Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Previous masters define a sword.

--Actually, no, that isn’t completely true.

---

Shokudaikiri Mitsutada is defined by the One-Eyed Dragon.

He drags his eyepatch over the back of his hair, gels the ends, smiles a smile only familiar to Ookurikara and Tsurumaru-- he cooks, all the time, trying new recipes and almost force-feeding anyone who looks like they have too much time to spare. “Another habit,” Ookurikara mutters, and it’s almost funny in this day to think about how Date Masamune took great pride in feeding his houseguests with whatever he’s come up with.

And that’s why Hasebe thought Mitsutada was the same as him, at first. Someone chained to the past, but at the same time, not really. Someone who lets a dead man’s actions dictate who they are now, and what they say, even to the saniwa, born seven hundred years too late.

“Hasebe, what are you doing outside? It’s dinner time.”

Mitsutada also finds no shame in letting the tantous, barely half his height, boss him around during this time. He finds no shame in speaking of his old masters, both his favorite and ones which are not so. He finds no shame in showing that he still remembers the days that were and weren’t recorded down in history books, the days that the saniwa cannot remember, because they were born far too late.

And Hasebe wonders if he should feel ashamed on Mitsutada’s behalf. Instead, he smiles and says-- “It’s quite early for dinner, isn’t it?”

“It’s the saniwa’s birthday!” Imanotsurugi’s declaration is a little too loud, and Mitsutada shushes him with a finger over his lips. “Oops, sorry-- but we need to distract the saniwa with dinner, so Mitsutada can finish baking the cake.”

“The saniwa’s sharp. They’ll catch on too quickly otherwise,” Mitsutada says.

Hasebe only looks amused, as though he already knew this was going to happen. “So, you’re going to deceive the saniwa and launch a surprise on them. Is that it?”

“It sounds incredibly uncool, when you put it that way.” Imanotsurugi looks up at Mitsutada, before running back into the inside of the dining room. “--Well, things are already in motion. Go join them.”

“I’m afraid I’m not very good at acting,” Hasebe admits, and it is half of a truth. “Perhaps the saniwa will find out about your plan more easily if I try to blend in.”

Mitsutada signs. “Well, what do you expect to do, then? Sit out here? How about you help me out in cooking, then?”

---

It turns out to be more of ‘Hasebe hides in the kitchen’, but Mitsutada seems to appreciate the company.

“I’ve been curious,” Hasebe says, while Mitsutada is taking off his eyepatch and a brushing his hair back so none of it can contaminate the food-- “Why do you wear that?”

Mitsutada turns his head back, and his bangs fall over where his right eye should be. Mitsutada sweeps them away, clipping them onto the top of his head, and Hasebe sees the sore lack of something.

And yet, it doesn’t answer his question. “Why else, Hasebe?”

“I remember seeing portraits of your master,” Hasebe replies. (When he was owned by Kuroda Yoshitaka, a man who served by Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s side but was barely anything to Oda Nobunaga, and yet Nobunaga simply gave--) “He had two eyes.”

“Only in portraits,” Mitsutada sighs. It is still not an answer. “He never wore an eyepatch during his life, of course.”

Hasebe watches Mitsutada, and Mitsutada watches the oven. “--So, why do you wear it, Mitsutada?”

He doesn’t know why he’s asking this. But it is a fact that he is, and Mitsutada finally answers-- “He never wore an eyepatch in his life, because he thought it wouldn’t be cool. Not for any petty reason, of course. As you know, humans back then considered every part of their body as a gift from their parents. Marking himself with an eyepatch, pointing out that he’s lost an eye, even if it’s for reasons he couldn’t avoid-- it would be a disgrace.”

Mitsutada spares a glance at the counter, before continuing. “I lost my eye in the earthquake. It wasn’t my fault, but some would say it’s a disgrace.”

“You don’t seem to care,” Hasebe notes.

“Exactly.”

--And suddenly, Mitsutada is not so defined after Date Masamune.

“My old master was afraid of what others would think. He had his portraits draw him with both eyes. Some people thought it was so enemies who don’t know the truth won’t try to target him based on that weakness he had. In a country still wracked with war, that made sense. But I was with him-- I know it wasn’t the reason.”

There’s a smile of sorts slipping across Mitsutada’s face. “Humans have such short lives, though. They worry too much about what others would say, without even realizing that it doesn’t matter. I’m not ashamed to wear this eyepatch, or acknowledge what I’m missing. I don’t hold anything against Date Masamune, of course. But, I’d like to transcend him. That’d be cool, won’t it?”

A sword, a non-living thing, transcending his master--? That’s what Mitsutada says, anyway. And he does it for more than looking cool. That much is obvious.

At one point, Hasebe ends up staring into the air, and Mitsutada waves a hand in front of his face. “Have I left you deep in thought?”

“I can’t say,” Hasebe mutters, and he’s not sure what expression he’s making.

“So that’s a yes, then,” Mitsutada smirks, before the ding of the oven confirmed that the cake was done. “--Oh, by the way, Hasebe. How about you bring this cake to the saniwa? They know how hard you’ve been working, and they appreciate your efforts. It would definitely be touching for you to be the one to surprise them, right?”

Hasebe blinks. “...It would be a rather big surprise. I might even give Tsurumaru a run for his money. After all, the saniwa has never seen me doing anything...”

“Gentle? That’s because you’ve been working too hard,” Mitsutada replies. “You can transcend your old master, too.”

Mitsutada says ‘master’. As in, singular, as if Hasebe only has one master which really mattered. And that’s kind of the truth.

“Make it so your acts of kindness aren’t something to be feared,” Mitsutada suggests.

Because people feared Oda Nobunaga the most when he was being unexplainably kind. Oda Nobunaga, who does not seem to care about what others think, has to be transcended in a different way compared to Date Masamune.

“Come on,” he says, pressing the cake tray into Hasebe’s hands. “You can say you helped me bake it. That would sound even cooler.”

---

Hasebe surprises the saniwa with a cake on their birthday. And they smile in gratitude, without fear.

Chapter Text

Doutanuki Masakuni opens his eyes, and he remembers nothing.

(Or maybe he remembers too much.)

“I’m Doutanuki Masakuni,” he says, and he feels the helmet in his hands. It lies, a dead weight, a useless headpiece that would surely shatter in two if it ever sees the battlefield again-- but he holds onto it anyway. He holds onto it, even though-- or rather, because-- the top is split in half.

“We're weapons, so being strong should be good enough. You know, simple and sturdy, or something?”

Doutanuki is perfect, for the new job he’s been assigned. He’s waited, waited for god knows how long, but that’s what a sword does-- they wait, and others have waited longer.

He opened his eyes, and he remembers the helmet in his hands. That’s all he needs to remember.

The saniwa is pleased to see him, which is a nice change. His first sortie will come very, very soon.

---

There is nothing beautiful about Mikazuki Munechika. (That has probably been said before, in another time, but that doesn’t matter now.)

Doutanuki doesn’t consider himself a connoisseur on the topic, no. But he sees Mikazuki-- teetering on his feet, a smile almost wry, unbalanced and unwieldy. He walks like an aristocrat, and Doutanuki isn’t thinking of daimyos. He walks like those-- those puppet shoguns, figureheads with no real meaning other than to serve as a rallying point, a half-assed motive for whatever dynastic conquest someone else is trying to pull. Those figureheads who do nothing but sit, and wait, and wait, until they rot in misery. He hates putting on a show to prove his power, but this guy is putting on a show with nothing to actually back it up.

There is absolutely nothing beautiful about that.

“Fashion has never been one of my strong points,” Mikazuki hums, and Doutanuki almost wants to throw the golden light cavalry at him.

“This isn’t fashion! This is equipment for battle.”

Mikazuki lets the orb hang from his arm, like an accessory. Doutanuki makes a sound of annoyance before yanking it off-- “You hang these off the hilt of your sword. They’re supposed to defend you, so why the hell would you just hold them?”

Mikazuki’s smile doesn’t slip off, and the way he nods is almost patronizing. (It is patronizing, to Doutanuki, who knows nothing but that, from the warriors who visit his swordsmith and take him into battle.) “Ah, that makes sense. You’re a very practical person, aren’t you, Doutanuki?”

“Damn right,” he mutters, making sure Mikazuki ties everything tightly. His hilt is longer than most, and he can probably hold around three pieces of equipment-- unlike tantous, which can barely balance one, or Doutanuki, who can carry two. “Tsk, what the hell is Otegine doing? He’s supposed to be our captain.”

Mikazuki blinks. “That’s right. This is your first sortie here, isn’t it, Doutanuki? Are you worried?”

“Like hell I am. I’ve been waiting to rage,” Doutanuki replies, and he almost puts a since forever at the end of that. “Plus, war is all I know. Even if it’s a new enemy, the Retrograding Army will be dealing with an expert on their front lines.”

Doutanuki’s confidence is beaming, at least, and Mikazuki nods in response. “Is war really all you know?”

“I’m a sword,” Doutanuki deadpans. “--As in, an actual sword.”

Silence. Mikazuki’s expression is still the same.

“Haha, so I’m not?”

“Depends,” he replies. “You’re one of those ‘swords’ that are supposed to be works of art. You aren’t supposed to draw blood. If there’s anyone we’ve got to be worried for, it’s you.”

(Doutanuki is straightforward, like what he was made for-- a straight declaration of war to anyone on the other end of the battlefield. A sword, tailored to draw blood. And drawing blood is not an artform. Never an artform.)

Mikazuki doesn’t seem to react at all, except smile even more widely. “Well, I suppose I can say I’ve become experienced as well. But there must be a lot I can learn from a veteran like you.”

Doutanuki looks at Mikazuki for a moment. He’s frail, so fucking frail, but he’s survived for this long. He can’t be completely useless.

He sighs. “If there’s anything you want to learn, just hit me up. I’ll spar with you anytime! I won’t ever go easy on you, though!”

“Really? Thank you very much,” Mikazuki says, and-- maybe he’s actually genuine about it. Doutanuki isn’t sure whether to smirk in response, so he just looks away. “In return, I can show you around the Citadel. We may be brought to life so we can fight, but there is much more to life than war, hm?”

“Not for me,” Doutanuki replies.

“There’s quite a lot I can show you.”

“I don’t want to see it,” he finally says, waving Mikazuki off. “--Where the hell is the rest of the squad? Aren’t we supposed to be assembled here now?”

Mikazuki hums, still not looking very disappointed at Doutanuki’s rejection. “Perhaps they’re being held up by something.”

Doutanuki mutters something under his breath. He puts down the helmet (carefully, no it doesn’t split in two completely-- he is careful, so very careful about only this). “Who else is there? Otegine, you, me, Mitsutada, Kashuu, Kasen… I’ll go find that Mitsutada first.”

“Alright,” Mikazuki hums. “And if you ever want to see the peaceful world of the future, you can always ask me.”

Doutanuki opens the window and spits onto the grass outside as Mikazuki says that.

---

“Oi, Shokudaikiri Mitsutada, right? Open the door, you’re late!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Doutanuki steps away when he realizes that Mitsutada doesn’t seem to have his usual demeanor about him. He’s-- antsy, almost panicked. Like someone who just got hit by something they didn’t expect, didn’t prepare for.

And even if he’s a battle sword with no refinery whatsoever, you don’t need to be refined to know how to feel worry. “Oi, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mitsutada says behind the door, but he still doesn’t open it. Doutanuki blinks once.

Then twice.

Then he says-- “If you don’t open the door, I’m smashing it open.”

That’s when Mitsutada finally wrenches the door handle, forcing it open before Doutanuki can act out on his threat.

Nothing seems out of order. His room is neat, he isn’t hurt, and he’s currently slicking his hair back. Doutanuki crosses his arms. “What the hell took you so long?”

“I couldn’t find my hairgel,” Mitsutada says, as if that actually answers for anything. He slicks his hair back again, and this time, Doutanuki notices the jelly-like globs running through it. Eurgh. “It’s a funny story, actually. Kuri-chan got angry at me this morning for asking him to be nicer to his own squad, and hid it. He’s really known me for too long, to--”

“Right, right, I don’t give a damn,” Doutanuki deadpans. “Are you seriously going to turn up late because of hairgel?”

Mitsutada gives something of a sigh, before scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “That’s true. ...I didn’t want to go out with my hair in a mess, but keeping you guys waiting was seriously uncool too. Well, sorry about that-- let’s get going.”

Doutanuki huffs, before turning around. “What’s the appeal of looking good, anyway? We’re all swords. When we come back, we’ll be roughed up and we’ll all need a shower.”

Mitsutada lets something of a laugh escape his lips. “You could say that. But going into battle, all messy and unclean… that just makes you look unprepared, doesn’t it? That isn’t cool at all. The enemy will look down on you.”

“Who cares if they do? We’ll mow them down anyway,” Doutanuki replies. He isn’t trying to be grievance, he simply doesn’t understand, doesn’t grasp the reasoning behind Mitsutada’s actions. “And looking messy will be intimidating, won’t it? All roughed-up from battle, full of scars--”

“That does seem to be your aesthetic,” Mitsutada replies calmly.

And this time, Doutanuki seriously sticks his tongue out. “Aesthetic? That’s a load of crap, I don’t do ‘aesthetic’.”

“Everyone does, in some shape or form.” He walks behind Doutanuki, but makes sure to pick up the pace so they can reach the meeting point. “Yours is being a fighter. It’s something that comes naturally to you.”

Doutanuki raises an eyebrow, looking over his shoulder to stare at Mitsutada. “I seriously don’t get you. How the hell is being a fighter an ‘aesthetic’? We’re not works of art. We’re supposed to be weapons, all about strength!”

“So, your point is that you can’t see fighting as an art?”

Doutanuki thinks over that, for a moment. He thinks over what he knows of art, he thinks over everything he’s seen and everything he’s failed to see, shut in a room and unappreciated, because a weapon of war has no place in a world of peace-- (but perhaps, it is better, to not have a place in this world, to not draw blood and fade away in time--)

“Nope,” he declares, not revealing his thought process. “People go on and on about sword schools and techniques being art, but there’s nothing fancy about us.”

“But, if art is about bringing people together and appreciating skill, isn’t that what swordsmanship and martial arts is about?”

“We’re not here to bring people together, we’re here to split them apart.”

And there’s a pause in speech, for a moment there.

(When Doutanuki says that, he isn’t completely sure what he means. Does he mean splitting them apart, literally? Slamming into bone, crushing their insides to bits, finishing them off and letting them step into the next world-- or does he mean splitting away at ties? Breaking families, fuelling wars, being the backbone of battle? All the things that get in the way of a peaceful world?)

“That’s one way to look at it too, I suppose,” Mitsutada finally admits. “Oh, Mikazuki. Where’s everybody else?”

Mikazuki smiles while sitting on the couch, and shrugs his shoulders. Doutanuki’s eye twitches. “In the time I was off to get Mitsutada, no one else came by?!”

“No one,” Mikazuki replies. His smile is seriously going to end up in Doutanuki’s nightmares. “Well, there’s no use being disappointed now, is there? I’ll go find Kashuu Kiyomitsu. You can check on Kasen Kanesada. Mitsutada, how about you look for Otegine?”

---

“--Quietude… no, not that. Another word. Stillness? No, that isn’t peaceful enough, stillness could mean--”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Doutanuki says, but it’s not really a question. He isn’t interested in knowing. It’s a good thing that Kasen, so rudely interrupted from his thought process, is also not interested with answering.

Instead, he turns his head up to glare at Doutanuki. “Something beyond your understanding, I’d reckon.”

“You’d reckon. So, you’re that kind of person,” Doutanuki almost hisses, and Kasen’s eyes narrow. “Those big heads that look at someone and immediately think they’ve seen enough, huh?”

Kasen dips his brush back into the inkwell. --It’s a bad decision, because he hasn’t yet thought of the next word, and he contemplates cursing Doutanuki for breaking his concentration. “If you cannot see, I am busy. So, what is it? Why are you here? Spit it out.”

“The sortie. That we’re supposed to go on,” Doutanuki says. “Right now.”

Pause.

Kasen actually looks surprised by that, for a moment. “...Is it the time already? Pardon me. I’ve been mulling over this poem, and I’ve lost track of time. I suppose this is my fault.”

“It is. So get your ass moving.”

“--And yet, I do not appreciate being spoken to in this way,” Kasen says. To someone else, maybe they’d sound like a threat. Doutanuki is used to so many real threats, threats that taste of blood and broken bone marrow, that Kasen simply sounds annoyed. “What is the saniwa thinking, assigning me to the same team as you… this is simply a recipe for disaster.”

Doutanuki snaps, as Kasen still fails to get up from his seat-- “Do you know what’s a disaster? That you’re still sitting here, whining at me, when you’re the one who’s late. Get your ass moving.”

“Do you even bathe yourself?” Kasen gets up, at least, but he poses another demeaning question. “I’m quite positive that you smell. You smell of--”

“Blood, I smell of blood, and you do too,” Doutanuki says, and it takes everything in him to stop himself from spitting on Kasen’s face. Mitsutada might be self-conscious, but he’s also a decent guy. Mikazuki might be a walking antique vase, but at least only his smile is annoying. Kasen, that’s the one who’s going to drive Doutanuki up the wall. That’s what he’s decided-- he’s just not going to get along with this guy.

“I suppose we are all swords, in the end,” Kasen sighs. “But, as a sword of Nosada, who paid very fine attention to details and function as well, we come from two different worlds.”

Doutanuki stops in his tracks.

“Are you insulting my swordsmith?” (Doutanuki has been insulted, called unrefined, mass-produced, artless, but there is some sense of attachment every sword keeps with the person who gave them form, and this is unacceptable.) “He paid as much attention to detail as he should’ve. To make me strong, sturdy! I’m a battle sword, you shithead.”

“--Excuse me?”

Doutanuki’s almost seething, seething from what Kasen has said. Maybe it’s because of the unfortunate series of events that have led to this, or maybe it’s because this is the one and only boundary no one is ever, ever allowed to cross with Doutanuki-- because his swordsmith, his swordsmiths are people who are worth defending.

He turns around completely. They stand in the hallway. Kasen doesn’t back down.

“Be as artsy as you like, with your-- aesthetic,” Doutanuki barks. “But it’s all meaningless once we get on the battlefield. Everything is down to our blades and our brute strength! My swordsmith knew that. If it wasn’t for him, who saw swords as the weapons they are, the damn war would’ve stretched even longer than it did! People would be fighting with their crappy art-pieces, not made to cut down others!”

Kasen turns his nose up. Doutanuki stands taller, but he still manages to look down on him.

“Wouldn’t that have been useful to you, though? For the war to go on,” Kasen replies. His tone is teetering on something he’d use on the enemy, when he’s gripping the handle of his sword, gripping on the famous Kasen-Koshirae that is so full of beauty that it’s made a name for itself on its own. “After all, you’re a battle sword, as you said. You don’t have any place in a world without those battles. Every single sword of the Doutanuki school looks just like you-- they have no unique spirit, no culture of its own. You cannot survive without war.”

Doutanuki marches might up to Kasen. His face is inches away, and they’re boring holes right in each other’s eyes.

“I know,” Doutanuki says. “But the world isn’t fucking peaceful yet.”

“--Uh, guys?”

Otegine’s awkward interruption catches their attention. Both of their heads tilt towards him, and they decide to back off. Otegine coughs into his hand. “Right, that was weird.”

“Where the hell were you,” Doutanuki seethes.

“I was with Kashuu,” Otegine says, and Kasen takes the opportunity to leave for the meeting venue himself. “The whole time, I’ve been trying to get him out of his room, but it just won’t happen.”

Doutanuki groans. “Lead me to him, I’ll tear open the door.”

“Eh, really?” Otegine’s eyes widen. “I’m not sure--”

“Where is his room.”

“Downstairs. To the left wing.”

---

“Give me more time! Just a bit more time!”

Mikazuki and Mitsutada are already standing in front of the door when Doutanuki comes marching down. Behind him, Otegine stumbles, saying something like Hey, calm down, we can be a bit late-- are you angry about something? You look like you’re angry about something--

“I’m angry about everything,” Doutanuki answers. “Clear the way, I’m wrenching the door open.”

“DON’T YOU DARE!”

Doutanuki takes position, while Otegine tugs on his arm, going I’ll have to pay for the expenses, throw me a bone here-- “Three, two, on--”

The door opens.

Just like with Mitsutada, there is honestly nothing wrong with Kashuu. His left eye looks a bit weird, in comparison to his right, but there’s nothing stopping him from going out to fight. “Can we go?”

“No.”

Kashuu’s single, flat word carries a strength in itself, but Doutanuki doesn’t want to acknowledge it. “I haven’t fixed my eyeliner for my left eye yet. Give me five minutes.”

“The hell is eyeliner?”

“Two minutes, I’ll be done in two minutes.”

“The hell is--”

“Make-up,” Mitsutada cuts in before Doutanuki repeats himself and blows his top off. (As if he hasn’t already.) “Kashuu’s putting on make-up. Like me with hairgel.”

Doutanuki grates his teeth together, counting to ten in his head so he doesn’t boil over with frustration. “Why do you need it? If you want to look ‘cool’ or anything, just prove it on the battlefield, you--”

“I wouldn’t spend so much effort on something as trivial as that,” Kashuu mutters, retreating into the toilet for its mirror. Doutanuki ends up storming into the room to stare at him, egg him to hurry up, let’s fucking go, and the rest tentatively follow him.

Doutanuki rolls his eyes. “Right, my bad,” he says sarcastically. Doutanuki is made to charge, to cut people down, not play word games with swords who may as well not be swords. “What are you spending it on, then?”

“To look beautiful,” Kashuu answers, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Pause.

Doutanuki lets the sentence parse through his head. He thinks deep, and hard, but finds no real reason for Kashuu to want that. He isn’t the most knowledgeable about history and other swords, yes, but there is nothing about the Kiyomitsu school and ‘beauty’ that holds up.

“Why do--”

“Why do you keep asking all those questions?” Kashuu steadily drawings a line across his lid. The other swords stand, almost awkwardly, as Doutanuki and Kashuu almost seem to have an argument without even facing each other. “I need to look as good as possible when I go around. No one will love a sword that’s beat up and ugly.”

Doutanuki doesn’t manage to catch the keyword of that sentence, the word ‘love’. “Y’know, I’m pretty sure no one will love a sword who doesn’t do his damn job either.”

“Of course,” Kashuu replies. “That’s why I’ll do it. Once I’m done with this.”

“What is up with all of you?!”

It’s almost ironic, that Doutanuki finally begins to yell when Kashuu caps his eyeliner. Otegine winces, while Mitsutada steps forward-- only to be pulled back by Mikazuki, for some reason still inexplicable. “We’re swords! We’re not supposed to be beautiful, or ‘loved’, or whatever you want to call it! Ughhh.”

Kashuu shoots Doutanuki a glare when he lets that irritated groan out of his mouth. “Swords are supposed to be loved by their masters. That’s why their masters keep them.”

“Who cares about appearance, anyway?” Doutanuki turns away, marching out of the room to the meeting point.

There are many things Kashuu can say now. He can say, too many people care. Too many people care, and when you can’t keep up, when you can’t look pretty enough to make them care about you, that’s when you get left behind. But he doesn’t, so his heels simply click on the ground, catching up with Doutanuki.

“I do,” Kashuu snaps. “You just don’t get it.”

“Get what? What’s the use of looking pretty when all you need to do now is fight?” Throughout this whole day, this whole ordeal, Doutanuki just can’t grasp-- grasp why they would waste effort on those sort of things. Waste effort on pursuits that aren’t practical, pursuits that only have place in times of peace, times which aren’t happening, right now--

(But Doutanuki knows why. Because other swords are works of art, to be admired in peacetime. He can never be art. He isn’t art, and hopefully won’t ever be, because something crafted with only the sole intention to kill cannot possibly be a piece of art.)

“We-ll,” Kashuu begins. “It’s so people still love you when you don’t need to kill.”

--Doutanuki whips around.

(Kashuu doesn’t know. Kashuu can’t possibly know, how Doutanuki was simply locked away and forgotten, after the world came to a standstill. He can’t possibly know how he’s waited, and waited, and waited, because unlike Kashuu he doesn’t have the liberty of being dead. He bears no grudge to the swords who are made to be art pieces, whether they can draw blood or not, because swords cannot choose how they are made. But he can bear a grudge to the people who say he’s worth nothing, nothing in a world of peace, because those people mistake swords of works of art and works of art only. He’s ugly, ugly and rough, to the eyes and people and other swords alike.

He doesn’t care about being ugly. But all these swords, with famous owners to their names and magnificent stories weaved into their memories, they don’t understand, what it’s like, to be--)

“Oi, Doutanuki, to your left!”

Otegine’s warning comes too late, though.

Dountanuki turns around, and in his haste, his arm hits the helmet that he left on the table while talking to Mikazuki.

It falls to the ground and hits the hard floor. The top of it cracks, and the entire thing splits in two.

(He only has one real achievement to his name, other than the single letter from Kato Kiyomasa’s own name. He carries that achievement around, the place when he slashed the helmet still well-defined after centuries of waiting, but not anymore, now.)

“...Was that something important?” Mikazuki’s words break Doutanuki out of his shock, and that’s when he realizes that he was in shock.

The helmet lies in pieces on the floor.

He gnashes his teeth.

“Let’s go on the sortie.”

“Eh?” Otegine blinks. “But the hel--”

“Let’s fucking go.”

---

Of course, the part where they actually fight is the easiest to do.

At one point, after picking off another Retrograding Army squad threatening to disrupt the peace of Edo-era Japan, Otegine sighs and leans against the wall. “This era was so peaceful.”

When the flames from the enemy die down and everything falls into placidity (placidity! Kasen can use that word, to finish his poem--), Doutanuki heaves a sigh. “You’re right, it was. I had a low value.”

The relief of cutting loose, of just proving himself as strong and tearing into the enemy formations, is a feeling of familiarity that he embraces with all his heart. Otegine peers through the street corners and out into the fields, to see if he can spot any more enemy squads nearby. Mikazuki and Mitsutada guard their back-- Mikazuki has performed exceedingly well, and perhaps Doutanuki himself might learn a thing or two if they spar.

In fact, they’re all not too bad at holding their own. (Yet, they’re loved, even when the era is peaceful. That’s almost unfair.)

“I didn’t get a turn,” Otegine says, and perhaps they aren’t from two different worlds after all. Doutanuki stretches his arm, cracking his back. He knows exactly what Otegine means, when he says he didn’t get a turn. He didn’t get grand stories woven into his name, or masters that would be remembered in history for the rest of time itself.

They still don’t spot any enemies. Kashuu and Kasen scout the narrower city spots, to see if they can find anything hidden. Doutanuki breathes. “Something like us getting a turn here is…”

“Ironic,” Otegine finishes for Doutanuki. Though, honestly, it’s more tragic than anything. That the world would plunge into war, into this, yet again.

Otegine continues. “Sorry about that helmet. I don’t like being the captain, but I should’ve made sure everyone else had their ducks in a row too, huh?”

“Whatever, don’t think about it,” Doutanuki says. “What’s done is done.”

“Haaah… if you don’t mind me asking, why were you carrying it around?”

Doutanuki shrugs. (Shrugs! Even though this is the only real achievement that the Emperor himself bore witness to!) “The Tameshigiri tournament. From way back, but not way back to this time. Everyone tried to cut into a helmet to prove their strength, but none of them could. Until I stepped up, and I burrowed right into it!”

And it’s also why it fell apart so easily. One last hurrah, to Doutanuki’s skill.

Otegine blinks. “...Hey, maybe I was at that tournament.”

Doutanuki turns to Otegine. “You were? Well, you bore witness to proof of my skill!”

“--Wait,” Otegine says. “That sword… the one who did it was Doutanuki Naritsugu, though. Not Doutanuki Masakuni.”

Doutanuki doesn’t flinch.

His face is calm, calmer than when Kasen tried his patience and Kashuu breached the hole. “That’s right. You see, I’m Doutanuki Masakuni, but I’m also Doutanuki Naritsugu. And every other sword in between, forged by the Doutanuki school.”

Otegine narrows his eyes. “Yeeeah, I don’t get it.”

“Swords like you-- one of the Three Great Spears of Japan, personal belongings to big heads in history, you’re all different from me,” he explains. “We weren’t made to be unique. Every sword was made to be practical, and practicality doesn’t change. The spirit of every single Doutanuki sword is also not unique.”

Silence, for a moment. It’s so peaceful.

“I’m the embodied spirit of the entire Doutanuki school.” It’s a grand declaration, but also one that makes some degree of sense, for a sword who was only made to fight. Not to be loved, not to be admired for individual handicraft, but only to kill.

Otegine shakes his head, almost sympathetically. “So, you carry the wishes and memories of hundreds of swords?”

“Swords don’t have wishes,” Doutanuki deadpans. (Even though they do.)

“And I thought only being able to stab things was bad enough,” Otegine hums.

Doutanuki doesn’t carry on with the topic, instead turning his head away. “--I smell something.”

“That’s the enemy,” Otegine says, and he picks up his yari. “Oi, Squad 2! Get in position!”

---

“Doutanuki?”

