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He comes to you in early autumn, a burst of petals and a smile painted so red , so bright , that you cannot stop staring. “I’m the child beneath the river,” he says, “Kashuu Kiyomitsu.”
He is not the first, but you cannot help but watch him in a way you have not done before, for anyone else. Perhaps it’s something in him that you find kindred in yourself that prompts you to welcome him warmly, to admire his nails and his hair. Your heart beats faster than it should.
He is not afraid to tug at your sleeve, ask for your opinion. He knows, as you know, how beauty is so fleeting, so fragile. He says he wants to be your beautiful sword, your prized weapon. He wants to know if you like red, if you like black, if you like gold.
It’s so, so hard to say no to him, when he asks for little things. Nail polish, a hairpin. He takes these with a smile that feels genuine, thanks you with a voice filled with what seems to be relief. Does he think that it’s proof that he’s loved, proof that you care? The ache in your chest tugs and pulls, and it grows.
He does not hide that he seeks love, as you do. He comes back to you stained scarlet, eyes wide and filled with a question, a hunger. Do you love me now? Will you love me? With the way he wields his blade, you are afraid he will break, insatiable for something that you can only give so much of. He looks to you with a shaking smile, covered in blood that is not his own, seeking your approval, your praise.
You do not have a taste for battle, but victory feels good nonetheless when you wrap your arms around his neck and ask him if he wants to go home. His hair is so, so soft, like threads of silk. You brush it after the battle for him, gentle and sure. He looks so happy to be close to you, and you wonder if he feels satisfied.
When he comes back being carried it is hard for you to breathe, hard for you to think. His blade in your hands is held with a trembling, unsure grasp; when he is carried to the repair room it leaves behind a trail of red that you step in behind.
You are afraid to touch him, for fear that he will warp, will shatter. “Does this mean you still love me?” he asks, when you touch the rice-paper to his blade. “Are you bothered to repair me?”
How your heart aches to answer. You touch your lips to his forehead, press a help token to his sword. It is only when he makes a noise of surprise that you realize you are crying.
He brings you breakfast one morning, and you make him sit down on your futon and fuss over his wounds, his bandages. When you finally let him up again your food has cooled, no longer suitable to be eaten, but he just smiles and says he will warm it up again.
The snow has thawed, the flowers bloomed, and someone has suggested to hold hanami . The cherry blossoms are so fragile, so lovely in the early-spring weather; the chill of the cold has not yet entirely left at this time of year.
You sit under the trees with him, watching the tantou play. He rests his head on your shoulder, hands clasped with yours. His, slender and beautiful, are strong in their grip nonetheless. He asks if he is loved, and you tell him that he is.
You hope, one day, that you can ask him the same.