Chapter Text
If he’s being totally honest, he probably isn’t meant for teaching.
He’s just not good with kids, is the simple, unfortunate truth of the matter. Particularly not with boys of this age, who only seem to truly respect those who wield authority with a certain flair or gravitas. “Coolness” is the word for it, he’s fairly certain. And Tsubasa is self-aware enough to know that he possesses little of that. He is, as Jabi once described him, a “deeply embarrassing uptight stickler.”
But what was he supposed to do? Say no, when Shijima Wataru smiled at him, eyes warm, and said “you know, we’ve got an open instructor position at the camp”?
It would have been terribly rude to refuse.
And there is some appeal to it, certainly: the positive, social atmosphere, watching the boys become better and stronger with each passing day. There are in fact plenty among them who don’t snicker behind his back, or ask him leading questions about old laws and ordinances in order to set him off on a rambling tangent and avoid their lessons. He has labeled those who don’t as the trustworthy ones, and has resolved to do anything he can to help them in the future.
And it’s nice, too, to be around his fellow teachers. Makai Knights are solitary creatures by the nature of the profession, and so for a group of them to be united in a common goal like this, sharing the same space for so long… It’s a rare, pleasant feeling. For the most part. They find themselves with a lot of stories to tell – some left untold for so long that it takes time and drink to dredge them up, and not every one is the picture of knightly honor and grace.
Today, Ukai’s recounting of the time he mistook a high ranking Senate Priest for a Horror due to a dark enchantment and nearly murdered him in the middle of a Tribunal (hearty laughter all around for this one, as Tsubasa sat there staring at them in alarm) has led to Wataru telling a story of his own. About being tasked with the delivery of a rare, delicate alloy that the Priest inventors were using to make “god knows what.” Unfortunately, no one had informed Wataru of the metal’s unique property: that its resonance attracts a particularly vicious type of Makai Beast.
“I threw that package at their feet when I finally got there,” he says, an amused glint in his eyes. “You should have seen their faces as they dove for it.”
Another approving laugh goes up around the table, but Tsubasa’s frown only deepens.
“Wasn’t that very irresponsible?” he says, and everyone stops; turns to blink at him, mugs of wine raised halfway to their lips. “That package was your mission. To jeopardize it like that was thoughtless. Even if there were circumstances – ”
“Oi, oi,” Yanagi growls. “You sayin’ he had no right to be angry? When he could’ve died over some workshop material?”
“I – I’m certain the officials who gave the orders had their reasons for not disclosing the nature of the item – ”
“Good grief. Remind me where you picked this kid up from, Wataru?” Maeda asks, eyebrow raised, and Tsubasa can feel the back of his neck grow hot.
Wataru’s lips twitch. “He saved my life, remember? By getting himself stabbed. Willing to die for all kinds of things, this one.”
Yanagi makes a ‘tch’ sound. “Greenhorns,” he mutters. “Can’t stand the ones who still think they’re soldiers.”
Tsubasa opens his mouth and closes it again. He’s rather unsure how to respond to that, and Wataru seems to be reading the bewilderment on his face.
“Once they spend a few more years doing this job,” he explains, “people tend to have a change of philosophy.” He taps a finger against his mug thoughtfully. “You think of yourself as a… combatant first and foremost, right? Fighting for the cause. And if you fall in the line of duty it’ll have been an honorable sacrifice, and someone else will step up to take your place in the line. And it’s all nice and efficient, like cogs in a clock.
“But at some point you’re going to realize how precarious this system really is. And how necessary you are as a Knight. And once you do, you start to think of yourself more like. A candle in a huge, dark room. The dark almost completely swallows that light. And if it goes out, then there’s nothing left at all. And maybe that candle can’t ever be re-lit. So you try your damnedest not to die, for as long as you can, because there’s more at stake than just you. And giving your life up for a Knight who’s older than you, whose candle is burning lower? That’s a stupid, naïve move.”
He finds that he can’t look away from Wataru’s eyes – sharp and intent where they’re usually affable and mild. He feels like he’s being pinned into his seat. There are other people at the table, of course, but suddenly he can’t even remember what they look like, their presence a blur along the edges of his vision as he tries to find his voice.
“Are you saying… I shouldn’t have done anything to save you?”
Wataru considers this, swilling his wine back and forth. “Probably, yeah,” he says.
“That’s – that’s not – ”
“But,” and here the tension of the moment melts away as he smiles, “I’m kind of glad you did, honestly.”
He reaches out to pat him on the cheek with a laugh before getting to his feet, stretching out his shoulders and saying “time for me to turn in for the night,” and Tsubasa can only sit there, statue-like, as he takes his leave, still feeling the lingering outline of his palm.