He’s back, he needs a shower, and he needs to sleep off some of the shit that happened. Instead of showering first, he opts for the latter, and wakes up blearily from his nap on the Citadel steps. “--Shut up. I’m trying to sleep.”

“It’s your helmet.”

Doutanuki recognizes that voice as Kashuu’s, and finally decides to crack an eye open. It’s his helmet, alright, which Kashuu is holding right on top on him-- in one piece. It’s too good to be true, and Doutanuki almost decides to just close his eyes and sleep away this dream, but he gets up too quickly instead, forehead knocking against the helmet.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry, sorry.” This time, it’s Mitsutada speaking, and Doutanuki finally wakes up enough to realize that Kashuu is holding his helmet in his hands. But the helmet is misshapen, almost clumsily put together, and he can see an obvious white line of super glue sticking the two sides together.

Kasen sighs. “We supposed that we ought to try fixing your helmet, even though breaking it was out of your own carelessness. I told them to do it with care and elegance, but it’s also too late for that now.”

“Haha, the glue dried a lot faster than we thought it would,” Mikazuki laughs. Doutanuki looks at his fingers, and realize three of them are stuck together. “Quite a difference from the days of drying clay, isn’t it?”

“Yo, Doutanuki,” Otegine says, bending his knees to look closer. “Sorry about the sortie today. Next one will be better. We all promise. Right?”

“Riiight,” Kashuu says. (He knows what shock looks like, and he saw the expression on Doutanuki’s face. It wasn’t his fault that it broke, not exactly. But something he said-- if he hadn’t done it-- well, Kashuu’s lost it all, once upon a time. It’s a given that he would empathize with anyone losing something important.) “Sorry about taking so long. And… sorry, that the helmet doesn’t look the same anymore.”

Doutanuki blinks.

And then he sighs, before taking the helmet with one hand-- and patting Kashuu on the head with the next. “It’s fine, kid. What’s done is done. Just don’t do it again.”

Even though Doutanuki’s hand is probably filthy, Kashuu doesn’t flinch. (It’s nice.)

Otegine stands up. “Well, we’ve got a while to dinner. Maybe we can spar so we don’t get any duller.”

“You’re on,” Doutanuki says, suddenly completely awake. “--Seriously, though. If you guys are late again, I’ll break down your door.”

Chapter Text

“Hah! Hah!”

In another life, in another time, maybe the sight of Izumi no Kami Kanesada pinning Mutsu no Kami Yoshiyuki to the ground would be something alarming. But it’s the dojo floor, and as far as Kanesada is concerned, he defeated Yoshiyuki with grace.

“I’m beat, I’m beat! I give up!” Yoshiyuki tries to toss Kanesada off, but the other has moved from pinning him with the elbows to sitting on his back. “Hey-- oi!”

Kanesada doesn’t give up on his new throne. Instead, he flicks his hair back (and makes it hit Yoshiyuki’s face), turning to look at the dojo entrance. “So? How was it?”

“--Ah, Kane-san, you knew I was watching?”

It’s easy to smell Horikawa coming before seeing him. Not in a terrible, gross way, no-- Horikawa visits the dojo all the time, and he smells of soap, freshly-cleaned mops and heated oil. He smells like he’s cooking something, all the time, and maybe Kanesada’s gotten too used to that.

Yoshiyuki finally kicks Kanesada off, and they both manage to get up without stumbling. An achievement, really.

Horikawa holds a baking tray in his hands, and Yoshiyuki sniffs the air almost exaggeratedly. (Is he seriously a dog?!) “What’s that you got?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Horikawa says. “Kane-san, you want me to tell you how it was, right?”

“That’s right,” Kanesada replies, still smirking. “You got the best angle for seeing how I disarmed him from behind!”

Horikawa still smiles, but this time, it’s a bit sheepish.

“...Actually, it wasn’t really that great.”

Kanesada’s face drops, before his eyes widen, mouth frozen in an Ehhh? Yoshiyuki laughs, and Horikawa gives him a moment to laugh it all out before continuing. This wakizashi, with a cute white apron and oversized mittens holding onto a baking tray, actually shakes his head almost sympathetically at Kanesada. “In a real battle, our enemy is always on fire. And sometimes, they even have electricity and lightning running through them. If you actually tried using such a full-contact technique while fighting the Retrograding Army, they’d probably disarm you instead.”

“You hear that, Kane-san?” Yoshiyuki picks up his training sword and jabs Kanesada’s foot. “This is a sword spar, not a wrestling match!”

“Shut up,” Kanesada spits. “It was still graceful, wasn’t it?”

Horikawa nods. “It was very graceful! It… just isn’t at all practical, Kane-san.”

“What are you here for, anyway?!” Kanesada almost seethes through his teeth, putting his hands to his side and trying not to raise his voice. “You don’t have duty here today.”

The shorter sword, or the crusher of Kanesada’s constantly-inflating ego, continues smiling when he holds out the tray. “I heard you complaining there wasn’t anything sweet or crispy to eat here. So, I made some cookies for you! It’s like a biscuit, but with a modern Western twist.”

That’s when Yoshiyuki seriously starts laughing.

As in, guffawing, punching the sides of the wall and trying to catch his breath. “Wow, Horikawa, even catering to his tiny complaints?! Are you going to handfeed him, next?”

Kanesada groans to himself, while Horikawa tilts his head. “Well, if his hands aren’t free--”

“Oh my god,” Kanesada breathes, and he cuts Horikawa off. “I’m leaving!”

“Huh? But, Kane-san--!”

He storms out of the dojo, head down and feet rushing but not quite running. Yoshiyuki takes a deep breath. “...Man, he really left? And after you made that for him, too.”

“You shouldn’t have laughed at him.” Horikawa looks like he’s pouting, but he sounds absolutely serious. “I’m just his assistant, that’s all. Whatever I can fix, I do.”

Yoshiyuki pulls the paper cover off the tray of cookies. “Oooh, and that don’t look half bad, either! Well, if Kanesada’s not having them--”

“Hands off, they’re for me!”

Kanesada shoves Yoshiyuki to the side, before grabbing the entire tray. He almost yanks it out from Horikawa’s hands, but stops and receives it gently instead, while Horikawa smiles.

Uuurgh.

“Dammit-- next time, Kunihiro, give me these things when I’m not with anyone else!” Or when he’s not trying to show off, at least. He takes one look at the cookies, though, and finally adds in-- “Thanks.” --before leaving for real.

Horikawa walks up to the dojo entrance. “Don’t forget not to leave crumbs over the floor, either!”

---

“I can’t believe this shit,” Kanesada growls, and his teeth are completely brown with what he’s chewing on. “Dammit, and they’re so good… I can’t even be angry…”

Chapter Text

“The lines won’t advance!”

Years ago, Kanesada would’ve cried with joy.

But there’s nothing to cheer about now, because that means the Retrograding Army made it to the other side, that they didn’t manage to kill them all off-- and he knows that, because he saw it go, saw that damn tantou scamper off and probably call in reinforcements.

He sees the battlefield and the modern-day watch Horikawa holds, showing the time. By now, it should be time to see the rifles in formation, the samurai charging in a desperate bid to retain whatever culture and right they still have, but nothing’s happening.

Nothing’s happening but the wrong thing, because something is holding the Imperial Forces back, and the battle of Hakodate cannot possibly be won by the wrong side (his master’s side), because if that happens--

“Kane-san! Our master is moving!”

Their previous master, Kanesada wants to correct, but he can only yell out another order of his own-- send Nikkari to scout the Imperial camp, send Heshikiri to check on the French troops, send someone, anyone to fix this. But only one force charges, a person far too familiar leading them, even though the Imperial troops should already be moving to claim the defensive positions, have the steam ships landed yet, don’t let the fucking enemy sink the ships that were supposed to live--

They don’t have time. Kanesada tears away his jacket and wears the clothes of the Imperial army, the clothes that belonged to his enemy of four hundred years ago, and Horikawa follows suit.

Hijikata Toshizō is ten seconds away from shooting distance of the Imperial army troops, but they are not ready with their modern-looking guns, the rounds drop with the sound of messy metal, he should be dead in ten seconds, the moral of the vanguard will drop and the Republic of Ezo will live out the short life it was never supposed to live, and--

Kanesada has no idea how to work this fucking gun, where is Yoshiyuki when you actually need him, he still can’t believe he’s doing this, the gattling gun is jammed, there’s--

One second since Hijikata Toshizō should have been dead.

Horikawa leaves his side, and he almost doesn’t notice.

Two seconds since Hijikata Toshizō should have been dead.

Horikawa wrenches a rifle from a corpse, and just briefly, he makes eye contact, and Hijikata almost stops short at the familiar pattern on the handle of Horikawa’s sword. He calls for a halt, pulls the reins of his horse-- and he’s about to say something else, like he knows-- he knows they’re not supposed to be here--

Horikawa does not want to waste a second, don’t even think about three.

Bang.

It’s a good thing that their human bodies are not their real ones, and the forces following Hijikata do not think of shooting at Horikawa’s sword. Kanesada drags him out, blood flowing out between his (both of their) teeth and a neck that is not supposed to bend that way, but he can still cry.

They both can still cry.

Kanesada remembered that it was a horrid, explosive sound that claimed their master, like the overheated gattling gun. But he supposes that when you see someone die next to you and think is this really how it happens, everything sounds horrid.

Nikkari and Heshikiri manage to clear out the Retrograding army. Everything is as should be. They return to the Citadel and Kanesada plucks the bullets out of Horikawa’s skin, and they all leave holes that he knows will heal, except for the one that pierces his heart and leaves the wakizashi with tears will streaming down his face, almost enough to drip the blood off his chin and into his lap.

In between hiccups that make him spit up blood-- “A good assistant wouldn’t leave you to do something like that.”

“It should’ve been me,” Kanesada says anyway.

Their master says history has already changed too much in that split second, and asks for their opinion-- if they spot Retrograding forces there again, should they risk trying to set history back to how it was before, or accept this timeline, which did not change anything significant?

Every time they step into Hakodate now, Horikawa finds the very same rifle, and counts the seconds one two three like water dripping from his face.

It should’ve been me, Kanesada repeats, and he regrets every single time he’s voiced his distaste for firearms, because this is never a burden he wants to leave on anyone, assistant or otherwise--

Hijikata Toshizō dies with a gunshot that shatters his lower back. The person who shot him is not recorded in history, as though they disappeared into the depths of time.

Chapter Text

No matter how advanced you are in time, no matter what you invent, humanity can’t-- or perhaps, doesn’t actually want to-- stop the natural cessation of each season, and the beginning of the next. And that’s why it’s snowing, on the campus. The school believes that the students should be exposed to Mother Earth now and then, instead of being stuck in buildings that simulate spring, summer or autumn at any time of the year.

Kashuu has to cross the field, covered in snow, to his next class.

“This is a ter-ri-ble idea,” Kashuu complains. “Don’t they have technology to, like, melt away the snow? This is waaay too cold. And the snow will get all over me--”

Yasusada elbows him. “You have to brave the elements sometimes. Here, the school issued us earmuffs.”

“I’m not wearing those,” Kashuu hisses, when he sees the grey earmuffs in Yasusada’s hands. Not only are they ratty and unfashionable, they’ve probably touched a few dozen other ears, graced the faces of unwashed masses.

Kanesada grabs his arm. “Come on, let’s go! Nagasone’s waiting for us already.”

“No,” Kashuu repeats, standing firm. “What if I have, like, an allergic reaction to the cold? Or some sort of hidden genetic condition to snow? There’s so many, so there’s bound to be--”

“But Kashuu,” Horikawa interrupts. “You’re part of the Okita family, right? When you were adopted, they should’ve implanted the MediNanobots into you. They’re rich enough to afford it, so all allergies and conditions should be elimi--”

Finally, he stomps his heels on the floor to make a sound, before wrenching the school door open. “Okay, okay, fine, let’s go! --It’s freezing, freezing--”

“Wait! But you can still get ill,” Horikawa reminds, while everyone puts on school-issued jackets except for Kashuu. “You should wear something thicker.”

“I’m not wearing anything standard-issued.”

Yasusada sighs, when they begin to step into the snow. “In the natural world, winter lasts for around three months, you know. You’ll be crossing a field like this for three whole months.”

“Shut up.”

Kanesada kicks the snow onto Kashuu’s leg, and Kashuu makes some sort of undignified yelping sound. “Jeez, would it seriously kill you to be more grateful?”

Maybe it’d kill him if he keeps being ungrateful, instead. Horikawa thinks that, almost a bit worryingly, as Kashuu begins to argue with Kanesada on the way across the field.

---

As the assistant to the student council president, it’s no wonder that Horikawa knows almost everything about everyone.

(“I’m not the student council president,” Kanesada says.

Horikawa gives him a look, before passing his phone to Kanesada. “The system believe that you have a 67% chance to become student council president when you run for it! The second highest person only has a 30% chance. The rest are in single digits. It’s basically carved in stone, Kane-san.”

“What the hell, Horikawa-- stop letting robots decide the future for you. And why do you say when I run for it? I mean, I will, but--”

“That’s exactly the point,” Horikawa huffs. “Kane-san, you should know that the system accurately predicts our paths in the near future to a near 93% accuracy! As for long-time predictions, like marriage or career, it’s got a 81% accuracy!”

“Maybe that’s just because people obey the robots without a second thought,” Kanesada argues. “--Seriously, are you going to let a fucking machine that’s younger than you are decide who you’re going to marry? It was only invented in 2200--”

Horikawa takes his phone back, before projecting a screen from it onto the table. “But it was the turn of the 23rd century. ...And I wouldn’t really complain, I guess. I mean, the system doesn’t have enough information to pinpoint an exact person yet, even though I gave it permission to observe me all day-- it’s not that bad, Kane-san, it’s not spying when it’s a robot, don’t look at me that way-- it can only give me a few descriptors.”

“Oh, really?” Kanesada looks at the projection on the table. “It says… ‘Someone brash at times, with a demure side. May seem incompetent and rely on you, but highly independent and reliable if the situation calls for it.’ What a bunch of shit.”

Horikawa sighs. “Well, are you going to prove it wrong, Kane-san?”

Pause.

“...Wait,” Kanesada chokes, squinting at Horikawa-- “Is that an invitation for me to date you?”

“Eh?! No, no! And besides, you do kind of fit the description…”

“Excuse me?!”)

“Kakakaka! How’s work?” Yamabushi is a ruckus, that breaks into Horikawa’s life now and then, but he’s never bad new. “I brought lunch! For you and Yamanbagiri.”

Horikawa turns around on his rolling chair, computer screens around him shutting off as he turns to greet his brother instead of staring at them. “Really? You’re too kind, brother.”

“Ever since Kanesada’s been elected, you’ve been too busy to buy food. That isn’t healthy! The worst diet, is no diet!” Yamabushi places the lunch box in front of Horikawa-- no matter how much time passes, the bento box is practically eternal. “There’s no way you can keep up and train your mind without enough food!”

“Right, right,” Horikawa acknowledges, suddenly distracted by the smell. “Still, you’re really kind to your younger brothers.”

Yamabushi smile stretches further. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

(Because the first child isn’t always kind to those who come after them. Especially since, in 2205, with the world population finally growing perhaps too large for the planet to sustain, every couple has only have one biological child-- the rest must be adopted. Yasusada is the child of the Okita family, but Kashuu is adopted, from a place he does not talk about. Kanesada is the first child himself. Yamabushi is the eldest son, while Yamanbagiri and Horikawa were both adopted-- at a relatively young age, and Horikawa can’t remember anything from beforehand.

Yamanbagiri laments it, though. “As if I’m the facsimile to a real son,” he says, and perhaps Horikawa cannot blame him, because of the stigma that surrounds this law.)

“Well,” Horikawa begins-- but he doesn’t finish it. “Nevermind. Thank you! I’m just getting really busy nowadays. We’re trying to analyze why there’s been some falling grades in our class.”

Yamabushi nods thoughtfully, and even though he’s a hulking wall of a man, there is absolutely nothing Horikawa can fear about him. He’s already graduated long before, but still works and stay around his brothers, acting as their protector-- how can anyone fear someone like that? “Good luck! If you need anything, your brothers are just a phone call away.”

Horikawa nods, before saying-- “Actually, maybe I do need something.”

“Kakaka! Just say the word!”

“I need bright red and soft wool,” Horikawa says. “And-- maybe a few small steel wires.”

(On the screen that Horikawa shut off is the case of one such student with falling grades, a certain Kashuu Kiyomitsu who acts like everything is alright.)

---

They all met on the first year of college. It was kind of a mess.

Horikawa already knew Kanesada, since they were childhood friends-- parents who knew each other, put them in the same schools, and somehow, somewhere down the road, Horikawa became Kanesada’s self-proclaimed assistant. Kashuu and Yasusada knew each other, of course, as brothers in their family-- though, perhaps Kashuu remembers a life from before being adopted, because he was taken in at an older age--

And these two worldviews, one from the eldest son who has been doted on all his life to the child which once had no one else to turn to for reasons he doesn’t dare specify, means that perhaps these two brothers don’t get along all the time.

It was in a lab session. Horikawa looked up, saw Kashuu, and shot him an amicable Hi! We haven’t spoken before, right? Nice to meet you! Kashuu, perhaps surprised by this friendliness that has perhaps become rare in the 23rd century, blinked for a moment before saying Oh, we haven’t? My name is Kashuu Kiyomitsu.

Horikawa then made the mistake of going I’m Horikawa Kunihiro. Wow, your makeup is really nice today! Do you like-- eh?

Upon hearing the sudden compliment, Kashuu’s smile widened exponentially, but so did the strength he applied on the test tube he was holding in his hands. It literally shattered in two, right in front of them all, and the distraction Horikawa provided made chemicals spill over all over Kashuu’s hand, as well as pieces of glass. That smile turns into something of a face from a horror movie, and he shrieks as the glass cuts his palms. The professor, Mr Kuninaga, come over and goes What the hell are you doing-- are you serious? You know, I’m not even surprised. Someone go call the class rep.

It was then that they met the class rep, Nagasone Kotetsu, and there were various things to marvel about him. Horikawa, unfortunately, paid attention to his name first, and noticed he was from the prestigious Kotetsu family. It’s a good thing he doesn’t voice that little note, because Kashuu looked at Nagasone, hand still bleeding, and asked-- Why do you look so old?

For a moment, Horikawa almost stopped apologizing to Kashuu for distracting him (even though it wasn’t his fault) to chastise him for that kind of question. But Nagasone only laughed, taking the bandage and checking to make sure there was no glass left on Kashuu’s hand-- That’s because I am.

He is yet another person who doesn’t at all specify where he comes from. And yet, Horikawa can see how kind he is, because kindness is a thing that is obvious when you have it-- even if you try to hide it. He’s gentle when he bandaged Kashuu’s hand, asking him Does it hurt? Are you alright? and Kashuu numbly nodded the whole time. The MediNanobots in their bloodstream would clot up wounds and heal skin very quickly, but he still treats Kashuu’s hand like it’s a treasure made of glass.

And Horikawa does too, when they walk out of class together-- “Still, sorry about that. What’s your next class?”

“Timeline programming,” Kashuu said. It’s a term that doesn’t exist in the 21st century, and a term that didn’t even exist until recently, but Kashuu says it anyway, and Horikawa understands it. It’s 2205, but instantaneous healing isn’t exactly invented yet, and the MediNanobots can’t work that quickly.

“Oh, but you’ll have to type to take down notes, right? Don’t type while your hand is like that,” Horikawa suggested. “I have a free block now. So I’ll help take notes for you instead!”

And Kashuu, the person who always whines to have his way and dollies up so people would assume he was the first child, and not the adopted one-- he assumed, at first, that maybe Horikawa would look down on him the moment the truth was out. But when he introduced Horikawa to Yamato no Kami Yasusada, whose first name had such a title of prestige in itself (Yamato no Kami!)-- Horikawa simply said, “So you’re Kashuu’s older brother? Nice to meet you! Do you know Izumi no Kami Kanesada? He has a title like that, too.” He then went down to transcribing the lesson, the entire lecture, and Kashuu couldn’t even will himself to pay attention because he was staring at how quickly Horikawa’s fingers flew.

“I’ll send the file over, now!”

“Horikawa,” Kashuu said, almost tentatively. “I-- thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” he replied. “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

And so came the terms, and then the semesters, of them walking side by side to class. Kashuu met Kanesada, and they hit it off right away (by that, Kanesada went Why were you overworking Horikawa and Kashuu went Hey, he chose to do it and they begin to argue almost immediately while Yasusada and Horikawa watched sheepishly). Nagasone joins their circle at some points, with his similar timetable and the memory of how he treated Kashuu’s hands like glass.

Seasons don’t mean anything, to people living in 2205, where lives go so fast and industrialization is everywhere and now, even now, if they misstep they’ll be left behind. They’ll be washed away, by the sweeping times, because the world has no place for those trapped in the past. And even then, it probably doesn’t have enough places for everyone who tries their best.

For now, though, as the system observes them and their progress-- Horikawa can forget about that, for a while. The nagging fear that he’ll be left behind.

(He cannot dismiss the fear about his friends being left behind.)

---

“Why can’t you wear this?”

“It’s wool.” Kashuu says that to Horikawa as if it explains everything. The sweater in Horikawa’s hands gets tossed onto Kashuu’s llap. Its sleeves dangle towards the floor, almost looking dejected, and it should be-- since Kashuu just rejected it.

Horikawa pouts. “I made it myself, you know. By hand.”

“--By hand?” Kashuu sounds increasingly incredulous. “Don’t they have, like, machines for that?”

“Machines might contaminate or pull the wool too tightly,” Horikawa reasons, even though machines been improved to the point where the difference is nearly nonexistent. “Well, I didn’t just call you here to give you this. Though, it would be nice if you wore something more in this weather.”

“It would be nice if they just got rid of this weather,” Kashuu mutters. “So, what is it?”

Horikawa pulls out his phone, and points out the numbers that begin to project onto the table in front of them. He pulls away the applications about digital textbooks and enrichment classes, instead focusing on data about Kashuu, recorded by the system.

The system, lowercase, though it should really be uppercase, with how it tracks them like a worried mother-- or a dictator, if you look at it from another way. Kashuu widens his eyes. “I’ve already looked at my own status reports, I’m--”

“I just wanted to ask if there’s anything wrong, Kashuu,” Horikawa says. “It says here that you’re supposed to be improving, but for some reason that wasn’t observed by the system, your grades are dropping instead. And they’re dropping a lot, Kashuu. If you don’t know the reason either, you can volunteer to be tracked full-time, and--”

“No, no way,” Kashuu immediately interrupts. (It’s stressing already to think about how many people have to see him every day, and how many times he might show real weakness, or cracks in his perfect smile-- Kashuu isn’t a professional actor, and even then, actors can’t keep up their facades forever. A robot? Observing him? All the time? No, that’s--)

Horikawa clears his throat. “In that case, you need to tell us what’s going on. It’ll be kept confidential, don’t worry. If you might even have a vague idea of what it is, we need to know.”

“Because you’re the welfare head, riiight?” Kashuu slurs his words a little, pretending to be relaxed as he twirls his hair. (Even though he’s clearly not, because he’s yanking at that strand of hair, almost forcing it out of his head.) “You can just tell Kanesada that I need a bit more help studying, after all.”

The way he phrases it makes it known that his words are a lie. Still, Horikawa swallows down his thoughts, because his job is to be someone who helps-- not someone who intrudes. And so, he says, “If you need help, you can join a study group! I know Nagasone’s in one.”

“...Well…”

Horikawa smiles from ear to ear, before getting up and taking something out from his bag. “Here-- I made earmuffs for you, too. I pulled the wires together and wove wool around it, so I hope it looks fashionable enough.”

But it’s wool, Kashuu wants to argue. Still, the earmuffs fall into his hand, and he blinks for a moment. “I gueeeess it wouldn’t hurt to give study groups a try,” he finally says, perhaps bribed by Horikawa’s present.

“Alright! I’ll follow you,” Horikawa says.

Kashuu blinks. “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, by Kanesada’s side twenty-four seven?”

“Hey, not all the time!”

---

Nagasone’s study group is perhaps more of a stand-up comedy.

Well, no, that would be a really cruel way of saying it. Horikawa studies better alone, but he supposes that he can see the merit in studying in a group. Even if Yoshiyuki laughs a bit too loudly and, in contrast, Nakigitsune doesn’t say anything, it does get easier to ask for help when there’s help right around you. Computers can’t answer everything (especially when the power trips). Sure, it’s a bit weird to have Nakigitsune get an AI to speak for him sometimes, but. It works.

“Ohoooh, Kashuu Kiyomitsu and Horikawa Kunihiro, is it?” The collar around Nakigitsune’s neck speaks for him. Whether he commands it to or it’s actually sentient is something none of them will ever figure out. “Welcome, welcome!”

“Hello, Nakigitsune,” Horikawa greets anyway. Kashuu blinks before following suit. “I heard all your grades really improved when you joined this study group.”

“Well, I showed him the correct subject to study, for one,” Nagasone notes. There’s laughter again from Yoshiyuki, and Nakigitsune looks away almost sheepishly.

His collar rattles, as if with annoyance. “Now, now! Nakigitsune can’t help being lost. We’re all here to help each other!”

“Mhm, that’s right,” Yoshiyuki says, suddenly slinging an arm around the both of them. “I may have fought against Kanesada to be student council president, but no hard feelings, alright?”

Maybe there would be hard feelings, if student council president wasn’t just a small title in the grand scheme of things. Kashuu shakes his hands. “I probably have more hard feelings against Kanesada. Do you know how much he drove his campaign team? He’s a slavedriver! I was tired for the entiiire campaigning period…”

Nagasone, as another member of Kanesada’s supposedly slave-driven campaign team, looks like he wants to say something. However, he’s distracted by someone else.

“Nagasoneee!” Urashima’s greeting comes in the form of running, almost hitting the table, and dodging just in time, only to slam right into his brother. “Oofph-- sorry! I’m here!”

“Oh, you’re studying with us today, little brother?” Urashima nods. “Well, meet Horikawa and Kashuu. They’re friends of mine.”

“Hello, Horikawa! Hello, Kashuu!” It doesn’t take much thinking to realize that Urashima probably doesn’t go to their school. He’s too young for that. So, is Nagasone tutoring him? Urashima definitely can’t study the same things they do.

But Horikawa doesn’t dwell on it for too long, and waves along with Kashuu. “Nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

“Urashima Kotetsu!”

---

“That wasn’t so bad.”

“Yeah, I guess not,” Kashuu replies, while Horikawa packs his bags. “Want to walk home with me?”

“Sure,” Horikawa says. It’s then that Urashima tugs on Horikawa’s shirt. “--Hm? Yes, Urashima?”

“Can I walk home with you two? I live with Nagasone! So my house is on the way, too! But Nagasone has to stay back for a project… I don’t want to walk home alone.”

Kashuu looks at Urashima, before shrugging. “Sure. I’m pretty sure it’s dangerous for you to walk the extra distance alone, too. We’ll stick with you until we reach your house, alright?” --And the good thing about Kashuu is, despite all his habits and whining, he’s a practical person. He’s one of the saner students here (eccentricity is endearing, yes, but it gives Horikawa a lot more work to do to clean up after said eccentricity).

“Really? Eheheh, thanks a lot!”

Horikawa nods along, not at all objecting to walk a bit farther so Urashima makes it safely back home. He’s never seen Nagasone’s house himself, so perhaps it would be nice to take a look as well-- the Kotetsu family is famous, after all. Famously rich, and they live right next to this prestigious school, while Horikawa and Kashuu live at the dorms nearby.

In fact, Horikawa’s almost jealous, that Urashima and Nagasone get to return to their families every day. After all, who wouldn’t want to return to--

“Hachisuka! Brotheeer, I’m home!”

Their house is as huge as Horikawa would expect it to be. The Kotetsu family is not only expansive, they’ve adopted many children, to the point where it’s hard to differentiate who were actually related by blood. But the name, ‘Hachisuka Kotetsu’, brings to mind a rather famous scholar that graduated some time back-- the first son of the main family.

He looks pleasant enough, and Horikawa waves at him from beyond the huge gates. Kashuu gets the cue and waves at him as well.

“Welcome back, Urashima,” Hachisuka says. “Did these two walk home with you?”

“Yes! They’re Horikawa and Kashuu.”

Yes, Hachisuka certainly carries the regality of a prince, almost. Horikawa almost feels like bowing-- in fact, Kashuu looks even more lost, right now. “It’s nice to meet you, Hachisuka,” Horikawa says in the end.

“Thank you for sending my brother back home,” Hachisuka hums.

“It’s no problem,” Kashuu replies. “This is the place Nagasone lives, yeah? Man… I wish I lived here.”

And then Hachisuka does something Horikawa doesn’t expect.

It’s a small action, nothing too pronounced, but Horikawa sees exactly how Hachisuka’s face falls. He sees his smile slip, his eyes widen, and Horikawa is sure that Kashuu sees it too.

“...Nagasone?” Hachisuka narrows his eyes. “Right. Are you friends with Nagasone?”

