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Morning settles on the day like opening curtains. He knows it, without opening his eyes — if that would have yielded anything to begin with. But he is not on his feet and out the door the moment the sun crosses it's threshold and the weather is clear, although this claim has been made on him before. In the bare silence of pre-dawn, Kenshi remains still, breathing deeply along with those breaths of the man whose muscular back is flush against his chest, serving as a stark warmth to the cool that seeped in spaces in the blankets. His mind is murky with sleep’s fog, but he hears every exhale like it was in his ear.
He is leaving again this morning. Decided yesterday, nearing the four week mark of so comfortable R&R with the Shirai-ryū. With one in particular.
Too long in one place. His limbs grew restless after so long of the repetitive routines of a day. Training is expected. Motions of waking up and going to sleep are expected. Showering, eating. Mundanity seeps into his bones like a gloomy arthritis that nags and irritates; the feeling of, too normal. There is something else I should be doing. There is someplace else I should be.
He never got very used to sticking around. All his life he’s been moving. Nomadism may be in his blood, though he doesn’t know with much certainty if an ancestry really dictates the ways of an individual. It just seems like his family line has never took to one land quite well, and he would likely not be the one to diverge.
He can’t say he despises the comfort of Hanzo’s closeness. He couldn’t even say he dislikes it if he tried. He can’t say he’d rather be without Hanzo’s touch and kiss, be without the smell of him and the warmth he radiates and the silky feeling of his hair when he cards his fingertips through the length, even when the let strands are in his face now. He’s forgotten what a kiss is like without a beard scratching at his skin.
But his nature and Hanzo’s do not overlap as much as either would like. Hanzo wishes to settle more than anything, for his soul must be built on sturdy foundation to be sturdy itself, and his dreams are that of family and kids. Kenshi likes the idea of it. And yet.
What’s left of his attempts to be stagnant are always meager at best. There’s a certain pain in the thought that he may grow bored of this life, if he makes it habit. At least in a homecoming every so often, it feels a little new again. He yearns for a little surprise, a little freedom.
The masochistic feeling of missing Hanzo is different from when he’s comfortably and carelessly beside him. He isn’t sure which he prefers, really, but he does know the feeling of return is strong. The relief of turning up at the end of a long day of a long month among many of worldly travels, up in their territory where he knows the good warriors-in-training will spot him long before he’s near to the camp, and Hanzo will know of his approach even before he sees Kenshi himself.
The clan endears him, at that. The clan is still young, yet Hanzo’s students are admirable and he trains them respectably. Kenshi had never been a clan man, nor had his family, but he has to admit to the bashfulness that creeps up on him when he’s asked to give a lesson in his craft to those still clumsy with the blade, and the pride of seeing their successes as though they were students of his own. Often times, he forgot where that line started and ended.
Maybe he entertained, in the late and restless nights where he had no companion to share his mind with, the thought of himself taking Hanzo’s family name. Or Hanzo taking his. Which one he would prefer, were it possible, or reasonable. Wondering if he was deluding himself with the lustrous image of a Japanese-style bed and a man waiting for him at night, or if he was really serious enough about this.
Maybe he thought of staying, at times, to officially join the ranks of the Shirai-ryū and of Hanzo’s family, to graduate from his ever-standing title of ‘honored guest’, and weighed the effects of abandoning this life quest of his that keeps him ever-moving.
Is that what keeps him moving, really? Could he settle down if he tried?
This is the closest thing to a home the rogue swordsman knows. S-F is nothing like one, although it would do well enough for a job. Kenshi is adaptable above all else, but that didn’t change how the taste of the place never sat completely right on his tongue. ‘Government agent’ is no term to define himself of all people. He couldn’t see the beauty of the Shirai-ryu landscape that Hanzo spoke of, but that didn’t take away from the quaint, enjoyable activity of helping pick the ripe plums of their gardens when the season came around, nor the peace of wasting an afternoon outside doing naught but feeling the skies cool down in their increments and knowing the sun set, knowing of the endless hard work that Hanzo has put into restoring his clan’s greatness for those with the faith to follow him.
He really is getting old, for someone so young as he. Still, for all this, it does not keep him.
He hears the passage of time now more than he’s aware of it, when distant bird sounds kick up in chittering songs and the winds push up against the walls around them. It’s been no more than a half hour since he’s awoken, and guilt unlike any other already gnaws heartily within his stomach like a dreaded parasite.
Now is no time to turn back on decisions already mulled and made. Knowing himself, it's best that he get moving before nostalgia grew uncontrollably and one mistake built on top of another. No matter his desire to stay, he knows what happens when he does.
He pulls himself from the bed, and replaces the comforter back where it was with a gentle grasp. Dressing as quickly and quietly as can be, his coat and sword are strapped across him. With a moment’s pause, and an attentive ear, he could swear Hanzo’s breathing’s changed to an indescribable degree — yet, for the sake of him and his shame, he imagines he didn’t really notice, or tells himself it was over-inspection.
Only so many students are in the courtyards, shuffling about their duties, the rest still asleep. He notes the winds ushering him from behind, drawing a chill up his coat, but a fresh, sharp awakening nonetheless. The sun has barely yet risen, no more than an indication of it’s rays shone over the hilly horizon. Hints of the day to come for those morning peoples who care to see it.
He’ll be back eventually.