He notes, via a completely normal amount of careful observation, that Wataru does that sort of thing often. Physical affection. With his fellow knights it’s a clap on the shoulder, usually. With his students it’s a hand ruffling their hair, a curve of the mouth as he says “good work today.”
“I’m proud of you, y’know,” he even says to one of them, after the group test is over, and Tsubasa stops short as he stares. His eyes focus on that hand – how gentle it is on the crown of the boy’s head. The kid brightens in an instant, the dirt and blood on his face forgotten as he beams up at him, and Tsubasa thinks:
That seems nice.
It’s like a wistful sigh in his head, and it startles him with the same intensity as if someone had just rung a bell loud in his ear. He blinks; shakes himself and turns back to his own students, several of whom are giving him odd looks.
He should say something like that, too. That he’s proud of them. Even though they lost, they did try very hard, some of them fighting with an earnest determination he wouldn’t have expected. They’re beginning to look like small warriors now. But in the end he simply nods, terse and somber.
“Next round your performance will be better,” he says. “I will make sure of that. Be prepared for a stricter training regimen from tomorrow onward.”
They all groan in unison.
Later, he ponders on his own reaction. It’s to be expected, isn’t it? As someone who never attended a training camp like this, and whose teachers were a rotating handful of village elders, none of whom were much bothered to give him anything beyond the necessary knowledge and strength. He never truly had someone to admire, to aspire to, someone who would commend him in return for a skill well-mastered.
So it’s normal, he tells himself. That he would want that even now.
He seeks Wataru out the next afternoon, late enough to be nearing dusk, approaching the fire pit he’s stoking with a skittish trepidation that he isn’t sure the source of.
“Wataru-san,” he says, grip tightening around the hilt of his halberd, and Wataru’s eyes slide towards him, face lit dimly orange in the firelight. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Hm? Oh, wait, hold on. I’m sensing something.” He cups his hands around his mouth and calls into the forest. “Oi, you lot! Don’t even think of going near the Priest camp! No gawking at the girls!”
A somewhat pouty chorus of “yes, sensei”s comes floating back through the trees in reply. Wataru laughs.
“They always try it during firewood duty.” He turns back to Tsubasa with a mild smile. “What was it you needed?”
“I – I was hoping you might agree… to start sparring with me regularly.”
“…Sparring?”
Tsubasa nods. “I’m worried I might be getting complacent. It would be unseemly to let my skills deteriorate while I’m teaching others.” The words feel odd in his mouth. Misshapen. They’re certainly not a lie, but they aren’t quite the full truth, either.
Wataru mulls this over as he feeds a branch into the crackling flames. “Well. I’m not opposed to the idea. Could probably use something to keep me sharp, too. But… I’m not exactly sure how well-matched we’d be.” He arches an eyebrow. “You know you’re better than me, right?”
Tsubasa frowns. “That’s not true.”
“It is. I’ve done my research. Dan is a notoriously tough armor to master. And I’ve seen you fight, Tsubasa. You’re about a rank or two above me.”
“I say, very well spoken,” Goruba cuts in, his usually-brittle voice emboldened, full of pride. “You are a wise, intuitive man, sir, to see my Tsubasa’s talent so clearly! Not many have – ”
“Goruba, quiet,” Tsubasa says sharply.
“But if you really want me to,” Wataru continues, amusement evident, “I’ll try to keep up. How about tomorrow before lunch for the first round?”
Which is how, after he’s sent his students off for their break, he finds himself crossing blades with Wataru in a clearing a little ways out from the instructors’ cabins. It’s a grey, pallid day, chilly and dull, a faint mist twining through the trunks of the trees. Wataru seems in high enough spirits despite the weather, smiling as he tosses Tsubasa a wooden practice staff.
“Not that I don’t trust you coming at me with the real thing,” he says. “But I figure it’s a safer bet until we’ve gotten more comfortable with each other.”
Those words seem to get stuck in the farthest corner of his thoughts, a sharp thorn that prods at him.
He wonders if, other than his sister, he has ever been truly comfortable with anyone.
He throws himself into the training to avoid those musings, narrowing his focus to only this, the reverberating strike of wood against wood. When he manages to disarm Wataru, knocking his weapon from his hands with enough force to embed it firmly into the earth, Wataru blinks; shakes out his undoubtedly stinging fingers with a soft whistle.
“See? You are good,” he says. Rolls his shoulders as if to dispel some stiffness. “And I’m certainly not getting any younger.”
“I think you’re still young, Wataru,” the childlike voice of his Madou Tool pipes up.
