Post by Shinpei Minamoto on Apr 10, 2015 6:12:20 GMT -5
In the end, Japan is only so accepting of differences. If a man chooses to wear odd clothing once or twice, there might be whispers; however, continued and moderate deviation from the mean was regarded with suspicion if not complete stigma. That was simply the kind of place it was and the kind of people it held: Shinpei simply had to adjust or get left behind. Which he did, begrudgingly, but that didn't stop him from loving the feel of a nice, silky robe against his skin or a loosely tied obi around his waist. On the occasions he could find to wear the same kind of clothing he'd indulged in at the Soul Society (floral patterned, high threadcount, carelessly exposing a little more skin than it should) he enjoyed it all the more. It was simply a shame such opportunities came so infrequently.
But this was one of those wonderful times: a festival of some sort that Shinpei had failed to catch the name or purpose of. At the least it gave him an excuse for gaiety--not that he ever needed one.
He stood there, on the grassy hill, watching people milling about and passing through the various lanes. Here, food: stalls run by small-time business owners sold everything from dumplings to American burgers. Boys and girls ran up to stalls offering small samples and the owners good-naturedly chased them off after they'd got a handful or two of small treats. Lovers bought candies and chocolate for each other, smiling foolishly. Delicious smells wafted up to him and made him salivate, but he wanted to watch a little longer.
There, a play: old and young alike sat before a pantomimed demonstration of God A's triumph over God B and the eventual return of God C to the earth for an indiscretion that Shinpei hadn't quite caught. Hands snaked from robes and found another to share secret squeezes: fingers interlocking as the crowd around them focused their attention elsewhere. Secret blushes. Secret smiles. The small acts of love, no matter how childish, made Shinpei smile, but he wanted to watch a little longer.
Over there, a dance: lines of women, three by three, performed something intricate and swirling on a stage that took the onlookers' breath away. Their traditional kimonos swayed and clung at the apex and at the end of a movement, hanging for a brief second before the next set of steps and sways, like a kata, was executed. On the ground old ladies sat side by side with their husbands or coaxed them into one creaking dance that turned into five, and then ten. Mothers swung their children between theirs and their husband's arms: the children squealed and laughed as their parents exchanged a smile and a glance. Young lovers fidgeted and looked pointedly away from their companions, glancing back every now and then: does she feel the same way I feel? Will he dance with me? Does she think I'm handsome? Does he think I'm pretty?
Perhaps you have the wrong idea about Shinpei: he does have other interests than sex. He understands beauty: a slowly opening flower, a falling petal, and a softly brushed painting are all things he could find the beauty in, and they weren't alone. He was simply a motivated man--a man with a one track mind. He could only ever think about one thing at once. He was hard to derail if not totally impossible. His singular purpose had only ever been briefly diverted from. Inevitably, he found his way back.
So it shouldn't come as a surprise that, where food and a play failed to motivate him, a fertility dance that became increasingly sexual and nine sweating, lustrous dancing girls succeeded. He descended the hill and aimed for the stage. A closer look, after all, would have been even more beautiful. Even more exciting.
He loved excitement.
And it shouldn't come as any surprise that he'd long ago simply ceased hiding his Reiatsu. He was strong, and he was nobody: what did he have to fear?
But this was one of those wonderful times: a festival of some sort that Shinpei had failed to catch the name or purpose of. At the least it gave him an excuse for gaiety--not that he ever needed one.
He stood there, on the grassy hill, watching people milling about and passing through the various lanes. Here, food: stalls run by small-time business owners sold everything from dumplings to American burgers. Boys and girls ran up to stalls offering small samples and the owners good-naturedly chased them off after they'd got a handful or two of small treats. Lovers bought candies and chocolate for each other, smiling foolishly. Delicious smells wafted up to him and made him salivate, but he wanted to watch a little longer.
There, a play: old and young alike sat before a pantomimed demonstration of God A's triumph over God B and the eventual return of God C to the earth for an indiscretion that Shinpei hadn't quite caught. Hands snaked from robes and found another to share secret squeezes: fingers interlocking as the crowd around them focused their attention elsewhere. Secret blushes. Secret smiles. The small acts of love, no matter how childish, made Shinpei smile, but he wanted to watch a little longer.
Over there, a dance: lines of women, three by three, performed something intricate and swirling on a stage that took the onlookers' breath away. Their traditional kimonos swayed and clung at the apex and at the end of a movement, hanging for a brief second before the next set of steps and sways, like a kata, was executed. On the ground old ladies sat side by side with their husbands or coaxed them into one creaking dance that turned into five, and then ten. Mothers swung their children between theirs and their husband's arms: the children squealed and laughed as their parents exchanged a smile and a glance. Young lovers fidgeted and looked pointedly away from their companions, glancing back every now and then: does she feel the same way I feel? Will he dance with me? Does she think I'm handsome? Does he think I'm pretty?
Perhaps you have the wrong idea about Shinpei: he does have other interests than sex. He understands beauty: a slowly opening flower, a falling petal, and a softly brushed painting are all things he could find the beauty in, and they weren't alone. He was simply a motivated man--a man with a one track mind. He could only ever think about one thing at once. He was hard to derail if not totally impossible. His singular purpose had only ever been briefly diverted from. Inevitably, he found his way back.
So it shouldn't come as a surprise that, where food and a play failed to motivate him, a fertility dance that became increasingly sexual and nine sweating, lustrous dancing girls succeeded. He descended the hill and aimed for the stage. A closer look, after all, would have been even more beautiful. Even more exciting.
He loved excitement.
And it shouldn't come as any surprise that he'd long ago simply ceased hiding his Reiatsu. He was strong, and he was nobody: what did he have to fear?