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There are things that Luxurors and Casualries and monks and royalty do not know, that only the Samurai know and guard as secrets all their own.
These things the four Samurai prentices know:
That those who live in the Tokyo below are as clean and human as any of those who hail of East Mikado.
That a demon may not be a friend or companion, but one that has spent enough time with you can be trusted with your back, and held to their word.
That even in a world of blasted ruins and infernal creatures, human goodness and decency survive.
There are things too that not even all four of them know. They do not hide from each other, not exactly, but there is no natural way to bring up in conversation:
That the nights are bitterly cold for Jonathan and less so for Walter, who has lived by a lakeside and in a barer home all his life, and that it is Jonathan who curls closer and asks, with a hint of an apology, for Walter's warmth.
That Walter does not hesitate a moment before granting it to him.
That not even body heat could explain the peaceful sleep Jonathan falls into against Walter's shoulder, nor the way that Walter tugs him closer before following him into dreamless slumber.
And then there are the things that they would hide even from their compatriots, until they know how to speak of them with clarity and confidence:
That Jonathan wakes first that morning, and finds he cannot remove himself from his position without disturbing Walter's arm around him and, what's more, that he has no desire to be anywhere else in the world at that moment.
That Walter wakes to find that Flynn and Isabeau have already left to acquire food and it is only he and Jonathan, embracing on the hard floor of an empty room in Tokyo.
That when Walter remarks on this, Jonathan disentangles himself too hastily and has to be caught by his shirt in order to keep him near enough to kiss.
There are the things that should not be spoken of aloud, and could not if they tried:
The softness, the warmth even in the morning's cold, the noise of surprise Jonathan makes that fades into a hum of happiness, Jonathan's hand on Walter's cheek, the way the entire world seems to be irrelevant save for the two of them and that room.
The flush on both their faces as what was one kiss becomes two or twenty, the way that kisses stop and start again until telling one from another is impossible, Walter's body fitting snugly with Jonathan's, a swallowed sentimental word or two.
And of course, there are the things they think are secrets, but are briefly witnessed:
While plans to get up and start the day are discussed and tossed aside in favor of remaining as they are, Isabeau catches a glance through the ajar door and silently steers Flynn elsewhere.