Archive of Our Own

“The Ghost saved me from certain death!” cries a young man at the edge of the survivor camp. “It was four to one — no, five to one! And he cut them all down around me without even a speck of blood dyeing my hakama—”

Standing beside Ryuzo, Hirotsune turns his head slightly, listening in. Kiyochika sighs and mutters under his breath, “Here we go…”

Ryuzo stomps ahead to the trapper, gripping all their collected hides as if he’s choking them out. He knows without looking behind him that Hirotsune is likely orbiting very subtly around the Ghost’s fan, who’s going on about how he was taken by the Mongols recently and dragged through the dirt by one of their brute horses. 

He tries to tune out the story, but the trapper is slow to decide quality, slower still to decide payment. 

“...the Mongols had my hands tied, and I was calling for help all the time! So much, my voice was going out, my throat as dry as sand!” the man is telling his little crowd of gossipers, voice raised so all can hear. “Not a soul came, not until him. I saw him riding through the pampas grass in the distance like a spirit, and silence fell as if a storm was about to set upon us.” 

He could do without the dramatics, Ryuzo thinks. Jin is impressive enough without whatever extravagant details are being slipped in.

“It took but one slice of his blade! And shah!” Everyone in the crowd goes ooh! Ryuzo chances a subtle look to find that the youth has his feet planted, both hands raised — before dropping his arms down like particularly dramatic deadweights. “They were all cut down where they stood!” 

Whispers rise from the camp, tittering and delighted, and Ryuzo, turning his attention back to the trapper, says grimly, “We’re in a bit of a hurry.” 

“As if there is anywhere to go right now,” says the trapper with a little cluck of displeasure. He places the hides in his lap. “But fine, fine…” 

Ryuzo haggles the trapper’s price up to slightly less than enough to get half his men a bite of food each, then proceeds to spend the sulky ride back to their camp hearing Hirotsune debate Kiyochika on the likelihood of the youth’s Ghost tale. 

“He lost me when he said the Ghost had fangs longer than his tantō,” says Kiyochika, amused. “Though it is an impressive blade.” 

“The size is nothing,” Hirotsune scoffs. “It’s like any other tantō. I’m more interested in how he uses it.”

Kiyochika guffaws. The dark cloud that is almost definitely lingering over Ryuzo’s head grows ever darker.

“Ryuzo!” calls Hirotsune then, angling his reins to draw his horse up closer to Ryuzo’s side. “You haven’t told any stories about Lord Sakai lately. Why is that?” 

“We’re starving,” Ryuzo says. “Why waste time on telling stories when I can be out hunting?” 

“I enjoy the stories.”

“Everyone enjoys the stories.” Ryuzo glances sidelong at Hirotsune, who only frowns deeply back at him. “But stories don’t fill everyone’s bellies.” 

Innocently, Kiyochika chimes in, “There was a woman in the camp who said her farmstead was offering beds and whatever meals they can spare to those willing to defend it. Apparently, there’s been bandit raids lately, and Mongols have been running around.” 

Ryuzo takes a slow breath, already working the logistics in his head. Between deserters and starvation, do they even have the manpower to defend an entire farmstead? “...Which farmstead?”

“I already told her we would do it.”

Patience already thin, Ryuzo snaps, “Kiyochika!” 

“You were busy with the trapper,” Kiyochika says, shrugging. “It’s work, isn’t it?” 

“I think we’ll find out pretty quickly if it’s beyond us,” Hirotsune muses.

“Oh? How’s that?”

“We’ll be dead.”

They laugh and ride ahead while Ryuzo shakes his head. “Fangs longer than his tantō,” Ryuzo huffs. “I’d like to see that.”

With the sun just past setting, the farmstead is quiet by the time the Straw Hats ride out from the woods nearby.

“Eerie,” mutters one. 

“I’ve been in cemeteries less silent than this,” Yasumasa remarks. 

“They don’t want to draw attention to themselves,” Ryuzo says, sweeping his gaze across the dark homes and empty fields. If he was passing by, he’d assume it was long-abandoned already. “Kanetomo, Kiyochika. Get a good look at the perimeter. Check for defensible positions. Stay quiet.” 

As the two named dismount and set off towards the buildings central to the farmstead, the rest of the Straw Hats remain just inside the dark line of trees. Tomotsugu says what Ryuzo is thinking. “An empty house makes for a better target than a bustling one.” 

“I know,” Ryuzo says unhappily, resting his hand on the end of his sword. “Which is why I’m expecting the worst.”  

After a moment, something funny seems to occur to Tomotsugu. “You sent Kiyochika ahead,” he muses. 

Ryuzo smiles. “He wanted to work, didn’t he?” And with Kanetomo there, the most experienced of them in banditry and worse, they should both provide an excellent scouting report when they come back. Louder, Ryuzo decides, “As for the rest of you, we’ll stay here for now. If they really have food and beds to offer us, we can claim them after we get a good look at things.” 

Time passes. The night darkens. Ryuzo’s pacing in front of the horses as the moon rises above their heads, stars blinking into sight as the sky deepens blue. He’s just beginning to wonder if Kanetomo deserted and left Kiyochika bleeding out in the depths of someone’s vacant home when their silhouettes, complete with distinct straw hats, appear on the dirt path between two paddies.

“There,” Hirotsune says. “Finally.”

Kiyochika approaches first. “Ryuzo,” he says, and with a toss of his head back towards the farmstead: “There’s no one here.” 

Ryuzo looks past him. “So, who’s supposed to pay us?” 

