his neck stretched over a thin headrest. The position looked distinctly uncomfortable, but it kept the courtesan's hairstyle intact, complete with all the dangling ornaments.

Quietly, Viktor yanked up his pants and underwear, before sliding his shirt on, not bothering with the buttons. He strode over to settle on the window ledge, one foot resting on the edge. In the garden outside stood a cherry tree, swaying lightly over a small pond, its pink flowers in full bloom. Sounds of merriment rang out beyond the garden walls: loud, raucous laughter, punctuated by girlish tittering. It felt like a world that existed in a landscape of fantasies and dreams – a "floating world" of extravagance and pleasure, removed from the humdrum of everyday obligation.

But it wasn't all joy and happiness, was it? Not for the residents who were trapped within its confines, forced to submit to its whims and fancies; residents like Aoyagi. What ill fate could have brought a delicate beauty like Aoyagi to Yoshiwara? What kind of life had he led, to have honed the subtle way he moved his eyes, his lips, his hips? Who was he under the image of the fierce enchanter? The glowing smile at the start of the night had hinted of something hidden beneath the veil, a sweet innocence that was no less captivating than the mask of seduction.

Could Aoyagi have been different, if he never knew the life of courtesan?

As if he heard Viktor's thoughts, Aoyagi stirred beneath the heavy blankets. Realizing that Viktor was awake, he rose, the covers slipping off and exposing the curve of his body.

Viktor's eyes roamed the lean form, before they locked on the base of Aoyagi's throat, where small bruises stood clear and visible against fair skin – signs of their passion mere hours ago. He breathed, chest rising in a hard inhale, before averting his gaze. A part of Viktor felt almost ashamed; in a stupor of desire, he had given in and claimed Aoyagi, just as other men had used him to fulfill their own lustful hunger. "It's still early," he chided. "Go back to sleep."

"Mm, no..." Viktor turned back to Aoyagi, who was blinking slowly, his voice still rough from sleep. "I must wake when you wake."

So many customs, but none where they were important.

"I'm sorry," Viktor said, returning to the bedding and sitting by the courtesan. Reaching for his jacket, he draped it across the man's shoulders, pulling the front ends together so it covered the bare chest. "I have much to learn about your customs."

Aoyagi blinked again. He looked down at his concealed front with some wonder, before his eyes flickered back up, narrowing. Beautiful even in his confusion. "Why do you say sorry?"

"Because I—"

Because I want to protect you.

Viktor bit his lower lip. The thought was so spontaneous and inexplicable that he was unprepared for the sudden awareness that yes, yes, something about Aoyagi made him want to protect the courtesan; hold Aoyagi in his hands and shield him from the pain and ugliness of the world. But it was too soon and too strange to say that to a person he hardly knew. So, instead, he took Aoyagi's hand in his, squeezing it gently. "Since we're both up, let's talk."

"Talk?" said Aoyagi, as though the very idea was foreign to his ears.

"Yes."

Silence fell as the courtesan studied him with an intense gaze, lips pursed together in a thin line, while Viktor met the gaze with a steady, unfaltering one of his own. And then, Aoyagi's face softened, and he nodded once, appearing to have found what he was looking for. "Okay," he conceded. "Let's talk."

"All right," Viktor exhaled, relieved to have passed the unspoken test. "How did you learn English?"

"When Edo opened, I have… new clients." Aoyagi's eyebrows furrowed together as he struggled to find the words. "No talk, like this," he gestured between them, "But helpful to understand."

"I see," Viktor said quietly, rubbing circles into Aoyagi's hand. Of course, the language was learned as another trick of the trade. Any courtesan of Aoyagi's rank and experience would have picked up on its use all too quickly. He could only imagine which words Aoyagi must have learned first. "Are you from Edo?"

"No, from ah…" Again, the courtesan floundered in his search for the right words. "From down," he concluded, pointing downwards with both index fingers.

"From the south?" Viktor clarified, unable to keep himself from smiling. He couldn't help but find the courtesan's efforts sweet and oh-so-cute. Another aspect of Aoyagi that Viktor wanted to hold and treasure for as long as he could.

"Yes, south," Aoyagi said, looking pleased that Viktor had caught on.

"You're a long way from home," Viktor said empathetically.

The light in Aoyagi's face dimmed, but he moved on swiftly, far too hastily. "Where are you from?"