“We are,” Horikawa says without missing a beat. Strange and worrying reaction or not, Horikawa tells the truth. “Did you two have a fight?”

Hachisuka shakes his head, while Urashima himself suddenly crosses his arms. “Hachisuka, they’re not bad people! And I like having a lot of brothers, even though we aren’t related by blood to all of them.”

Kashuu freezes up, as if this conversation is going in a direction he doesn’t like at all. “Wait,” Kashuu says, “So you two are actually related by blood?”

“We’re actually cousins,” Hachisuka says, and his regality is almost completely gone. His voice is snappier, his movements quicker, as if they’ve overstepped their boundaries. “No one in this generation can be real siblings. But, we’re still more related than--”

“They’re our real siblings,” Urashima argues back. Horikawa steps away, grabbing Kashuu’s sleeve, as if trying to signal that they should probably go.

Hachisuka Kotetsu smiles at Urashima, but his smile isn’t worth anything. “Yes, I suppose our family is full of philanthropists. No one chooses to be thrown away.”

And it’s Hachisuka’s phrasing, full of venom barely concealed on the surface, is what makes Kashuu choke.

(It also makes Horikawa inconceivably angry, so perhaps it’s a good thing that Kashuu is enough to distract Horikawa from that anger. Good for Hachisuka, at least.)

He literally chokes, and Horikawa finds himself hauling Kashuu up instead of tugging at him, because his knees go weak immediately. Hachisuka says something, like Is your friend alright?, but like his smile, his concern isn’t worth anything.

“Kashuu?! Kashuu, what’s-- hey, come back!” In mere seconds, he goes from choking to suddenly forcing himself up and bolting away. Not towards the direction of their dorms, either. “Come back!”

Horikawa doesn’t stick around to hear what else the Kotetsu have to say.

(The system says that, if Kashuu continues on this obvious downwards trend, there will be no place for him in this world. Horikawa looks at the numbers, and tries everything to defy the path laid out for Kashuu by a robot.

“Kane-san, you should know that the system accurately predicts our paths in the near future to a near 93% accuracy!”

It doesn’t say, word for word, that Kashuu Kiyomitsu will be a failure. Of course not. But they are both educated enough to read the numbers and understand that the digits mean certain death, in some ways.

”As for long-time predictions, like marriage or career, it’s got a 81% accuracy!”

But the system can’t observe everything, unless the user gives it permission to. It can’t find the difference between that 81% and the 19%.

That’s what Horikawa has to find.

And that’s what Kashuu, fear enveloping him completely, is running away from.)

---

“Kashuu! Kashuu, where are you?!”

The city is alive at all hours, but Kashuu isn’t picking up his phone.

Since there’s no one around to listen to him (except the system), he allows himself to curse under his breath before continuing on his search. In the big city, away from the school, the snow falls but never touches the ground, almost acting like decorations to the sky. The streets are clear, except for the people, and it’s a small mercy and there is technology to stop intrusive snowfall in the crowded districts.

But it’s not enough, and the streets are too crowded. Even if Horikawa refers to the system to try tracking Kashuu down, it can only note where he was ten minutes ago-- privacy concerns, or something, even though ten minutes is barely enough time for anyone to cover their tracks. It’s definitely a goddamn hassle when you’re chasing someone through high-rise buildings, though.

He chases a silhouette of Kashuu’s journey, trying to guess, which turn he took in that street-- only to be proven wrong, half of the time, and losing more precious moments.

By the time Horikawa begins to catch up, he’s reached the sectors where snow can touch the ground.

It’s colder here-- not just because there’s less people. The snow is allowed to live out its natural course, fall and melt as it should. The narrower the streets become, the more abandoned they are, and it’s only when Kashuu’s location sticks to one place that Horikawa realizes how much he’s been running.

He doesn’t stop, though. He can’t.

His feet keep moving, thudding against the road, because even if he lived in 1869 or 2205, time itself cannot remove the feeling that causes him to move his feet. Kashuu’s run off, somewhere, obviously while still emotional and Horikawa can’t risk anything happening, to the people close to him, who walks to the right of him when he rushes back from class and complains of the cold, even though he’s just ran into a sector that is colder than--

Horikawa slams open the door to an abandoned warehouse.

He spots Kashuu quickly, because of the bright red color of his earmuffs.

There is a lot that Horikawa can say right now. He can say Why the hell did you run or Oh my god I was so worried, but instead, when Kashuu turns around and Horikawa can see he’s been crying, he says--

“Are you alright?” And-- “Oh, you’re wearing it.”

“It was cold here,” Kashuu replies simply.

Horikawa suddenly wishes he paid more attention to building up his physical stamina when he smiles, and the strain of smiling is already enough to make him light-headed.

He’s still barely conscious enough to hear Kashuu running towards him when he loses balance and blacks out against the floor.

---

When Horikawa wakes up, Kashuu has flowers.

That’s the first thing he registers. Kashuu has a whole goddamn bouquet, and he puts it in the vase right next to Horikawa. That’s when he registers the other important details, like the fact that he’s in a hospital, and the fact that he’s probably been out for a while.

He tries to say something, but he moves his hand first, and Kashuu is suddenly onto him like lightning.

“You idiot, why did you run all the way after me?!” Horikawa blinks, because Kashuu’s voice is a bit too loud and his face is a bit too close. “Do you know how worried we all were?! I had to force them out of the room so they’d go to school. Manually force them!”

Do you know how worried I was are a few words that Horikawa doesn’t even consider saying. Instead, he forces a smile again, though it’s less strained and more sheepish. “Sorry… I misread my own strength.”

“Well, yeah, duh.” Kashuu stuffs the remaining flowers in the vase, before dragging the chair next to Horikawa’s bed closer. He sits on it, but leans forward to keep a close look on Horikawa anyway. “Anyway, you’ll be okay. You just blacked out from exhaustion. Have you been forgetting to eat?”

Horikawa’s smile becomes even more sheepish. Kashuu narrows his eyes. “Right, I’m going to come to your house and force-feed to you every day.”

“...Kashuu.”

“Honestly, aren’t you supposed to be Kanesada’s assistant? Ho-nest-ly. You’re hopeless. What’s your favorite food? You like those takuwan fries, right?”

“Kashuu.”

Kashuu finally stops speaking for a moment. “What?”

“Why did you run?”

Silence.

Horikawa blacking out actually helped Kashuu, in a way. It gave him a few hours to think over what’s happened, and pull his thoughts into sentences. Especially since he’s pulled an all-nighter (does anyone seriously expect him to sleep after all that?). So, it only takes a few seconds for Kashuu to take a deep breath and talk.

“I was scared,” Kashuu says. “I mean… of what Hachisuka said.”

That vile anger Horikawa felt a few hours ago begins to return, but Kashuu continues on. “I remember what it was like before all this, you know? Maybe you don’t, but I remember what it’s like.”

To be poor. (To not have anyone to turn to.)

Horikawa can guess. In fact, he’s known Kashuu for long enough to guess that perhaps this was one of the reasons why his grades were slipping. The same reason he refuses to wear thicker clothes, even though it’s freezing. The same reason why he buys the most high-end makeup and sometimes has to beg Yasusada for his allowance too.

The same reason why he has to look beautiful.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” Kashuu finally admits. “I mean, Nagasone-- it’s not Nagasone’s fault, but once he told me I was smart and I said ‘of course, who would love a child who wasn’t?’ And after I said that, I worried about what would happen if I wasn’t all that smart.”

If his grades weren’t good enough. If he wasn’t good enough, for the world of 2205.

“It’s weird, I know, because it’s not like my family will--” --throw him away-- “--but they can’t be there forever. Yasusada won’t be here forever. Hey, like, no one will be here forever. So I wanted to try finding something else, to fall back on. If I can’t fall back on my family.”

Kashuu turns to look at Horikawa. Completely, now. “But I got too worried over it, my grades fell, the system told me I wasn’t doing well at all, and I--”

“Kashuu,” Horikawa interrupts. “If you ever need to fall back on someone, I’m here.” He can't say, what it's like to be alone-- his brothers were always there from him, and there are not brothers like Hachisuka is. Still, even if he doesn't know how it feels like, he doesn't want Kashuu to keep thinking that without his family, he'd be all alone again.

Kashuu breathes. “I know,” he says. “Sorry. I mean-- I only really knew when I realized you ran after me.”

Horikawa simply smiles back in response, before pressing onto the mattress to sit up. “It’s alright. I might not be much, but I’ll make sure you get back on track. You can count on me!”

Kashuu might be smiling, but Horikawa can’t tell, because he suddenly covers his mouth with his hand.

“Hm? Kashuu?”

“Nothing, I… just don’t have anything to give back to you. I mean, I only have one thing to give.”

“You don’t have to give me anything if you don’t want to, Kashuu,” Horikawa reassures.

“...Heh. I do, though.”

That’s when Kashuu’s hand slides off his face and Horikawa realizes that he is, indeed, smiling from ear to ear.

And then Kashuu kisses him, against the white bedrest.

Horikawa can barely comprehend the situation, much less kiss back, but he somehow manages to anyway.

---

The grades of everyone in the study group improve dramatically with the addition of one very dedicated tutor. It also helps that Kashuu finally isn’t scared to wear clothes which aren’t so fashionable, even a sweater made completely out of bright red wool, so he doesn’t fall sick. Their grades aren’t good enough to show up that one person Horikawa is dedicated to beat, even though he graduated ages ago, but they’ll get there. He’s sure they will.

The system doesn’t seem to think so, but fuck the system.

Horikawa still allows the system to track him completely (much to Kashuu’s annoyance, sooo do you mean that whenever I’m with you it’ll be watching me too?), but he doesn’t listen to it as much as before. Not since he lowered that ‘93%’ to a ‘92.5%’ and that ‘81%’ into a ‘80.2%’, as he keeps making Kashuu defy the low expectations it gave him.

There is one thing the system agrees on, though. Where there was once a descriptor of ‘Someone brash at times, with a demure side...’, there is now only one single name, Kashuu Kiyomitsu.

“Please don’t, like, ask the robot where to take me on a date,” Kashuu deadpans.

Horikawa grins in amusement. “Come on, I know you better than the robot does.”

Chapter Text

He only hears about Hakodate a decade after it happened.

Yasusada doesn’t seek out the details, but they come to him. Re-enacted by people he can’t recognize, to people who he cannot truly call his masters. His owners, maybe. They are remnants of Souji Okita’s family, holding onto his belongings because no one wants to buy a sword when Japan is moving towards steam-powered warships and guns that do not choke the air with gunpowder (not immediately, anyway). He hears everything, second-hand or third-hand or hundredth-hand, recountings of a battle led more by the new age than the things samurai were known for.

They say that Hijikata Toshizou charged without fear. They say he already knew what was going to happen, but he charged anyway, belongings sent back along with his page to his family back home. They say that the page who served him is gone now, gone in the Southwestern War, because it seems like there were simply not enough futile wars waged yet, or rather there are still too many people who hear the stories of old, about samurai valor and battle. They hear those stories and decide that they, too, deserve to make their own.

But Yasusada doesn’t have his own.

There is no honor in a death outside the field of battle, rotting away in a bedsheet. Sometimes, Yasusada wishes-- just fleetingly-- that his master died at the first battle of the Boshin War instead, so he would have a story of valor to tell. Sometimes he thinks that Kashuu is the lucky one, the one who didn’t have to carry the burden of immortality, of dying so slowly that you can barely feel yourself dying, fading away from the lack of a master, from the lack of a purpose, from the lack of a spirit--

He still won’t die. Yasusada still won’t die, for centuries more, even though no one wields him, because he clings onto memories long gone more than anyone else. He can still remember everyone’s face, and that only prolongs his life, this torturous wait, and it’s alright, swords are made to wait, but when he begins to see children dress up and re-enact the bloody wars they bore no witness to he realizes that perhaps he’s lived for a bit too long.

The cold wind blows over Souji Okita’s grave.

Another kind of cold wind blows over Yasusada as he’s suddenly picked up for the first time in a century. Perhaps he would’ve been taken away, spoils of a war he didn’t bear witness to (but the children did), but they choose the merciful option, though it will be a long wait, at the bottom of the seafloor until he rots away and cracks--

It’s okay, though.

Yasusada is used to waiting.

---

“As a reward for all your fighting, I will grant you a gift beyond measure. This is a second chance,” Konnosuke says. “But if you are not careful, fate will repeat.”

Yasusada blinks.

---

The way Kashuu Kiyomitsu meets Yamato no Kami Yasusada is a series of unfortunate events, with their meeting being the most unfortunate of all.

Firstly, Kashuu drops his makeup in the morning, and suddenly he has no more liquid eyeliner. Secondly, in a fit of less than superb judgment, he decides to see if he can borrow his roommate’s eyeliner without waking him up. Thirdly, not only does he utterly fail in that, Midare Toushirou catches him when he’s about to go through the drawer where his undergarments are, and that means he’s unceremoniously tossed out without a second word.

As in, out of the house.

Fourthly, he didn’t have the foresight to grab his wallet in advance, so he stands outside, looking deceivingly impeccable except one eye has eyeliner done and the other hasn’t. He can’t flag down a cab or even beg for money, because he looks too good for that (and oh god, he’s rather just rot to death than beg for money, thanks). Fifthly, this day of all days is the day where Midare decides that going to school is going to take too much effort (perhaps because Kashuu woke him up too early), and calls Yagen to forge a doctor’s letter for him. The sixth unfortunate event that Kashuu bears no witness to is the fact that Yagen actually goes and does it, so Midare goes back to sleep, effectively smashing the chances of Midare forgiving Kashuu and throwing him the keys to Ichigo’s car so he can drive himself to school.

--Oh, yes. In retrospect, the seventh unfortunate condition is how Ichigo is out of the house today. Volunteering at a kindergarten or something to that effect. Which is a miracle, seeing that his guy already has more than half a dozen younger brothers that all live in the same apartment block as him, how can he live with it-- the only brothers that are around Kashuu’s age are Namazuo and Honebami, but he hasn’t ever met them. They have a condition, or something, and don’t really come out much-- Kashuu doesn’t pry.

And so, Kashuu sighs, grabs his bag, and begins walking to school.

He is approximately two steps into his journey when a car drives right next to him and splashes him with water that he didn’t even notice was there.

They didn’t notice it was there, either, with how they actually stop their car as Kashuu almost loses it, right then and there. The driver steps out and notes Kashuu’s school badge, asking whether they’d like a ride there out of apology, since they’re sending their son over anyway-- and Kashuu’s too distraught to have any real sense of stranger danger, so he agrees immediately.

And so, the ninth unfortunate event is when Yasusada greets him with a warm smile despite the fact that he’s soaking wet and looking absolutely ridiculous. However, it’ll only be unfortunate in hindsight.

---

“Are you never going to take off that scarf?”

Kashuu blinks at Yasusada’s question, before tugging at the red scarf he’s referring to. “Why would I?”

“It’s in the middle of summer,” Yasusada deadpans.

He only sticks his tongue out in response. “So what? If it gets too hot, I’ll just stick to air-conditioned rooms. I don’t want to start sweating in the sun anyway.” Unlike Yasusada, who knows perhaps more than three different kinds of martial arts and could probably break Kashuu in half if he wanted to, he isn’t planning on engaging in any sort of strenuous physical activity that might risk him a sunburn in his life. Which is probably why he can eat a lot less, compared to Yasusada, and that somewhat helps to hide the fact that Kashuu has approximately zero table manners while Yasusada eats like how you would expect a sane, respectable member of society to.

“You know, there’s an old legend about a beautiful lady who wore a red scarf,” Yasusada hums. “She didn’t take her scarf off, even for the person she married, because if she did, her head would fall off. Is that why you can’t take it off?”

Kashuu quirks an eyebrow. “Are you calling me a beautiful lady?”

“Huh?” Yasusada’s eyes widen. “No, it was just an expression…”

“There’s, like, no need to be shy,” Kashuu teases. “I’m not a lady, though. Don’t get me wrong.”

“I am not calling you beautiful, lady or otherwise,” Yasusada says, and this time his voice almost carries a pout. “Besides, you-- why are you looking at me with that expression?”

That expression being some half-assed puppy eyes look, and Yasusada’s immunity to it only proves that they’ve known each other for a bit too long. “Come ooon, just pretend! Hey, you don’t even need to pretend. I’m always the prettiest person in class. No one can match up to me.”

Yasusada sighs. “You know, we were supposed to study today.”

“Yeah, yeah, but we started talking about this. Just because you’re jealous, right?” Kashuu suddenly reaches out to tug on Yasusada’s hair. “What a piece of work.”

Yasusada winces-- “Hey!”

“You know, if you gave me a few hours to work with this hair, maybe I could salvage it. May-be. I make no promises.”

“My hair is fine as it is,” Yasusada says, prying Kashuu’s fingers away. “Anyway, do you want my dad to send you back today too?”

Kashuu lets a tch escape his throat. “I wish. Buuut, I’ve got somewhere else to go after this. And then I’ll just walk back myself, then. Because I don’t have my dad to come and fetch me home at my beck and call, right?”

Yasusada dismisses Kashuu with a wave of hand. “Well, if you say so. I can’t imagine how living with the Toushirou family is like. I mean, they’re not bad, but…”

“Where else can I go?” Kashuu shrugs.

“...You could stay with me,” Yasusada suggests. “I mean, you cook by yourself already, so I don’t think my dad would complain.”

There’s silence, for a moment, as Kashuu stands up and slings his bag over his shoulder. “Is this some kind of scheme to make me cook for you every day?”

Yasusada blinks absent-mindedly for a few seconds, before violently shaking his head. “What kind of assumption is that? I’m not trying to con you into being my wife!”

“--I was thinking more along the lines of your maid, but! If you say so,” Kashuu says, leaving Yasusada as he continues to sputter. “See you tomorrow!”

Maybe he says a goodbye or something, but if he did, he doesn’t remember. Yasusada gathers his thoughts and sigh before grabbing his own school bag and walking off, leaving the school building. It’s funny, how the mere presence of some people can make everything feel a bit less heavier, to the point where the weight of his bag seems to pull him down even more now that everything is silent again. He doesn’t have thick textbooks to thumb through, not when the year is 2205, but he still electronics to hold onto, because no one has been creative enough to invent an anti-gravity device so everything they need can just float weightlessly in the air.

Yasusada entertains that thought for a moment, while walking to the front gate.

That’s why he almost doesn’t notice the creature moving to his right, almost like a stray cat. He doesn’t pay it any mind until it begins to look kind of familiar, and then, he remembers.

Remembering is very easy. It even has a specific sound to it-- the ‘oh’ that escapes your lips, or Yasusada’s lips, upon having memories jolt itself back into existence. Perhaps that isn’t a good choice of words, though-- those memories were always there. Always in wait.

The shock is enough to make his schoolbag feel weightless, and yet he collapses from the weight of it anyway, falling to his knees.

Konnosuke has chosen this time of all times to appear, where he knows no one else will spot him.

“I--” Yasusada heaves, reaching for the sword on his hip, only to remember it’s not actually there. “Why did you make me--?”

“You must remember,” Konnosuke says. “If you are not careful, fate will repeat.”

So that’s it. That’s why he has to remember, remember short years of fleeting happiness, remember centuries more of waiting, remember the sea and remember the saniwa-- remember protecting time, remember the Shinsengumi and everyone else, remember Kashuu Kiyomitsu.

Funnily enough, he isn’t here to ensure fate takes its course, this time. He’s here to stop it.

Yasusada breathes. “What-- what do I do?”

“I don’t know,” Konnosuke admits. “That’s up to you.”

---

There is no reason, in this day and age, for Kashuu to shatter like glass.

But Konnosuke’s words are a warning. A warning, Yasusada reminds himself, not a prophecy. It’s a warning Yasusada acts on, committing it to memory. It is not a casual effort; everything he does, from studying to checking the weather, is to make sure fate does not repeat itself.

His father is an easier case to manage. With how advanced medicine is, Yasusada just needs to make sure he isn’t overworking himself horribly, and then Souji Okita his father will be fine. Now, Kashuu, that’s where the real challenge comes in.

“Yasusada? What are you doing? Let’s cross the road.”

He cannot dismiss any possibility. He cannot dismiss the memory of Kashuu, almost breaking in half, bleeding all over and left with an injury that cannot be healed. Even if Kashuu gives him the most incredulous expression, Yasusada simply stutters, grasping for an excuse. This is the burden that he will bear-- and even if he told Kashuu about their past lives, he’d probably think Yasusada is crazy.

“I’m,” Yasusada begins, “scared of crossing the road.”

“...What,” Kashuu replies, and it’s not even a question. Just a declaration, of what, because it makes absolutely no sense with the fact that they’ve been crossing roads over and over for months.

Yasusada tugs on Kashuu’s sleeve. “Can we go on the overhead bridge? Or the underground tunnel? Please?”

To his massive relief, Kashuu simply sighs with enough volume to make Yasusada feel like yawning. “Fine, fine. Jeez, you’re seriously a hopeless case, you know that?”

“Sorry,” Yasusada says, and he decides that apologizing for everything is ultimately the easier decision.

His changes in behavior don’t go completely unnoticed by everyone else. When Yasusada sweeps the entire classroom floor to make sure there’s nothing that could be tripped on, Horikawa almost finds himself with nothing to do. When Yasusada makes sure all the wires running through the school building they inhabit are intact and not at all capable of beginning devastating fires, Kanesada asks him What the hell do you think you’re doing?

“Safety measures,” Yasusada answers simply, and he makes some dramatically horrible excuse when Kanesada tries to question him more.

In the end, though, perhaps they all get used to these eccentricities-- he’s Yasusada, after all, the boy who takes martial arts a bit too seriously and smiles with that airheaded expression the rest of the time. His habit of absolutely destroying any bugs that come too close to Kashuu before Kashuu even has a chance to scream is, obviously, just a quirk. (He can’t let them distract Kashuu, and make him slip, or something-- human bodies are so fragile--) His habit of checking, double-checking, and potentially getting in trouble for checking every single emergency exit nearby is simply some sort of in-built paranoia. His attempts to get Kashuu to change his shoes from heels to something better to balance on, while futile, could be seen as common sense.

In fact, the only person who seems to not question Yasusada at all is Kashuu himself. He hands Yasusada the ice-cream cone. They stand in front of the ice-cream store, and this is the first time they’re taking the underground tunnel just to cross the damn road-- “Two vanilla cones, please! Both on me.”

“Vanilla?” Yasusada tilts his head, before smiling. “Aww, you can always guess my favorite flavor.”

“Only because it’s the same as mine,” Kashuu bats back. “By the way, did you hear? Kanesada wants to invite us on a sailing trip. His cousin Kasen lost a bet to him, so we can take his boat out for a while. Great, right? Just as long as he doesn’t crash it.”

Perhaps unknowingly, Kashuu’s words make Yasusada’s pallor become all the more pronounced. “Crash it? Can we really trust him to drive it…?”

“I hope so,” Kashuu says. “Want to go?”

There’s a pause.

(It would be strange, if he kept Kashuu away from everything. And besides-- it can’t be all that bad.

Famous last words, right.)

“Why not?” Yasusada stops. “But promise me that we’ll all wear life jackets on the boat.”

“Life jackets?” Kashuu grimaces. Even in the year 2205, no one has really considered the option of adding fashion to life jackets, especially with how that could very possibly hamper their performance. And that kind of orange? Mixed with his eyes? “Seriously? But they’re--”

“Promise, or I’m not going.”

“You’re seriously hopeless!”

Kashuu mutters something, biting into his ice-cream like it’s meat before turning away and walking down the underground passage. Yasusada wants to stop him and ask him to read the signs before blindly heading down any way he wants to, but it seems like Kashuu already knows the place like the back of his hand.

They end up on the other side of the road safely.

Everything is fine.

---

“Whoooa, the breeze is perfect for sailing!” Horikawa looks over the side of the boat as it breezes off into the sea, and Yasusada belatedly wonders if Kanesada even has the legal license for this. --Well, he wouldn’t be that irresponsible, right?

Yasusada hasn’t ever really seen the sea before. No one has any reason to bring a sword to sea, and in this new life, he hasn’t really asked to be out in sea rather than just stay at the beach. He’s seen it, once, the underneath of it when his spirit was waning and time passed too quickly, but-- that doesn’t count. This is a nice thing to do. It’s a human thing.

They’re all wearing their casual clothes (their fashion sense hasn’t changed since the time they were with the saniwa), with life jackets slung over-- like Yasusada asked for. Kashuu didn’t complain too much, not when sailing is a secluded activity out in sea, so not that many people will catch him in this period of time, without nice clothes or makeup.

Kashuu pulls the mainsail down, keeping the headsail rolled up. “Sooo, Kanesada. You never actually told us what bet you won.” The sea breeze beats against the mainsail, pulling the boat along.

“Family secret,” he immediately replies, with no small amount of pride. Yasusada almost laughs, but he doesn’t join in the banter, too distracted by the shining sea. “Or, if I tell you, you’d better not tell anyone else! Or I’m sure they’ll come after my head.”

Horikawa steps up in response. “It’s alright, they’ll have to get through us if they tried that!”

“Yeah, yeah, what do you think I’m actually worried about?!” Kanesada’s reply is endearing, is not snappy. “Oi, someone pull down half of the headsail. We need to catch this wind.”

Kashuu steps up. “I’ll take the reins. So stay back, alright, Yasusada?”

--That line makes his eyes widen.

Yasusada snaps back to run towards Kashuu, not listening to his words. When the headsail comes down the top rope snaps, Yasusada realizes something.

(It makes sense, doesn’t it? How Kashuu just deals with Yasusada’s eccentricity, even though he should be the one complaining the most about it. How Kashuu somehow guesses Yasusada’s favorite flavor, ‘because it’s always the same as mine’, and how he knows Yasusada won’t question him much even with a bullshit excuse like that.

How Kashuu knows how to navigate perfectly, through the underground cities, as though he’s been there before. Maybe he has, in preparation for what Yasusada will obviously drag him through in the end--

But underground cities are built and kept intact, based off the streets above when they were made. And the streets above are renovated beyond recognition, roads changed and names altered, though it’s easy to find what it used to be, two hundred years ago, with a quick search.

Of course, they live in Kyoto, and if Yasusada had thought about it earlier, maybe he would’ve realized that the way the underground city twists, and turns is horribly familiar, and if he looked up the name--

Fate may be repeating itself.

They live on the street near Ikedaya Inn.

And Kashuu knows that.

He knows everything, and that’s why, he says that line, because he knows--)

“--KASHUU!”

---

“I’ll take the reins. So stay back, alright, Yasusada?”

It’s an innocuous line. There is nothing for Yasusada to feel fear about, not in the time of four hundred years ago. Kashuu simply takes the reins, by taking the lead, and Souji Okita chooses to draw him first, against an unbalanced fight between several rounin--

Real swords are not battering rams. They are not exactly callers of death, or props in movies, that can be slammed recklessly. They can cut through corpses, yes, but they may not be able to cut through the bones of someone fighting to live so easily. And humans fight like hell.

“Kashuu?”

In hindsight, it should have been obvious what happened, when Kashuu suddenly collapses straight to the floor with gashes forming over his neck.

A tiny piece of shrapnel embeds itself in the wooden floorboards.

Except it’s a part of Kashuu, now detached, and it’s a wonder, that his head doesn’t just slip off completely-- it might as well have, though, because he lies gagging on the floor and Yasusada is there going no no no what happened you’ll be alright I-- Okita?

They’re still in the middle of a fight.

Yasusada’s the one who is armed now, in this fate that is just newly being made, and Yasusada almost wills Okita to slash at the rounin that come too close to Kashuu first-- to get them away, make them fear, Souji Okita’s swordskill, and let them know that every prepared samurai has more than one sword, of course.

“Kashuu, you have to get up!”

More blades slam against Yasusada, and it hurts, but he doesn’t falter, can’t break-- he keeps yelling, even though he knows it’s futile-- “Kashuu, why won’t you get up? Didn’t you always say you were the stronger one? Okita, we can’t leave him behind, Kashuu--!”

Kashuu raises his arms, forcing them on the floor, trying to lift himself up.

Yasusada whips around, rounin retreating, and he has one more thing to say before Souji Okita drags him too far away.

“Kashuu, I love you! Please get up!”

Maybe it helps. Maybe it was futile, in the end.

Because when Okita turns the corner, he falls to the floor, and the same thing repeats itself.

(Fate will keep repeating itself. This is not a second chance.)

---

Kashuu has long accepted meeting with Yasusada as the ninth unfortunate incident. If they had not met, if he had been sick that day, or had another sibling to distract Kashuu, or something, then fate wouldn’t repeat itself. Everything would be fine.

And even if they meet, even if they begin the chance of setting these events in motion again, as long as Kashuu doesn’t snap in half, as long as he keeps up his impeccable appearance, everything will be fine. His movements are just as calculated as Yasusada. He tracks the footprints of history, avoids the exact street where he might as well have died on, and most of all, lets Yasusada do all his convoluted safety measures.

But it can’t last forever, and Kashuu accidentally lets those words slip, as if he’s asking for it--

He honestly did not anticipate the headsail snapping off.