“Oh?” He flicks its mirror-like face. “Like that means anything coming from you.”
“But I know you could – ” Tsubasa says hurriedly. “Could teach me something new, I think. You are an accomplished instructor, after all.”
Wataru seems to consider this. “Well. There is this one technique. Meant for swords, but it would probably be possible with that weapon of yours. My own master taught it to me decades ago, and I’ve been considering trying to pass it down to my son, but.” His mouth curves slightly upward, a wry expression. “To be honest, I’m starting to doubt if being a Knight is the right path for him. Doesn’t handle a blade very well, to put it kindly.”
Tsubasa can feel his brow knit together. “…And that doesn’t bother you?” When Wataru gives him an uncomprehending look, he continues: “That he won’t inherit your armor.”
“Hm. Not particularly.”
“But that’s…” But bloodlines are everything, he wants to recite. Traditions must continue. Dan must remain within the lineage of our people, where it has always been –
“Well. When I die, if I haven’t yet passed it on, Baron will be taken to the Tower of Heroes,” Wataru says, matter-of-fact. “And the idea of some orphan kid, maybe, with no status, no family name, stumbling in there after training and training and being granted my old armor… That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Because it wasn’t just a given. They clawed their way up to be there. I think… That’s when the candle in that dark room is guaranteed to be re-lit.”
He walks over to pull his practice sword from the ground; rests it against his shoulder and turns back with an easy smile. “But even so. I’d still like to give my master’s technique to someone I can actually see use it. You interested?”
Tsubasa nods, maybe a bit too quick. “Yes, that would be. Perfect.”
When he hones it to the ideal level of mastery four sessions later, the exact movements and arc of his halberd needed to split the opposite tree along its trunk with a thunderous crack, Wataru looks from him to it and back again with a startled, awed sort of expression.
“I was younger than you at the time, but.” He shakes his head as he wanders over. “Still. Took me months to get the hang of that one. You’re really something.”
Tsubasa sucks in a breath as his hand reaches out to pat his cheek again, just for a moment before dropping away, leaving him warm despite the chill that still persists in the air.
“Good work,” he says, looking so genuinely pleased that something tightens in his chest, trapping that strange, fluttery feeling there between his ribs. “And thanks. For my old master’s sake. He’d be happy, seeing his technique passed on.”
“No,” Tsubasa manages to say. “No, it’s… an honor.”
Wataru folds his arms; taps a finger against his bicep thoughtfully. “Now I really wonder if I have anything left to teach you, though.”
“It’s fine if there’s nothing specific. As long as we can keep meeting like this, I – ”
He snaps his mouth shut, struck by the realization of how peculiar those words sound, and Wataru stares at him, bemused.
“You’re an odd one, you know that? Think you might be giving me too much credit. But… I guess I don’t mind.” He tosses Tsubasa the wooden practice staff once more, turning his own sword over in his hand with an expert twirl of his fingers. “Why don’t you try out that move on me to start? Then we’ll see where we go from there.”
The talk around the instructors’ tables in the mess hall often changes quickly, in a casual, flowing way Tsubasa has difficulty following the trajectory of. He simply sits and listens, for the most part, and today the chatter is that Yanagi’s sister is getting married, “to this guy who’s kind of a haughty prick, if you ask me, from one of those ‘old families,’ right, a real inflated sense of ego, but she definitely doesn’t care about my opinion.” And then, abruptly:
“Hey Shijima, when the hell are you gonna settle down? You’ll be an old man before you know it.”
Wataru lifts his eyes to the ceiling; waves a hand to dismiss the thought. “Haven’t we been over this? Even when I’m not out on a job, I’m here with you lot. They’d have to have the patience of a saint to put up with me.”
Tsubasa’s fingers go still where they were aimlessly turning his mug of wine. He’d thought certainly… that Wataru had a wife. But he’s only ever mentioned his son, now that he thinks about it. Did he ever have someone like that? Did she pass away? Or maybe…
“If you found a real tough Priest to marry you, you could be one of those inseparable battle duos,” Maeda is saying with sage nod. “That’s the smart man’s way to do this job, if you ask me. Always having a beautiful woman by your side.”
“And like the rest of us keep telling you,” Wataru says drily, “every beautiful Priest woman is either already taken or…”
“Setting up camp on the other side of the river!” At least four of the others finish the sentence in a chorus, and Maeda grumbles something unintelligible, having clearly heard such a thing many times before.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Tsubasa asks, loud enough to be heard over the low clamor.
A sudden quiet descends as everyone turns to give him the blankest of looks. Clearly he hasn’t learned enough to prevent this from happening.