Kiyochika appears to bite his tongue, which soothes Ryuzo’s earlier irritation at him well enough, then sighs. “Well, all the homes are empty. There’s no sign of any raids, everything looks as if it’s just been...left behind. The hearths are cold.” 

Kanetomo cuts in, “I say we take it all. There’s nobody here to say otherwise.” His tone leaves it dubious as to whether or not he would take it all even if there was someone there to argue. 

Ryuzo glances at Kiyochika. “Ah...I don’t disagree,” Kiyochika admits. “It’s only getting later, and setting up camp now when there’s plenty of places to sleep right over there…”

“It’s practical,” Ryuzo finishes for him. He gestures towards the farmstead. “Well, everyone else might as well go ahead. But don’t let your guard down. I don’t need all of you getting captured again.” 

A few laugh softly as they mount once more and ride out, a lingering comment of, “I wouldn’t mind it, they fed us well,” drawing out some agreeing sounds. 

Ryuzo raises a hand to catch Kiyochika before he departs along with them. “Any sign of Mongol patrols?” Ryuzo asks.

“Not in the boundaries of the farmstead itself,” Kiyochika tells him honestly. With a shake of his head, he adds, “She was a shrine maiden…I swear, she seemed very trustworthy.” 

“They all do, Kiyochika,” gripes Ryuzo, climbing onto his horse.

“You sound weary from experience.” 

“Go pick your bed,” Ryuzo says with scalding authority, and Kiyochika’s chuckle grows quiet as he rides past Ryuzo. 

Empty promises were nothing new to any of them, but it isn’t untrue that Ryuzo had high hopes for Jin’s reassurances of food and work. In the end, they’ve received exactly no food and exactly no work from Jin...nor Lord Shimura, who remains locked in Castle Kaneda, despite Jin’s inspiring rallying efforts. Ryuzo’s not a fool; he knows that no matter how much Jin insists that his uncle will aid the Straw Hats, the ronin are on their own. Although they gave their lives at Komoda beach alongside the samurai, even if they do somehow rescue the jitō, Lord Shimura will never return that sacrifice.

Ryuzo reaches the farmstead as most of the Straw Hats are already disappearing to get comfortable with their borrowed space. Tomotsugu has climbed onto a thatched roof and appears to be surveying the area, while Yasumasa is poking his head out of a window. 

“So there’s beds,” Yasumasa says to Ryuzo as he walks his horse past. “But is there food?” 

Across the path, Hirotsune’s voice, muffled until he throws open a shoji door, calls out, “There’s food! Rice and more!” 

Cries of victory ring out across the farmstead, and Ryuzo remains on his horse in the center of it all with narrowed eyes peeking through the crosshatch brim of his hat. From the rooftop nearby, Tomotsugu says, “You’re right to be suspicious.” 

“Gifts from the heavens don’t happen to people like us,” Ryuzo says, matter-of-fact. “And if all of this is here, I want to know why in the world someone would leave it behind.” 

Tomotsugu’s quiet laugh draws Ryuzo’s attention. “Better to face uncertainty with full bellies though, isn’t it?” 

As the Straw Hats all gather to find what food Hirotsune has discovered, Ryuzo watches them, carefully navigating off to the side where he can keep an eye on the route they’ve come from. Only the breeze stirs the stalks, the water in the paddies glinting white from the shining moon. Crickets sing and fireflies dapple the landscape near the treeline, but otherwise night has fallen, and nothing is there to merit Ryuzo’s prickling nape. 

“Eat your fill,” Ryuzo says, ignoring the gnawing pangs in his own stomach. “I’m going to look around.” 

Tomotsugu slides off the rooftop with a grunt as he lands, sparing a bow for Ryuzo before he does just that. Ryuzo waits until he disappears into the home, now alive with firelight and voices, and then finally dismounts. 

It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Kanetomo and Kiyochika’s report, but he knows his men are hungry. He knows that his leadership is already in jeopardy from the likes of more veteran Straw Hats. Better to let them enjoy this prize as much as they can; perhaps it will improve morale to the point that they’ll continue to follow him, that they’ll remember this moment when times become impossibly more strained. The strange farmstead incident, when they stumbled upon stores of food and plenty of beds, when they slept under roofs instead of stars, and no one was there to tell them they were found to be undeserving. 

Ryuzo starts at the edge of the farmstead, intending on working his way inward. There’s lifted storehouses full of tools and the ground is muddy with leftover rain. Countless footsteps track back and forth in the wet ground, almost unrecognizable as footsteps at all with their number, but as much as Ryuzo can make out, none appear to be the shoes of anyone but humble farmers. Tools and baskets rest against the sides of some sheds, waiting to be taken into the fields the next day. 

Kiyochika was right. It does appear as if it has all simply been left behind. As if all of the people who lived and toiled here were spirited away. 

Ryuzo presses on. All of the windows and doors of the homes are intact. There’s no sign of any forced entry. The farmstead looks picturesque, especially compared to what’s around it. Leaving that survivor camp, they’d seen more than a couple signs of Mongol activity. Flaming caravans. Bodies. And here, there’s not even the sound of a crying baby, or someone wailing over the loss of their spouse.

There’s no one at all.

There’s one home larger than the rest near the center of the farmstead, towering over the rest at two floors tall. Ryuzo heads towards the building and starts by scoping out the lower floor. Everything seems to be in order. Nothing is out of place. The irori is cool, untouched for who knows how long. There are no shoes, nothing left out. It’s tidy, like the house has been patiently waiting on someone to enter.