Perhaps he did anticipate, however, Yasusada shoving him out of the way and getting slammed, right on the head and neck, by the metal beam that comes crashing down.

---

Yasusada feels the weight of the beam, and maybe he hears someone else screaming, but he just hears the craaack of what should hopefully just be his muscle before everything goes numb and he’s sent flying off the sailboat and into the sea.

In that moment, when he acquaints himself with the underneath of the waterline, he dimly realizes that when Konnosuke warned him about fate repeating-- he wasn’t just referring to Kashuu and Okita.

It’s bad luck, the the bearings of the metal beam makes a tear across Yasusada’s life vest, and it doesn’t float him to the surface. It’s bad luck (or fate) that he’s fated to stare at the fading light, not quite conscious enough to swim upwards, while he waits for the water to rush up his mouth and nose and for himself to drown.

Okay. That’s fine.

---

“Yasusada’s off the boat?! --Shit, where did he go?!” Kanesada steers to the right, but Yasusada’s already out of sight. Horikawa looks around, and Kashuu is almost rooted to place.

He knew where Yasusada landed. He can stay here, stare dumbly, and wait for fate to take its course.

Fuck that, though.

He doesn’t really hear Horikawa or Kanesada when he jumps into the sea, right after Yasusada.

---

The moment he realizes that fate isn’t fixed in stone is when someone grabs his hands.

Kashuu can see Yasusada exhaling, bubbles rising from his mouth like a death rattle, but he doesn’t have the luxury here to call him an idiot, what were you expecting, what are you waiting for-- instead, Kashuu acts out on what he wants to happen.

He drags Yasusada up to the surface.

It’s a miracle in itself that Kashuu found him so quickly, in the expanse of the sea that all looks the same, where he can barely see in front of himself-- but he finds Yasusada, anyway, and Yasusada makes an ah of surprise only when they break the surface.

And then he heaves out all the water he inhaled.

“Why didn’t you swim to the surface?!” Kashuu’s words are barely enough to break Yasusada out of his shock. “Did you break anything? We’re turning back, right now.”

When Kanesada pulls up the boat and starts to scream at the both of them, Yasusada doesn’t really have the strength to complain, or the lucidity to even grasp how Kashuu defied fate.

---

His father, unfortunately, kicks everyone out of his hospital room while they check if he’s fine, so Yasusada can’t actually gather himself to say everything he needs to say while there.

The next chance he gets is when he’s discharged, at around midnight, and he begs his father that please, just a while, I’m fine, I need to do this. It seems that one of Okita’s faults is that he’s a bit too kind to the people he is close to, like the figure who plays with village children, and he lets Yasusada go even though he probably isn’t at all in a good state to do this.

He grabs his clothes, and sincerely regrets his half-a-minute snap decision of what clothes to wear when he realizes that it is freezing when the sun is down. But he doesn’t turn back, only continuing on, walking all the way to Kashuu’s apartment because there is no way he is going to get his father to send him for this.

Midare is the one who answers the door. Or rather, he sticks his head out of the window, and goes-- “Ohhh, you’re Kashuu’s buddy, right? Kashuuuuu! The person you were yelling about all day is here!”

“Midare, I swear--”

It is only upon forcing the door open does Kashuu realizes Midare isn’t actually lying.

He’s dressed in clothes to go out, except his hair is still a mess and his eye bags are probably big enough for Yasusada to put his shopping in them. Kashuu stares at Yasusada, looking up and down, before going, “What the hell? You’re, like, not well enough to walk outside.”

“Were you planning to go to my house instead, then?” Yasusada scratches the back of his neck sheepishly while Kashuu closes the door behind him. He also snaps his fingers at Midare, who giggles and stops spying only then, closing the window and pulling the curtains. “Sorry, I just-- I needed to tell you this.”

“What? That you’re an idiot, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Yasusada parrots back, and Kashuu doesn’t even blink. “I mean-- not exactly. I just need to ask you something.”

Kashuu doesn’t spout out a guess, this time, even though he knows exactly what’s on Yasusada’s mind.

Yasusada doesn’t struggle with these three words: “Do you remember?”

“Duh,” Kashuu says flatly. “And I know you do, too. If you haven’t noticed yet, you make yourself preeetty obvious.”

“Oh.” Yasusada’s mind is almost blank, right now. “Okay.”

Kashuu suddenly takes off his scarf. “You’re shivering.”

“Huh? It’s just cold,” Yasusada says dumbly while Kashuu pulls the scarf over the back of his head. “So, this is what it takes for you to remove your scarf? It is pretty warm. I--”

Kashuu tugs on his scarf, forcing Yasusada’s head forward, onto his own.

And that’s when Kashuu kisses him.

While battling the sensation of Kashuu’s warm scarf and his own lips, Yasusada just barely realizes that Midare is, indeed, still watching, and laughs a bit too loudly from behind the curtains.

So that’s why, the first thing Yasusada says when Kashuu finally lets go of the scarf and lets it fall around Yasusada’s shoulders, is-- “You’re moving in with me.”

“Gladly,” Kashuu says this time, and he’s smiling all too widely.

(Honestly, fate can go and fuck itself.)

Chapter Text

“I’m worried, you know.”

When is Ichigo not worried, though? The funniest thing about this whole ordeal is how Tsurumaru is the one patting his back. As if he himself isn’t a significant source of worry.

--But, well, he isn’t. Not in this case. “Your brothers will be fine,” he hums. “They need some ups and downs in their lives to learn, after all.”

Ichigo can only groan in response, rubbing his temples. There are some times where he simply cannot muster the strength to be princely, or proper, or anything other than a mess on the dinner table going uuurgh at the intricacies of life.

Said intricacies being, of course-- “It’s not just them going into relationships. It’s about everyone else around them. It’s not like I can stop them, but I can’t help but worry if they’re going to be a bad influence on my brothers.”

Tsurumaru kind of… tilts his head for a moment, tapping his chin and going hm. Before he can speak, Ichigo turns around.

“Tsurumaru, what are you thinking?”

“Oh, nothing too surprising,” he replies. “Don’t worry about your brothers, your rest can come first. You’re tired from your sortie, right? You can leave your woes to me.”

Ichigo narrows his eyes. “I’m going to ask again. What are you thinking?”

“Like I said the first time, nothing surprising.”

“For you.”

Tsurumaru grins a bit too widely. “Come on, you don’t trust me?”

“No.”

Ichigo’s answer is short, blunt, and comes after approximately zero seconds of deliberation. Tsurumaru winces. “Ah, how cold. Well, it’s no matter. If you really don’t trust me, you can ask your brothers how the day went later.”

“Tsurumaru--”

“No buts!” Tsurumaru suddenly pushing Ichigo up onto his feet. “Now, go to sleep, you’re obviously too tired.”

---

Urashima is probably going to keel over at any moment now, but he doesn’t mind. Not when Midare’s around.

Speaking of Midare, he walks in front of Urashima, giving him a cold glass of water. “Thank you so much for helping me, Urashima! There’s no way I could’ve done fieldwork myself without my palms getting blistered.”

“Oh, no no no! Thank you!” Urashima gulps down the entire glass of water anyway, the result of working on two fields at once in record time. Still, Midare is the one who has to be protected here, sun still shining too brightly on his skin-- a cold breeze takes their minds off the heat for a moment, gracing Midare’s skirt and making their clothes flutter slightly.

Slightly. Right. Midare catches Urashima staring when he pulls his skirt down-- “Ohh, is that what you’re thanking me for? Maybe I shouldn’t let you help--”

Urashima quickly waves in hands in front of his face. “No, no, I didn’t mean to! Sorry, Midare, um--! Forgive me!” His turtle balances precariously on his shoulder, yet somehow fails to fall off.

Midare ends up laughing, instead. That laugh-- that’s why Urashima ended up looking at Midare in the first place, and seeing him for the first time. An airy, cute laugh, whistling along with the wind and it sounds almost like it’s enticing him.

“It’s fine. So, you want to see what’s under my skirt?”

Urashima appreciates straightforwardness, but perhaps Midare is being a bit too straightforward. It’s hard to remember that he’s almost a thousand years old, with those huge blue eyes, frill pattern, hair still billowing in the breeze that makes Urashima’s blush become even more pronounced-- “Oh-- uh-- only if-- wait, don’t get me right, I--”

“Let’s get out of the sun first, alright?” Midare takes Urashima’s hands, and he might as well just have died, right there. Rest in peace, Urashima Kotetsu, your life was good while it lasted. He giddily follows Midare’s steps, walking towards shelter.

That’s when he notices the patch of mud and dirt, all around the entrance to the main building. Runoff from watering, most likely. Still, it’s absolutely everywhere, and Midare can’t possibly avoid it.

Urashima’s first reaction is to take off his shirt. “Here, Midare! I’ll cover the mud with my shirt, so you can walk across it!”

“Awww, that’s so sweet of you,” Midare chirps, and maybe it was a smart move of Urashima himself to suddenly bear himself shirtless. Bending over, he presses his knees to the mud to place the shirt--

--only for the mud to cave under him.

Urashima’s first reaction, of course, is to scream when he suddenly begins to fall. Midare’s reaction is to join in the screaming, because what else do you do when the ground just swallows someone up? They don’t even contemplate the possibility that the hollow ground might have been a trap set up for them.

“Urashima! Urashima, are you okay?!”

“Uh-- yeah, I’m fine!” Urashima gets up, but instead of just his shirt, he’s completely covered in mud. Upon realizing this, Midare straightens his back.

Coughing into his hand and forcing a smile, Midare makes no move to help Urashima out. “Wow, I guess you really need a bath, huh? I’ll go turn up the heater for you!”

“Huh?” Urashima’s brain, of course, goes to the first possible thing-- “Are you saying--?”

“I already showered today,” Midare excuses. There’s no way in hell he’s bathing with someone who’s going to leave pieces of ground earthworms in the water.

---

What is with the Toushirou brothers and gathering admirers that are willing to do anything for them? --Maybe it’s in their blood. No matter what the reason, the fact is that Imanotsurugi is sticking onto Yagen like the plague.

Not that Yagen minds. Plague is a bit too cruel a comparison. He may be annoying, yes, but there’s nothing actually bad about Imanotsurugi.

“Ima,” Yagen says, shortening his name. He pushes up his glasses, and they reflect the light from the summer sun onto the table. “Do you know where the bandages are?”

“Right here!” It helps that Imanotsurugi also has impeccable memory when it comes to the things he cares about. “Do you need it for something?”

Yagen shakes his head, before pulling out a stack of papers. “We should update the list of medical supplies. We’ve been running through them since the last week’s sorties have been rather intense. However, no one has had time to account for that. It would be disastrous if we ended up running out of anything during a critical time because we did not resupply when we were running low.”

Ima blinks for a bit, before going-- “Wooow, Yagen. You think about everything! Can I help?”

“By finding the supplies, yes,” Yagen replies.

It doesn’t take long for Ima to find everything, then-- every nook, cranny and corner is searched and pillaged. Everything defunct is thrown out after being met with Yagen’s discerning eye, and everything else is categorized and placed neatly.

“They’ll probably mess things up again soon,” Ima pouts. “Taking supplies and just leaving them anywhere.”

“It’s fine,” Yagen says, still scrawling down notes. “As long as we get this done now.”

Ima sighs, before leaning over Yagen’s shoulder. He presses onto his back, looking onto the words he’s writing, and this is when they both notice how cold the room was before. They’ve been leaving the air-conditioner on for too long, and they keep forgetting that they have technology to change the temperature.

Still, Ima doesn’t move from his spot to turn down the machine. “You’re really selfless. Are you sure you don’t need more help?”

“I’m sure,” Yagen says. And that’s when he turns his head to look right at Ima. Their faces are perhaps a bit too close, but Ima’s eyes are fascinating, a sheer red that shines through his fair hair. In contrast, Yagen’s eyes are almost calming, lulling Ima to draw closer. “However, I do appreciate the company. I have nothing against my brothers, of course, but they sometimes do make a mess of things.”

Though, perhaps Ima is a distraction, causing Yagen’s writing to slow down. He can feel every breath Ima takes, and while he might be a tengu, creatures like that can both jump around and become an artpiece of nature that simply sits still as time goes by.

“Eheheh, do you like my company, then? Thank you!”

They’re still looking at each other, Ima over Yagen’s shoulder, almost coming closer with that wide smile--

The door bursts open. That’s a nasty surprise. Their room, being cold, means that the hot air from outside almost rushes in, causing an instant breeze that sends the papers in Yagen’s hands flying.

“Oh, no!” Ima bounces after them, succeeding in catching a few. Yagen, instead, lets his smile slip slightly before walking to the door. Don’t people know how to knock?

“Hello? Who is it?”

But, there’s no one at the door. No one who could have possibly interrupted them. Maybe they ran away, but who would just open the door and flee like that…?

---

“There, Midare,” Kashuu says. “I keep telling you, yellow would suit you better than red. I mean, you would look good in red, yeah, but this shade of yellow is better.”

Midare looks at the nail polish, before nodding. “Thanks a lot, Kashuu! After something disappointing this morning, I was counting on you to cheer me up. I’ll be taking my leave, then!”

Waving his favorite tantou off, Kashuu kicks back against the seat of his room, sighing as he looked at his own nails.

Yasusada, who had been sitting at the opposite side, steps closer. “Ahah, are you the fashion guru now?”

“You bet I am.” Grimacing a bit at the dirt under his nails, Kashuu begins to consider giving them another coat, after cutting off a tiny bit. The dirt is almost impossible to reach at this point, and his nails are going to become a viable weapon at this point-- but, as with all things that can take on a sharp point, it would shatter much more easily. So he sighs and takes out the nail clipper.

Perhaps out of boredom, or the fact that he was unceremoniously kicked out of the dojo by Nagasone, Yasusada doesn’t really have anything to do other than drag a chair and sit next to Kashuu. “What are you doing?”

“Cutting my nails,” Kashuu replies. “Se-rious-ly, this is getting waaay out of hand. When will the saniwa get nail clippers that don’t look like they’ve spent decades rusting? Cutting my nails takes such a long time.”

“You don’t have time to do it?”

“I need to fix my mascara,” Kashuu says, and Yasusada kind of just makes a disappointed oh sound. Of course, it’s something else to do with makeup, with keeping up appearances-- there’s not much else Kashuu devotes his time to. Perhaps a spot of dancing if Tsurumaru suddenly plays loud music on the speakers, or reading, especially adventurous romance novels with happy endings. Kashuu despises ones without that single trait, and Yasusada might be able to guess why.

Anyway.

“You can do it with one hand,” Yasusada suggests. “I can help cut your nails.”

Kashuu raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? This isn’t a ploy to ruin my nails, right?”

“Maybe,” Yasusada jokes. The telling thing, however, is how Kashuu still offers his nails anyway, right hand resting on Yasusada’s palm. The nail clipper finds its way to Yasusada’s own fingers, as he receives them from Kashuu’s own. Tangling fingers aside, Kashuu expertly uncaps his mascara with one hand.

In contrast to what most would think, while Yasusada is skilled brute strength, his real skill comes from technique and schooling. From established sword schools to Souji Okita’s own inventions, these all teach Yasusada several specific things. Most importantly, the ability to be refined and delicate in his actions.

Outside of the battlefield, he’s exactly like what someone would expect from a respectable samurai-- kind, hardworking, always striving to improve and also carrying an air of regality. His habits which come naturally, like how he gently pulls Kashuu’s arm closer and clips away at the edge of his fingernails ever so carefully, are things that Kashuu tries to imitate every day.

Consciously imitate, because he wasn’t hardwired to do all of them, not like Yasusada. And it almost makes the back of his throat itch with irritation, though he simply lets out a tch instead.

“What’s wrong?” Yasusada says something while Kashuu combs out his left eyelash. “Am I hurting you?”

“No, no, it’s just…” Kashuu lets out his second sigh in ten minutes. “I’m just thinking.”

Yasusada tilts his head. “About what?”

“What’s it to you?” Kashuu dismisses further question, and Yasusada responds with a sigh of his own, before moving his face closer to Kashuu’s hand. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“Does your nail polish have a smell?”

“...What?”

“Your hand smells nice.”

Staring at Yasusada, Kashuu kind of just lets his jaw hang. “Okaaay,” he slurs, and he decides that maybe Yasusada isn’t all that regal after all. It’s only then that Kashuu realizes he’s already finished touching up on his mascara, but Yasusada’s still cutting his nails.

Actually, he’s barely even cutting his nails. He’s just staring at Kashuu’s fingers, his own hand around Kashuu’s wrist. If Kashuu moves, he can grace the skin on top of Yasusada’s veins, and for some reason he doesn’t tell Yasusada to let go of his hand. Instead, he puts down his mascara and turns his chair towards Yasusada.

Click. Yasusada cuts away at another nail. “It really does, you know.”

“Do you like it?” Kashuu suddenly reaches out with his other hand, but doesn’t disturb the hand holding the nail clipper. Instead, he taps the back of Yasusada’s other fingers. “I can put it on for you.”

Yasusada looks up.

“Hm? But you wouldn’t even put it on for Midare…”

“It wouldn’t suit him,” Kashuu retorts.

“Would it suit me, though?”

“...Maybe I need to get a closer look,” he suddenly says, moving closer to Yasusada. None the wiser, Yasusada simply blinks in response, not reacting until Kashuu’s suddenly close, close enough to look right into his eyes and his lips and--

There’s a big bump from under the floorboards.

Kashuu doesn’t even have the time to yell or question who the hell would be under their floorboards, because the bump causes Yasusada to clip his nail a bit too short, and suddenly it’s all over.

“My nail!” Kashuu almost wails as he wrenches his hand back to look at it.

“What was that?!”

“You just clipped it right off! I can see the skin!” Kashuu continues howling, breaking eye contact with Yasusada and leaving him even more confused than before. Suddenly dealing with this burst of distraught feelings, Kashuu turns from the floor to Yasusada repeatedly, before simply slapping Yasusada and stomping off.

Absolutely no bad influences are allowed, apparently.

---

“Left, left, a bit more-- that’s right, wait, no, don’t move to the right--”

Izumi-no-Kami Kanesada can do nothing but place but face in the pillow as Horikawa presses with enough strength to almost bruise. But Horikawa doesn’t bruise, only unknots the muscles that ache from the sortie, except this damn massage is making them ache even more now. The repair room is, thankfully, completely empty except for them. No one is injured, and neither is Kanesada, but the relaxing atmosphere the room has is the one good place for Horikawa to do this.

“Come on, Kane-san. You’ll feel a lot better tomorrow, when it stops aching. So I need to press on every place.”

Kanesada just continues to groan. “Are you sure? Shit, not there--! Five minute break, five minute break!”

Horikawa takes his hands off of Kanesada’s calves, sighing. “Well, I guess I’m getting tired too. But trust me, Kane-san! The saniwa left us books about massaging. Even though it is a lot more forceful than any massage we’ve seen before, it’ll probably work.”

“Probably.” Kanesada doesn’t complain any further, though, except with his eyes. His hair is hanging off the side of the mattress, almost touching the floor, weighing down his head. All the accessories have been pulled off it, but it’s still heavy, so Kanesada gathers it and lifts up his chest to try cracking his neck.

That causes the towel that was covering his back to slide off, exposing his skin. Kanesada barely notices it while he’s focusing on his aching everything, and so he doesn’t pull it up, both hands occupied with his hair.

Horikawa rolls his shoulders and moves to take the towel, with the words to tell Kanesada that he’ll get cold if he sits uncovered in this air-conditioned room-- but unfortunately, the towel falls right onto Kanesada’s feet. He gets up almost completely to pull all his hair off the floor, and since he’s lifting his hair up, Horikawa gets a clear view of his back from the waist up.

He’s seen it a lot already, of course-- he was giving Kanesada a massage, after all-- but during that time, he was focused on making sure he was pressing onto the right places and massaging away the tension. Now that they’re both relaxing, Horikawa takes much more notice, and stops in his tracks.

“Oh,” Horikawa says, because there’s not much else he can utter while he notices the massage oil is still leaving Kanesada’s back shining and smelling with an aroma he still isn’t too used to. “Your towel fell off, Kane-san.”

“Huh?”

Unfortunately (or fortunately?), Kanesada turns around to look at the towel, which means he moves his legs a bit. That causes the towel to fall to the floor, dropping with an unceremonious hluff. Kanesada stares at the floor while Horikawa stares somewhere else entirely.

“Please be more careful!” Horikawa’s voice takes a bit too high a new pitch as he rushes over to grab the towel. “We wouldn’t want to get the towel dirty. You have to put it on, after all.”

“Right,” Kanesada says, and he is utterly shameless. “Is it dirty? You can flick it a bit first.”

Horikawa blinks even more, standing there with the towel hanging limply in his grasp for a little too long. “Alright,” he says, before fanning it away from Kanesada.

However, the wind made by the towel still causes the hair from Kanesada’s fringe and back to fly up, and the fact that Horikawa begins to fan harder might tell any onlooker what they need to know. Kanesada’s still mostly pressed onto the mattress, hair loose and eye half-lidded, and Horikawa, while good at hiding a blush, isn’t exactly concealing his actions when he moves to place the towel back on Kanesada’s bare skin--

And then the massage oils from the table nearly all fall onto the floor.

Horikawa hears a bump, first, but that’s impossible, there should be no one else in the repair room. Then, he hears the crack of glass bottles against the floor, and that’s when he begins to smell the scents and uh oh.

“Did everything break?! This is bad!” Without thinking straight, Horikawa rushes over and soaks up the oils with the towel in his hands. Kanesada realizes what’s happening only three seconds later.

“--Kunihiro! I needed that towel!”

“Oh! I’ll get another for you right away, Kane-san!”

They’re both too distracted to notice someone slipping out of the repair room, almost chuckling to himself.

---

With all due respect, it is rather annoying to have someone on your back at all times. So technically, Ookurikara is half-justified in ignoring Mitsutada for this short period of the day.

However, it seems that after the sortie in the morning, the saniwa simply retreated to their room. Which leaves everyone with a little too much free time on their hands, including Mitsutada, and while he isn’t overbearing, Ookurikara has technically given a lot of people a lot more reasons to worry.

For one, he narrowly missed a direct hit from the captain of the enemy squad in today’s lone sortie, which Mitsutada paid unfortunate witness too. ‘Unfortunate’, because he will not allow Ookurikara to live it down. Not for a long while.

“If you continue, it won’t end well for you,” Mitsutada continues to badger. Ookurikara finally breaks his own radio silence and turns around in the hallway, facing Mitsutada head-on.

“I honestly couldn’t care less,” he bites back.

Obviously, with Mitsutada takes a strong step forward, that wasn’t the answer he was looking forward to. And yet, it was the answer he was expecting-- after all, what else would Ookurikara say? Still, it’s an answer he refuses to accept, and Mitsutada walks closer without reaching out to grab Ookurikara.

“You couldn’t care less, you say,” he begins, “but are you sure? Do you really not care except for the fact you want to fight alone? About your mortality, or anyone else?”

Leaning forward in response, Ookurikara seems to try intimidating Mitsutada. By how the latter doesn’t budge, it’s an effort that fails. “I will decide what I do, and my own fate. Not you.”

“You’re not even letting yourself decide. You’re just letting the enemy do it, if you continue like this,” Mitsutada tries to reason.

“I misjudged the situation,” Ookurikara admits. “It will not happen again.”

“Look, Kuri-chan--”

“It will not happen again.”

Ookurikara turns around, away from Mitsutada, and that’s when Mitsutada grabs his hand. “...Let me go.”

“If not yourself,” Mitsutada begins, “then at least think of the people in your squad. The people back in the Citadel-- you’re not the only person who cares about yourself, Kuri-chan. Actually, you really don’t care about yourself enough. That really isn’t cool at all, Kuri-chan.”

Ookurikara tries wrenching his arm free, but Mitsutada grip is firm. “Then who cares? You?”

“Of course,” Mitsutada replies with absolute certainty. “Since we’ve been with our previous master. Things haven’t changed now.”

With a scoff, Ookurikara stops struggling. “Words are cheap.”

“I agree.”

Ookurikara turns back to look at Mitsutada. He looks too much like Date Masamune, and it’s almost strange, to see him now. He almost wonders what Mitsutada looked like, before he gained his name-- when he was a sword under the Oda. But he doesn’t have time for that, and even if he did, he would never voice his thoughts.

Instead, Ookurikara stares down at Mitsutada, expression unchanging. “So, you’re going to prove that you care?”

Mitsutada nods in response, and it should come as no surprise, that he takes another step forward, closer to Ookurikara, as if he’s scared of what would happen if Ookurikara left. He’s uncomfortably close, but this time, Ookurikara doesn’t wrench his arm away or even step aside. Like he’s waiting, for Mitsutada’s proof.

--And that’s when Tsurumaru punches Ookurikara in the face.

There is absolutely no time for any of them to react when he comes barreling down the hallway, and only then do they realize how they didn’t even notice him coming. Were they too distracted, or was Tsurumaru really quiet? The world may never know.

In any case, Ookurikara goes right down, and Tsurumaru stands over him while Mitsutada just lets his jaw hang.

“Surprise,” Tsurumaru says. “That’s for the scare you gave us this morning. It’s proof that I care. See, you didn’t react quickly enough to me-- what makes you think you can decide your fate against the enemy? I want you to control your own fate, too. So! You’ll have to work closely with us until you get strong enough.”

Ookurikara curses loudly, getting up on his knees and sending his own fist towards Tsurumaru’s stomach. Tsurumaru, however, manages to dodge proficiently. “Well, Mitsutada, Ookurikara, I’ll be on my way.”

“What?” Mitsutada blinks. “What was that about?”

---

Honestly, despite everything that went on between their owners, Yoshiyuki has to admit one thing.

Nagasone’s body is mighty impressive. He may be a counterfeit, yes, but he’s a goddamn Kotetsu counterfeit, muscles and all. A sword like him can probably cut through the bones of several different people with one continuous swing. Nagasone says his swordsmanship isn’t anything fancy, but he practices the Tennen Rishin-ryū, the same school of techniques as his master. Yoshiyuki himself practices Hokushin Ittō-ryū, so they provide good contrast, revealing and covering each other’s flaws in sparring and combat respectively-- they can’t all be like Yasusada, who can somehow manage both schools easily.

That’s why, when Yoshiyuki almost got into trouble this sortie, Nagasone has been chosen to help him out a bit. He isn’t complaining. Not too much.

Another good thing about Nagasone is that, despite their differences, he won’t say no to a good-natured spar. Nagasone beats Yoshiyuki in a multitude of ways, but it’s hard to let it get onto his nerves when Nagasone doesn’t actively hold it against him.

“So,” Nagasone begins, “I think I’ve figured out the problem.”

Yoshiyuki looks up from his stance. “Yeah?”

“You’re overextending your arm,” he says, pointing to Yoshiyuki’s right hand-- “because of your gun. You keep whipping it around while we’re on sorties, as if it’s like a sword. Multitasking with two weapons might be covering more space, but it might also cause you confusion. You can’t afford that on the battlefield.”

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what Yoshiyuki doesn’t want to hear. Taking out the gun he tucks into his shirt, Yoshiyuki makes something of a face at Nagasone’s observation. “A gun would really help out, though! I mean, we have to aim for their swords instead of their faces, unlike a normal human, so maybe it might not be that great accuracy-wise. But if I got permission to train using both in the Citadel, I could move more fluidly with both!”

Nagasone raises an eyebrow. He might be a little biased, yes, but as far as he’s concerned, using two weapons at once is simply impractical. “Well, we obviously can’t train gunfighting in here the same way we train swordfighting,” he sighs. “--But, if you seriously insist on it, I can show you the clunky parts of your positionings. How does that work?”

“Great, great!” Turning on the safety, Yoshiyuki tucks the gun into his left palm, holding his sword with his right. He takes the first position he can think of, and Nagasone gets to work.

He pushes Yoshiyuki’s back, first-- a bit too hard, but Yoshiyuki doesn’t fall. “Good, you don’t fall over. However, don’t keep crossing your arms like that. Best case scenario, you only end up cutting your skin while whipping around,” Nagasone says, putting special emphasis on ‘best’. He doesn’t end there, though. He takes both of Yoshiyuki’s hands from behind.

“Now, this is how you want to stand.”

Yoshiyuki doesn’t really listen, though. He’s trying to, honestly, but Nagasone’s arms kind of get in the way of that. He moves along with Nagasone, whose grip is more gentle than you would think, falling into the stance he wants. His back is right against Nagasone’s chest, and like Yoshiyuki, he leaves his shirt right open.

“Here, see?” He has no idea if Nagasone’s thinking about the same thing, but when Yoshiyuki doesn’t fall back to press onto Nagasone, he instead leans forward to press on Yoshiyuki, hand on his wrist. “Try to keep your hands close. You might need to switch to a two-handed sword stance quickly.”

Right, then. Nagasone is a tutor which gets every single detail down right, even if he has to move Yoshiyuki himself. He’s holding both of Yoshiyuki’s wrists now, holding them together, and if he willed it, Nagasone could just pick Yoshiyuki up now and--

There’s a huge bang outside the dojo, and Yoshiyuki whips his hand back to point his gun at it, only to end up smacking Nagasone right in the face.

