What makes history (Hijikata x OC)

Kimigiku

Kimigiku eventually retrieved the shamisen for the door, and gracefully walked to a cushion that faced us all. She bowed, then, and started pinching the cords. I listened raptly; it felt like a guitar, but without the full resonance behind it. A drier sound, not entirely agreeable to my foreigner's ears.

"Itadakimasu," Kondō said, his chopsticks raised between his joined hands. I repeated the traditional greeting, my attention divided between the delicious smelling meal, and the shamisen's performance.

Despite her unnatural presence, Kimigiku knew how to make herself scarce. I eyed at my meal with the enthusiasm of a beginner, not knowing what to start first. In the past months, I'd never eaten raw fish. We cooked and grilled it to avoid diseases, as Chizuru had explained that it took several hours to ride to Ōsaka port. Their fermented sushi – which smelt horribly, according to Heisuke – would have trouble making the road unscathed anyway. Fried rice and vegetables were more common, as well as pork and duck. My chopstick hovered over the plate; I just didn't know what to try first.

"The duck will cool faster than the rest," Hijikata slid to me.

His own plate was already half empty.

"Hai!" was my enthusiastic response before I picked up a piece of the lacquered meat. The explosion of savours in my mouth surprised me so much that I actually moaned at the taste. Kondō chuckled, and I blushed, once more. But damn, that combination of ginger and grilled duck was a work of art.

"It's a change from Sōji oversalted vegetables and Saitō's tofu," he told me, mindful not to cover the shamisen's playing.

Sanan smiled, digging into the rice with gusto. "You have to admit that the food is much better since Chizuru came to the compound."

The three commanders nodded, and I wondered what kind of fare they used to eat before the girl crashed into their lives, playing mother to men twice her age. As the Geiko started singing, I resolved myself to try and find some potatoes for a bit of Italian cuisine. They knew of pasta, since I had soba in my plate. What would they think of gnocchi?

As I savoured every little piece of fried vegetables and steamed rice buns, the strange notes washed over me. That music was so weird to me European; the minor scales felt almost wrong to my ears, and I couldn't find a pattern that linked the notes together. How did she learn something so ... improbable?

When her voice trembled – on purpose – on a higher note, I almost winced. Cultural shock indeed, especially for someone who loved opera and heavy metal alike. My kingdom for Bruce Dickinson!

My eyes caught the grey ones of Sanan, and he offered me a gentle smile. But it was Kimiguru herself that addressed the elephant in the room when she set her Shamisen aside.

"Our music doesn't quite agree to your tastes."

Any other would have insulted me; especially in a country that struggled with the constant pushing of the western world. I was grateful that she didn't, and responded with the utmost respect.

"I, uh, it's very different from what I was educated to hear. I'm trying to see the patterns, and fail at finding them."

"You're analysing, Kitsu-kun," Sanan told me. "Allow the feel. Would you please oblige again, Kimigiku-san?"

The Geiko bowed to the Colonel and, picking up the shamisen, started a new song. I closed my eyes, adamant to follow the counsel I'd received with such little judgement. Food was forgotten, but not its delicious smell. I allowed the music to seep in, finding solace in its very simple arrangement. As the Geiko's voice rose and fell, my senses travelled to snowy mountains, and places untainted by men. There was sturdiness to her tones, a certainty that wavered, sometimes, to show vulnerability.