Shaking off the little flurry of nerves down his spine, Ryuzo heads up the ladder. While the first floor felt open and inviting, up here the darkness presses in, broken only by shafts of light from ill-kept shoji. Instinct makes him pause before he rises fully into the room, and reflex has him checking every shadowy corner. The silence itself feels expectant, as if something heavy looms. Ryuzo holds his readied hand near his sword as he slides his steps enough to mask the sound. He keeps his breathing soft, as muted as can be.

He feels silly taking so many precautions. His men have said that this farmstead is empty. Nobody would be so suicidal as to stay alone in a place like this, a prime target for any wandering, starving bandits… or imposing, famished ronin.

Still. Ryuzo can’t rid himself of the feeling he’s being watched, and as he steps into the next room, he hears a small intake of breath that isn’t his own. A man-shaped form begins to step out from the muddy shadow of the wall and into the pooling light from the moon, just bright enough to be mostly seen. Armor, but light. A mask, shielding its jaw, its eyes unable to be seen in such deep dark. 

No matter. It stands on two feet and wears armor, so it must only be a man, and not some spirit that has stolen away the people of the farmstead. Ryuzo has his sword halfway unsheathed to prove it when the form speaks with a familiar voice: “Ryuzo!” 

Ryuzo’s grip falls from his sword. “Jin,” he says with sharp surprise. “Why are you here?” 

“It’s good to see you too, my friend,” Jin replies, unflustered, and it’s Ryuzo who’s left with ruffled feathers. “Your men are…rowdy.” 

“They’re fed for the first time since the Mongols had them,” Ryuzo says, still a little too honed for the warmth of a reunion with his friend. “What’s that mask on your face?” 

Jin reaches up to touch the mask in question, moonlight glinting off of the metal. It’s rounded, with an open mouth; in the light, it would show the barest hint of Jin’s lips. “Ah...it was a gift.” 

Ryuzo regards it in silence and then unwillingly says, “The Clan Sakai mask looks better on you.”

Jin’s laugh hitches in uncertainty. “Yes,” he murmurs, “but would it really suit the Ghost to wear his father’s legacy?” 

Ryuzo barely resists rolling his eyes. “You’re really considering calling yourself the Ghost?” 

“I don’t have much choice. It wasn’t my decision.” 

An excuse that Ryuzo has heard from Jin all their lives. Shocking. “Then whose?” 

“A very good ally started it,” Jin says. “And then it stuck.” 

They regard each other in the same disjointed silence that has plagued them since they reunited the first time, as if constantly trying to meet in the middle on unsteady ground. Ryuzo looks Jin over; he looks good, at least from what he can tell. He has a new katana sheath, darker than the Clan Sakai one he’d been wearing. He stands straight, despite calling himself a Ghost. Ryuzo worried that the ridiculousness of it all would weigh him down like a boulder.

He seems — he seems a little proud, almost. As if carrying the title comes as easily as breathing. But that can’t be right. 

“I heard your fangs are longer than your tantō,” Ryuzo says suddenly.

“What—” Jin gasps, and this time his laugh doesn’t catch at all. “You’re lying. Who says that?” 

“Everyone says it. Come on, this farmstead is strange. You never told me why you’re here.” 

They leave the house together while Jin explains that he’s been traveling while waiting for the opportunity to strike at Castle Kaneda. Wasting time, it seems, doesn’t agree with him, and so the Ghost has taken to picking up odd jobs and pleading requests from anyone who begs it of him. 

It’s a very Jin thing to do. Ryuzo has tried very hard not to think about what Jin would be like as a proper lord, and harder still not to think of Jin as the jitō himself, but he silently considers that Jin would not be the worst person to have in charge of Tsushima.

Well, that was before all the samurai went and died. Who knows anymore. 

“But that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here,” Ryuzo points out as they stand in the center of the farmstead.

“A woman told me that they needed protection from bandit raids,” Jin says. “And that there were Mongol patrols getting closer every day.” 

Ryuzo sighs. “Of course.” 

Jin raises his eyebrows. “I also ran into an older woman on the way here who claimed this farmstead is haunted. She tried to warn me off.” 

“And you told her you were a Ghost—”

“I told her I didn’t believe in spirits,” Jin counters. “And that I would ensure all of the farmers who live here were well.” 

Ryuzo can’t help a tiny exhale of amusement. “Well, we’re here for the same reason. But nobody told us it was haunted.” 

“Would you have come if they did?” 

“No. Spirits don’t cook or sleep, and the woman told Kiyochika there would be food and beds.” 

Jin looks in the direction of the lit home where the Straw Hats have gathered and nods once. “She wasn’t lying.” 

“She wasn’t,” Ryuzo agrees. “But something’s still not right. Where’s everyone gone?” 

“I don’t know,” Jin says, and Ryuzo already knows what he’s going to say before he says it: “But I’m going to find out.” 

Ryuzo could wish him well and part ways here, let his men have this night and then get out while the going is good tomorrow morning. Ryuzo doesn’t have to offer his help, not even a little; they have what they came here for and there’s no real need to assist Jin when the Ghost is certainly capable of solving a little mystery like this. He’s already promised Jin his help at Castle Kaneda, and maybe, maybe he’ll follow-through on that. Opportunities, Ryuzo thinks, often are unexpected.

Instead, because Ryuzo has always gone with Jin’s impulsive, ridiculous plans and apparently not even the fall of Tsushima will change that, Ryuzo replies, “Where do we start?” 

Even beneath that mask, Jin’s responding grin shows brightly, and Ryuzo’s chest pinches with conflict. 

But Jin says, “Come on,” with a wave of his hand, and Ryuzo is helpless but to trail after him, just like old times.

They start in the houses.

“I already searched the largest one,” Jin says, gesturing back at the home in question. “I found little. It’s been lived in, recently…but I didn’t find any clothes. That’s the only detail.”