Wataru clears his throat, obviously trying to suppress a laugh as he says, “It’s… just a euphemism that gets tossed around. For Priest women who aren’t so much interested in us men as they are… interested in each other.”
Tsubasa stares back at him. Something feels as if it were caught between the cogs of his thoughts, everything coming to a jarring, clanging halt as he attempts to process this.
“That… happens?” he finds himself asking. It does make sense, doesn’t it? So many things Jabi has said to him feel like they’re snapping into focus, now. A shroud being pulled away. And above all else he finds himself wanting to ask what about the other way around but that seems like something he shouldn’t say in front of these people –
“You can’t be serious,” Ukai groans, putting his head in his hands. “Wataru, this guy is killing me. Nobody in this line of work should be this much of a sheltered country boy. It shouldn’t be humanly possible.”
Tsubasa draws himself up in his seat, irritation prickling along his skin. “There’s no need to – ”
“No, remember, he said he never came to one of these camps as a brat,” Shuuzou pipes up. He’s wearing a look of mock solemnity. “That must be it, right? Not enough male bonding as a kid can really leave a man clueless. It’s tragic.”
Laughter bubbles up around him, and Tsubasa’s face flushes, hands curling into fists at his side. “I apologize, then,” he says sharply, pushing his chair back with a scrape of wood and getting to his feet. “For my ignorance.”
He’s halfway back to his cabin, his steps quick, pulse loud enough in his ears that he almost doesn’t hear it when someone calls after him. Wataru’s expression is amused but not unkind as he jogs to catch up with him, a light touch on his shoulder that immediately halts him in his tracks.
“Hey, listen,” he says. With the fading sun on him, there seem to be flecks of lighter brown in his eyes that weren’t there before. His eyelashes cast delicate shadows on his face. “They don’t mean to be unwelcoming, you know. Or to… ‘make fun.’ They’re just rough around the edges by nature. And they’ve been stuck around each other for so long they have a hard time understanding Knights who aren’t like them. They’re too jaded to remember when they weren’t.”
His hand slides back, then, past his collar to curl around the nape of his neck, the gentlest of holds, and yet Tsubasa can’t seem to move, rooted there in place as Wataru leans in and smiles at him. “I think, in that way, you’re fine as you are. If my opinion counts for anything. So don’t mind it too much.” Lets go and steps away, giving him a nod. “Good night, Tsubasa.”
He watches him walk away with his eyes wide and his heart pounding. Lifts his own hand slowly to touch his fingertips to the back of his neck. The unasked question seems to fill up every bit of space in his mind, now, loud and echoing: what about the other way around –
“Tsubasa?” Goruba says, his voice sounding far away. “I say, are you quite alright?”
“…I don’t know,” he hears himself say. “I don’t – I think… this might be bad, Goruba.”
He barely hears any of the old man’s ramblings about ancient medicinal cures for whatever might ail him as he drifts, ghost-like, along the path the rest of the way to his cabin. Shutting the door behind him, he sinks back against it in a daze.
“This might be really bad,” he murmurs.
He remembers being sixteen, and a Knight and his son, a Priest-in-training about Tsubasa’s age, had come to their village to stay for a week while waiting for the ideal phase of the moon for crossing the Dead Marshes to the south. He had ended up the boy’s host and tour guide of sorts simply by default, as there were few others in their age group around, and they’d fallen in together far better than anyone else had ever fallen in with Tsubasa.
He’d been very friendly and charming, that boy, with long, jet black hair he kept pulled back, and a lopsided smile, and an easy laugh. He’d said, “you’re pretty fun to be around, you know that,” something Tsubasa had never heard from another person before. He’d laid awake later that night unable to stop thinking about those words.
And that day at the shrine before they left Tsubasa had looked at his hand resting there on the step next to him, and looked at the handsome profile of his face, and thought.
What? What did he think, then? He can’t recall any fully formed idea – just a whisper of something, a vague nudge at the back of his mind.
Later, he’d wanted desperately to seek forgiveness from that boy. To find him again and bow his head in penance. But for what? He’d done nothing at all. Hadn’t even entertained a thought, really.
So then why even now is the memory so vivid?
It’s amateurish, he’ll think later. For his focus to slip without his noticing, no longer seeing the full picture of his opponent but instead a detail, eyes fixated on the line of Wataru’s forearm, the faded scar that curves along it, the tensing up of muscle as he grips his sword. The weather has turned abruptly, and so he’s shed his coat for this day’s practice, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.
It doesn’t take long for Tsubasa, distracted as he is, to find himself being swept off balance, landing hard on his back in the grass. Wataru, with the tip of his blade now at Tsubasa’s throat, tilts his head to the side as he stands over him.
