Work Text:
Winter is… interesting, to say. At least for Yamanbagiri, who remembers how the cold had felt against his steel and how it had been much more different than he would’ve thought with a physical form.
Though this winter, he finds, is a more than special one.
It is the first winter that he’s experienced having someone by his side. And the snow looks that much more fluffier as it falls from the sky.
He shifts closer under the broad cover of their wagasa , shoulder brushing against his partner’s. Mikazuki lets out a pleased hum as Yamanbagiri falls back into step with him. The snow is still very fluffy and the wind blows the stray crystals onto Mikazuki’s hair, dotting the sky with stars.
(Something tugs at his heart and Yamanbagiri Kunihiro remembers his first winter at the citadel, where he had desperately tried to show the season’s first snowfall to the saniwa and the bloom of pink as he heard the peals of Mikazuki Munechika’s laughter. He had tugged his hood ever downwards and slinking back under the kotatsu with his brothers. That warmth in his heart was nothing more than the tea he had drank earlier. Nothing more.
“Kusojiji!”
The other had just laughed it off, requesting that he come sit with him for a drink later, the response left quietly unsaid. Mikazuki walks off into the snow, perhaps trying to find something; though Yamanbagiri doesn’t know what.
God, looking back at that now, was he always like that?)
The citadel behind them is bright with both color and noise. It’s a wonder how he had managed to slip away without anyone following him or asking him to stay just a bit longer.
Actually, maybe he picked it up from Mikazuki; the tachi seemingly appearing when they always needed him or quickly disappearing from view despite the fact he had been clearly sitting quite snugly with tea in hand.
It reminds him of the moon.
Or more specifically the phases.
(Full moon and new moon, huh.)
“It’s lively tonight,” the Tenka Goken says, the lilt of his voice so very casual, as if he’s making pleasantries in the same way they had met all those seasons ago.
Yamanbagiri shrugs as they fall in back into sync.
They walk a little longer, Mikazuki filling up the silence with his chatter for the two of them and Yamanbagiri replying every so often. But a more than cheesy line from the older blade has him stopping and tilting his head.
“That’s more than cheesy.”
Mikazuki’s laughter is muffled behind his sleeve, yet the notes are still clear and hearty. “And I thought it was romantic.”
“It’d be more romantic without those lines Tsurumaru’s probably been feeding you.”
“Well, it is to cheer up my sooty sun.”
He huffs. “Am I still sooty?”
“Much less so,” the snow gleams in Mikazuki’s hair, befitting him more than perfectly (he’s a Tenka Goken after all). “An irreplaceable sun you are, no matter how dark you try to project yourself as.”
Only he has that specific way of talking that makes his nonsensical words sound less like mushy love words and more sincere.
“And,” Oh, Mikazuki wasn’t done yet, “this moon only has one sun.”
Those words are enough to halt his reply, the phrase still resonating strongly within him as much as it did the first time Yamanbagiri had heard it. Silently, his hand finds Mikazuki’s, wagasa shifted into his free hand.
There’s something mumbled under his breath as he resets their pace.
Yamanbagiri gets a delighted hum in reply. “Come again? It seems like my age is catching up to me, my hearing isn’t as good as it used to be.”
“When was it ever —!” He stops, and takes a breath before repeating what he said just a bit louder.
“Hm? That I’m what now?”
This wasn’t fair.
At all.
“I said that I — Wait, you heard it completely fine the first two times, didn’t you.”
Laughter fills the air again and Yamanbagiri cannot help the smile that tugs at his lips.
“You…!”
Mikazuki isn’t the fastest tachi around but, he’s always able to slip out of his reach when the occasion arose. Though, it’s the opposite this time, with Yamanbagiri hastening his steps and leaving Mikazuki to collect more stardust in his hair.
“Yamanbagiri.”
He’s not listening, no, he won’t.
“Yamanbagiri.”
Ah, he’s so free with how he calls his name. ( His name. Yamanbagiri may share it, but there is only the time and place for him, not someone else. It’s always be one to one.)
His footsteps halt, as he turns back around. Mikazuki’s gaze meets his, the oddly charming nature of his eyes captivating the clear sky of his.
“Hey, Mikazuki,”
“Hm?”
“I think I’m starting to understand it, why you like winter.”