Ryuzo enters the next house first, keeping the door slid open for Jin to walk in behind him. “That’s the best clue we have,” Ryuzo says absently, already checking the small storage chest inside the home for anything suspicious.

“No clothes means they left,” Jin reasons, his voice coming from Ryuzo’s right.

“Yes, but willingly, or unwillingly?” asks Ryuzo. The chest he’s searching is nearly empty. There’s only more farming supplies inside, an old straw hat, some muddy cloth. Ryuzo shuts the chest and moves on.

“You think that Mongols came and ordered them to pack up and leave?” 

“I think these are strange times.”

He doesn’t hear Jin say anything in response, and when he glances over at him in question, he sees Jin giving him a thoughtful expression. “What?” Ryuzo adds, skin crawling from the scrutiny.

“If the Mongols ever waste time with speaking, it’s not to patiently ask people to gather their things.” Jin’s frown is obvious in his tone, mask or no mask. “That doesn’t make sense.” 

It’s less that Jin is talking to him and more that Jin is talking to himself, Ryuzo realizes. Leaving Jin to his thoughts with a pit in his still-curdled stomach, Ryuzo examines the shelves on the nearby wall. The pottery looks like any other. The shelves are stacked with jars, storing all manner of things, but nothing that stands out as particularly interesting.

“Nothing,” Ryuzo says decisively, brushing past Jin on his way out. “Next house.” 

They search each and every home, and find they’re all much the same. Meager clothes left behind, some evidence of rushed packing, but for the most part, this farmstead stands still against time and the fight that rages around it. The moon stands tall above them by the time they step out of the final home, and fatigue is beginning to tug at Ryuzo’s patience.

“There’s a Mongol camp nearby,” Jin is saying as they walk towards the home where the Straw Hats seem to have settled down. Though the windows are still lit, there is no longer any sound of laughter or lighthearted nagging coming from inside. “It could be worth checking out.” 

“It could be,” agrees Ryuzo, “or it could be death.” 

They both slow to a stop, still on the dirt path outside the house. Jin raises his hand halfway before letting it drop, and Ryuzo looks at him, tipping his chin up a bit to peer down through the open places in the woven brim of his hat.   

“Ryuzo,” Jin begins, and it’s only the sound of his name but Jin already seems as if he’s picking his words like walking across a frozen lake, precarious. “Are you doing well, aside from all this?” 

Oh. Ryuzo was mistaken; it’s not that Jin is hesitant with him, but concerned. Once Ryuzo recovers from his wicked whiplash of emotions from this revelation that shouldn’t kick him so off-balance, he says, “As well as expected in these times. Why?” 

Jin shakes his head. “You just seem distracted.” 

“I’m tired. It’s late. I’m hungry. We’re sleeping in a farmstead where everyone disappeared into the night,” Ryuzo tells him with a disgruntled note. “I have to think for my men, not just myself.” 

“And your men are taking good advantage of the accommodations,” says Jin. “Why can’t you?” 

“You want me to let my guard down?”

“I want you to relax for five minutes. You look exhausted.” Jin eyes him. “I’ll wake you if anything changes.” When Ryuzo says nothing, only fixing him with a glare, Jin adds, placating, “Don’t you want to look strong for your men?” 

“Ah, fine, fine!” Ryuzo bats at Jin with a hand, shoving him lightly as he walks past. “I expect you to scream loud enough to alert everyone if you’re ambushed.” 

“You have my word,” Jin promises with complete seriousness, though Ryuzo doesn’t miss the gleaming amusement in his eye. 

Ryuzo enters the home, stepping over sleeping bodies. The Straw Hats apparently need the rest if they’re all passing out like this. Ryuzo’s been running them hard, but he thought they could handle it. It isn’t as if any of them have ever lived an easy life before now. What difference does the Mongol invasion make for a crew like them, truly?

He finds leftovers, covered; Ryuzo eats with diligent efficiency, then climbs the ladder in the home to reach the attic, intending on settling in for the night. Only Hirotsune is asleep up here, his hat over his face, hands folded neatly on top of his chest. There’s a window hatch fairly low on the wall, revealing the outside world, and Ryuzo finds that, while he lays down, it gives him an excellent view of Jin wandering the farmstead. 

With a grimace, Ryuzo looks away. 

Three days ago, a messenger had found the Straw Hats: a Japanese merchant who’d taken up trading for the Mongols. He’d passed on word of a bounty, a great bounty, offered by Khotun Khan — the Ghost’s head for food, for shelter, for cooperation. Previous resistance would be forgiven, and an alliance granted. The merchant gave them maps and supply lines, to make good use of once they took the offer. It was the promise of a new world, so long as the Khan stood at the head of it. 

It was more than any Shimura or Sakai could do. No matter what Jin tries to promise him, Ryuzo knows very well that Lord Shimura won’t ever recognize them as more than useful fodder for his fight...if he even let them draw their blades to help in the first place.

Opportunity is all that keeps them alive sometimes. Maybe, he thinks, stealing one last glance at Jin’s silhouette in the night, this is the next one.

Ryuzo wakes to the sound of a bird.

He opens his eyes to soft blue peeking into the house — the sun is just beginning to lighten the sky at the horizon, but it’s still dark enough that it can’t be considered morning yet. He grumbles as he stiffly rolls onto his side, peering through the hatch at the golden bird perched on the nearest rooftop. As if it’s offended, the bird fluffs its feathers, ruffles itself, and takes wing.

Ryuzo slides his sleep-bleary eyes away from the bird’s disappearing silhouette to see a tree lit by a dotted glow, way out past the home — and a silhouette he knows well standing there underneath the tree’s reaching, bright branches. 

