He did his best to relax. They didn’t see him as him, so there was nothing to be embarrassed about. He figured that Tojin, back home, probably would have been thrilled to be in a situation like this. It would give him all kinds of opportunities to flex his muscles for everyone. Or who knew; maybe Tojin bathed with women all the time. He did always have Akane hanging off him.
Yes, Tojin would probably relish the experience. Painter wondered if he shouldn’t try to do so as well. Wasn’t that what a great hero would do? He could put his back to Yumi and enjoy looking at the other two.
But that idea disgusted him. The attendants didn’t know who he was. It wasn’t right.
You’re a coward, a part of him thought. This might even be a dream. Enjoy it.
But…well, he just couldn’t. Yumi was one thing. She’d chosen to come bathe here, knowing what he was. The attendants were another thing entirely. So he kept his eyes closed as he was washed. Unfortunately, he lost his footing while standing up, and started to slip. Through no fault of his own, his eyes popped open.
He found Yumi standing in the water nearby, looking at his waist—well, below it—her head cocked. As soon as she saw his eyes open, she squeaked and squeezed hers closed.
“Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry!” she said. “I didn’t mean to do that. I—”
“It’s fine.” He closed his eyes again. “It’s a…difficult situation.” He meant that. After all, he’d basically done the same thing.
As the attendants finished his current rinse and he leaned back into the water, his hand drifted to the side and accidentally touched Yumi’s. Again the powerful sense of warmth thrummed through him. Overwhelming, even exhausting.
But with it, this time, came emotions. Her emotions. He could feel her fear, her embarrassment, her shame. Her deeper terror that something was very, very wrong—and that she didn’t know how to fix it.
（She, in turn, felt much of the same from him—though when she sensed the shield he put up to protect his natural shyness, she interpreted it as confidence. She felt his own embarrassment, and the shame buried so far beneath his surface emotions it might as well have been magma churning beneath the crust of the planet.）
Then, as they broke the touch, both felt better. The situation was horribly awkward, but in that moment they realized it was a shared experience of horrible awkwardness that they had to get through together. Trauma doesn’t decrease with company, but it does grow easier to work through when you know someone else understands.
The attendants dunked him, and he—at Yumi’s instruction—did his best to stay underwater for the ritual amount of time. After that, the attendants withdrew from the pool to dry off, then stepped outside to dress and prepare the yoki-hijo’s tobok, which would take a few minutes. Alone with Yumi, Painter tipped his head back and relaxed into the warm water, his eyes closed. He let his hand drift out, kind of hoping it would touch Yumi’s again.
“I truly am sorry,” she whispered, somewhere nearby. She hadn’t gotten out, then. “I…don’t have much experience…with men, you see. It’s not part of my training.”
“Is it part of anyone’s?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Did you…lead a normal life when you were young? Before you became a hero?”
“Depends on what you call normal. I’d say it was…unremarkable in most ways. But not you? You’ve lived with this all your life?”
“This has been my duty since I was chosen by the spirits as a baby.” She paused. “You may think it confining, but it’s an enormous honor. I provide such an important service to the people. Our society could not exist without the yoki-hijo. Thousands would starve.”
He wanted to be encouraging, but words eluded him. He’d pretended to be a hero for so long that now that he had to live up to that ideal, even deciding what to say was difficult. Still, as he drifted there, somewhere near her, he found himself increasingly thrilled to be stolen from his other life and brought to this strange place.
This, you might note, is somewhat different from many stories. Painter wasn’t reluctant. He wasn’t eager to get back to his life. What was there for him at home? Instead he was excited to find a way to actually help Yumi. To change the world.
But wait, he thought. There was a stable nightmare. I never reported it. He could only vaguely remember trailing back to his apartment, struck by what now seemed a supernatural exhaustion, his mind a fuzz.
He had to find a way home, or that nightmare could do serious damage. Kill and rampage. It was a sudden, cruel irony that the one time in his life where his otherwise monotonous job was urgent…was the same time he’d found himself in a mystical adventure.
He had to help Yumi quickly, so he could get to Kilahito and report that nightmare. Unless he could find a way to send a message. For now, he focused on Yumi. How could he fix her problem? She needed a painting?
Then his mind drifted a bit. Back to when he’d opened his eyes briefly and seen her standing there in the pool…her hair and skin glistening in the light…
Wait.
“Wait!” he said, splashing and righting himself, opening his eyes by instinct to double-check. “Yumi, your hair is wet!”
She opened her own eyes, then stood and touched her long black hair. Which was wet.
“Why?” he asked. “You can’t touch anything else, but you can touch the water?”
She frowned. “I…didn’t feel like I was getting wet when I stepped into the pool. I felt nothing, like when I tried to touch the blanket or the wall. Now though, I do feel it. I’m floating. I feel the water’s coolness like every other time I’ve entered a pool like this.” She cocked her head. “It means something. You’re right.”
They met one another’s eyes. Then, at basically the same moment, they realized where they were and what they weren’t wearing. Both blushed and squeezed their eyes closed.
Yes, I know.
But you were once young and nervous too. We all were. There’s nothing wrong with being a tad awkward. It is a sign of a new experience—and new experiences are among the cosmere’s best forms of emotional leavening. We shouldn’t be so afraid of showing inexperience. Cynicism isn’t interesting; it is often no more than a mask we place over tedium.
“Your attendants have dressed and are returning to dry you, hero,” Yumi said softly. “They will wait until you’re ready—it is traditional to allow you time here. I will get dressed, then turn and let you know you may approach.”
The water sloshed a bit as she left the pool. True to her word, she called out a short time later. He opened his eyes and found her dressed in her nightgown again, with her back toward him.
Reminding himself that he wasn’t actually exposing himself to the attendants, Painter climbed out of the pool and let the women dry him. One had prepared new clothing, even more ornate than what he’d been wearing before. An undergarment followed by one of the bell-shaped skirts, with a separate top that came down over it in a matching—but darker—color. Bow across the front, though that was less to hold it together and more to ornament the ensemble.