“Oh, sorry!”

“...Ouch,” Nagasone permits himself to say, blinking at the noise as the punch. Eh, it’s not his problem. “You see what I mean? Now, get into the position yourself.”

Of course, Nagasone also believes in independence, so it looks like Yoshiyuki can’t be manhandled by him forever.

---

There are lots of things to do in a garden. Like sleep. Or drink sake where no one else can smell you.

Jirou isn’t really a bad person and sake isn’t a bad smell, per se, but there are a few swords whose masters may have died from alcohol poisoning, so there’s that. Out of courtesy or for the sake of preserving the pristine fake-bamboo scent of the Citadel, he’s taken to drinking in the gardens.

Which isn’t bad, actually, not at all. Tarou even accompanies him.

“Come on, loosen up a bit!” Jirou never gives up in his neverending quest of chaining his brother to the earth a bit more, even though Tarou spends most of his life with his head in the clouds. (Metaphorically. Or literally? Both, perhaps.) Pressing the bottle of sake onto Tarou’s lap, he manages to catch his attention.

Tarou does take the bottle, but he doesn’t actually move to drink it. “You’re feeling generous today?”

“I’m al-ways generous,” Jirou pouts, swallowing a hiccup. “You just never accept the offer.”

Maybe out of amusement or appreciation, Tarou laughs a bit to himself. “Will this not dull my divine powers?”

Jirou takes the bottle again, raising it up to Tarou’s face and shaking it. “Nope! It’ll make them stronger. Trust me! I’m your brother.”

“That seems dangerous.”

Perhaps because there are both swords without a strong sense of self-preservation, Jirou only smiles coyly in response. He places one hand on Tarou’s leg, hoisting himself up and tilting the bottle right at Tarou’s lips. “Don’t worry, we’re both alone here. You won’t be any danger to me, right?”

On another day, maybe Tarou may have objected. But today, of all days, is the day where Tarou simply shrugs and raises his hand to hold the bottom of the bottle. Jirou presses it closer to Tarou’s face while Tarou opens his mouth, tilting up the bottle and letting everything spill into his mouth.

When the alcohol begins to drip down Tarou’s mouth, he doesn’t stop in brother. Instead, Jirou simply wipes it away, while Tarou keeps drinking without a stop. If Tarou got into drinking as well, their alcohol bill would probably double-- a horrifying prospect, considering how much Jirou spends on sake in general. He may spend less if he wasn’t so open to giving anyone else his drinks.

But he does, and as the sake begins to run low, Jirou gets up and inches closer to tilt the back of the bottle up higher. Tarou keeps drinking, everything going down his throat as if it’s water and not burning liquid, not leaving any time for his throat to cool. And yet, it’s cooling, though perhaps that’s because of Jirou putting his hand on Tarou’s shoulder to make sure he doesn’t fall over. He’s fine with this.

“Ah,” Tarou finally says, as the last drop is downed and he whips the bottle away. As much as Jirou tried, there’s still sake dripping down his lips and his neck.

“Not bad at all!” Jirou comes even closer, and he can smell the sake on Tarou’s skin. He opens his mouth, as if he’s going to li--

--wait, nevermind. They’re suddenly both sprayed with water.

“Huh?!” Jirou scrambles to his feet, trying to find out where the water is coming from. It drips down his lashes and blurs his vision-- dammit, if only it was a shower of sake--

“Oh, sorry!” Tsurumaru waves from behind the sprinkler. “I’m watering the plants. I didn’t know anyone was there.”

Tarou looks down, at his clothes drenched with more water than sake. “...I’m going to change.”

---

“Oh, you’re wearing gloves today, Kashuu? ...Or… just one glove?”

Kashuu gives out some sort of inhuman groan when Horikawa points that out. Scratching the back of his neck sheepishly, he takes the seat next to Kashuu. “Bad day?”

“Horrible,” he mutters, before looking at Horikawa. Maybe Yasusada’s words make him a little more conscious of scents, but even if the nail disaster didn’t occur, he can smell it anyway-- “You smell of flowers.”

“It’s just massage oil,” Horikawa replies, and he only continues when he realizes Kashuu is staring at him oddly. “I was giving Kane-sa--... Kanesada a massage.”

Kashuu kicks the front of Horikawa’s chair. “A massage? You can give massages now?”

Horikawa simply smiles in response. “I’m always seeking how to improve.”

In their previous life, their masters never really knew each other. But Kashuu can’t quite picture Toshizou Hijikata as a person quite like Horikawa. Perhaps Kanesada, but not Horikawa-- Horikawa is the foil that wraps around whatever it needs to, taking the shape it requires. But, as with foils, if overworked and not kept properly, they would be bent beyond repair.

Elbows on the table, Kashuu leans onto his hand and looks closer at Horikawa. “Really? Jeez… don’t you ever, like, take a break? Or act normal, for once?”

Horikawa tilts his head for a moment. “I’m perfectly normal.”

“As in, act like someone who isn’t attached to Kanesada. It’s, like-- you act like you’ll die if you’re not doing something with your time.”

It’s a strange description, and Kashuu isn’t very good at manipulating language to say what he wants to say. Without fluency or education, he can’t weave his way around words to convey truths with polite lies, say the unsayable by skipping around it. So, instead, he just says the unsayable right out loud.

Horikawa isn’t too bothered. “Are you worried about me? There’s no need to be. I just like using my time on useful pursuits, that’s all.”

“What, so since you’re taking your time to talk to me now, I’m a useful pursuit?”

No one needs that much language to tease, though, and Horikawa’s smile grows wider. “Is that a trick question? Of course, Kashuu. Checking up on everyone close to me is the most important task of all.”

“I wonder what your task list looks like,” Kashuu mumbles, tracing words in the air with his fingers. “You check on everyone, but does anyone check on you?”

“Kanesada does.”

Kashuu sticks out his tongue. “He’s already overworking you, though. Like, seriously, a massage?”

“I offered it,” Horikawa says. “You really don’t have to worry about me, Kashuu. I know you worry about a lot of people already. That’s why I’m checking on you.”

Sighing, Kashuu flicks his ungloved hand. The other one, covering his unsightly nail, gets pressed onto the table. “So, no one else but Kanesada checks on you.”

Pause.

“Right, I can check on you, then,” Kashuu finally says, crossing his legs and turning towards Horikawa’s direction. “Kanesada probably doesn’t appreciate your work, anyway.”

“Oh? Haha, are you saying you can appreciate me better?” Horikawa’s suggestion is cheerful, and that manages to get Kashuu’s mind off his lost nail for a moment.

So, he gets up. “I’m deeeefinitely saying that.”

“Really?” Horikawa looks up at him, eyes even wider than Yasusada’s, and they aren’t too different, actually-- in the end, though, Horikawa and Yasusada are worlds apart in different ways. “That’s a bold claim!”

Kashuu sits on the table, legs crossing and heels dangling near Horikawa’s seat. “What, you want me to prove it?”

Horikawa makes the room smell of something relaxing, like flowers, so that’s perhaps why Kashuu also pulls himself closer, while Horikawa gets up with that widening smile--

The kitchen door bursts open, and Kashuu’s eye twitches.

“Horikawa, you’re here? I need your help,” Tsurumaru says. He actually sounds a little panicked. “I think the porridge I made is alive.”

Horikawa blinks, then blinks blearily for a moment, like Tsurumaru just woke him up from a dream. “What?”

“--No, no, you sit there,” Kashuu says, waving his hands irritably. He hops off the table. “I’ll go handle it. You, take a break.”

“Eh? Kashuu--”

Tsurumaru cuts Horikawa off by grabbing Kashuu and closing the door between them.

---

“You’re overworking yourself.”

Mitsutada looks up, and when he does, his neck cracks. That probably backs up Hasebe’s statement. “It’s nothing. I’ve just been a bit worried, these last few days,” he says, stretching his neck and sighing in relief as he does. “This is new, though. What makes you say that?”

Hasebe takes the seat next to Mitsutada. “If you overwork yourself, you won’t be able to serve our master if they need you.”

“...Right,” Mitsutada says, sounding disappointed. “Well, I’m not going to start an argument with you today.” Hasebe’s expression changes minimally, even when Mitsutada shakes his head.

Hasebe still turns to look at Mitsutada, though. “In any case, Ookurikara has been trying to chase Tsurumaru around the Citadel for the past hour or so. But Tsurumaru, always being up to something, keeps getting away. I wonder what happened.”

That makes Mitsutada laugh. “Haha-- nothing new, I suppose.”

Away from the antics that run rampant around the Citadel, the overhang from the second floor of the Citadel is almost quiet. There are some things that can heard, of course-- the tantous playing below in the courtyard, the sounds from the kitchen right before dinner-- but otherwise, it’s peaceful.

The new world is peaceful. They’re both grateful for that, in a way. Hasebe, though--

“So,” Mitsutada begins. “You definitely like the saniwa, don’t you?”

“Of course, but I would not let any emotions get in the way of the mission,” he responds, and it’s such a blatant lie that even Hasebe might know. “Why do you ask?”

Mitsutada shrugs, leaning on the balcony. “I was just thinking. About how we wouldn’t have met the saniwa, if everything remained peaceful.” About how he wouldn’t have been restored, from his burnt state, if everything remained the same. He would have rotted in the backrooms of the museum for years upon decades, beauty completely vanished, spirit crippled with ash.

But he also knows better than to keep thinking about that Mitsutada shakes his head. “We would’ve simply stayed bodiless and soulless. But, the fact that we’ve been brought to life is a sign that the world needs us to fight. I wonder which one is better.”

Then, Mitsutada looks away. “Nevermind, you don’t have to answer that.”

“But I will,” Hasebe suddenly replies. For someone who simply serves without question, with utter devotion, he has a straightforward answer to that question. “Peace is obviously better than war. We have been made for war, however, and no matter what time period or society, war will eventually arise. We will simply have to wait until we are needed, because no matter what, there will come a time where we will be needed.”

“We have to wait for quite a long time, though,” Mitsutada notes.

“I don’t mind.”

Hasebe says that, even though he knows that when this war ends, whoever picks him up next will not be the saniwa. Human lives are short, and it is almost an insult, to be given away freely before the end of that life in question-- the saniwa will not give him away, however. There is no reason for that. So, he’s fine with waiting.

“Isn’t there any other way?” Mitsutada turns back to Hasebe. “Waiting and just waiting doesn’t sound like a cool way to spend time.”

They’re both looking at each other, thinking, as the sun hangs just above the Citadel walls. “We have no use outside the orders of our master.”

Pause.

“...However,” Hasebe adds, “if you truly don’t want to wait alone, I would not mind waiting with you.”

Mitsutada lets another laugh rise up his throat, though it mostly dies when it hits his teeth. “Really? You’d just say that?”

“Like I said, I would not mind.”

Perhaps Mitsutada could take that to mean-- with nothing better to do, I could wait with you. Still, he smiles back. “Well, then, I’ll be honest with you-- I’m not just worried about Kuri-chan. I was worried about what would happen to you, Hasebe, if you were made to wait again.”

Pause. “But, if I do end up waiting with you, that means I can look out for you too.”

The sun finally dips behind the walls, creating a backdrop of orange-yellow on the floor and the wall behind them. In comparison, Mitsutada’s lone eye shines the brightest, and Hasebe blinks with some degree of surprise, and some degree of-- appreciation, while they both stand at the balcony, alone--

--Scratch that, Tsurumaru suddenly lets out a yelp and dashes down the hallway behind them.

They both whip around, and Ookurikara slumps against the wall of the Citadel. “Dammit,” he breathes, while Mitsutada realizes what’s going on. Still, he asks:

“Kuri-chan, what are you doing?”

“I’m going crane hunting,” he hisses, before taking off running again.

Hasebe quickly follows, trying to catch up. “Stop! You’ll disrupt official activities at this rate!”

Mitsutada massages his temples, before sighing and running after all of them.

---

“Mission accomplished.”

Tsurumaru’s feet are placed on the table, which is an unsightly action even without the fact that he’s sweating all over. Ichigo blinks, almost afraid of asking about what happened while he took a nap.

So instead, he shakes his head and turns to his brothers, streaming past the hallway to the dining room for dinner. “Did you all behave today?”

“Yes!” Atsu smiles from ear to ear. “We played in the fields and catched frogs by the pond. Don’t worry, we released all of them later.”

Ichigo nods, smiling pleasantly. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Midare hums. “Maaaybe I could’ve done something else, but… I guess the stars just weren’t aligned today.”

“Right,” Yagen continues. “--The saniwa just released a tight schedule for the next two weeks, however. We’ll be conducting various raids on the enemy bases. We might not be able to have this much free time again in a while.”

While those words make the younger Toushirou brothers groan, Ichigo almost breathes a sigh of relief. “Well, the day isn’t over yet. Go eat dinner and wash up, alright?”

Gokotai steps up. “What about you, Ichi-nii?”

“I’ve got to deal with something first,” he answers, eyes darting towards the side to look at the crane sitting in his room for a moment. He isn’t hiding the fact that Tsurumaru’s sitting there, and he even waves at them-- Namazuo waves back.

Closing the door behind him as everyone leaves, Ichigo walks into the toilet, before drenching a towel and then walking over to Tsurumaru. “I don’t know what you did, but I suppose nothing too bad must’ve happened.”

“Nothing too bad,” Tsurumaru mimics mockingly, while Ichigo presses the towel onto his face. “Hey, I was working hard, you know.”

“Whatever you say,” Ichigo replies, cleaning away the sweat around Tsurumaru’s forehead and nose before going down to his neck. “Honestly, I wonder if you’re one of my little brothers at this point.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m older than you,” Tsurumaru bats back.

“My little brothers are also, technically, older than me,” Ichigo says calmly.

Soaking up the sweat down Tsurumaru’s collarbones, Ichigo has to lean in closer to make sure there isn’t any dirt left. “Well, well, you’ve always been everyone’s big brother. Even in our time in the Imperial Collection, right? This shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

“I was hoping you would grow up a bit,” Ichigo laughs. “But that would’ve been the greatest surprise.”

Tsurumaru pouts. “You’re trying to get to me with reverse psychology, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

Wagging his finger almost haughtily, Tsurumaru shakes his head while smirking. “I’ve seen you with your little brothers. You look harmless, but honestly, you’re the most dangerous sweet-talker around here. I know your tricks.”

Ichigo raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Without a doubt,” Tsurumaru says, taking his feet off the table and getting up. “It’s a good thing I’m not one of your little brothers, then.”

There’s no effort to stop him when Tsurumaru places a hand on Ichigo’s shoulder, pushing him back. Ichigo turns around to note that he’s about to hit the wall, which is exactly what Tsurumaru is going for--

--It’s too bad that someone wrenches the door open at that moment.

“There you are,” Ookurikara says, not even caring about what he might be interrupting. “The Toushirou told me you were here.”

“What?” Ichigo blinks, while Ookurikara marches in menacingly. “--Tsurumaru, is he talking to you? What did you do?”

Tsurumaru takes his hand off Ichigo’s shoulder, before cursing under his breath.

No bad influences allowed, indeed.

Chapter Text

School sucks for various reasons, and Tsurumaru will be very pleased if you give him the opportunity to explain why.

It’s a good thing that most people don’t give him that opportunity, then, because the only thing worse than Tsurumaru’s daily surprises is extended contact with him. Normally, he is a fleeting existence that makes itself known a few times a day, in the hallways or the classrooms. He arrives with the loud slam of a door, or a laugh that sends people frantically scattering to figure out what the hell he’s done this time.

His homeroom teacher, one Mikazuki Munechika, makes absolutely no effort in stopping him. “Just as long as he isn’t hurting anyone,” he hums, looking young enough but somehow sounding a little old. “It’s all in good fun, isn’t it?”

So, it is in good fun that Tsurumaru drags Mitsutada and Ookurikara into one of his new plans.

“So, Mitsutada,” Tsurumaru begins. Mitsutada is kind enough, and patient enough, to deal with Tsurumaru on a daily basis. “How about it?”

Ookurikara is the one who responds, by standing up. “Stupid. I’m going to the dorms.”

“Come on, Kuri-chan. It sounds cool,” Mitsutada says, and Ookurikara simply stands there. It takes a while for him to give up on scowling and sitting. “Besides, I have the keys to our room, so you’ll have to ask me first before going back.”

Tsurumaru sometimes wonders if his roommates knew each other even before high school, but he decides against asking today. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? To think that a prestigious school like this is full of mystery… but perhaps it’s not that much of a surprise. It has decades of history, after all.”

Opening his notebook, he points at a particular page. “Rumor has it, that when the clock strikes midnight and this school is plunged into darkness, past the bolted gates, you can see ghostly figures walking on the third storey… you can hear instruments playing in the dead of night--”

“The school band must have been staying back late that day,” Ookurikara reasons, shooting down the rumor. “The ghostly figures were probably them.”

“I don’t know what’s more scary. The idea of ghosts, or the Toushirous ever getting so tired that they look like ghosts,” Mitsutada adds on.

Tsurumaru waves his hand dismissively. “That’s not the point. There’s also another legend that, in the school library, roams a spirit of wisdom who only appears when the full moon shines through that big window above the ‘H’ section. If you lay your eyes on them, you will be gifted with intelligence beyond measure. But if you look into their eyes, your head will go blank, and all your memories--”

He raises his hand, clapping them in front of Ookurikara’s face, and since he wasn’t really paying attention, he jerks back in surprise. “Poof! Haha, you look surprised.”

“And since the full moon is tonight, you want to see if it’s true,” Mitsutada finishes for Tsurumaru. “If you want help revising for the exam next week, Tsurumaru, you can just ask me.”

“It’s not about that,” Tsurumaru reassures, and it’s half of a lie. “But come on. We live in the dorms right next to school! It’ll be easy to just climb on top of the gate. No one will be inside, anyway. We won’t steal anything, either. The most we’d get is a slap on the wrist if we’re caught for some reason.”

Mitsutada leans back on his chair. “If we’re caught by a person,” he says, almost like he’s teasing the two of them. “Now, if we were caught by a ghost…”

“We won’t, because they don’t exist,” Ookurikara deadpans.

Tsurumaru’s eyes seem to twinkle. (Right, that’s the sign that they should probably run, really quickly.) “Ohhh, Kuri-chan! If you’re scared of ghosts, you could’ve just told us. We don’t need to come along--”

“Don’t call me that,” he hisses, before standing up. “I’ll go alone and prove they aren’t real.”

Well, that was easy.

“Don’t go alone,” Mitsutada chides. “What if you really get caught by someone? Or something? If anything happens, no one will be there to help you.”

“Nothing will happen.”

---

Mitsutada would probably say something like This place is a lot creepier at night now, but being scared of a few shadows wouldn’t be cool at all. So he walks along the corridors with Tsurumaru and Ookurikara, keeping a smile on his face.

“See? Nothing,” Ookurikara says at they open the library doors. It’s completely dark, and Mitsutada flicks on the flashlight.

“That’s because we haven’t walked to the large window yet,” Tsurumaru retorts. “It’s right in the middle of this huge library. If the spirit is there, I’m going to find them before the moon moves away from the window!”

And just like that, Tsurumaru runs ahead. “Wait, Tsurumaru--!”

“Race me, Mitsutada!” But Mitsutada doesn’t, mostly because his bangs, while cool, kind of cover his right eye entirely. Of course, sweeping them to the side to maximise visibility even in the dark is a no-no.

(In his defense, if he was a few years younger, he’d literally be a chuunibyou.)

“Where did he go? Hey, Tsurumaru!” Mitsutada starts calling out into the darkness, weaving his way through the bookshelves. “He shouldn’t run away like that. What if he slams into something? Hey, Kuri-chan, take my hand.”

Silence.

Ookurikara blinks. “I am not scared--”

“Just to make sure I don’t lose you,” Mitsutada reasons. Ookurikara, in protest, decides to simply stop moving completely.

Mitsutada turns around. “Come on, Kuri-chan.”

“Stop calling me that,” he says belatedly. His hands hang limply by this side as he looks around. “This was a terrible idea. I’m going back.”

“--Not when we’re already here. Hey, Kuri-chan!” He reaches out to take Ookurikara’s hand, only to be wrenched away. “Tsurumaru? Can you--”

“WHOA!”

That doesn’t sound good.

Tsurumaru’s yell manages to catch Ookurikara’s attention, at least. He follows Mitsutada when he breaks into a run-- so much for walking slowly, right-- towards where the window should be. “Tsurumaru! What’s wrong?!”

There’s no answer, but Mitsutada can hear something moving in the darkness. He turns around--

The full moon shines through the window.

Standing below the shining moonlight is someone clad entirely in white.

Mitsutada stops in his tracks to stare at the figure’s back, almost in awe. He almost doesn’t react when they begin to turn around, feet twirling, clothes almost glowing, and face looking up from the ground to--

“MITSUTADA!”

Ookurikara immediately slaps his hand over Mitsutada’s eyes to make sure he doesn’t get his memory wiped. But in doing so, he looks right at the spirit’s eyes, and--

Hold on a minute, he knows that face.

“...Tsurumaru,” Ookurikara hisses, “I’m going to smash you against the wall.”

“Ahaha! Sorry, sorry, did I actually scare you?” Tsurumaru pulls off his white jacket, slinging it over his shoulder. “But you should’ve really seen your face! Your eyes just went all wide!”

Mitsutada takes Ookurikara’s hand off his face. “Being pranked like this… it isn’t cool at all.”

“And you moved so quickly to cover Mitsutada’s face, too,” Tsurumaru teases further. “So you really do care!”

Ookurikara marches forward. “Prepare your face. I’m introducing it to the bookshelf.”

“Hey, hey, calm down--”

The library door screeches open, and everyone’s voices die in their throats.

Tsurumaru stands completely still, face frozen in an uncomfortable uh oh while Mitsutada puts himself in front of Ookurikara, this time. The library is on the third storey, Tsurumaru dimly notes, while footsteps resound through the library--

“Is there,” Mitsutada begins, “another exit out of here other than the entrance?”

“We can jump out through the window,” Tsurumaru suggests.

“An exit that won’t leave us haunting this place either,” Ookurikara hisses, and the footsteps are only coming closer. “To the storeroom! We should--”

Mikazuki’s head pops up from behind the bookcases. “Hmm? What are you youngsters doing here?”

Tsurumaru breathes a sigh of relief, one which he didn’t know he was holding. “Oh, it’s just you, Mr. Munechika. ...Er, we were--”

“Checking,” Mitsutada tries to cover up. “For… books.”

Ookurikara places his face in his hands.

Right, this isn’t going their way.

Tsurumaru decides to try relying on Mikazuki’s everlasting patience, instead. He seems easygoing enough, gentle smile even though they’re kind of trespassing. “Well, we didn’t steal anything,” Tsurumaru says, trying to walk past his homeroom teacher. “If you don’t believe us, you can search our-- hey, why are you even here so late, anyway?”

“Marking assignments,” Mikazuki says, and his smile doesn’t change. “Some students don’t turn their work in on time, so my schedule can be a bit haphazard. I heard something from here, so I decided to check it out.”

Tsurumaru nods slowly, and he makes it all the way to Mikazuki’s side. Mitsutada and Ookurikara, seeing that Mikazuki doesn’t seem to angry, follow Tsurumaru’s lead. “Sorry for disturbing your marking, then. It’s late, we’ll be going--”

Mikazuki suddenly stops Tsurumaru by slamming the bookshelf in front of him, cornering him.

Tsurumaru stops in his tracks immediately, face falling and jaw threatening to hang loose. Mikazuki’s still smiling, though. Mitsutada and Ookurikara back off immediately.

“Now,” Mikazuki begins, and his hand is still right next to Tsurumaru’s head, pressing onto the wooden bookshelf and keeping Tsurumaru from moving away. “I do have to make sure you haven’t taken anything. Please overturn your pockets.”

“...Right,” Tsurumaru says simply, quickly doing as Mikazuki instructed.

“Ahahah, it looks like I’ve surprised you,” Mikazuki hums. Mitsutada and Ookurikara overturn their pockets as well. “Well, you three are all young. I can excuse a little hot-blooded escapade.”

The way he phrases it makes the situation sound even more dubious than it already is. Tsurumaru’s convinced it’s probably on purpose.

“Don’t let me catch you here again. It's dangerous to be out here at night. If anything happens, no one may be around to do anything,” Mikazuki warns. “Or, if you really have to, invite a teacher along to supervise. I would be more than free to.”

Tsurumaru nods quickly, as Mikazuki finally lets go of the wall. Wonder how long they just stood there, like that--? “It won’t happen again, okay? Right, I’m not lying, don’t smile like that! I can give surprises without going against my words.”

“Very well,” Mikazuki says, and he steps away to let them all leave. “I’ll unlock the front gate for you three.”

“Thank you, Mr. Munechika,” Mitsutada says, the only one with enough sense to actually bow in gratitude that they aren’t being handed over to the police station or something. He taps Ookurikara on the back, and he reluctantly follows the gesture.

---

When they’re back in the dorms, Ookurikara finally says-- “What the hell was up with that?”

“I have no idea,” Tsurumaru says honestly, splashing his face with water. “That was the biggest surprise I’ve ever gotten.”

Chapter Text

His memories are in a blur.

(he is used to that)

Then, he remembers.

(he isn’t used to that)

They coil around his arm, leaving him unable to struggle free. His sword is inches away from his feet, but he can’t move, he can’t retrieve it, even though his mind is filling with desperation that he hasn’t felt--

Ever. Because he can’t remember if he’s ever felt this way before.

“Honebami Toushirou.”

They left him alive for a reason. They left him, battered and bleeding and everything aches for a reason. He can see his sword-- himself, lying on the floor, flames almost about to touch it.

He can’t scream.

“We have something to ask of you.”

He doesn’t know if he actually says anything. But his emotions are more than enough, and perhaps he can scream, because he’s screaming and screaming out of nowhere that he’ll never listen, that they can’t make him defect, with absolutely none of the apathy he’s been so accustomed to.

(not until recently)

And he doesn’t realize he’s screaming, perhaps because the pain is wracking through him, he’s barely awake but he’s still awake, and he’s almost observing this from a higher plane. Because that’s where he’ll be.

(that’s where he should be)

“Our request is simple.”

The worst thing is, Honebami knows exactly what they’re going to offer and why they’re offering it to him of all people.

He knows.

He knows, he knows how much he wants to change-- change it, not change himself, there’s no use changing himself (is there?). But somehow, somewhere in his bones that ignited in flames and burnt away, there’s something that prevents him from saying yes.

Because he wants to change it--

But he doesn’t want to be a traitor.

(When was he ever aligned to people who dragged him into the living realm, without memories, nothing but an empty shell of fire?)

He wants to. He doesn’t want to. No, he doesn’t want to, not at all, because he remembers (remembers!) the last time they had dinner in the Citadel before that fated sortie early in the morning of 2205.

And before they turned back time, before everything fell into place and he fell out of place and out of formation and they are all screaming his name--

---

“Here, take more of this.”

Midare puts more mutton on Honebami’s plate.

The reaction comes in three different phases. First, a half-attentive nod, then a cursory glance, then the actual action of tilting his head up to look at Midare.

“I have enough food.”

Midare doesn’t to seem to listen (as if he’s not there, as if he’s nothing but a faded memory), putting even more. “But you have a sortie tomorrow, right? And I’ve seen you eat mutton the fastest out of everything else!”

Perhaps if Honebami actually knew it wasn’t normal to know how quickly someone ate something, he’d have more of a protest on his lips rather than-- “Why do you care.”

“Because we’re brothers!”

And on that day, Honebami remembers those words. He eats the mutton and realizes he remembers its taste, and in the morning, he remembers the taste without actually tasting it.

Yes, he remembers the taste when Midare packs mutton into a box and hands it to him with a smile he can’t imitate, and that’s why he decides to bring it along.

“Wreak havoc on them, brother.”

He remembers nodding.

---

It drips.

It drips, but he doesn’t care.

The tap in his room keeps dripping down and it keeps him awake at night, but it doesn’t matter, except that it does, in the night where he remembers it’s broken and he imagines himself as one of those water droplets, dripping down into the sink and disappearing--

“Hm? Is your tap broken?”

Mikazuki says it out of nowhere, it is not the night, the darkness has not settled in and they are still tending to the horses. “I keep hearing something dripping at night. We’ve checked every place but your room.”

“...My tap is broken, yes.”

“Alright, I’ll tell Master. Someone will fix it. Don’t be afraid to tell us if anything else is broken.”

But there’s so much they just won’t be able to fix--

“Sigh.”

The tap does not drip at night, that much he remembers. And so he falls asleep thinking not of the wasted water that falls into the sink, but instead thinking of pretty eyes on horses and how they became prettier if Mikazuki brushed their hair in a certain way.

He falls asleep with his hand still twitching, practicing that brushing in his dreams, exactly like how Mikazuki taught him.

---

“How is it like?”

Honebami only spares Souza a few seconds of staring before turning his head away.

Souza doesn’t pursue further, and they both walk in opposite directions.

(But he’s the person who remembers-- remembers Honebami being there, when he burned, when they both burned, flames lapping them up like the delicacies they are--)

“Ah, I remember. Namazuo said he wanted to speak with you.”