He’s just about to roll over and go back to sleep when Hirotsune starts snoring, and so Ryuzo sighs and accepts his defeat, getting to his feet and snatching up his hat on the way.

There’s still stars visible way up above as Ryuzo nears the tree. There’s as many fireflies here on this tree as there are leaves, Ryuzo realizes. Jin turns when he hears his approach, a friendly smile on his face.

“Ryuzo,” Jin greets, beckoning him closer. “Come here.” 

“You’re not wearing the mask,” Ryuzo remarks anyway, voice still a bit gritty with rest.

Jin doesn’t reply at first, just leading Ryuzo to the other side of the tree. “It’s a fox den,” Jin says with what seems to be genuine interest.

“Yes,” Ryuzo says, looking between the open burrow in the ground and Jin, back and forth, back and forth again. “Is this going to be like that time when we were children, and you tried to crawl inside a den with one?”

“No,” Jin says dryly, “But I must have scared that fox half to death.” 

“You scared Yuriko half to death. She thought I’d pushed you into the mud.” 

“It wouldn’t have been the first time.”

“...No,” Ryuzo agrees, a little rueful, “It wouldn’t have been.”

Jin regards the tree, peering up at the glowing lights above, and then Ryuzo meets his gaze as he looks back at him. “The fox isn’t here,” Jin says, then motions towards the farmstead. “With almost no one around, it has no real reason to stray too far.” 

“Except for food,” Ryuzo points out.

“Or,” Jin goes on, crossing his arms, “because a Mongol patrol has chased it off.” 

Ryuzo considers that — thinks about the map he was given of all the patrols in this area, the supply lines and the promises shared from Khan to merchant to him, and he shakes his head. “No,” says Ryuzo. “No.”

“Why not?” 

Jin is eyeing him closely enough that Ryuzo wonders for one heart-stopping moment what he must know. But it’s impossible. He hasn’t even made a choice yet. He hasn’t even decided to go down that road, and yet his conscience weighs enough that it could drag him under. Frustrated, Ryuzo sounds shorter than he needs to be when he snaps, “There’s a whole farmstead directly in view. Quiet. Unassuming. Perfect for the taking. Why wouldn’t the Mongols come closer if they were already so near?”

Despite the impatience in his tone, it seems to persuade Jin after a suspended moment, but whatever relief Ryuzo feels is lost when Jin simply sits down at the base of the tree, the edges of his face lined with the off and on gold from fireflies straying closer. With his eyes closed and his head upturned just so, cast in the blue of night, he looks like something ethereal, a spirit come to banish the invasion, and to judge Ryuzo right along with it. 

“I thought you’d sleep longer,” Jin says quietly.

Ryuzo hesitates, then lowers himself to sit beside him. He places his hat on his lap, the stir of the breeze a comfort on his aware, too-restless skin. “Hirotsune snores louder than the Mongols’ horns.” 

Jin snorts, and in that one action Ryuzo recognizes him as the friend he knows Jin could always be. Lord or Ghost — Jin will always be Jin. The profound jealousy that stirs up inside of Ryuzo’s starving chest is an ancient one, just as old as their friendship. 

“I’m sorry,” Jin says then, shattering Ryuzo’s pensive quiet. “I told you we’d get food for your men. In the end you were left to do that alone.”

Ryuzo bites on a laugh, settling for a pained little frown instead. Jin fixes him with a funny glance; it’s the usual kicked-puppy sulk of his at an apology left unforgiven. “I’ve been alone for a long time now, Jin,” Ryuzo says, stung by it all. “You have your hands full with your own plans, don’t you?” 

The words hang in the cool air between them. Ryuzo can feel Jin still staring at him even as he looks away wearily. 

“The tournament…” Jin starts, just as Ryuzo interrupts, “Don’t.” 

The sounds of the night carry on around them, oblivious to their tension.

Then, firmly, Jin says, “No.” Ryuzo turns his attention on him again, surprised, and finds himself suddenly held by the shoulder, Jin leaning closer to ensure their eyes meet. Jin’s hand isn’t heavy, but it might as well burn him for how viciously Ryuzo can feel it. Jin’s thumb presses into the side of his shoulder, gripping, and it’s like he’s pressing right down into Ryuzo’s very bones, pinning him in place.

“I’m sorry, Ryuzo,” Jin insists. “I wish you would have come for me after the tournament. I wish you would have told me how you felt. I wish that I had heard your troubles before it took all of this to make them known. I’m sorry.” 

Ryuzo’s throat feels dry like sand, tongue caught with it. 

Jin goes on, oblivious to Ryuzo’s pounding heartbeat. “My apology may mean nothing to you now. I can change nothing from our pasts. But I want to move on. We have no choice but to move on.” 

Move on where, Ryuzo silently shouts. He has two paths in front of him that diverge so deeply he can’t imagine a way to reconcile. It sounds so simple, to move on. The real decision will be moving on with or without Jin. And that alone makes him stumble from the steps he wants to take.  

“I would like,” Jin finishes, smiling ever so slightly now, “to move on with my oldest friend at my side.” 

Ryuzo looks between Jin’s smile to the occasional firefly gleam in his eyes, gilded brown. He wets his lips. He takes a breath. 

With or without Jin. 

“Sentimental bastard,” Ryuzo says under his breath, turning his face away so Jin can’t make out the flush bleeding into his cheeks, and Jin scoffs, squeezing his shoulder once. But his answer has been given, and Jin seems brighter for it now. 