"Russia," Viktor replied. Home seemed to be a touchy subject for the courtesan, so he chose not to pursue it. For now. "Saint Petersburg, to be precise."

"Russia," Aoyagi said, sounding his 'u' into a rounder 'o'.

"Yes," said Viktor, chest swirling with warmth. It felt good to hear Aoyagi speak the name of his country. "I shouldn't be here, honestly, but our ship sprung a leak and had to dock in Edo for repairs on our way from—" He stopped at the quizzical expression on the courtesan's face. "Sorry, was that hard to understand?"

Aoyagi nodded, ornaments bobbing with the motion. Then, softly, "Is Russia nice?"

"Very nice," Viktor chuckled. Carefully, he selected words that he thought might be simple enough for Aoyagi to pick up. "Colorful buildings, warm people, and the water in Saint Petersburg, oh, the water. If you go to the docks at just the right time, at just the right moment, you can catch the sunset turning the clouds and water into a pretty shade of orange and red."

"That is… very nice."

Aoyagi's lips parted in a sigh, and for a brief second, Viktor saw a wistful expression beneath the fine-edged veneer – fleeting and transient as a cherry blossom in bloom. There was so much unspoken in that look that Viktor wanted now, more than ever, to take the man with him. Bring him home and far away from this glittering world of luxury and waste.

"Aoyagi," Viktor said, but something about the name caused the mask to slide back, and the courtesan was smiling again, eyelids lowering to half-mast.

"Sleep," said Aoyagi, tugging his hand out from Viktor's. It was an order, sharp and clear as a bell. "We must wake early."

Viktor reluctantly obeyed, knowing that the conversation had reached its end, but sleep didn't come easily for him. He spent much of the early morning gazing up at the ceiling, haunted by the pensive voice, the deep melancholy etched in the lines of Aoyagi's flawless face.

"So?" The owner sounded impatient. She hovered behind him, hands wringing over her sash. "Is he coming back, or not?"

"I don't know," Yuuri said, pressing his lips on a thin sheet of paper and removing his rouge. What was left of it, anyway. "He leaves for Hakodate in three days."

The owner's voice rose in pitch, "And you didn't think to persuade him?"

It would've been so easy. I'll miss you, I'll be waiting, and of course, smoothed and sweetened with honey: please stay with me. He had staged the same saccharine performance for countless men, each one met with such rousing success that he began to tack on an encore piece to the tune of I'll see you in my dreams tonight.

But Viktor was… different.

Yuuri's eyes flickered to the handkerchief that lay balled up at the edge of his cosmetics counter. No man had ever asked for a lubricant, or asked him to freely express his pleasure, or cleaned him after they were spent. No man had taken him with such tenderness, either, as though he was a priceless treasure – someone worth more than he deserved to be.

"It didn't feel right to deceive him," he murmured.

"Right? Right? My dear, your very existence centers on deception!" The owner hurled her arms up into the air. "I knew we should've gone for the other one. He was a lot more eager; that one would've gladly stayed for you."

"I don't like the eager ones," Yuuri said serenely.

"You are a fool," the old lady huffed. "I will have you know that Lord Matsudaira is still very keen on you, despite your impudence on his last visit."

Yuuri crushed the rouge-stained paper in his hand. "Lord Matsudaira is an arrogant, possessive man-child who cannot stand the thought of not having his way."

"Lord Matsudaira is a daimyo of significant wealth and status!" the owner gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

"What does that matter? I'm a man, so he can't offer me marriage."

"And what of En? Have you considered the reputation it would bring to this teahouse if you had him as a najimi[5]?"

"Not to worry," Yuuri said wryly, "I'm sure the honorable teahouse of En will soon have another perverted old fart gracing its doorstep."

The owner's face turned into several variants of purple and red, before she spun around and stormed out of his private quarters.

His gaze wandered over to the handkerchief.

Colorful buildings, warm people, and sunsets in Saint Petersburg.

Somewhere, somehow, Viktor had managed to put a crack in his perfect mask; stirred up feelings and memories he buried so deep he thought they were lost eons ago. If the Russian hadn't called him by that name…

Yuuri sighed heavily.