It’s pleasant, when he can see such a surprised expression on Mikazuki’s face.
Though, he must’ve underestimated the energy of his significant other. Especially with the distance he put in between them and how sunset colored eyes had a mischievous, yet adventurous glint.
There’s barely a heartbeat that passes before Mutsunokami takes him by the hand, taking him god knows where. Their umbrella lays ditched behind them, snow steadily piling on top of it as they travel at a haste driven, want-to-take-pictures-of-Manba-under-various-and-pretty-circumstances pace.
A breath is stolen right from him, surprise and amusement bubbling up into his throat.
He gives into the tugging, letting Mutsunokami take him around the square, growing ever pinker as the other takes pictures of each moment (sometimes more than once, and Yamanbagiri doesn’t understand why people do that, isn’t it just a waste of storage?).
A pose here, a pose there. Hiding his face behind a borrowed hat. A hand gently mussing up his hair so he looks right into the lenses with amused exasperation.
They press closer together, his hands tucked into Mutsunokami’s pockets (it’s a real shame he forgot his gloves) as the other swipes through an entire album of photos. It’s difficult to see from his angle, but he’ll always know that whatever Mutsunokami takes a picture of, it’ll look beautiful.
(“It’s like the sublime, ya’know?”
Yamanbagiri had paused, putting down his pencil and promptly forgetting about the paperwork in front of them. He blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“I don’t think that’s how you use that word.”
And then comes the puppy-ish tilt of head before a splutter of realization.
“Izuminokami! I should’ve asked Kasen’s opinion before telling it to you!”
He lets out a silent exhale before a small smile takes its place.
There’s never going to be anyone like Mutsunokami, is there.)
He looks deep in contemplation, dark brown hair bobbing as he silently agrees with something. “...Yeah, that’s really right,” Mutsunokami mutters to himself, setting a photo as his phone’s wallpaper and Yamanbagiri catches the glimpse of a smile. A candid, mayhaps.
He blinks. “What?”
The question prompts his adorable and puppy-dog-ish curiosity (head tilt included). Mutsunokami blinks in return before his face splits into a warm smile. “What what?”
“You’re right about what?”
A lifetime ago, maybe when the two had first met, Yamanbagiri had mentally compared Mutsunokami and his smile to the sun (and he still does, when they’re wrapped up in each other during the night).
So when Mutsunokami states his opinion on his smile, ( “Ya know, Manba! Your smile really is like the sun!” ), it does cause a bit of a difference in opinion as they banter back and forth (and maybe Yamanbagiri lets him win because that smile of his really is something else in his mind).
“That your hands are really cold!”
It’s an obvious shift in topic, maybe a gift in disguise when his hands are taken out of their warm den and into familiar calloused hands. There’s a twitch in his finger as it’s more than natural to both of them to let their fingers intertwine (and not to lose the other to the throes of time, of protected history wanting to put them back into their proper place).
Steady hands warm his, reminding him of their place now. How they’re here now. Safe, and together. Though Yamanbagiri must admit, this is working on giving life back to his slowly cold stiffening fingers. A breath of air and the rub of soft fabric against his skin confirms that theory.
Then Mutsunokami sneezes.
So that moment is gone.
Yamanbagiri doesn’t fuss as his brother does (nor can he muster the words of his eldest brother), but he’s good at actions. With as much as a squeeze of gratefulness that his fingers can impart on Mutsunokami’s hand, he eases them out of the hold, pulling a stray handkerchief from somewhere (and a brief look of self-disappointment flashes across his face before the monogramed red ‘H’ presents itself proudly. Oh, brother must’ve hurried and left it in the wrong jacket.) already offering it up to him.
He is rewarded with the rich laughter he is sure that’s one of his favorite sounds in the world, only one-upped by the cadence of Mutsunokami’s voice that reminds him of home.
“Wait here for a second! Lemme go grab something for us!” And he steps into the throng of people, a marigold scarf blending in seamlessly against the kaleidoscope of colors.
And that marigold stays in the forefront of his mind, ever so vivid against his memories. It’s one color that history wouldn’t ever be able to wash out.