“I will tell my uncle to give you all that you ask for. Your men, too.” Jin has shuffled closer sometime during his little proclamation, and Ryuzo now has to contend with the warmth of his form, close enough that their legs touch, their elbows brush, but Jin’s hand is sliding away.

“You make big promises, Jin,” Ryuzo says tiredly. 

“He will owe you his life. And so will all of Tsushima.”

Not so different than the Khan’s promise, but somehow much less likely. “He won’t see it that way.” And neither will the rest of Tsushima.

Jin, flat and serious, says, “I will make him see.” 

Something trembles deep in Ryuzo’s chest at that. “You’ve changed.” 

“...For the better, I hope.” 

It takes Ryuzo longer than it should to reassure Jin, so long that things fall so awkwardly quiet that it feels almost wrong to break the silence at all. But finally Ryuzo exhales. “Not according to your uncle, probably.” 

Their conversation fades. Ryuzo’s aware of what a difficult situation it must be for Jin, but it’s hard for him to summon up the right amount of sympathy when every moment he’s fought for scraps, Jin has been handed enough and then some. Ryuzo’s wordless agitation spins aimlessly on until a firefly wanders down from the shelter of the leaves above, drifting in front of him, spooling his wayward thoughts out like slippery silk. The firefly blinks its lit-up way over to Jin, who raises an eyebrow at the little bug but otherwise makes no move; closer and closer, the firefly dares, until Jin does lift his hand, fingers loosely curled, to invite it on. Skirting away from Jin at first, the firefly must decide that it’s not such a bad idea to find a rest stop way down here, because then it lands on the edge of Jin’s knuckle, glowing bright every now and then. 

Ryuzo gives Jin an exasperated look. Jin grins.

“Foxes and fireflies,” Ryuzo mutters. “What are you?” 

The firefly, as if sensing Ryuzo’s accusation, flits off of Jin’s knuckle and boldly flies past Ryuzo’s nose, making him lean back to avoid the bug’s gentle sideswipe. 

“A ghost, with very long fangs,” Jin answers wryly. “According to some.”

“Your face is a little soft for a ghost. That’s why you wear the mask, right?” At that, Jin touches his own cheek, frowning, and Ryuzo laughs a little sharply and catches his hand, tugging it away. “Stop, stop. I’ve always said that, haven’t I?” 

“Not recently.” But Jin says no more, looking intently at where Ryuzo is still holding his hand; when Ryuzo tries to let him go, Jin only turns his palm around to catch his fingers lightly. “Ryuzo.” 

A hot twist of nervous guilt squeezes Ryuzo’s ribs together tight enough that he aches.

It would be a lie to say this moment hasn’t been building since the moment they met again. Clumsy kisses as ridiculous teenagers, children, really, means nothing when so long has passed, when they’ve fought and parted, when there are wounds between them that can’t be healed — but Jin is a force of nature, as undeniable and as unerring as a storm’s whipping winds, and twice as stubborn, too. It was the heavy warmth of coming rain when Jin’s lips curled in that smile at him, saying Ryuzo’s name. It was the flash of lightning when Jin asked him to be there at Castle Kaneda. It was the downpour, when that message from the Khan was read to him, was asked of him; that option, a hand outstretched to him while he was drowning. 

It always feels like Ryuzo’s turned towards him, always, and now is no exception. He shifts to face Jin. Jin leans in. Then they’re kissing.

Jin’s lips are dry and soft, at least until Ryuzo yanks his hand free to curl fingers at the nape of Jin’s neck instead, and then Ryuzo finds that Jin’s teeth are sharp and willing, indeed. Ryuzo’s lips part in silent question, but Jin is quick to lick into his mouth and demand more, so Ryuzo obliges. He squeezes Jin’s nape and presses closer, breaking the kiss to breathe, surging in again for another when he finds this twisting, turning desire somehow unquenched. Their lips slide against each other’s, mouths moving and bodies slowly, slowly getting better oriented — Jin’s hand again holding onto Ryuzo’s shoulder, Ryuzo moving, pressing Jin’s back into the trunk of the tree, settled between Jin’s open legs. Jin’s knees dig into his sides and Ryuzo’s lip stings with the nip that Jin gives him when he tries to pull away again.

Heat coils low in Ryuzo’s stomach, a wildfire under his skin, and he wants more than anything to pounce, to give way to his frenetic energy in a way more pleasurable than thinking a dozen thoughts a second. His self-control is a fish and he has no tools to catch it but his hands. Anything is better than the guilt and conflict warring inside of him. He’d rather be devoured by this.

Jin teases a kiss at the corner of his mouth, both his hands sliding up Ryuzo’s back, and when Ryuzo starts to tuck his fingers into the many thin layers making up Jin’s top, Jin drops his head back. Ryuzo sets his mouth on Jin’s jaw, down his neck, and just as he’s found the tie to undo his first layer, Jin gives a soft, oh?

“What?” Ryuzo breathes, sure that if it was something so pressing that Jin would be more tense and attentive than he is now — still lax and melted. 

“Look,” whispers Jin, turning his head towards Ryuzo so that his lips brush his ear. Ryuzo bites down on the urge to shiver and throws a glance back at whatever is so pressing it’s stopped them from whatever mistake they’re making.

Nearby, in the light of the low-hanging moon, a fox sits, its orange fur silver-tinged.

“What,” Ryuzo repeats, far less impressed, but Jin pats his back placatingly and starts to wriggle free of him. Ryuzo slowly gets to his feet with Jin, self-consciously shifting his weight with a clear of his throat.

“That was rude of us,” Jin reasons, sounding a little apologetic. “Right on top of its home.” 

“Jin.” 

“I know,” Jin adds, but his eyes are alight with promise. “Later. We’re following the fox.” 