(And Honebami will never know he remembers, but he does, and that is why Souza wills himself to raise his arm a little higher when his comrade is torn away from their formation by the enemy.

For a moment, the black blemish that the Demon King left on him-- it doesn’t bother him the most right then.

“How is it like, not to remember the pain?”)

---

And then, absolutely nothing is a blur.

Namazuo packs mutton as well, but with a sauce that he knows Honebami will like (how? why do they care--). His tap is not broken, and his room is spotless, and everything is in place. He does not hold back on his words, does not dither and sigh and act so resigned instead of apathetic.

No, he is none of those. That much, Honebami remembers.

“We’ll do whatever you want to do today!”

And they brush the hair of his favorite horse, because he remembers that it has a white spot under its left eye, and Namazuo jokes around about topics he does not quite understand, but he appreciates--

Horses have pretty eyes, and some people have prettier smiles.

He dreams. They both dream, but Namazuo, he never talks about them, but he knows he dreams, because when the moon is hanging in the sky like how the roof over their head hangs off the building supports with the illusion that it’s infallibly stable, he stirs. His fingers twitch and his legs move and says things, things Namazuo will not remember in the morning but Honebami does.

Honebami has begun to sleep, more and more. Staying up for several days and blacking out for the time is absolutely not an option, and he decides against protesting when all his brothers look at him in what he remembers as worry. “I’ll remember not to,” he finally says, and this time, he means it.

And just in case he didn’t, well, Namazuo makes sure he means it.

Makes sure, present tense, because this isn’t just a memory and it’s not just the ramblings of a mad man before he gets hanged up at the gallows (like the moon in the sky--). It’s real. Honebami knows it’s real, knows that the dreams of fire swallowing every part of him till there is not real and not in the present. But when he awakens, the fire ironically leaving him cold and terrified, Namazuo stirs next to him.

That jolts his memory, and Namazuo, who is so so real apart from the fires that felt so so real is warmer in a way that scalding heat is not.

“Don’t be silly, of course I care about you.”

He remembers those words.

Because we are brothers?

“No, because I love you.”

--And he wants him to be happy. Forget the fires, forget the past. They don’t matter. He needs to be happy, in the present, where it’s real.

He is happy--

No, he was happy.

And that’s why he doesn’t want to be a traitor.

I know of a man who loves me--

---

“It doesn’t have to be for you.”

The shadows whisper his name. His name, as in, not just Honebami-- how dare they, how--

“You have a chance and the power. Change the past and give back his memories too.”

Silence.

“Don’t you love him?”

...Yes. Honebami cannot ever forget that.

The shadows finally let go and he falls, onto the ground with his blade in arm’s reach. It doesn’t hurt.

They let him go because they know they don’t need to restrain him for any longer.

He-- no. Not-- he’s already forgotten his name.

The shadows cloud his mind, but there is one thing he remembers.

--Namazuo. I will not forget that.

“I am in your service.”

(In hindsight, Honebami should have known that his former comrades would make sure he never succeeded.

But those in love never know better.)

---

The shadows whisper his name. His name, as in, not just Namazuo-- how dare they, how--

“Don’t you wish you could take his place instead?”

(In hindsight, Namazuo should have known that his former comrades would make sure he never succeeded.

But those in love never know better.)

Chapter Text

In a time of peace, peace bordering on death, letting people who are skilled in fighting simply roam the streets is never a good idea.

Which is why the Shinsengumi was formed, but of course, the founding members wouldn’t say it that way. Souji Okita is a prodigy, a genius in his art, and it will be used in ending crime across the streets. Or so is advertised, but what is life without a little false flagging? The founding members were close, all to some extent-- it would be hard to know everyone, once the group expanded (beyond control, some would say). But for a while, everyone knew each other.

It was so easy, back then. All that had to be penned was a written letter, asking for permission to police Kyoto. The moment permission was obtained, the streets were now free reign.

And the only murderers that remained were the Shinsengumi.

But Yamato no Kami Yasusada is not the judge, or the condemner, of these actions. He is not the mute angel, the observer who can do nothing but cry-- he does none of those things.

He is, in fact, very quiet. He does not actually speak unless spoken to, and he is perfectly alright with sitting in the silence. He is perfectly alright with watching, waiting, as the sun makes leagues over the sky.

He is perfectly alright with anything Souji Okita does.

It is the actions of others which make him stop and think. The excuse of He is my master can only be applied to one person, and they are not quite human enough, to form a moral compass of their own. So, they simply take the one their master has, because it is the only one they need.

Perhaps it is Okita’s fault, then, that he was too close to a certain Yamanami Keisuke. That Kashuu and Yasusada alike could see that they acted like brothers, like family, at the dojo they were enrolled in-- they were all one family, then, Kondou as the son of the instructor, Hijikata enrolling quite a bit later, and Why can’t we be like them, Kashuu would pout, only to be dismissed with a sheepish laugh.

Because we’re not human, Yasusada replies, and it makes perfect sense to him. This is the happiest he’s ever been, with a young master with so much skill that he will definitely live a long life of prestige.

I want to be human, Kashuu says later, and perhaps it is a joke. Perhaps it isn’t.

There are many things that begin with a ‘perhaps’. Yes, perhaps it is Okita’s fault, when Yasusada hears Yamanami speak of Hijikata in a distasteful light. Perhaps it is Okita’s fault that Yasusada agrees as Yamanami says that maybe, just maybe, the commander of the Shinsengumi and the second vice-commander are stepping out of line. Perhaps it is Okita’s fault that when news spread of the second-in-command of the Shinsengumi defecting, Yasusada immediately remembers that the second-in-command is named ‘Yamanami Keisuke’ and immediately fears the same thing as Okita fears.

Like swordfighting, death is an art. It takes more skill to leave part of the head will attached to the body compared to slicing through the neck completely. And Souji Okita, the prodigy of the Tennen Rishin-ryū, is definitely skilful enough for that.

So, when he acts as the second to Yamanami’s seppuku, he does it perfectly.

Yasusada is the one he holds in his hands, because Kashuu is already gone, by then.

When he bites into Yamanami’s neck, it is an act of mercy, not violence. It is a kind of strike Yasusada has never felt before, and he isn’t sure how to feel about it. But perhaps humans are not so different compared to swords, after all, because both Yasusada and Okita have lost someone they would call a brother.

Maybe.

With that in mind, it is definitely Souji Okita’s fault that Yasusada feels a strong bitterness in his mouth when Hijikata Toshizou takes the role of second-in-command after the death of Yamanami. Yamanami looked upon Kondou and Hijikata’s actions with such disdain that he would choose death, because he simply could not serve the Shinsengumi any longer with good conscience. And with that death, Okita has blood on his hands that he never wanted there.

Everything is kind of their master’s faults. The point is, though, Yasusada doesn’t look Horikawa Kunihiro in the face when he arrives. Izumi no Kami Kanesada is also no exception.

---

There was another encounter, before the saniwa’s time. Yasusada stands outside the forge, and when Horikawa walks by, his first reaction is to grab him by the collar.

“You were there,” Yasusada hisses. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

“Yamato no Kami Yasusada, calm down.” Horikawa answers him while placing a hand on Yasusada’s gripping fist far too gently. It’s a gentleness that infuriates him further. Horikawa turns to the door of the forge. “Kane-san and I arrived as the second wave of defenders. How’s Kashuu?”

The answer should be obvious enough, with how Yasusada’s grip tightens. “He’s irreparable.”

There’s a multitude of other things Yasusada reveals with that sentence. Such as, he’s already dead, if he wasn’t I’d be inside right now. Or Horikawa Kunihiro, you were the other sword drawn at that one moment-- I was sheathed by Okita’s hip and I couldn’t do anything-- but you could, somehow, there is--

“I’m sorry,” Horikawa says, and it’s not enough. “I know grief eats at your heart. But--”

Yasusada cuts Horikawa off by tossing his arm downwards and slamming him against the floor. It’s done with enough force to make it hurt, and even though their human bodies are merely projections, Horikawa thinks he can hear his head crack. At that moment, Yasusada says something that makes no sense, and yet explains a lot. “I don’t have a heart. I’m a sword.”

Horikawa places a hand on his face. Yasusada thinks he’s trying to check for injuries, but he’s really just trying to calm himself down. Horikawa mouths don’t get angry, don’t get angry like it’s an anthem. They both stay still, eyes meeting but never quite addressing each other. Yasusada breaks the silence again.

“It’s because your master doesn’t like my master, isn’t it?”

Horikawa shakes his head. “My master wouldn’t let emotions get in the way.”

Yasusada closes his eyes, before clicking his tongue as if he’s in disbelief. “...Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Horikawa replies, and he gets up with his palms drawing blood. There’s even a comforting smile on his face. “If you want to talk about anything, you can come to Kane-san and I, alright? Even Nagasone, if he isn’t busy. You don’t have to suffer on your own.”

Yasusada will not be the only person to misses Kashuu. Does he even miss Kashuu that much? After all, Yasusada was a later purchase. And unlike Izumi no Kami Kanesada, who was made in Horikawa’s image, he does not have any innate connection to Kashuu. He didn’t spend as much time as everyone else, growing up with Okita, with the others at the dojo--

(But Yasusada is the happiest he ever was, right here. In the Shinsengumi. When they were still a simple police force. He didn’t grow up with Okita, but this is the first time a master has truly loved him and could even use him. He was sold cheaply, but he feels like a treasure.)

“I’ll,” Yasusada breathes, “be fine.”

He turns away from the Horikawa who is still smiling, and just like that, they never speak again.

(Every time the thought graces his mind, Yasusada remembers the taste of Yamanami’s neck and decides against it.)

---

It’s easier to speak to Nagasone, because he is defined more by the fact that he is a Kotetsu (how ironic) compared to the fact that he was Kondou’s. But once he says Perhaps you should spar with Kanesada some time, Yasusada actually begins to acknowledge the emotions a sword shouldn’t have. They are not the judges of anything and they should not be, it’s not what they are made for--

Yasusada sucks it up and walks right up to Kanesada once Nagasone suggests that.

“You,” Yasusada says, and it’s kind of the first thing he’s said to Kanesada. “Spar with me.”

“What? What’s this sudden change of heart?” Kanesada also proves that he’s a little more observant than he comes off as. That he actually has his own pair of eyes, other than Horikawa. Which is a revelation in its own, but whatever.

Kanesada doesn’t complain. He grabs a training sword, slicking his hair back.

“Let’s not make that haori looks bad,” Kanesada says, and suddenly, the clothes around Yasusada’s shoulders seem to drag him down that much more.

He takes a stance anyway. “Even without cause, I’ll strike magnificently.”

The thing is, though, Yasusada kind of has a cause.

Their masters were not friends, and when Yasusada breaks into a run, Kanesada decides that spar or not, this is a fight he can’t afford to get caught unprepared in.

---

“Huh-huh,” Kanesada breathes. The sunlight shines off his sword, his real sword, and he flicks the dead Retrograding Army unit off him. “You’re not bad at all.”

Yasusada’s hair is undone, now, and if he was human, maybe he’d be a getting a sunburn. He takes the time to seethe through his teeth, to drag the bloodthirstiness out of himself.

“I’ll return those words to you,” he mutters, looking around. Atsukashiyama is a place of legend, in their time, a place where grand battles were still fought on horseback and the tragic hero Minamoto no Yoshitsune ended his life. It is a place where they should not hear gunshots, but they do, and it only makes the both of them hate that sound even more.

(Also, they need to get Yoshiyuki to shut the fuck up about his gun. His various guns. It’s bad enough with swords, goddammit--)

Speaking of gunshots, he just heard them again.

Yasusada is quicker on his feet, but he’s also lost his armor, and the haori which he’s so proud of begins to slip off his shoulders-- but he still runs, still breathes and still overexerts himself, perhaps a little too much like how Okita did. (It’s his fault, that Yasusada’s this way.)

It should be no surprise, then, that he is targeted first. Doutanuki yells at him to stay in position, Jiroutachi howls something while sounding far too sober and Yasusada hits the enemy oodachi, head-on. The strike is perfect. Okita’s strikes are always perfect.

But it isn’t enough to kill it.

Now, Kanesada, grabbing Yasusada’s bare back and shoving him aside-- that’s the real surprise here.

It happens, without Yasusada thinking about it. It happens without Kanesada thinking about it either, because all he can see is his squadmate, someone from his past in some shape or form, at the receiving end of an oodachi blade which is far too wide-- an oodachi’s swing is wide, but everyone else converges as well.

Ironically, it is Yasusada who walks out unscathed. (From that particular encounter, at least. Can’t say that for the maps beforehand.)

“Kanesada!” Yasusada almost calls him Kane-san, funnily enough, because even if he tries to avoid Horikawa’s cheers and glances, it is hard to block out his voice. “Are you alright? Why did you do that?”

It takes the blood of a comrade to snap Yasusada out of that trance he goes into, when he spots the enemy. Kanesada isn’t hurt that badly, but there is a gash across his chest and across the metal of his sword, straight across the hamon and holy shit it looks like it hurts. Doutanuki toughs it out and destroys the oodachi-- the battle ends when Hotarumaru and Jirou wipe out the rest.

“Don’t use that move,” Kanesada says, ignoring Yasusada’s question as well as the pain. It doesn’t hurt that much. --He won’t show weakness. “It’s for close-quarters fighting. You have to slash with all your might on the open battlefield, not just precision.”

But slashing with all your might is how swords chip and break, Yasusada wants to argue. But there’s no room for argument here. Technology is better now, and even the saniwa has spiritual powers beyond any of their masters. (Though, perhaps Shishiou had a master like that, too. A true demon-slayer.) Any break can be fixed, as long as their souls remain intact. Any wound can be healed.

As long as Yasusada doesn’t break in half in the worst possible place, things will be fine.

“Okay,” Yasusada says. “I’ll try.”

But he doesn’t. Not really.

When they all get back to the Citadel and Kanesada slumps over the sofa, his hair goes everywhere. Horikawa stands over him, rubbing something into his wounds while he complains. For a brief moment, he looks up, only to find Yasusada staring.

Their eyes meet for the first time in a few centuries. Kashuu walks by, not quite sensing the sudden tension, and greets all of them-- Yasusada only turns around and leaves.

Kashuu crosses his arms. “What’s with him?”

“Maybe it was a rough sortie,” Horikawa reasons, even though he knows that’s not entirely the truth. (Kashuu doesn’t need more reason to feel horrid over how his first life ended.) “Right, Kane-san?”

“Eh? Right, right,” he replies, before wincing. “Oi, not there--!”

---

Dying is not the worst thing that can happen. The worst thing is how they stay dead.

Yasusada might be injured, but he’s not the most heavily injured. Still, though, that means the damage on his clothes won’t fix itself. He’d most likely have to wait, probably overnight and extending into tomorrow afternoon, for a chance to be tended to.

He takes off the Shinsengumi cloak and lays it out on his bed. Kashuu bandaged him while he sat in relative silence-- Heeey, Horikawa said you missed me a lot, is that true? Sorry, sorry. I won’t leave again.

And, perhaps Yasusada is a bit too truthful at times, because he just shook his head with a smile. It’s fine if you leave. You can come back, after all.

Kashuu pinched Yasusada’s shoulder and made him wince. What? Are you saying it’s fine if I die?

In all honesty, it’s fine if Kashuu dies again. Because swords are objects, spirits which the saniwa can call on again and again and again. He can come back. He’s not like Souji Okita. (And even if he was, Yasusada doesn’t care that much. He’s not supposed to care that much. They’re made to take life, even if they were meant to protect others as well.)

Yes, the worst thing about dying is how they stay dead. Yasusada looks at his torn clothes, and decides he can’t possibly sleep with them this damaged.

His hands are trembling a little, and as he nabs a needle, he realizes he doesn’t really know how to go about this. These clothes are part of his human representation, yes, and they’ll be fixed once he is-- but he doesn’t like it, as it is now. Maybe he shouldn’t wear the Shinsengumi cloak, because there are too many things associated with the image of a tattered one.

This should be easy. It’s just a jacket with sleeves. But when the needles hovers close to the torn fabric, Yasusada thinks that maybe this thread isn’t the same blue or is this really where I’m supposed to sew it? Whenever the needle actually weaves its way through the cloth, Yasusada’s fingers sometimes fail him, sewing through the wrong folds or even through to the other side of the cloth. They’re lethargic, tired from the fighting and from the injuries, but Yasusada just cuts away at the thread and tries again.

The Citadel sits, somewhere between the future and the past, somewhere close to 2205, and yet there are no modern lights installed. There can be, but for the sake of familiarity, most protest. That’s why he ends up sewing by the candlelight instead, when the sun goes down and he politely turns down Horikawa’s call for dinner. (Why is Horikawa calling him? He didn’t mean to make eye contact. Look, it’s just--)

While he’s distracted by his own thoughts, the sleeve graces over the candlewax. Yasusada winces because of course this would happen and he quickly pulls it away, snuffing out the flames and removing the sticky wax with his bear hands.

“Ow, ow.” It burns his palms, but what burns a little more is how there’s a black smudge left on where it should be white. He wasn’t made for sentimentalities like this. He’s a sword. He shouldn’t be trying this-- or even bothered by the sight. He’s a sword and he’s not supposed to have a heart.

Having a heart gets in the way.

(Of course, he still doesn’t understand why he shies away from the saniwa’s praises. He’s a sword, and he has a new master. Yasusada is blooming under the saniwa, because he can control himself, with all the grace Souji Okita once had.

--Oh, that’s right. Maybe that’s why he shies away. But he is a sword, and he refuses to acknowledge this.)

“Hey, why aren’t you-- oi, are you okay?”

Yasusada only registers what’s happening when Kanesada grabs his wrist. His thumb pushes Yasusada’s fingers away so he can see his palm, and all of the sudden, Yasusada realizes Kanesada is kind of leaning too close to his shoulder. The burn on Yasusada’s skin is obvious, and Kanesada doesn’t waste any time in surveying the damage. It’s a good thing Yasusada still wears clothes under the cloak and armor, but still--

“...Huh? Why are you here?” Yasusada doesn’t force his hand away, but it does squirm a little.

Kanesada’s eyes narrow. “To fetch you for dinner. What the hell are you doing, anyway? What’s with that needle? Why is your hand burnt?”

“I was sewing,” Yasusada answers. There’s no merit in lying. “I accidentally came too close to the fire.”

Kanesada takes a look before grabbing the haori on Yasusada’s lap. This is the first time they’re speaking so amicably outside the battlefield, or even speaking at all outside of fighting. Or maybe it’s not the first time, but-- it’s been so long. Souji Okita was forgotten in the dust as the Boshin War raged on.

(He remembers the taste of Yamanami’s neck, and his wrist locks up instead of struggling further.)

“Sewing?” Kanesada sounds incredulous. “You do know it’ll just fix itself once you’re healed, right?”

“I don’t want to see it this way,” he says, and as usual, he’s a bit too honest. He’s a sword, but he clings to memories, and that is a human right. Not his. What else can he say, though?

Kanesada lets go of his wrist. “Your hands are injured. Why are you sewing?”

Without wasting another second, though, Kanesada suddenly puts the haori in front of his face to look at it. “And you do know how a sleeve works, right? You’re not supposed to just sew it back like this.”

Yasusada simply blinks at the questions. “...Then, how do I do it?”

Even if they don’t speak, Kanesada’s own memories of the Shinsengumi are irrevocable. He can visualize the final product just as well as Yasusada can. In fact--

He slips the Shinsengumi cloak off his shoulders. “See? Like this.”

Yasusada holds the needles tentatively. “Is that so? Thank you. I’ll try my best.”

“Or you could go down to eat,” Kanesada mutters, and he almost sounds like he’s whining. “Are you seriously going to stay here till you fix this?”

“That’s right,” Yasusada answers, and he turns the sleeve inside-out to try working on it again.

Kanesada points at his arm. “You know, I did mention your hands are injured. How do you expect to work like this? ...You’re seriously going to do it. Stop, you still don’t get how to put it back together. You know what, just let me do it!”

He snatches the needles out of Yasusada’s hands, and that was probably kind of dangerous. Yasusada only tilts his head, though. “Your hands are injured too, though.”

“Shut up, at least I know what I’m doing,” Kanesada retorts. “Go dip your hand in cold water. Get an icepack or something. Your skin should grow back quickly enough. Or go and eat, since that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

Yasusada doesn’t move for a while. Instead, his eyes flit down to Kanesada’s bandaged arms. Horikawa tended to them, obviously, but are swords, not physicians. There’s some swelling under the bandage, and since they’re both waiting on Jiroutachi to be fixed first, well…

After a moment, Yasusada gets up and leaves. Kanesada makes some noise of annoyance while he continues slaving away by candlelight. There’s a faint mutter of why the hell am I doing this before he sighs.

He doesn’t realize that Yasusada comes back until there’s a sudden icy chill on his arm.

“What--?” It’s a good thing he doesn’t punch the source out of surprise, because it’s Yasusada. He’s holding an icepack in his burnt hand, and pressing it against the swelling on Kanesada. “What do you think you’re doing? I almost hit you!”

Yasusada blinks. “It’s a good thing you didn’t. I wouldn’t really want to be hit by you,” he says, before his eyes fall down to his haori. “I saw your fingers were twitching, so I thought your arm might still hurt…”

“So your solution is just to press an icepack against it?”

There’s something of a silence as Yasusada searches his mind for an answer. “You’re sewing for me, so…”

“You’re hopeless,” Kanesada quickly says. “But, whatever. Thanks, kid. I guess.”

And that sentence is what makes Yasusada smile in amusement. “I’m older than you.”

“You don’t look older,” Kanesada bats back.

“But we’re not human. Actually, aren’t you the youngest one--”

Kanesada elbows Yasusada. “Ouch! I was just pointing it out…”

---

In the end, they both give up and get Horikawa to fix it.

Kashuu turns out to be pretty good at sewing himself. He fixes his own clothes after sortie as well-- even if it’s for a different reasons than sentimentality. They’re all sitting on one room-- also a first, in a few centuries-- and Kashuu works on one side while Horikawa sews up the other.

“Honestly,” Kashuu finally says, plucking apart the mess Yasusada and Kanesada have both created. “Why didn’t you just go down to eat?”

“I wasn’t hungry,” Yasusada hums, but at least there’s food in front of him now.

Kashuu rolls his eyes, before looking at Yasusada. “And when would you have been hungry?”

“When I was done fixing the haori,” Yasusada continues to answer.

Kanesada covers half of his face with his hands. “At this rate, you would’ve never been done!”

Horikawa laughs while Kashuu continues on with his annoyance. The icepack is now being pressed to the fabric in an attempt to get the burn mark removed. “You’re both terrible at this. Jeez~ why didn’t you just ask for help? Maybe if you, like, talked more, then you’d have more friends, Yasusada.”

Yasusada swallows his food before answering. “I don’t really care if I don’t have many friends, Kashuu.”

He’s a sword, and he’s not supposed to care. He works for his master, the saniwa, and everything else is just intermediate matters.

(Even though he cares too much, and that’s why they’re even here in the first place.)

“Well, we’re all together now, right?” Horikawa smiles, and he doesn’t look angry at all for being put to work. “You don’t have to worry about Yasusada so much, Kashuu! We’ll take care of him too.”

“I’m not that worried,” he quickly answers, before looking back at the haori.

It takes Kanesada a while to notice Yasusada’s stopped eating.

He’s staring off into space instead, when Kashuu’s distracted by Horikawa. Food has, once again, become the farthest thing in his mind, and there are too many things swimming in his head for him to even organize them. (Like how Kashuu is obsessed with his appearance, Yasusada is obsessed with-- the past? Souji Okita? Everything Souji Okita held dear? Should he embrace that, make it a part of him? Acknowledge that he is a sword, but he still hangs onto things long gone?

He doesn’t just hang onto them. They’re so natural that the name Souji Okita pounces to his mouth far too naturally, sometimes. He sees Kashuu fight, and he thinks of Okita. He sees the black cat that sometimes stroll on the Citadel walls, and he thinks of Okita. He sees the Sanjo Bridge and he thinks of Okita.

He’s supposed to be serving this new saniwa, but he’s so in love with memories of centuries past that he still smiles Souji Okita’s smile. He still fights for someone who is already dead, blood running with grief and violence. His other masters don’t matter. They didn’t bring him to life and use him with as much skill and care as Okita did. They found him difficult, cheap, and Yasusada isn’t supposed to feel some sort of resentment over that. But he does. Is the saniwa here the same? Are their spirits so easy to call upon that they’re simply disposable?

All these thoughts are swarming through his head, and maybe he should--)

“Eat,” Kanesada reminds, and he actually forces a spoonful of rice into Yasusada’s mouth to derail his train of thought. Yasusada bites down on the spoon in surprise, almost gagging on it, but eventually swallows the food anyway.

Once he does, he breathes and shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m just thinking…”

“About a lot of things?” Kanesada’s voice is laced with some degree of sarcasm. “If it’s that hard to think about alone, how about you just tell us about it?”

Our masters were not friends, Yasusada wants to say, but it seems that he’s swallowed his words along with the rice. Instead, he just smiles Souji Okita’s smile.

“Maybe another day,” Yasusada hums, before turning back to his food. “...Thank you all for helping me.”

“It’s not a problem,” Horikawa chirps back.

(Their masters were not friends, but they were all of the Shinsengumi.)

Chapter Text

Beauty lies in individuality.

Yamanbagiri hears You are beautiful and always expects a just like the real thing afterwards. It is meant as praise to his swordsmith, but swordsmiths are supposed to create breathtaking pieces, not expert duplications. He is Kunihiro’s first masterpiece, but he is also the copy of a sword which killed a mountain witch, and in the end, that is not what he chooses to place his beauty in.

The saniwa has stared. They have stared, but at least, they did not frown and say I wanted the real thing. Yamanbagiri is the real thing, his own real thing, and he breathes his own breaths, defeats his own opponents, picks his own rivals and there is nothing about him which is the same. He covers his face with his hood because his appearance is irrelevant. It is superficial, consequential of a shallow desire, and he will not allow himself to be defined by it.

“I am myself,” Yamanbagiri says. His beauty and his happiness does not lie in health or the way his eyes shine green like flitting hummingbirds, feathers shining for just a moment under the light of the sun before they disappear into the forests. He is himself, and it doesn’t really matter if he rots away or gets scarred. He looks at Ookurikara with his dragon tattoo running across his arms, or Mitsutada with one eye removed, and he wonders if it’s possible to have something like that for himself. Something special. Something to set him apart, something physical, tangible, not something subjective like battle efforts or personality. No matter how he acts, he will always be beautiful in the eyes of someone who only sees the original Yamanbagiri.

It makes him sick. This porcelain skin, shining green eyes, hair that has the color of dying leaves-- it makes him sick.

He tries, once. He watches the swordsmith in the Citadel work, and in the dead of night he takes his chisel and sees if he can try making something. Scars, burns, anything. He draws his sword, then sketches what he wants on the base, near the hilt. It doesn’t need to be expertly done. It just needs to exist.

He goes to a place in the courtyard where he thinks no one will work, and under the moonlight, he etches into the metal and it hurts. It is not unlike tearing yourself open, exposing your flesh to the fire, ripping your skin and bones apart and Yamanbagiri cannot see well, not under the moonlight, this is not like battle wounds because he doesn’t move to dodge but instead keeps on carving and everything is turning red and the moon is becoming less bright and everything is suddenly very painless, now, while he lies on the grass with his eyes wide open.

His right leg is practically torn open, and Yamanbagiri was wrong when he thought no one would find him, because Kashuu Kiyomitsu trains at night and hears the wails of pain he unintentionally utters. He finds Yamanbagiri and lets out something of a shriek as he goes to call the saniwa, and all Yamanbagiri can taste is disappointment when his consciousness clears up completely. The saniwa reverses Yamanbagiri’s carving with absolutely no problem at all.

It’s all very sickening.

“Sorry you have to have someone like me as your opponent,” he says to Hachisuka Kotetsu a while later.

“Time well spent is nice,” Hachisuka remarks in turn.

---

Beauty lies in authenticity.

Hachisuka is nothing short of beautiful. Even when he is injured, overworked, or (god forbid) covered in mud, he is still beautiful through and through. And because he is beautiful, he should be treated like a true work of art should be-- carefully. With awe. With admiration. With everything you would do around a decorated military commander, because he is decorated with Kotetsu’s name and a blade like him can snap bones with absolutely no effort.

The fact that he has to be appraised every time he passes hands is nothing but disrespectful.

“It'd be a problem if you assumed I was fake,” he says, but everyone does. He has a resplendent koshirae the color of gold and a cutting edge that would make warlords go weak in the knees (or neck). But he is scrutinized, scanned, taken apart every time because you cannot trust the signature alone. There are many fake Kotetsu swords.

They assume him to be a counterfeit. They assume him, made by Nagasone Kotetsu’s own two hands, to be a counterfeit, and it makes him sick. Instead of admiration, people laugh and joke that you must always assume a Kotetsu sword is fake until proven real! They are skeptical, honest-to-god skeptical whenever someone declares his authenticity, and they are doubtful about his beauty. They point out flaws that aren’t there-- see, the little waver in the hamon, an actual Kotetsu blade won’t have that-- the curvature is too much-- no, it’s too little-- and Hachisuka is beautiful, but no one else can see it.

