Chapter Text
“Take good care of me, okay?”
They are wrong about steel being cold--forged from the heat of flames and tempered by red blood from veins, a sword’s edge is always warmed by the fingers that grip it. His skin is always warm, even when it is cut edges and angles made to slice open fingertips.
Never you. He will never hurt you, and it’s easy to fall in love with something, someone whose sole existence is a satellite around your sun. He is the first, and it’s easy. You are not surprised, ripped from your own time and placed into his, his hands trembling as the blood drips onto dirt.
“...you still love me?”
It’s hard to forget he is metal and dying when he is this careful, not when he is normally too much confidence, not when he is supposed to cut, not brush painted fingers across your cheek, barely warmed by the heat of your body.
Kashuu Kiyomitsu is a beautiful sword, bronze hilt carved with flowers and the Emperor’s chrysanthemum, and you do your best to fix cracks in his blade and the cuts on his skin. “Does it hurt?” you breathe, and he doesn’t say anything.
He’s so talkative at other moments, but he never says anything when his skin stings, too unfamiliar with hurt to hide his wince from you. The first time you fix him, he doesn’t cry but you cradle him to your chest, fingers through his hair as he stares with wide eyes open into the night.
Your skin warms his, and he is never cold, not like the way swords are.
When he kisses you, he tastes of iron and will, and he is always wordless, soundless, mouth like drinking because swords cannot love, yet here he is, breath stopping short, learning to exhale all over again.
Those trembling hands never disappear, and when he cuts into your skin, he presses his lips to the wound and lets your iron temper his. “...you can’t love me like this...” Your hands roam his skin and he inhales sharply, his hand going to hide his face.
“Why is that, Kiyomitsu-kun?”
There is never a reply.
It’s over before you realize it. A moment’s distraction, and he slumps forward, the black of his clothing wet and slick as you gather him in your arms. The blood pools in his lungs and he cannot speak, not even when you press your cheek against his, red smearing to your skin.
There is no crying. No whimpers. No begging to be saved from a god because steel does not pray, steel does not believe in anything but the master that warms them when nights are too cold to be alone. “...in the end...do you still love me?”
In war, you do what you must, duty before blood, and forge a new sword, charcoal and water.
He is beautiful, bronze hilt and iron will, but not yours.