Normally, he wouldn't allow a first-time client to kiss him goodbye, but Viktor's request was so sweet and genuine that his tongue had formed around a yes before his mind could stop him. Even the kiss itself thrummed of something beyond desire, something bordering on the forbidden. The last time two foolish courtesans dared to entertain such feelings, dared to dream, one had lost a finger to a jealous client, while another took his own life in a tragic double suicide with his lover[6].

Besides, who could say any of this was real? Perhaps Russian men were better chess players than their Japanese counterparts; perhaps they knew how to use words to win the hearts of lonely prostitutes by making them believe that maybe, just maybe, they could actually be loved by another.

Despite the owner's wish for Viktor's return—as much as Yuuri's stomach clenched at the thought—it would be best if he never did.

Yuuri ran a finger over his lips.

This was why talking was so dangerous.

Christophe was being singularly annoying. His best friend stuck to him like a barnacle, prodding at him for details, and teasing him about how every Nikiforov admirer must be crying in their sleep right now. Viktor couldn't kick him out, not when he was the one staying in his friend's luxurious Edo residence, eating the man's food and sharing the man's bed, with its decadently plush mattress and satin sheets. (As the son of a wealthy business tycoon, Christophe had a great deal of disposable income, despite his romantic decision to "live the life of a destitute writer".) So Viktor ignored the Swiss instead, focused on reading the reports he received on the development of the Russian consulate in Hokkaido.

"Was he as good as they say he is?" Christophe plopped onto the edge of the study desk, tugging the peppermint stick out of his mouth with a loud 'pop'. Viktor's jaw clenched; the noise was more aggravating than he expected. "I've been interviewing folks and collecting notes on Yoshiwara for, you know, writing purposes. And people have lots of things to say about him."

"Not now, Chris."

"A British naval officer said he moans soft and breathy, like a woman."

"Chris."

"And that he's really good with his mouth, but only if he likes you."

"I'm really not in the mood for—"

"A French merchant also told me that when he's on top, he rides them until they go positively mad with—"

Viktor whirled on him. "Aoyagi is not an object for your raunchy fantasies," he snapped.

Startled, Christophe paused, the candy hovering near reddened lips. "Sorry, but he is a courtesan," he said, recovering quickly. "I'd imagine raunchy fantasies are a major part of his trade."

"I know, I just – I think he's – " Viktor scrubbed his face with his hands. Lack of sleep and frustration were a lethal combination against his ability to form proper sentences. "I don't like how he's treated in there, like some clipped bird in a cage, like some thing for people to use however they wish. They have him parading around practically naked under all those clothes, but they don't give him oil to ease the pain. They won't even let him express himself during sex. That's no way to treat a human being."

"He's naked under those robes?" Christophe said, mouth falling open.

Viktor shot him a flat stare.

"Right, right, not the point." Christophe popped the sweet back into his mouth, shrugging his shoulders in a sensual roll. "I hate to break it to you, my naïve little friend, but that's the life of a prostitute. At least Aoyagi gets to choose his clients," he pointed out. "Most whores don't even—"

"Don't call him that," Viktor hissed, the temperature of his voice dropping below freezing point.

He could tell in Christophe's expression that his friend knew, right then and there. They had known each other for too long to miss something quite so transparent.

"Jesus, Viktor," Christophe murmured around the peppermint. "Don't do this to yourself."

"Do what," Viktor said brusquely, making a great show of shuffling his documents on the desk.

"You know what I'm talking about," Christophe sighed. Another infuriating 'pop'. "I know you. When you fall, you fall hard. Pain and heartache and tearstained letters of Chris, I can't live anymore kind of hard. But this? This is a whole new level. Like jumping off a cliff and hoping you'll fly."

Viktor closed his eyes, breathing evenly. He knew it was madness. He and Aoyagi lived, quite literally, in two different worlds. He also knew nothing about Aoyagi, besides the flash of sadness in his eyes and the wish for a life beyond the towering red gates. And yet, he wanted to know more. He wanted to learn how Aoyagi spent his mornings; if Aoyagi was a dog or cat person; how Aoyagi liked his tea. He wanted to see Aoyagi's expression as they watched the sun sink beneath the horizon, together, at the docks of Saint Petersburg.

What was love, really, if not filled with some sort of madness?

He opened his eyes and smiled, broad and luminous.

"Who's to say I won't sprout wings?"

Christophe exhaled in utter resignation.