He is real. He is so, so real that he reflects whatever people think an ‘actual Kotetsu blade’ is supposed to be like. He is graceful. He destroys without a second thought. He reiterates that he has a samurai’s right to kill, because he is on the top of the food chain and there are many others who are beneath him. He is smiling, always, reminding the saniwa he is real, always. He speaks of those who are fake, and his chest seethes with anger when the saniwa welcomes Nagasone into the Citadel despite that, because it is fakes like him who have stolen away his beauty from the eyes of every single beholder.

It is fakes like Nagasone, who even steals the name of Hachisuka’s swordsmith, that clouds the Kotetsu legacy. The Kotetsus are known for their power but are now more well-known for their notorious amount of fakes and--

It’s all very sickening.

“Thank you. Moreover, I feel as if I have become sharper.” But Hachisuka gives Yamanbagiri a bow, because Yamanbagiri is a duplicate, but he is not a fake. He was never made with the intention of stealing away the glory of the original. He was never made to pass off as real, and from the beginning, everyone knows that Yamanbagiri Kunihiro is simply a duplicate sword. That’s how fakes should be. Hachisuka looks upon Yamanbagiri, pitifully dragging his hood over his face, and decides that he is perfectly fine, because he knows that he is not authentic and not at all beautiful. Yamanbagiri is sensible.

“Well, I'm glad if I was of any help to you.” Yamanbagiri walks away, and Hachisuka is smiling, because Yamanbagiri treated him with the attitude all duplicates should hold towards him-- Yamanbagiri acknowledges that he is lower than Hachisuka. That’s why he apologizes, isn’t it?

Hachisuke passes by the hallways, beautifully golden koshirae in his hands. And then he walks by someone whose own Kasen-koshirae is much more famous than his.

---

Beauty lies in art.

Words are restricting. Yes, words are an art in themselves, but ‘art’ is also just one word. And it’s restricting, because Kasen knows art is so much more than one singular concept, one singular thing, one singular existence or form in a whole world of inelegance. Art is expansive, growing, evolving, dancing alongside the flow of time, and to simply rope all of it under one single word seems almost like a crime.

But illustrating entire universes of ideas in just a few words is art in itself. Kasen paints symbols on the paper, each stroke being dignified in its own right. Handwriting is important in expressing emotion, but he likes to go with an elegant and straightforward brush of ink rather than a messy clump. The strokes must also not be completely rigid-- symbols with corners should not turn down with an exact right angle. Everything is an art. The dog-ears of the page he’s writing on, the words he chooses, the ability to express what he needs to in a fixed format-- yes, this is an art. It is not actually that hard to produce art, if you put your mind to it. Of course, it takes skill and nurture to reach a point where art stops being ‘pretty’ and starts becoming beautiful.

Why, then, is there not a shred of elegance in sight now?

The enemy must come from somewhere. The Retrograding Army must have some other goal besides just going back through the past to mess things up a bit. They must be aiming for something in particular, a big gamble that has the whole timeline of the world as the bet. Their appearance is simply too symbolic, too sudden, too coincidental. They are simply too similar to the swords who are actually works of art-- taking the same stances, lamenting the same disasters. They must possess a kind of elegance-- one that would make Kasen feel sick, yes, but there must be rhythm in their actions, purpose to their wordlessness. There must be something else.

And yet, Kasen cuts them down without them revealing any depth to their mission. No documents. No last words. Just grunts and hisses as the fire of their life burns out. Kasen Kanesada is absolutely beautiful, and he is not afraid to claim out loud that he is a man of the arts. But he cannot find the answer. Nothing is ever as simple as ‘good or evil’, and ‘love or hate’. His own master slew thirty-six people and compared their running blood to the stream of ink running down the brushes of poets, so you cannot say that Hosokawa Tadaoki was a brute. Kasen is not a brute either. There are some concepts which cannot be explained with only one word.

So the Retrograding Army should not be so simple. There is something deeper, some reason for this war they're fighting. There must be something, anything, but Kasen looks for it and cannot find it.

It’s all very sickening.

“I'll teach you a lesson,” Kasen says to them one day, hoping to evoke some kind of response. But there is none, and his squadmate cuts the monster down in the next moment. It dies, just like that, with no depth to its character, no elegance to its motives.

“The gun is mightier than the sword, yeah!” Yoshiyuki blows the damn thing away.

---

Beauty lies in progress.

Yoshiyuki believes in no other answer. Maybe he believes in no other answer because his owner did not, the owner he will never forget, and Yoshiyuki is obviously influenced. But he does not reject this influence. It is a mark on him that will never leave, the one thing he will refuse to let go of, until perhaps the world itself demands him to. Until then, Yoshiyuki will not forget.

His master died for progress, and it is a death much more beautiful than those of samurai too bound by honor to try running away, to try living. But Yoshiyuki also doesn’t want to consider death in itself a beauty, so he doesn’t. The beauty is in what it represents.

Humanity evolves. It grows upon itself, changing, reliving and redefining. It is always supposed to grow, find new ideas, advance upon itself and beyond itself. People are funny and they are incredibly unpredictable, with the branches of their lives and their memories intermingling and subtly changing the world. The aforementioned world also has no place for those who try to slow it down. It will move on, without them, like how the entire world moved on without Japan.

“You asked me to go easy on you, but you were being serious there,” Kashuu begins. He doesn’t sound hostile, not really, but there’s some kind of hiss in his tone that’s been there for centuries. “This is why a reformist's sword is such a--”

“No no, it has nothing to do with my former master's grudge, right?” Yoshiyuki continues smiling at Kashuu, even though he clings onto the past like a parasite. Kashuu can’t let go, won’t let go, and it shows in how he dolls himself up and immediately tenses up around Yoshiyuki. It was reformist rounin that ended Kashuu’s first life, after all. He keeps living in the past while thinking he’s moving forward, when the only thing that’s changed is his fashion sense, and Yoshiyuki can’t even feel sickened. It’s just pathetic. Kashuu is pathetic, and he isn’t beautiful at all, only a dying reflection of people and concepts long outdated.

The other Shinsengumi swords are no better. Izumi no Kami Kanesada as well as Horikawa Kunihiro look at Yoshiyuki’s gun and then look away, as if they stare down upon sin. Yasusada keeps letting the name Souji Okita bounce to his lips, and while Yoshiyuki knows what it’s like to miss someone, thinking about them constantly is a different thing altogether. Nagasone falls into weakness, howling and practically screaming when the memory of Kondou Isami hits him head-on, and it takes Yoshiyuki to force him back into the present.

“Your former master was struck with a gun and won't come here. In this era, swords are replaced by guns.” Yoshiyuki’s voice is steady, crystal-clear.

In comparison, Nagasone is almost rabid. “That's… I know that even without you telling me!”

But do you? Yoshiyuki grips the gun in his hands. Do you really know? Do you really understand what it means to move on? Are you really protecting the past for the sake of the future? Do you realize that I should be the one screaming at you? I didn’t see my master’s killers, because everything was a blur and he didn’t manage to-- but I know, they said Kondou Isami was guilty. They said your master killed mine. Why are you the one who screams? Why? Why isn’t it me?

Or, rather, why was it me? Yoshiyuki shoots the gun in his hands, because when assassins broke into the room where Sakamoto Ryoma was, Sakamoto reached for Yoshiyuki. He didn’t reach for his gun. Yoshiyuki was not a weapon that has progressed with the times. Sakamoto reached for Yoshiyuki, and Sakamoto died because he could not defend himself.

Yoshiyuki stays calm when Nagasone yells, because he has no reason not to. He has moved on. He remembers, of course-- he will never forget. But fond memories of the past is not the sole reason he keeps breathing.

He doesn’t really care about being beautiful. But he does care about ushering in the new age, about protecting the future which his master and many others have died to bring. He will protect it, to the end.

Even if it makes him look sickening.

---

Beauty lies in--

“You are beautiful,” Kashuu says to himself, because there is no one who will say it to him. It is a simple deception, every single morning. He looks away from the mirror and to an empty space, then he pretends someone else is there, saying those exact three words. He imagines masters long gone, looking him in the eye with a satisfied smile. He imagines the saniwa, favoring him above all even though Kashuu knows he’s not anything special to them. He imagines Yasusada, even though he knows damn well Yasusada will never say that, simply because once upon a time, when they were all a little bit more innocent, perhaps he would have. Perhaps he did.

Kashuu breathes in powder like he breathes in blood-- he should gag on it, but he doesn’t, because he’s simply too used to the smell. He is impeccable, at all times, beauty mark below his lip and hair tied back. But he knows it’s not enough. This is a beauty that is impermanent, fleeting, and he needs another kind of beauty to live. If he ever takes the wrong step, fights the wrong person, makes the wrong choice, everything can go spiraling downwards-- everything can end. It could be a routine sortie that ends him. Or a wayward expedition. Whatever the case, whatever the reason, he must always be cautious. He must--

“You are beautiful,” he whispers to himself in a voice too soft for anyone else to hear, breathing into his hands when the night is too cold and no one is around stop his shivering. “You are beautiful,” he repeats when the rain slams down on his sword and his human body, into his open wounds, dripping down his lashes. This time, he says it a little too quickly and a little too insincerely, but it’s because he’s out of breath and there is so much fear rushing through his blood and gripping him that he can’t say it easily.

He has to believe in it. He has to believe in the words You are beautiful even if they only come from himself. Confidence in oneself has a very attractive glow to it, something he cannot live without, and he’s seen it in his previous master, a man far younger than expected for someone of his talent. (He did not see that glow fade from him. Yasusada did, and he does not speak of it.)

Sometimes, he says it a bit too loudly, and someone catches him. But it’s fine-- his vanity is just a quirk to them, a little something that makes him more human. He reminds everyone, I am pretty, aren’t I getting prettier, I wouldn’t complain about getting that new armor, you know? He reminds them and hopes-- or desperately wishes-- for the day where someone will pick up on his reminders and answer yes, you are beautiful.

He wants them to mean it. Beauty is a commodity not everyone can have but he needs it. He wants it, so he can finally stand on his own two feet with purpose instead of abject fear. He wants to wash his face and brush his hair for someone else because he knows they will love it, and not just for himself, for his fear of everything going wrong. He wants to be special, to stand out, somehow, someway, and have someone who will most definitely love him no matter what happens. He wants security and someone else to tell him you are beautiful even when his eyes are red with bloodshot veins and not just his iris. He wants to hear it, you are beautiful, you are beautiful, and he wants someone to love him so much that their heart just can’t take the idea of him being gone, so they’ll make sure he is always safe, he will never be thrown away, he will be loved until the end-- he is sick of it, sick of putting on his fancy attitude and wishing internally for someone to just say those three words and his gut wrenches when they just walk away and he searches for love in every nook and cranny but he--

Beauty lies in love, but Kashuu can only fabricate that beauty.

He looks around, at Yamanbagiri, at Hachisuka, at Kasen, at Yoshiyuki-- at the swords around him who don’t suffer from this fear, who don’t seem to seek beauty like he does-- and he swallows his distaste. Jealousy is not an attractive trait.

(But they all seek beauty. They all do.)

Chapter Text

The boy is named Sayo, and even though he has lived longer than any mortal should have, he is almost too young to be doing all this. In contrast, Souza is proof that the impermanence of life is not exactly a bad thing, and a reminder that reincarnation is not something to be sought after.

There are both familiar, brothers that Kousetsu regards with some form of fondness, but he understands that hoping for their constant presence is fruitless, not to mention damaging. He understands that while they are reunited now, it may not last, and it will not last, when the threat of death is so very real.

It is not exactly depressing, to never take anything for granted. Instead, it is liberating, because it means every battle will one day end. As well as every joy, every laugh, every bit of pain and even existence itself. They will be replaced, they will always be replaced, but they will also end.

That is what Kousetsu holds onto. It’s just that sometimes, things take too long to end.

“...You look depressed.” Kousetsu points out the obvious when no one else dares to, because while dancing around a topic might be tactful, saying it as it is can be effective. (And Kousetsu knows how to be effective, because the master he takes his name from has the ability to end wars with his words.) It takes a moment for Souza to realize that his brother is addressing him, and a moment more to look him in the eye.

The rain is pouring down on all of them.

“...This is Okehazama,” Souza begins, because the enemy is not yet sighted and the rest of the squad know enough to remain quiet. “In other words, after this I'll be imprisoned by the Demon King. When I think of that…”

He says ‘this’, even though he’s from the future. Kousetsu listens, and he listens well, just like anyone who knows how to use their words. He listens to the nuances in Souza’s voice, and he can pick out what he really means. My life changed here-- I am right here-- if the Imagawa never lost, if the Oda never rose up, then--

When Souza fails to continue speaking, Kousetsu says something to fill the silence. “I see... will these sorrowful memories never heal, I wonder?” But nothing is permanent, not feelings, not love, not hate or sorrow or happiness or anything they can fathom. Kousetsu considers reaching out, just to touch Souza’s shoulder and remind him that he is not alone in this.

But Souza’s mouth opens again, and Kousetsu’s fingers fail to twitch. “...I don't know. Whether I would have been happier being a sword of Imagawa to the end.”

(Does he mean, ‘if the Imagawa survived’? Or does he mean, ‘if I died here’?)

There is something worse than having conviction for the wrong thing. Instead, you could be stuck in between, unsure of what side to take. Unsure of what would be better. Or perhaps, even thinking that what you choose doesn’t matter anyway.

Souza is there, in between grief and anger, in between fear and longing. In the bridge between two places, the woods between cities, the oceans that separate families. This is the state they are fated to be stuck in. As youkai, as tsukumogami, they are trapped in between two concepts, in between being alive and dead.

(After all, it can take less than death to kill someone.)

“That’s…” Kousetsu begins. He wants to address Souza’s scars, to remind him that some day it will be fine let go of your worldly desires do not forget but forgive-- however, Souza cuts him off.

“So many things have happened... that I don't know anymore…”

And Kousetsu realizes that Souza’s pain is something beyond words, something beyond reconciliation. They say some wounds never heal, but ‘they’ are humans with lifespans that see only a few dozen winters at most, and perhaps centuries later, Souza will be fine.

Or perhaps this is as good as it gets.

---

Sayo sees shadows that are not actually there.

It is a survival tactic. It makes sense. Even if he is wrong most of the time, the times where he is correct will only solidify this intuition. He is always looking for hidden motives, always searching in the crevices of people’s gazes and gaits, because there must be a reason for everything. Some are obvious, like when he is preparing for war, armor being tied onto his hilt and gleaming like jewelry. It relaxes him, because during those times of all times, he can guess what the saniwa wants.

Otherwise, he does not seem to trust anyone. He speaks to his brothers the same way he speaks to anyone else. He fails to smile at the saniwa. He thinks-- he knows-- the saniwa wants revenge for the mess the Retrograding Army has made.

And yet, they give no real order for that. They attack only when they need to. Sayo dwells on it, because dwelling on feelings is exactly what someone made for revenge is supposed to do, but in the end, he simply carries out his duties.

When those duties are finished and night falls. Sayo is haunted by dreams. Not just the ones full of tortured screams and the like. Those are common, so often shared by other swords in the Citadel and humans who have done similar things. It is not those dreams that truly haunt him, because he is used to a life of revenge, of power dynamics that lead to either demise or a fleeting victory.

The dreams of normalcy are what shake him to the bone. Dreams where he walks down bright corridors that may or may not have existed, expecting disaster to be just around the corner. Ambushes, famines, sieges, absolutely anything. But instead, he sees the sun, illuminating the glorious rooftops of cities he may have once recognized. He sees servants, but they are not full of fear, because the person they have to fear for is not present. He sees the lull of life going on and on, as if the country is not in turmoil, as if they are not experiencing over a hundred years of ceaseless war. He walks, wondering where Kasen is, and then wondering why he had that thought. That is when Sayo realizes where his dreams have taken him, and he turns around, to see the wife of his former master, a woman whose name he cannot pronounce easily. Ga-ra-sha--?

He forces himself to wake at those points, because it does no good to continue on with a dream the moment he realizes it is a dream. They are full of people who are already gone, and after centuries, it is impossible to take revenge for them now. He cannot destroy nature itself. But when he awakens, he is shivering in his bedsheets, because at that point of history, he was the sword of the Hosokawa. He had already killed his previous owner in a fit of vengeance, and his life of revenge had already begun. And yet, in those dreams of times that truly did exist, he was fine with abandoning it all for a while. He was a tantou and he would be used for protection, as all tantous are made for. Not revenge. Never revenge.

Sayo does not ever speak of these dreams, not even to Kasen, who tells others of his time with the Hosokawa quite freely. But perhaps Sayo does not need to, because his brothers never seem to sleep and know exactly when Sayo is sitting awake on his mattress. Kousetsu smells of flowers when he does not have prayer beads weaved around his fingers, and Souza takes such little steps that he makes almost no sound as he walks. He recognizes their footsteps immediately as they walk up the stairs, and he tenses a little less than usual when they slide open his door. They will both sit by Sayo’s bedside, no matter what he does, until he returns to his dreams. Sayo dreams, every night, but if he sleeps well enough, he will forget them within seconds of opening his eyes. He sleeps very well when his brothers are there.

Kousetsu is fine with this arrangement, of never really acting like brothers but being there when he is needed. He does not expect Sayo to return the favor, or for his deeds to bring him to some higher purpose. He does it because no one deserves to feel alone, and there is no other reason Kousetsu needs.

(No one deserves to die in blood and horror, too, but Kousetsu can't stop that. He has to fight. He hates fighting, but he understands, he has to fight. At least the saniwa allows him to lament about his situation. It's slightly cathartic.)

Sayo is trapped, between what he thinks is his purpose and his true desire. Just like Souza, he is hovering in between the lines, wishing for both at the same time and also wishing for neither. The dreams where he is happy shake him to the bone because they remind him that he doesn't really want this. But he is a tool, a weapon made for masters to wield and use. He must carry out his duty and fulfill his purpose.

Kousetsu tries to tell him, sometimes, that a concept such as 'duty' and 'purpose' is never set in stone. That nothing is ever set in stone. But Sayo only looks at him, with an expression that never changes in the daytime, that mouth that curls downwards slightly at the ends--

“Brother, we are cut from a different cloth.” That is all that is said, and all there ever will be, because Sayo does not want anyone to fight his battles for him. He does not want anyone else to define what he is and is not. Kousetsu is no exception.

Still, Kousetsu watches over the boy who is older than every human that has ever lived. He watches him struggle with memories that no one else can remember except for other objects that have survived the past, because the only thing that ever survives through time is objects, and even then, they can be destroyed. He watches Sayo and wonders if there is any way he can ease his suffering, anything more he can do.

Kousetsu understands that having those thoughts of sympathy are only aggravating his own misery, but he cannot stop. He cannot lose his sympathy. He will die before that. (And he also understands that if he doesn’t change how he thinks, he will die pretty damn quickly. As said, it takes less than death to kill someone.)

The saniwa is kind, and the Citadel is warm. Everyone smiles here. His brothers have both seen (and been in) hell, however, they still have hope. Perhaps Kousetsu is imagining it, but he thinks that some nights, amongst the loud chatter of everyone else after another long day, he can hear Souza chuckling.

Perhaps some day they will both look back on this and laugh.

(Or maybe this is as good as it gets.)

---

Kousetsu knows he should not be entertaining these thoughts, but they are all that he has.

He was not with Toyotomi Hideyoshi for very long. That man died after only a decade of unifying the land. And yet, when Kousetsu overlooks the battlefield of Sekigahara, he contemplates what would happen if history really was changed. If the Western Army won. If Tokugawa Ieyasu died here, and Ishida Mitsunari rose instead, championing the Toyotomi legacy. Perhaps he is not truly the villain history paints him as, because history is written by the victors. Perhaps things would be better that way.

But a baseless 'perhaps' is not enough to prompt action, and Kousetsu knows better than to be foolish. If anyone could 'bring up' swords, then Kousetsu was brought up to be wiser than that.

Itabeoka Kousetsusai gave Kousetsu Samonji to Toyotomi Hideyoshi after the fall of Odawara Castle. When the Hojo fell, Kousetsusai was spared, because Hideyoshi was particularly impressed by his way with words. From the man who worked his way up from a sandalbearer to the Second Unifier, this is high praise indeed, but Kousetsusai did not really accept it. After all, he did not achieve what he truly wanted.

Peace is extremely hard to get, though, so maybe Kousetsusai shouldn't have been so hard on himself. But he was, and now Kousetsu is, though he is still swinging his sword at the Retrograding Army, because they do not back down. No matter what he says, they never back down.

With the first enemy squad down, there’s some time before they can find the next one, and Kousetsu uses it to think. After he was handed over to Hideyoshi, Kousetsusai's exploits became a mystery to Kousetsu. He knows now, though-- because centuries later, with the body the saniwa had granted him, Kousetsu decided to give into his curiosity and read up about an owner long dead. He found a text on the man he was named after without much effort.

It seemed that Kousetsusai is a truly important part of the history they have to protect.

In hindsight, Kousetsu should have expected it. He should have expected that Kousetsusai would use his talent of speech and diplomacy to the very end, to minimize the losses in any way possible. He worked for Tokugawa Ieyasu at the Battle of Sekigahara. He rode down with the famed Ii Naomasa and Honda Tadakatsu, quietly reaching where Kobayakawa Hideaki was stationed. Kousetsusai liaised with the Kobayakawa, a general of the Western Army.

Kobayakawa Hideaki is notorious for betraying the Western Army at Sekigahara and ensuring the Eastern Army victory. His (then called cowardly) act managed to tip the scales of what seemed to be an evenly matched battle. Kousetsusai has helped to form alliances and has begged for mercy. To encourage betrayal almost seems--

Kousetsu destroys an enemy tachi and feels a sour taste in his mouth. The battle between humans rampages on behind him, and his mind wanders. If Kousetsusai truly wanted peace, he should have done more. If Kousetsusai was truly so silver-tongued and diplomatic, he should have used every trick in the book. He would not have let the battle happen. He would not have let any of this happen. He would have taken over, would have talked to both sides, would have overthrown them, would have brought peace with his own talent, would have put a stop to all this, this bloody battle, this ridiculous war, this hopeless fight for power, this absurd game that people play with their lives because it is taking too long to end--

Kousetsu then abandons those thoughts, because he knows they will only bring him suffering. Besides, Kousetsusai was never the wrong man for the job. By convincing Kobayakawa Hideaki to betray the Western Army, the battle was finally brought to an end. It could have been worse. It could have been better.

Or maybe it could not have been better. Maybe this sorrowful affair is as good as it gets. Kousetsusai understood that, which is why he did what he did. This is the best possible scenario, and they are here now, travelling through time in order to protect this sequence of events. It is a noble mission to ensure everything is as good as it can be.

Kousetsu thinks that and wonders why he only feels helpless, not thankful.

The sortie is an overwhelming success, and the saniwa warmly welcomes them back. For their superb efforts in protecting the course of history, there will be a celebration later. As usual, Kousetsu declines to participate.

He excuses himself to the washroom. There, he slides off his bloodstained armor and runs his hands under cold water. He rubs them raw, until the blood on them is only his own.

Chapter Text

Everyone knows duplicates exist.

It’s a very simple fact. The saniwa is not perfect, and instead of summoning a new sword, they sometimes resummon one that has already been called forth. Duplicates are also saved from the battlefield, probably a result of timeline displacement or something else equally confusing. The Retrograding Army could be the cause of these duplicates-- or maybe it’s simply a side-effect of spiritual time-travel.

Whatever the reason, no way to stop them from appearing has been found. So the saniwa has to deal with the aftermath.

Dismantling sounds cruel, yes, but it is completely practical. Duplicates of the same sword can exist in the same space, even sit in the same room, but they cannot see each other. They cannot be placed in the same squad. They cannot even do chores together-- the government fears that if a sword spirit comes to the unsettling realization that they are looking at themselves, the consequences could be fatal. Time-destroying, perhaps. Some saniwa risk having duplicates exist together under their command, but they take great care in making sure they are always separate. Even so, the awareness alone that perhaps opening the wrong door or laying eyes on the wrong person could cause something horrible to happen--

Dismantling does not just sound cruel, it is cruel, but the alternative is so much worse. Such is the saying: a leader who is too kind is the cruelest one of all.

And thus, Yasusada’s saniwa, who is far too kind, is unnecessarily cruel to all of them.

It’s not that the saniwa wants to dismantle the swords. Much to the contrary-- they hold the duplicate sword over the fire, every single time, but their fingers remain locked in place. They cannot dip the metal into flames, cannot end the spirit’s temporary existence, even after they have dismissed the human body and there is no way the sword alone can scream. Sometimes, their hand shivers so much that the fire burns their wrists. Maeda Toushirou, who has been with the saniwa almost from the beginning, sees this happening dozens upon hundreds of times before saying I can do it for you, Master.

Letting swords do the dismantling themselves isn’t exactly a spectacular idea. For one, they can’t dismantle themselves-- after all, they can’t look at their own duplicates, much less kill them. Another thing is how only the saniwa has the spiritual power to dismiss the human body. A sword does not-- and so, after Maeda Toushirou is almost kicked into the fire himself by Hachisuka Kotetsu copy who absolutely refuses to die (and refuses to believe he is the duplicate), the saniwa needs to get back to their duty.

Of course, they can’t do it, and someone else volunteers. Mikazuki Munechika laughs when he is questioned about whether he can do it. “I have lived for so long,” he explains. “This may sound cruel, but perhaps I am already used to such things.”

But Mikazuki is wrong. He is used to death, but not to killing by his own hands. Once that faint smile of his disappears completely and he truly begins to look his age, the saniwa orders him to stop.

The third volunteer is the longest one thus far, and the current one as well. Yamato no Kami Yasusada justifies it promptly enough: “Master, I don’t want you to be so affected by this. You need to lead everyone. Let me do it. If you get duplicates of me… only then, you’ll handle them.”

It makes sense. Yasusada doesn’t go on sorties too often, much less than Kashuu, who is better at camouflage and fights at Ikedaya with some kind of chilling familiarity. He is also a bit more detached, a bit more wistful, a bit more not-quite-here. “I wonder how he does it,” Midare gossips when he thinks Yasusada can’t hear him. “Maybe he’s so distracted by his dead master he doesn’t even care about who he’s killing!”

Kashuu fillets Midare for his words before Yasusada gets the chance to. At least, being a tantou, he was out of repairs soon enough.

“Jeez, you really aren’t doing anything to help your own reputation,” Kashuu mutters when he finds Yasusada eating dinner alone. Again. “Everyone still liked Maeda and Mikazuki because they, you know, still talked to people. They’re treating you like the Grim Reaper, since you walk allll around the shadows.”

Yasusada puts down his bowl. “I’m talking to you now.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think! Horikawa, Kanesada and Nagasone understand, but no one else does. No one else, like, gets you--”

“I don’t need them to,” Yasusada hums, before getting up to leave. He’s never seeked the approval of anyone, and he won’t start now-- he probably won’t even know how to go about it if he tried, since he never saw Okita Souji have to do it. When Kashuu tries to get him to come back, he makes up an excuse about needing to talk the saniwa.

Kashuu ends up forcing the bowl of food back into his hands. “At least eat more, you barely took two bites out of this!”

Yasusada mutters a chorus of yes yes I know I get it I’m fine Kashuu before he’s finally left alone. He wonders when the hell he became the one Kashuu fusses over instead of the other way round.

Then he opens the door to the smithy, and he remembers.

“I’m back,” he says, and Kashuu peers out from behind the fireplace. As in, today’s duplicate.

---

Three swords to be dismantled today: Akita, Shishiou, Kashuu.

Yasusada is more observant that he would like to come off as.

He’s asked the saniwa if he can speak with the duplicates before dismantling them, and-- well, it’s not like the saniwa wants to stop him. He doesn’t dump them straight into the fire. He isn’t a brute, not like how Okita Souji’s enemies thought of him as, and he cares for much more than the past.

When the duplicate is Shokudaikiri Mitsutada, he regales him with tales of valor that the Citadel has accomplished, and convinces him that he will join in these heroic acts by tomorrow. When the duplicate is Kasen Kanesada, Yasusada gets him paper and a brush so he can write about how horrid the smithy smells and fall asleep while thinking of the last line. It is when their human body is asleep that Yasusada quietly slips their swords from their hands and puts it into the fire.

They woke up, the first few times. Yasusada’s been getting better since. He really doesn’t want to fight them off, for their sake as well as his own.

“Do you like it?” Kashuu nods in response, eating the food Yasusada snuck away. “That’s good. Sorry if it’s a bit cold. I was interrupted for a while before I could bring it to you.”

“You’re being too nice to me,” Kashuu laughs, eating up whatever remains in the bowl. “Ehhh, it’s not bad, I guess.”

Yasusada tilts his head. “So it’s not that good.”

“I expected food to be nicer,” Kashuu notes. “Or maybe I’ll like some other dish.”