Ryuzo snatches up his hat from where it fell onto the ground and follows after him helplessly, adrenaline still burning out of his system. Jin jogs after the fox, which bounded up and took off as soon as Jin said they would be following it, and Ryuzo casts his gaze around the treeline to make sure there’s no Mongol ambush waiting on them to trip into their trap. 

“Oh, come on!” Ryuzo shouts, catching up just as Jin slows to a stop ahead of him, about to sidle through some fallen rocks. “Mind telling me…” A breath, recovering. “What’s going on?” 

“There were tracks leading down this way,” Jin says, perfectly composed after chasing the damn fox. “But some of them were too muddied to follow. That fox den has been there a while. Surely it knows what happened to the people of the farmstead.” 

“This fox is your witness?” Ryuzo asks, skeptical.

“I wouldn’t have found this myself.” 

And while it’s true — Ryuzo never would have noticed this space between the stones, let alone guessed that someone could fit in between them — he’s still not sure how many answers can really be found. The farmstead looks abandoned. There’s no sign of Mongol raiding, nor bandits; it’s not their place to bother if they’re not going to receive payment to unfold some mystery. The food was reward enough. The people left. There’s no other explanation.

Jin is still looking back at him expectantly. Ryuzo heaves an exhale and gestures him onward. “Go on, then,” Ryuzo says.

He follows Jin between the gaps in the stone and hears the sound of water before they round the corner and find a tucked-away, small beach: completely empty, looking as if no one has been here in ages, the sand pristine and the tide low. As the sun rises, so will the waves, and soon a good majority of the beach will be overtaken by water. Ringed by rocks, it’s a wonder that the fox — sitting primly at the edge of the water — knew to come here at all.

Maybe there’s something to the witness idea after all.

“It’s quiet,” Ryuzo says.

“It’s what we’re looking for,” Jin replies, already setting off towards the fox again.

Leaping upright and spinning once, the fox bats a paw at the sand and then darts back as Jin nears. Ryuzo watches with his arms crossed over his chest as Jin toes at the sand the fox seems so keen on at first, and then crouches to dig. Ryuzo spots a small bag, soaked-through, as Jin raises his spoils up from the sand. It looks familiar, but Ryuzo can only squint against the moonlight bouncing off the water and try to place it.

Jin says something to the fox, then pats it on the head, getting a little chirrup in reply. The fox takes off again, bolting past Ryuzo and out through the narrow stone archway, and Ryuzo shakes his head at it as he approaches Jin. 

“What is it?” Ryuzo asks, still eyeing the bag. The pattern is common, simple and practical, and even damp the cloth looks sturdy. It could be used by anyone, farmer or merchant, even ronin.

“Hmm.” Jin braces the pouch on his waist and begins to untie it. “Supplies, maybe?” 

“Buried in the sand?”

Jin corrects, “Left behind,” as he gets the cloth undone. The contents nearly spill out, but he manages to catch it: something wrapped in leather, obviously intended to last.

“A map? Some plans?” Ryuzo guesses at the same time that Jin finally unfurls it.

The leather falls away; inside are two letters, one detailed with familiar ink and emblazoned with a symbol that Ryuzo has seen before.

His heart nearly stops.

Jin is already glancing over the writing on both by the time Ryuzo manages to school his expression. “There is a bounty,” Jin reads, his brows knitting together, “on the Ghost.” 

Ryuzo dares not even breathe. It looks exactly like the missive the merchant had read from when coming to the Straw Hats. Surely it’s not the very same. His eyes dart down to the pouch they’d found them in, and this time he can imagine it hanging from that merchant’s hip, clear as day.

“It says here that the bounty is offered to anyone who can bring his head to the Khan. Anyone, not only Mongols…” Jin frowns, separating two parchments. “One of these is the official bounty. The other is a personal testimony… ‘I have no skill in battle, no talent for war, but I considered trying. I spread this word for the Khan. Anything to avoid the deaths of myself and my family.’” Jin sounds horrified as he reads it aloud. “‘We could only leave.’”

“...That was their only other option then,” Ryuzo says, heartbeat kicking against his ribs. “Running.” 

Jin continues reading, falling silent, but the line of tension that suddenly pulls his shoulders taut says everything that Ryuzo needs to know.

“Jin,” Ryuzo says quietly.

“Whoever wrote this had a brother, a smuggler. They took the farmstead, mostly their family, and they left for the mainland.” Jin raises his eyes to look at Ryuzo, otherwise motionless. “After meeting with a group of ronin.” 

It becomes a standoff. Ryuzo swings first.

“The merchant wanted to survive,” he blurts, starting to half-ramble, half-stumble over his own words. “You can’t fault them for that. These people don’t have the tools to fight back, they did what they had to do.” 

Jin only looks at him, and Ryuzo doesn’t budge, though he does shut his mouth. The silence rolls on, tide wetting their ankles. Dog-bite stubborn, Jin stares until Ryuzo can’t bear it any longer.

“Ask it,” Ryuzo says then, dreadfully still. “Ask me. You want to.” 

“Ryuzo.”

“Ask me!” 

Jin grabs him by the front of his top and kisses him. Ryuzo’s hat is thrown to the ground by the force, and Ryuzo goes right down after it. Crumbling, his knees sink into the soft, wet sand; Jin drops with him, the letters dropped like an afterthought, floating away on the waves, already lost.

“You wouldn’t,” Jin gasps against his mouth, and Ryuzo almost sobs the hysteric laughter of a snapped bone. 

“I want to,” Ryuzo confesses breathlessly.

