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Secretary, some call him. Servant. Right-hand man.
The third may be the most accurate, but it is not quite the truth.
Hibiki is his right hand, and also his left. Hibiki is his eyes and ears, his blade in the dark, his feet on the ground. It would not be an exaggeration to call him an extension of himself.
Hibiki is all that and more. He is there in blood and war, and in the quiet moments of every morning.
“Sir,” Hibiki says slowly. His fingers press almost painfully into Kagura’s cheek. “Don’t drift off now.”
Kagura grunts in reply.
Hibiki’s grip lessens, and he nudges Kagura’s head up and to the side.
There is a razor to his throat.
It moves slowly, carefully, to clear away his stubble. The pressure of Hibiki’s hold on his face is gentle enough to be comfortable, but firm enough to keep him from moving.
Hibiki huffs out a little noise of fond annoyance as he continued his work. “You could do this yourself,” he says when he pulls away. He doesn’t expect an answer.
Only washes off the blade to start again. Repeats the motions over and over, until Kagura is clean-shaven and presentable.
“Sir,” he says, punctuated by another squeeze. “Look at me.”
He does. Doesn’t even consider saying no, not with Hibiki standing before him. Here, for once, instead of half out of sight, instead of cloaked in shadow.
“Hibiki,” he croaks. His throat is dry. Hibiki’s gaze flickers to his lips when they move. “... Thank you.”
“Of course.” His gaze softens.
His fingers brush Kagura’s forehead, feather-light.
“Anything for you,” he says.
You’re everything to me, Kagura almost says.
Hibiki’s hand drops back to his side.
Kagura doesn’t say it.
With the way Hibiki looks at him, maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe Hibiki already knows.
(he does.)