Chapter Text
Officially, Kiyohiro oughtn’t approve.
Emotional attachments are liabilities in the shared business of Iga villagers, and he has seen their cost paid enough times to understand why they are considered so; it’s much easier to clean blood off your blade that never belonged to someone once held dear.
But nonetheless, there’s something nice about seeing them form, and blossom.
The softness in the Lord Assassin’s smile looks like it belongs there. Like its shape has settled and sealed some shattered foundation and strengthened it.
Put more simply—Saizo looks happy.
As for Kiyohiro himself, who is not overly prone to strong emotions one way or another, he finds that watching sunlight creep into a soul sworn to shadows makes him happy as well. He keeps this to himself—but he does his best to protect it. He delivers gifts from Oyuki (though often while wondering if doing so is protection or problem-causing), redirects the wayward Hotaru, puts forth his own blade to distract the mad Hojo ninja intent on Saizo’s attention, such that his odd ardour won’t disrupt few stolen moments of alone time the Lord Assassin takes with his little lady. It is an offering of admiration if not precisely friendship. He supposes that suits best. He is neither guardian, nor protector. He is not even quite shadow, for if he were, he would not interfere. He is an ally of sorts. An admirer.
He notices (because it is his job to notice things) the pretty maid in pink lingering in the hallway. Ostensibly, she is scrubbing the floors, but to his trained eye they are already sparkling and so the activity is suspect. From his place tucked in the dim, Kiyohiro grips his weapon, and waits, weary of another interruption to thwart, but her purpose becomes clear as soon as the younger Sanada lord approaches. She flings her arms around Yukimura’s to prevent his entry into the closed room, and he stops short, free arm frozen from where it would knock.
The little lord, as Saizo calls him, predictably, sputters, and stammers, a shocked caricature of himself in scarlet from head to toes. The pretty maid shushes him and shoos him away from his course with a sweet smile and smooth words. His mission forgotten, the samurai returns from whence he came, face still burning in a blush and inarticulate mumbles stuttering under his breath. The maid watches him go, and Kiyohiro watches her. Her fingers are steepled, her hair pulled to the side, and her cheeks are bright with her pleasure. She gives a wordless thumbs up to the closed door. Kiyohiro does not detect a smile has taken up residence on his own lips in silent accord.
The couple has another ally, it would seem.
(He makes a note to learn her name.)