On the morning of his departure, hours before his ship was ready for sail, Viktor returned to Yoshiwara for one last glimpse – and maybe another farewell kiss. He stood behind a tree, observing the comings and goings of the teahouse staff, contemplating the best way to seek an audience with Aoyagi. Clients, he learned from the translator, were only entertained in the evenings, no exceptions allowed. Maybe he could sneak in, find the courtesan's quarters, and—

The door rattled open again. This time, a Japanese middle-aged man in fine robes stepped out, followed by none other than Aoyagi himself, dressed in a simple violet robe over a gossamer undergarment of pale blue, his eyes demurely cast downward. As the man pulled Aoyagi into a tight embrace, Viktor felt his chest constrict, squeezing his lungs until he couldn't breathe. Of course, Aoyagi would have other... clients. He was a breathtaking, high-ranking courtesan.

Viktor should've left. He should've turned and walked away. Instead, drawn to the scene like spectators to a house on fire, he watched as the man exchanged a few intimate words with Aoyagi, a hand curled possessively on Aoyagi's hip. Watched as Aoyagi gave a response that made the man let out a bellow of laughter; as the man slid that grubby hand round to squeeze Aoyagi's ass.

Viktor clenched his fists hard enough to draw blood. This was sort of the clientele that caused Aoyagi to stare at him in uncertainty and wonderment, when Viktor had asked if he could kiss him. The sort that viewed the courtesan as property, and took and took from him until he no longer recognized an act of kindness or respect. When the client finally left, Viktor might have gone after him, done something impulsive and violent enough to give Yakov an instant cardiac arrest and set back Russia's relations with Japan for generations, if Aoyagi hadn't lingered at the entrance, gazing up at the sky with the such sorrow that Viktor's fury evaporated like smoke.

Right now, the courtesan was far more important.

"Aoyagi," Viktor called as he stepped out from behind the tree.

Aoyagi's head whipped round, eyes widening in genuine astonishment. "Viktor...?"

It was the first time the courtesan said his name. Accentuating the tail end of the first syllable; rolling the last 'r' around his tongue. He must have picked it up on their first meeting.

Viktor could listen to him say his name a thousand times and more.

"I just wanted to say goodbye," he murmured, approaching the courtesan slowly.

Aoyagi cast a glance at the open door, before he quickly pulled it shut. No hesitation, not even a single pause. Of the many rules in Yoshiwara, Viktor wondered, with a spark of delight, just how many Aoyagi was willing to break for him.

"We said goodbye," Aoyagi said in an admonishing tone.

"Yes, but I don't know when I'll be back, and I… I wanted to see you before I left." Viktor laid a hand on Aoyagi's cheek, soft and caressing. "I'll miss you. So, so much."

Something unexpected flashed across the courtesan's face. Shock and grief and dismay – a storm cloud of emotions, rolled into one expression. And then it was gone, replaced by a practiced, coquettish blush, seconds before Viktor felt soft lips brush against his.

"Ask for me again," Aoyagi murmured, resting a hand on Viktor's before turning away, back to the entrance, back to his opulent, caged existence.

—no. This wasn't the farewell Viktor had envisioned.

"Wait." He snatched at a thin wrist, jerking Aoyagi to a halt. The courtesan didn't turn around. Wouldn't turn around. Viktor swallowed. He didn't know what to say, or even if stopping Aoyagi was a good idea, but he knew he couldn't leave now. Not when he'd glimpsed the truth behind the veil. "Was it something I said? You just, you looked so sad, and it's… it's not the first time I've seen you this sad. When we talked about your home in south, and when I talked about the sunsets in Saint Petersburg—"

"Don't," Aoyagi whispered.

"Don't what?" Viktor's grip on Aoyagi's wrist loosened. "I don't understand, tell me what—"

Aoyagi wrenched out of his hold, twisting round to face him, and Viktor felt his breath catch in a different way from when they first met – when smoke curled around a hot and sultry visage, bewitching as a siren call in the open ocean. This Aoyagi didn't harbor a knife's edge in his features, or a predatory gleam in his gaze. The mask had shattered, revealing quivering lips and wide glistening eyes that made the Japanese look so tiny and broken that Viktor wanted to pull him into his arms and never let go.