“You seem a little off today,” he says.
Tsubasa swallows hard.
He takes Wataru’s hand when it’s offered, clasping his wrist as he’s pulled back to his feet, but finds it oddly difficult to let go once he’s there. He stares down at where Wataru’s thumb is sitting against his skin. It seems unreasonably warm, that touch. Electrified. He can feel Wataru studying him in the silence.
“Tsubasa,” he says slowly. “Is there something else you want from me?”
His eyes snap up, startled. He finds Wataru’s expression unreadable in a way that makes something twist anxiously in the pit of his stomach.
“I’ve been wondering,” he continues. “If there’s some other reason why you’re set on training like this so frequently. Can you tell me?”
Tsubasa reaches for something sensible and logical to say in this moment, but his mind has gone utterly blank. All that’s left is the first thought that comes to him.
“I want you to praise me,” he says.
Wataru blinks back at him.
“Praise you,” he echoes. “As in…?”
“Telling me that I – ” His mouth is dry, and he licks his lips. “That I did well.”
Wataru is silent for a long, excruciating moment, his face still revealing nothing.
“And why do you want that?” he asks finally.
Tsubasa can’t begin to imagine how to answer that.
“I mean. Is it just a simple gratification thing? Could it be anyone? And I just happened to be the only one here you knew well enough to ask?”
“No,” Tsubasa says sharply. “No, it’s.” His grip around Wataru’s wrist tightens, face hot enough that he’s sure it must be radiating. “You’re the only one I’ve ever really… wanted to hear it from.”
That finally gets a reaction from him – a wry expression, letting out a breath that’s almost an incredulous half-laugh, leaning back as if to accommodate something that has just taken up space between them.
“Alright. I gotta say. This is probably the oddest way I’ve ever been confessed to.”
The word is like being pierced by a bolt from the blue. Confessed? Is that what he just did? Panicked, Tsubasa lets go of his wrist as if it were burning to the touch, stepping back and dropping into a deep bow.
“I – I sincerely apologize,” he says quickly. “For saying unseemly things. That was – it was very inappropriate.”
“Tsubasa, no, that’s. I’m not saying I mind.”
He raises his head slowly to find him running a thumb along his jawline, pensive.
“It’s just. Putting your, ah, ‘request’ aside, I’m not sure how you want me to react here. Having a bit of a crush on an instructor figure is… fairly typical, I think. I’ve seen it before, trust me. And that kind of thing fades quick enough. It’s something to let be, and it’ll pass on its own. But.” And here he gives him a long, studying look. “I’m getting the impression that maybe… You’re more determined than that. And you don’t want me to just let it be.”
Tsubasa’s hand curls and uncurls at his side, tense with nervous energy. “What would,” he starts; falters. “What would be the alternative?”
That gets an amused quirk of the lips out of him. “Well,” he says. “I can think of a few options. Though you know… I’m a little old for you, right?”
“That’s – that’s not true.”
A raised eyebrow. “I have a son who’ll be turning eleven soon. I’d say that’s pretty significant.”
“To me it isn’t! You’re – ”
He stops. What is he even saying? What is he making a case for, exactly? He can barely even conceive of it. Years later, perhaps he’s still no different from that day at the shrine staring at that boy’s hand. He just wants – vaguely, disconcertingly, a formless dark shape of something just out of reach.
Wataru is giving him a look unlike any he’s seen on his face before: unsmiling, even a little sad, yet oddly soft and fond.
“I probably shouldn’t have encouraged this, should I,” he murmurs. “I should’ve kept my distance. But you’re just so cute. And I just keep thinking about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t… if you hadn’t been there…” He trails off and shakes his head; smiles thinly. “Good work today. That’s all you really wanted to hear, right?”
“I – well,” he stammers. Suddenly he’s not so sure.
“I think we’ve done enough of these training sessions, haven’t we? It’ll be graduation time soon enough. You should focus on your students.” He leans in just a bit with a playful glint in his eye that looks genuine enough. “My kids will trounce yours, you know.”
He turns away with a laugh and a raised hand in parting, and Tsubasa stares after him until the trees hide him from view, and it’s just him there in the clearing, the early afternoon sun filtering through branches, the sounds of the rest of the camp bustling about drifting muffled through the evergreens.
Goruba makes a perplexed, ponderous noise, clicking his metal teeth. “Gracious, but you humans complicate these matters to an unnecessary degree. I’m not quite sure if you were rejected or not, my boy.”
“You and me both,” Tsubasa murmurs, his own voice sounding a bit distant, and mechanically picks up his practice staff to begin the trudge back to camp.