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It was the first time beyond infancy that Walter had ever held someone’s hand. Felt his fingers knit together with another, felt the intricate markings of his palm press into unfamiliar flesh.
He was far from inexperienced in love and human contact, Walter’s devilish good looks and confidence had bedded many a partner back home.
So why did this feel so different? Just a few hours ago, Walter’s emotions were a whole different matter. He wouldn’t admit it, wouldn’t frivolously shame the decisions of his fellow samurai, but watching Flynn drive his sword into Kuebiko’s monstrous form caused a ripple of guilt in his heart. There felt something fundamentally wrong with uprooting such a noble beast, challenging and slaying them mercilessly. It stank of a prejudice that Walter knew all too well. While he knew Flynn acted in protection of Shinjuku’s people, Walter couldn’t help but feel uneasy.
So when they stepped out of the towering Office building, when Flynn and Isabeau departed for a challenge quest of their own, Tokyo’s cold and unnatural breeze crashed against his feverish sense of malaise. Walter turned to his current companion, noticing Jonathan gazing at the ground. His eyes appeared alert as ever, the reflection of the humming street-lamps dancing elegantly across his amber irises.
“Hoy, Jonathan;”
Walter called, often the first to initiate contact
“Shall we depart for Shinjuku Station? I grow tired of combat and quarrelling. ”
Jonathan looked back up and nodded subtly, opening his soft lips, gentle breaths fogging the cool air, showing a small hint of a smile.
“Alright.”
It was strange, at times the pair would argue each other to a standstill, obsessively wishing to prove the other wrong. But the life of a samurai was anything but easy, and many days resulted in a feeling of exhaustion, an inescapable sense of lethargy. It was during these periods that Walter and Jonathan fell into each other, began to slot together. They communicated with few words, shared a mutual understanding. Their presences became mutually comforting, as if some intangible bond had magically appeared in their hour of need.
So it did not seem strange that when Walter began to travel, his boots clicking softly against the pavement, Jonathan soon followed. They matched each other’s pace and gait; from a distance, one could be convinced that they were mirrored, doppelgängers of each other.
“Walter?”
Jonathan asked, in a voice which sounded so soft, so vulnerable, that Walter worried for it’s conclusion.
“Hm?”
“I miss the stars…”
And with that, Jonathan’s dulcet tones trailed off into the night, smothered by the oppressive darkness of Tokyo’s alleyways and streets. Nothing changed, except the two samurai cast their gaze upwards, the canopy of stone casting an ugly shadow across the city, hiding the sky from view.
And Walter expected nothing more. So when Jonathan’s fingers, calloused yet still shockingly soft, reached out for Walter’s, intertwining unexpectedly, Walter felt surprised.
It was not, however, unwelcome. It spurned him to grip Jonathan’s hand back, to rub their thumbs together, to take in every aspect of his partner’s grip. The child of chaos, the firebrand Samurai, felt a slight blush grace his scarred cheeks, and for the shroud of darkness (though secretly for the warmth which filled his chest) he found himself thanking God.