"Please," Aoyagi pleaded, his voice coming out in hiccups and bumps, "Don't – Don't talk like that, d-don't look at me like that, don't – " He drew in a wavering breath.

"Don't give me hope."

And then, before Viktor could react, he swept through the entrance like a bird startled into flight, slamming the door shut behind him.

Oh, thought Viktor, his heart hammering in his ears, gaze rooted on the closed door.

He took the leap, and there was no turning back.

Notes:

Since the Edo period (1603-1868), Yoshiwara was a red-light district designated by the Tokugawa Shogunate in Edo, Japan (present-day Tokyo) as a way to contain rampant male and female prostitution.

[1] Oiran – 花魁, in which 花 means 'flower' and 魁 means 'number one'. Referred to the highest-ranking courtesans in Yoshiwara. Each teahouse, where courtesans worked, would have one oiran. Not all female prostitutes were courtesans. Only the best looking and most talented were selected for courtesan training, between the ages of seven and fifteen, after which they served the oiran as their attendants or, kamuro. They were taught how to read and write, and also trained in the arts, such as dancing, singing, painting, calligraphy, playing musical instruments (e.g., shamisen, koto) and board games like Igo. Courtesans had to rise through the ranks to become an oiran. Unlike the lower ranked, oiran could select their clients, though it was common for teahouses to push them to choose wealthy and powerful clients for the money and reputation.

Note I: Geisha were not oiran, but oiran could be geisha. An oiran could sing, dance, and entertain like a geisha because of their training, but they also provided sex services, which geisha did not. When a female courtesan became an oiran, she would have geisha performing in her debut party.

Note II: It's unknown (as far as I can find) whether there were male courtesans. There were male prostitutes called kagema, who were typically wakashu, young apprentices of Kabuki actors (Kabuki by day; prostitution by night), and it was recorded that they had a hierarchy as well. It was also stated that the highest ranking male prostitutes earned more than even the female oiran. Information on the exact hierarchy, however, could not be found. As such, I've created my own spin on it by adopting the hierarchy and rituals of female courtesans, while also acknowledging here (and the fic itself) that it's different for males.

[2] Names – Courtesan names weren't just given willy-nilly, particularly for oiran. Oiran names had to come from the Genji Monogatari, or Tales of Genji, other literary or historical references, poetic images, or names of places with beautiful imagery. Because oiran names could overlap with one another, they were typically introduced as "[oiran] of [teahouse]" to lessen confusion. Also, names changed each time a female courtesan rose up the ranks, so a courtesan could have up to three names. In this story, Yuuri has had two names: Mikawa 美川 (beautiful river) and his current one, Aoyagi 青柳 (budding willow) – so given for its poetic imagery. I specifically chose these names for their delicate and feminine feel.

[3] Russian consul in Hakodate, Hokkaido – According to one of the stipulations of the Treaty of Shimoda in 1855, a Russian consul was to be established in Hakodate. In addition, Shimoda, Hakodate, and Nagasaki were to open its ports to Russian vessels. Note that Edo was not included in the treaty! The only way Viktor could have been allowed at Edo, was if he had to make an emergency stop – hence, his ship conveniently springing a leak. Fortuitous, no?

[4] Lubricants - Olive oil was used as a lubricant in the West since the ancient Greeks in 350BC. The Japanese used a slick substance called tororo-jiru (literally, 'sticky juice'), made by grating Chinese yams. #themoreyouknow

[5] Najimi 馴染み – Literally, 'familiar/intimate', or friend. In the case of oiran, a najimi is basically a favored regular patron. Najimi had to pay a najimikin (literally 'familiar fee'), similar to a membership fee, in order to keep up their status as an intimate. Teahouses would prefer their oiran to choose najimi that would bring them higher profits and greater reputation.

[6] Finger cutting/Suicides – The life of a courtesan was usually tragic. If they didn't die of venereal diseases or failed abortions, they struggled greatly when it came to the topic of love. Particularly for male prostitutes, jealousy was common among clients – prostitutes were killed by jealous lovers, or were forced to cut off a finger to prove their love to possessive clients. For female courtesans, their only way out of Yoshiwara was an offer of marriage from a wealthy client. Escape was not an option, because local police sided with the teahouses, and would conduct a manhunt to bring back a runaway courtesan. Feeling there was no other way, some courtesans chose the double suicide route with their lovers.