Jin kisses him again with such a fierce bite that Ryuzo tastes the metal-sweet tang on his own lip. He jerks backwards, kicking up water as he shoves Jin away before deciding he doesn’t want to in the same moment, yanking him in once more and pressing his lips back to Jin’s. Jin’s made of saltwater air, of blood, of the bitter edge always digging into Ryuzo’s chest, and when Jin spills a broken, confused sigh of his name in the space between their mouths, Ryuzo breaks.

“I haven’t, the answer is no, I haven’t,” he says in a rush, “you’re so — you’re such a damned—”

Jin kisses the corner of his lips, then interrupts Ryuzo’s panting, frantic breaths again with another full-on kiss afterwards. At some point he’s taken hold of Ryuzo’s wrist, his nape. Ryuzo feels so very cornered. “You said I’d have you at Castle Kaneda,” Jin murmurs. 

Barely moving his lips, Ryuzo says quietly, so quiet that the sound of the waves nearly swallow the words whole, “I know.” 

Jin’s thumb rubs at the side of his neck. A little higher, and he would feel Ryuzo’s pulse kicking out like a hare. A little harder, and Ryuzo’s vision could begin to spot. “Which is it?” Jin asks softly. “My bounty? Or me?” 

Water has soaked through Ryuzo’s clothes. He’s cold. He’s threatened. He could go for his sword, he thinks, briefly looking down at his sheath at his side. He might lose like years before. But he could try. They could have their fight to the end right here and now, and not in the depths of Castle Kaneda, after Ryuzo signs away his loyalty and friendship for work. Beside him, his hat has drifted a few feet away from them, caught by the rising tide.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Jin tells him in a whisper.

Ryuzo pulls away enough to look at Jin. “You’d kill me.” 

“Never—”

Ryuzo snorts, stopping Jin’s protests. While forcing his hands not to tremble, he shoves Jin back again. Ryuzo leaves his hat as he stands, taking a deep breath. “My men are fed,” Ryuzo says simply. “I don’t need what the Khan offers. I don’t want to be any samurai, either.”

Jin’s eyes are dark and unreadable as he looks up at Ryuzo. “What do you want, Ryuzo?”

Ryuzo opens his mouth, then shuts his jaw with a click. He glances away. “You asked me,” he says, “Your bounty, or you.” 

He walks away, leaving Jin there. As Ryuzo squeezes through the narrow gap between the rocks, he sees a blur of orange-red fur darting past him, towards the beach. 

Ryuzo doesn’t look back. When he returns to the farmstead, he wakes his men and tells them they’re headed out to Castle Kaneda.

“So you are the ronin?” asks Lady Masako, understandably dubious. “Jin made it sound like there were more of you than this.”

Hirotsune and Kiyochika flank Ryuzo, who has relegated himself to standing a decent distance away from Jin’s other allies. Despite feeling both of them give him a look, Ryuzo thins his lips and refuses to spare a glance. “As it turns out,” Ryuzo says, “asking them to risk their lives for the jitō didn’t go so well. If we live, they’ll come back.” Maybe. 

Sensei Ishikawa gestures at the group of Straw Hats. Dryly, he asks, “Then what makes you three so willing to throw your lives away?” 

Hirotsune shrugs good-naturedly. Kiyochika says, mild, “It’s a job.”

And Ryuzo has a moment to compose himself before answering, “Jin is an old friend.” 

“Hm,” Lady Masako answers. Ryuzo can’t decide if it sounds disapproving or not. His nape bristles with the weight of her scrutiny as he turns around to face the towering Castle Kaneda.

There’s a good chance they’re all going to die tonight.

But when Jin arrives and sees Ryuzo, and Jin’s face lights up even behind his mask, Ryuzo decides that he’s had a good run.

Later, much later, when Castle Kaneda has been reclaimed and Jin has made all the necessary moves that the jitō’s nephew must make, Jin collapses against Ryuzo to catch his breath. Jin’s body is too hot, sweat-sticky everywhere they press together, but there’s such a deep and abiding sense of finally that sinks into Ryuzo he can’t bother to complain. Besides, they’ve just gotten over being covered in Mongol blood. Sweat from something more pleasurable is far better. Experimentally, he runs fingertips down Jin’s bare back, following the mountain range of his spine, ending at the lower curve leading to his ass.

Jin noses at his cheek until Ryuzo turns his head to hum a question at him.

“I didn’t think you’d be there,” Jin murmurs after a moment, lips brushing Ryuzo’s face, stubble scratching. “Not after how you left.” 

Ryuzo huffs out a long breath. “I didn’t do it for your uncle,” he points out for the sake of it, and Jin mouths down his throat until he forgets entirely what they’re talking about. 

“Mmm, before I forget,” Jin says later still, when they’ve managed to clean up beyond the very basics. “What did the woman look like? From the farmstead?” 

“I didn’t see her,” Ryuzo says lazily, far too spent for this conversation. Then, as if just recalling, he adds, “Kiyochika said she was a shrine maiden. Why?”

Jin pauses a beat too long. “The woman I spoke with was dressed like a shrine maiden as well.” 

Ryuzo opens his eyes and looks over at Jin, who rolls onto his side to peer down at Ryuzo in turn. “And?” Ryuzo prompts.

“There weren’t any shrines close enough to that farmstead,” Jin tells him, thoughtful.

“...The fox,” Ryuzo starts, then immediately finishes, “no, no. Never mind. Go to sleep, Jin. The Ghost needs his rest.” He puts his hand over Jin’s face and smothers him back down. “Goodnight, Jin.”  

Jin kisses his palm with shining eyes before Ryuzo lets him go, and Ryuzo wonders at the warmth it leaves behind.