But the crowd of people slowly moving him away from where Mutsunokami left him to where he’s going towards is beginning to be a problem. Though Mutsunokami has always found him, no matter what, whether it be with his cape on and against the snow or lost in a field of sunflowers with the sun’s light gentle against him.
It hasn’t been anything more than several short minutes, but Yamanbagiri already misses the warmth of the other’s hands.
Sure, it’s colder than it should be during the winter, the world falling into an odd pattern year after year and yet he would still forget the proper items to keep warm. Having brothers who worried about him and made sure he had everything before heading out brushed off on him, but— He is who he is, Yamanbagiri supposes.
His thoughts drift as he watches couples on dates of their own, huddled close together for comfort. It starts a mental checklist.
Gifts…. He finished shopping for those just a while ago, after much coaxing from a very specific someone.
( “Yamanbagiri, do you think Shokudaikiri would appreciate this apron or the one more that looks a little more like the one Kenshin and Azuki got him for his birthday?”
“...do you mean the apron that “accidentally” caught on fire when he was out grocery shopping?”
“No…?”
A long pause.
“Yeah, it was.”)
And he could only think of that carefully wrapped gift shoved, with the utmost care, under his bed to avoid a little dragon attempting to be sneaky and catch a glimpse at his gift.
Decorations?
Already up and the memory of sitting comfortably on the ground as he untangled string lights and shared stories with an audience of one (who would always reply with a story of his own, and they would go back and forth like that for hours, decorations long abandoned and instead the night passed with the two of them pressed against each other, watching the snowfall outside).
And holiday pla—
“Are you sure that your scarf isn’t your color? You always tease me about my outfits, but I know good colors when I see them. Especially with how you’re looking.”
And he looks up, snapping out of his reverie, meeting a lilac gaze that holds out a paper cup for him. It’s warm looking, inviting, and the perfect cure for the cold nipping at his fingers.
“Such a special smile you have,” the voice continues, “Sweet, gentle, and only reserved for those you deem worth of it.”
Breathy laughter fills the air around them as he presses the cup into Yamanbagiri’s hands. “I’m honored to see it everyday. Though my favorite one is the one I get to see whenever you’re relaxed and content. Like this one.”
Sometimes he doesn’t understand why Koryuu thinks his smile is the best (and one of the many parts that he loves of Yamanbagiri).
“You cheese.” His words lack bite.
(They’ve stopped lacking it years back, around the time that Koryuu had sauntered up to him — clashing colors that made him look worse than the horrible mess of a sweater that his brother’s junior had insisted on buying for his friend group’s gift exchange — honeyed words falling naturally off his tongue.
He had blushed profusely back then, a stammering mess as he had turned on his heel trying to put some semblance of distance between them.
For better or for worse, Koryuu had followed him.)
“Only the cheesiest of cheese for you.”
Koryuu’s hands envelope his, the time-worn leather rubbing his knuckles in an odd way to chase off the biting cold. He brings them up towards his mouth and breathes out, a fleeting warmth cascading cover his hands.
Yamanbagiri flushes, a tiny sound of embarrassment escaping him as his drink threatens to spill.
“How much more flustered can you get?” A playful smile tugs at Koryuu’s lips, as he finally releases Yamanbagiri’s hands to tug the other’s scarf just a bit higher. “It’s dangerous enough that I can make you look all cute like this, and we’ve been together for such a long time already...”
The sentence trails off as something — scratch that, many fingerlike things brush against his neck as the ministrations to adjust his scarf cease at the same time as if to revel in the tremble that the touch elicits. “Hm?” The lilt of Koryuu’s voice grows ever so teasing as he tilts his head as if he knows what to expect.
“...I’m going to leave you here alone if you keep this up, but yet…”
Lilac eyes catch the soft glow of the lights strung high above them, twinkling.
The rest of the words still on his tongue as he loses himself in its color. He caves.
“...Let me kiss you,” Yamanbagiri confesses, setting down the rapidly cooling and neglected drink. “An early gift for you before the holidays.”
Koryuu smiles, already dipping down.
Their breath mingles in the air, clouds of hazy smoke drifting into the snow as Yamanbagiri tangles his fingers into flaxen hair, bridging the gap between them.
(He pretends not to notice the sprig of mistletoe that Koryuu tosses to the side when they part, foreheads pressed against each other, promising soft little vows as they meet again another time.)