“Oh, you can try anything you want tomorrow,” Yasusada lies.

Kashuu flicks his wrist dismissively. “Jeez, you’re seriously being way too nice. What’s the saniwa got planned for me? Some reeeally hard mission, I guess.”

“Every mission we have to do is hard,” Yasusada replies. That isn’t a lie. “I’m doing this because I love you.”

Kashuu chokes, even if there’s no more food going down his mouth. “And that-- that too, you’re--”

“It’s only the truth,” Yasusada hums. It stopped being embarrassing to say that the moment he got this job.

Kashuu says something under his breath-- Yasusada might’ve mistaken it for anger, if he didn’t know better by now-- and he turns away. “Whatever,” Kashuu ends up saying.

“You’re the one who’s always asking if he’s loved.”

Kashuu looks back. “...I haven’t ever asked before.”

And in a moment, Yasusada remember that this Kashuu is only a few hours old. “Mhm,” Yasusada quickly says, biting back both a curse and a laugh at the same time. “You said you wanted someone who would love you when the saniwa summoned you. They told me everything.”

“Oh,” Kashuu says, and it seems like he’s bought it. “Yaaawn. When can I leave?”

“Go to sleep for now,” Yasusada says. “I’ll open the door for you in the morning.”

---

Kashuu falls asleep relatively quickly, full with food and hugging the pillow Yasusada brought in. “You were supposed to rest your head on it,” Yasusada whispers, but Kashuu cannot hear him.

He silently takes the sword Kashuu left by his side. By the time Yasusada looks back, Kashuu’s human body is gone.

This is routine by now. His sword is reduced to four crumbs of charcoal, four drops of steel, a dash of coolant and only four pieces of whetstone.

---

Three swords to be dismantled today: Ookurikara, Yamanbagiri, Kashuu.

“Kashuu,” Yasusada says to the first Kashuu before they go for dinner, “what do you like eating the most?”

He tilts his head. “Why do you want to know? What, are you going to cook it for me?”

“Maybe,” Yasusada replies. He shakes his head when Kashuu’s eyes widen. “No, not really. I just wanted to try eating it too.”

“Oh,” Kashuu deadpans, not even trying to hide his disappointment. “Fiii~ine, I’ll make it for you today.”

Yasusada has to admit, even if it doesn’t really originate in Japan, gyoza tastes delicious. And the sauce Kashuu mixes for him isn’t too bad either.

So, when he sneaks into the smithy, he dips the dumpling in the saucepan he balances on his fingertips, before putting it right in Kashuu’s mouth.

Kashuu-- a Kashuu who is not the first-- chews it around his tongue. “Hmm,” he begins, before shaking his head. “It’s too salty. That’s the taste, right? Sal-ty.”

Yasusada blinks. “Oh, I thought it would be your favorite.”

Kashuu laughs. “Really? Or is it just your favorite?”

---

Two swords to be dismantled today: Kashuu, Aizen.

“Jeez, stop being so insistent,” the first Kashuu huffs. “Yes, this is my reeeal favorite food. Clay pot rice. Are you happy now?”

Yasusada takes a big whiff of the entire bowl he’s holding. He ends up coughing as the steam still rising gets up his nose. “Honestly-- Yasusada, really?” Kashuu snatches the food away for a moment. “Well, my guess was correct, though. You really do like gyoza. Always the crusty, salted things-- where are you going?”

“To eat,” Yasusada lies.

When he feeds the other Kashuu, his eyes widen to stare right at Yasusada. “Did you make this?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a horrible liar,” Kashuu replies smugly, even though Yasusada has proven time and time again that he can lie when it counts. “It’s good, though. …I’ve got, like, the hang of my fingers already, let me eat.”

Yasusada sighs without frowning, and hands the bowl over to Kashuu. “Careful not to spill it over--”

As if he jinxed it, Kashuu momentarily forgets to grip the side of the bowl and drops it over his chin and coat. He rises with a shriek, almost tripping on his high heels, skidding across the floor.

Yasusada catches him and makes sure he’s steady on his feet before saying, “See what I mean?”

“Shut up,” Kashuu immediately bites, wiping his chin. “I-- I’m dirty all over, how am I going to wash my clothes?!”

“I’ll do it for you,” Yasusada promises with no intention of carrying it out. “Calm down, okay?”

Yasusada wonders if the first Kashuu was this bad at hiding his emotions when he first arrived. He’s currently good enough now to make Yasusada’s favorite food instead of his own-- but no, Kashuu is still the same person in the end. And that’s why Yasusada immediately adds on, “You don’t have to look perfect all the time. You’re perfect to me.”

That certainly takes Kashuu’s mind off the situation. “Right, right, you’re obviously not saying that just to, like, make me feel better or anything.”

“I mean it.”

Kashuu glares at Yasusada without venom. “Weeell, if you say so. So, you’ll wash my clothes for me?”

“You’ll need to take it off first,” Yasusada says. When Kashuu’s expression turns incredulous, he shrugs. “Well, you can sleep it stained clothes for tonight, then--”

“Fine, fine, but don’t look!”

Yasusada fetches spares of his own clothes. The Shinsengumi uniform is warm for the winter seasons and also horribly familiar, but Kashuu decides it isn’t unbearably so. Kashuu tucks his hands into the airy sleeves before sighing and falling asleep.

Kashuu’s clothes disappear when he’s dismantled. Yasusada picks up the now empty cloak left behind, and realizes that dismantling is still not enough to remove Kashuu’s smell.

---

Three swords to be dismantled today: Kashuu, Kashuu, Doutanuki.

I’m sorry.

One of the Kashuu duplicates are relocated to the saniwa’s room for a while. The first duplicate falls asleep more quickly than usual-- Yasusada brushes his hair and whispers various oaths of love that eventually amount to nothing until he can’t stop smiling. His last meal, as with all their last meals, is the clay pot rice Yasusada makes-- the first Kashuu offered to teach him how to do it, which is a surprise in itself.

The Kashuu who is never fated to wake up lies in Yasusada’s lap, rolls over twice, and closes his eyes while Yasusada kisses the side of his head.

Yasusada moves slowly, slowly and carefully, to avoid waking Kashuu up. He untangles himself from Kashuu’s fingers in his clothes, slips out of Kashuu’s hug, and it takes almost an hour to do it successfully.

As usual, he dies quietly, without even knowing. It’s the next one that brings up a problem.

“I know what you’re going to do,” Kashuu says in a tone far too familiar. Yasusada has heard it before, before he was good at what he does, or-- to really reach into the past, on that day, when there was a gash across his neck and-- “Don’t come closer!”

“The saniwa told you,” Yasusada breathes, and it’s not a question. Of course-- well, the next time there are two Kashuu duplicates in a day, Yasusada will have to tell the saniwa to just leave him be. There is no kindness in ‘letting him know’. “Right?”

Kashuu unsheathes his sword and points it right at Yasusada’s face.

He doesn’t cower in the corner. He doesn’t beg for mercy. He just stands, stands like Okita Souji did, in that damn stance that makes him feel like he’s looking in a mirror if he ignored how red those eyes were. Kashuu stands like he’s fighting for his life, and in all honesty, he is.

Yasusada shoots a glance over at the saniwa hiding under the desk in the room. He has to find a way out of this situation, before Kashuu breaks something which can’t be fixed.

It’s evening. Yasusada could technically call for help, there’s still swords wandering around after dinner-- and they would restrain Kashuu, stuff his sword down the fire chute, and that would be it. But because Yasusada isn’t a brute, he decides to go with another option.

He doesn’t know if it’ll hurt more or less.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Yasusada begins. He drops his sword onto the ground. Kashuu’s eyes widen. “I really won’t, Kashuu.”

He grabs the blade-end of Kashuu’s sword. Kashuu freezes, decides he can’t move at all in case he cuts Yasusada’s skin, and that lets Yasusada pull away his sword. He steps closer, and Kashuu doesn’t move, doesn’t respond until their faces are inches apart, and Yasusada can clearly see his tear lines.

“You’re here to dismantle me,” Kashuu chokes. “Right?! Because there’s another one already-- and he’s better! It’s not like I can catch up. I’m not good enough, I’m just looks and nothing else--”

“Kashuu.”

“Do I even have looks? You’re looking at me like-- like I’m a wounded animal, you know! I--”

Kashuu melts into incoherent mumbling when Yasusada takes him into his arms.

Yasusada can’t really register what happens next, except that Kashuu drops his own sword before they both fall to their knees. And then Kashuu clings onto the closest thing to him for dear life, and that’s Yasusada, his back and his hair and everything. This is the only embrace he’s ever gotten in his life, the only intimate feeling of human warmth he’ll ever get, but for a moment he thinks everything can be alright, because he doesn’t know better, he’s only a few hours old in this new life and he doesn’t know better.

He passes out from exhaustion soon enough. Yasusada looks at the saniwa.

And then he looks away, to pick up Kashuu’s sword and place it onto his chest. There’s no way he can get all the way to the smithy without waking him up.

So Yasusada unsheathes his own blade, and breaks him right there.

---

“You’re back late,” the first Kashuu says when Yasusada opens up the door to his room, and it shocks him half to death. “...And you’re covered in blood, I guess.”

“Says the person who should’ve slept hours ago. ...I’ll clean up before I go to sleep,” Yasusada replies, but that’s not what Kashuu is interested in hearing.

He grabs Yasusada’s hands.

That’s all it takes for him to break down completely.

Kashuu closes the door behind them, and now Yasusada is the one searching for something, someone to hold onto. Kashuu smells the same, they all smell the same and sound the same and it’s utterly impossible to detach them from each other. “I’m sorry,” Yasusada blubbers, and he’s not sure when he started crying but he can’t stop. “Kashuu, I’m sorry.”

“What for,” Kashuu hums into his ear while patting his back, though he already knows the answer. It’s not really a question.

“I lied to you,” Yasusada chokes. “I keep lying to you. I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t,” Kashuu reassures him, even though he knows that he has. “You haven’t lied to me. I don’t, like, remember any lies.”

Yasusada shakes his head, and only ends up pressing his face against Kashuu’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. Don’t mind me.”

“Right, that’s a lie,” Kashuu says. “Yasusada--”

“I love you,” Yasusada finally says, as if he hasn’t said it a thousand times. But this is the one person he can say it to and act on it. “I’m sorry-- I want to tell each of you without lying and things will be fine, but--”

“I know, I know,” Kashuu says, not coldly. “You can let me take over for a while. Just say the word.”

Yasusada immediately tenses. “No, no, don’t! You have no idea what it’s like. I--”

“Uhh, I get exactly what it’s like.”

Kashuu pushes Yasusada away for a moment, just so they can look each other in the eye. And Yasusada realizes the one thing that differentiates this Kashuu from the rest is the lack of earnest innocence in his eyes.

He already knows Yasusada loves him. That’s not the hurdle he’s fighting now.

“Yasusada,” Kashuu breathes, “who do you think dismantles all the duplicates of you?”

Chapter Text

1.

Sometimes, Yamanbagiri dreams of mountain witches.

They are decrepit old hags, covered in hair and crawling with centipedes. He dreams of crawling up Mount Togakushi and seeing them emerging from the trees, hands chapped like bark and dirty-brown like mud. But he is Yamanbagiri Kunihiro, not the other sword, and thus he turns around and leaves the mountain before encroaching on their territory.

The yamanba follows him, but does not curse him with misfortune. It only creeps into the Citadel after wiping its feet at the entrance, and quietly blesses the armory with good luck and golden orbs. Then it leaves, without leaving a trace, only the short memory of Yamanbagiri glancing at its face.

Because the yamanba is a youkai just like them, just like tsukumogami. They have feelings and wisdom beyond that of an ordinary human. They curse all those who enter their homes, but allowing one to enter yours will bring you wealth.

It is a shame, then, that Yamanbagiri always wakes up in a world which does not understand the meaning of that.

2.

The first time Izumi no Kami Kanesada takes a life is after sitting in a museum for centuries.

He has always been a trophy sword, an uchigatana which Hijikata Toshizou drew from his waist like a tachi. And he would never be used in combat, not like Horikawa, who was the first there and always the one Hijikata was more used to. Forget the grand stories of Hijikata drawing a resplendent Kanesada blade in the middle of the street to fight criminals terrorizing the common folk-- and forget all the rumors about how Hijikata was the criminal who was the cruellest, because none of that matters, not anymore.

What matters is how Kanesada stands at Ikedaya, and he can only hold this man in a chokehold without doing anything else. Destroying the Retrograding Army or the Kebiishi is such a different thing altogether-- sentient humans can beg, if not with their voices, then with their eyes.

“You need to die,” Kanesada tries to say with venom, but he fails. This man was supposed to die to someone else, some other Shinsengumi member, but the Retrograding Army messed up too much. They need to pick up the pieces. “You asked for this when you decided to stand against the shogun!”

“Don’t,” he begs, dropping his sword. His fingers are splayed open, twitching like a desperate animal pinned down. Or a heartbeat. “Please, have mercy, I’ll do anything!”

Horikawa interrupts, somehow managing to swing in front of Kanesada with his small frame. “Mercy,” Horikawa begins, “is something we can’t afford.”

Human blood is so bright against Horikawa’s porcelain skin.

3.

When Yamabushi laughs, he wonders if the people below the mountain can hear him.

It’s a whimsical thought, of course, because even his own master and the other yamabushi monks can’t hear him. These warrior monks are scattered across the entire country, however, and they are heard by all-- as advisors to warlords like Takeda Shingen, or even the greatest headache to Oda Nobunaga. The Ikkō-ikki of Ishiyama Hongan-ji spare no mercy to him, even if they do call themselves monks of a religion which excels in mercy.

Still, Yamabushi wonders how it would be like if his own laughter wasn’t drowned out by all the men around him, just as loud as he is. Or rather, he’s just as loud as them, in their confidence and their devotion. He joins them in prayers even when no one can urge him to. He is Yamabushi Kunihiro, a work predating Kunihiro’s greatest masterpiece/replica, but he is still a young work.

And he wonders if one day he can laugh loudly enough for the mountain witches to come out of the woodwork. If one day he can laugh, and laugh, and his laughter would cascade down the hills while yamanba listen in fascination. Then, his laughter can be like a conch shell, the original horn-trumpet, awakening bloodthirsty warriors from the deep slumbering ignorance of their own wrongdoings. He wonders if his laughter could one day be heard over all the fighting in this turbulent era, later called the Sengoku Jidai by historians.

So he laughs until Oda Nobunaga sieges Mount Hiei, and the only thing cascading down the hills is corpses.

4.

Nakigitsune isn’t actually shy.

Much to the contrary. He is utterly shameless, holding his fingers up in that permanent gesture, letting his fox do all the speaking. Or rather, he just speaks through the fox-- it is not ventriloquism, no, of course not. He has even said so himself.

Er, through the fox. Right, it’s confusing-- but think of it this way: isn’t it a little too convenient for a kitsune youkai to simply be summoned onto Nakigitsune’s shoulders the moment he sprung to life?

The fox was given a form as Nakigitsune did. It is a manifestation of some sort, a desire to detach one’s words from their own mouth so strongly that it gave birth to something else entirely. A kind of mental link, a constant puppet show with no strings to link back to.

With a fox to speak for him, he can say anything he wants through him. ”Oooh, Midare! You’re looking particularly lovely today! That’s dangerous, you know how that Urashima boy just won’t keep his eyes away!” Or, if he’s feeling incredibly honest, ”Ewww, ew, Doudanuki! You smell! Even as a fox, I make sure to lick myself clean after every sortie!”

“What the hell--” Doudanuki immediately reaches out and grabs the fox. It squeaks. “Of course I clean after myself!”

Nakigitsune gives a quick bow. “Sorry. He didn’t mean it.” ”Right, that’s right, I didn’t mean it! Pleeease, have mercy!”

Akita steps in, tugging on Doudanuki’s arm. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it! Please let go, Nakigitsune needs his fox.”

Doudanuki lets out a short curse and plops the fox back on Nakigitsune’s shoulders. It fluffs itself up while Midare reach out to pet it on the head. “And it’s not really wrong, is it? Aww, cute little fox!”

He’s fine with this arrangement. When everyone insults him or blames him, they blame his fox.

(But every time someone reaches out to be his friend, they befriend the fox.)

5.

Lady Nene is growing old. Mikazuki had forgotten that.

But of course he had forgotten, because time passes by so slowly and yet too quickly in this temple removed from bloodshed. It has been so long since she has lived anywhere else, when Toyotomi Hideyoshi was still alive, and the entire country still shook in fear at his name. In the span of one generation and less than two decades, that entire clan had been reduced to nothing, and Tokugawa Ieyasu emerged the victor at Sekigahara.

Sometimes, she still remembers, and Mikazuki also remembers, but she cannot hear him. If I had told him earlier not to so carelessly adopt and throw away Hideaki-- or, I wonder if you are cursing me now, Lady Yodo, for letting you die at Osaka Castle? I wonder if your ghost seeks to strangle me dead.

She was a politician, the wife of the most powerful man in the country until he fell over dead, and not even years of peace can heal that. A single human life can accrue too many scars for dozens. And Mikazuki, who has lived for longer, so much longer--

Nene looks over a still pond. She’s watching the koi, and Mikazuki joins her, bending over the same way. He stares at his own reflection, then at hers, at the wrinkles crumpled on her forehead, a face which Oda Nobunaga himself once praised as elegant. He tries to pull at his own skin, to look like her and grow old himself, but everything snaps backs quickly, no matter how much he claws and yanks.

“Haha,” he breathes. “Disgusting.”

6.

But of course Yasusada knows what it’s like to be second best.

He was bought as the Shinsengumi began to gain traction. Having two well-crafted swords is a sign of status, but Yasusada understands why he was never taken to battle until Okita Souji was dragged back from Ikedaya barely breathing. He understands why Okita tried so desperately to have Kashuu Kiyomitsu fixed, til the swordsmith said there was no hope, none at all, and he reluctantly unsheathed Yamato no Kami Yasusada.

Yasusada was always just the replacement. It’s okay, though. He loves Okita all the same.

It is a love strong enough to choke him around the shoulders when he is reborn into this second life, Shinsengumi cloak warm on his shoulders and memories of Toba-Fushimi stricken in his mind. Even when Kashuu grabs his hand and fusses over him, it isn’t enough. Even when Kashuu’s name springs to Yasusada’s mind, it doesn’t drown out the sound of Okita Souji in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Yasusada apologizes one day. “There’s someone I can never forget.”

Kashuu gulps. “I get it.”

Now Kashuu knows what it’s like to be second best.

7.

“When does a fox become evil?”

Kogitsunemaru asks that question when no one is really listening. And if anyone was, he doubts they can answer him.

Foxes aren’t evil. They’re just animals, cute little critters that rush through the forest, and also break the neck of rabbits. It’s the kami that he’s thinking of-- or the youkai, because perhaps some fox spirits simply do not have the power or the right to be worshipped. He was forged by the hands of an Inari who is most obviously very powerful, of course.

But after leaving the confines of shrines, Kogitsunemaru has heard quite a lot. Stories of old and of new speaking about fox spirits, tricky bastards who crept around in the dead of night or broad daylight, seducing with their silver tongues. He hears of Tamamo-no-Mae, a courtesan who turned out to be a nine-tailed fox spirit, and was killed for eating travellers.

“Ew, ew,” Akita gasps, when he sees Nakigitsune’s fox being fed a mouse. “That’s so scary...”

Kogitsunemaru turns around to smile at Akita, and explain to him that foxes need to eat too. But then he sees Hakata, Maeda, Hirano-- all the swords who have only ever protected and never killed cover their mouths, muttering about the horridness of it all, how disgusting it is. Even Nakigitsune closes his eyes.

And it is at that moment that Kogitsunemaru, who should be as innocent as these swords, is the only one who understand what a fox needs to survive. He is the only one who understands why Tamamo-no-Mae did what she did, because they all need to eat, and thus leave corpses behind so they may live. That revelation scares much more than any tale of evil.

8.

Tonbokiri is the spear of Honda Tadakatsu.

No, he was-- that is the hardest thing to remember. Tonbokiri closes his eyes and remembers being there when Tokugawa Ieyasu and Honda Tadakatsu were both baptized in the blood of Mikatagahara, making it back to their castle with less than ten men. He remembers his master being praised by all of Japan’s Three Great Unifiers. He remembers his master donning a helmet decorated with uneven deer antlers before mounting his horse Mikuniguro-- one of the horses in the stable now is named after it.

He also remembers cutting a dragonfly in half. He remembers seeing it flying aimlessly in the summer wind before landing on the tip of his spear, despite him trying to shoo it away. He remembers Tadakatsu watching as it was sliced in half, and quickly bending over to hold it in his hands. It twitched for one moment, almost instantly dead, a helpless life taken Tonbokiri, a creature that did not yet need to die.

Mitsutada sometimes asks him if Tonbokiri thinks his name, Dragonfly-cutter, is better than Candlestick-slasher. Tonbokiri always says he does not wonder on such things, and it would be better if Mitsutada asked someone else for their opinion. But perhaps it would be better to slash bronze candlesticks, because they are not alive.

When Tonbokiri earned his name, he finally learnt that he was always meant to kill, never to protect. The men of Mikawa would praise his master for his bravery, his aptitude, his undefeatable warrior spirit-- but he never got used to the peace of Tokugawa Ieyasu’s rule. Tonbokiri stands in the Citadel, and wonders if one day someone’s life will fall into his hands, like a twitching dragonfly.

And he wonders if he’ll crush it without meaning to.

9.

Honebami eats into bones.

A long time ago, before fire and rage and brothers who he can’t remember the names of, Honebami only had one problem. “Oh, we’re around the same size now,” Mikazuki hums, and Honebami rolls his eyes.

Reforging to shorten isn’t painful or damaging like reforging to hide damage. This reforging is deliberate, like a cosmetic surgery, or changing the pattern on a skirt. Things can go wrong, but it isn’t an injury. It does not take away memories.

Which is why Honebami can remember perfectly well about his he crushed a man’s bones and left him for dead without meaning to. He was fine with it, once upon a time-- Honebami Toushirou, a befitting name for the shogun’s weapon, and the first shogun of the Kamakura era, no less. His master back then, a Minamoto no Yoritomo rose, to greatness over his brother’s corpse. He rose over Benkei and another naginata called Iwatooshi, but all those things occurred so long ago that they don’t really matter anymore. Honebami isn’t a naginata now.

“Hands off,” he quickly hisses, and Mikazuki chuckles to himself. He does that because Honebami has, technically, already warmed up to Mikazuki after so many years. In comparison to his earlier behavior--

But now, in an imperial collection and not as a weapon of war, Honebami can’t bring himself to get closer to anyone else around him. He doesn’t get closer to Mikazuki Munechika, a graceful nobleman never made for war, and will never see it (how wrong he is). Because Honebami eats into bones, destroying those who come too close.

When Mikazuki teases him about how Honebami really does want to be friends, he can only scoff in response. Because it’s true, but Honebami would prefer longing for Mikazuki rather than mourning his loss.

(But Mikazuki has no choice in that regard, when Honebami is burnt away and there is nothing but another boy built off another life left behind.)

10.

Shishiou is short for a tachi.

Sometimes, he tries standing on tiptoes, just so he can slightly tower over Nikkari. Nikkari, who also used to be an oodachi, shortened into a sword even shorter than Shishiou-- and yet he stands taller, smirking smugly as he goes onto tiptoes as well, and Shishiou feels pathetically small in some trivial way.

Once, Shishiou tried to use his nue as a stepladder. He put the damn thing on the floor before stepping right on top of it, ignoring the squawks of protest it made. He squashed it to the floor until Ishikirimaru effortlessly lifted him off it, chiding him for being so rude to his companion. The nue is a youkai just like them, after all.

Eventually, when night falls and Shishiou lets out that loud yawn that’s become characteristic of him, he flops onto the courtyard grass. He stares at the night sky, unpolluted by city lights because the Citadel is so far away. He sees the Milky Way, still exactly the same as it was a thousand over years ago, and he stretches his legs.

“If he was an old man,” Shishiou mutters, “and I was shortened for him, at least he could’ve died an old man.”

(But Minamoto no Yorimasa died a warrior, and Shishiou hates being short because he was made this way for a man he could not protect.)

Chapter Text

You were born while surrounded in darkness and clutched desperately in someone’s hand.

Your swordsmith etches his name into you with such pride. Kashuu, he says with such pride and a voice which has breathed in too much smoke for a lifetime. Kiyomitsu. But the second part of your name didn’t make sense. Kiyo meant clarity, something clean, while mitsu meant shining lights and honor. You have never seen either of those things. But your swordsmith repeats it, over and over, because in this world you are his only ticket to a slightly more bearable winter season and you shine brighter than the steaming coals you were born from.

It takes a while to be sold, and in that time, you learn quite a bit. You are not a child, and you were born with the understanding of wealth, of beauty and of fortune. You understand you have none of those.

When your swordsmith tries to get you sold, you follow silently on the crowded streets, but you notice that the people clear away from your smith. And when you go home, back to the riverbed where the mud rises up to his ankles and threaten to rot his skin, your swordsmith still smiles at you. He unsheathes you, cleans off the dust, and his words are a heavy weight on a mind still so young. You do not understand what he means when he first says it, because this is a concept not visible or tangible like a roof over your head or clothes on your back.

He tells you, in time, there will be someone who loves you. In time, someone will look past the blood that taints everything which emerges from the riverbed, and in time, you will be happy.

And yet, when he walks the city streets, you can hear the people whispering around him. He’s a burakumin, he must be a conman, he’s desperate for money-- the people of the riverbed cause so much crime, why can’t they just house them somewhere far away? Even if some of them are honest folk, can’t we quarantine them all? You think that these words are correct, but they are not right.

On days where your swordsmith simply couldn’t muster the energy to walk into the main streets of Edo, you wait. And wait. You were born to wait while children play around you and dream of running away on your own when in reality, you couldn’t leave your real body behind. You can only listen in when others gather around a fireplace and speak of legendary heroes that lived atop mountains. And who are we, they howl, to say we cannot become one of them?

(And who are you, to say that you will?)

They say something about impossible new demands to meet, and about peasants far away who were willing to join in their rebellion. They will fight for their freedom. There is nothing standing in their way. They will brandish their swords and topple the people who press them down.

Your eyes linger on your real body.

(The Jōkyō uprising ends in failure and the death of a girl who was young enough to be the daughter of her executioner. The executioner returned back to the riverbed, his job for the day done, and the blood of her head on his hands, because the people of the city didn’t want it on theirs. The burakumin grow quiet.)

You try to imagine how the rest of the world looks like, outside these slums. You wonder what you were born for, and the purpose of a sword. You were made to kill, but you haven’t done that yet, and what is the difference between a warrior and their sword? Your swordsmith feels the autumn wind and realizes you need to go, soon. And you do want to go, to leave this filthy riverbed, but you can only go where he brings you.

Now, you realize, you were not born to dream of mythical heroes who descend from the hilltops to save the common folk. You were not born to smile, to laugh, or be loved in the first place. You were not born to live.

So you don’t live.

---

The first time you live again is a hundred-something years later, and you are at a loss for words when you see your new master. He gives you a swing, and suddenly your future is in his hands, and he dots the entire world with a ferocious stream of brilliance.

I’ll take this one, he says, raising you. Kiyomitsu.

Kiyomitsu? Your name doesn’t sound nearly as nice from your own lips.

But soon, you will understand what it means. You will understand clarity and light and hope and blazing the trail so brightly it will blind the rest of the world. You want to see him thrive, you want to see him win, because he is the hero of old which the children of the riverbed could only dream of, and now he is depending on you. Now, you are his sword.

(And like those heroes of old, Okita Souji fell all too soon. But that is not the story you will ever know.)

You follow his stance, how he grips your real body and how he never loses his temper except when it concerns the art of the sword. You spend hours upon days memorizing, reciting, and falling in love with a man who can never see you. You do not question it, because you were not born to live and this must be the closest to love you can ever get, for someone to love the edge to your blade and the craftsmanship of a swordsmith long dead. You would never do anything Okita Souji does not, because you want to be just like him.

But no, it’s not enough. It’s not enough to simply be like Okita Souji, because you will never be human in the first place. You need to distance yourself from your past, from a hundred-or-so years ago. You must never go back to that, now that you’ve tasted love and seen a real hero, who walks the streets and defeats those who prey on the weak-- you were made to protect, not kill. You know that now. (Who are you to say that?)

You force yourself to do things you could never when you lived by the riverbed. You read Romance of the Three Kingdoms and the story of Forty-seven Rounin, because Kondou Isami loves those, even though the archaic language is enough to make your head spin. You see how the other swords dress, the emblems of their master proudly blazed on their clothes, and you try to do the same, awkwardly pulling the Shinsengumi coat around your shoulders so it doesn’t slip off your thin frame. You immerse yourself so much more into the world of heroes and samurai, the warrior class placed just below daimyos and the shogun himself.

The first time Okita took you into a real fight, it wasn’t like any other from before. It’s not like you can remember them, anyway, because they are all from before you lived-- from when you were waiting for this moment. You have never wanted so badly to win, to shine above the rest and cut through them so clearly that Okita wouldn’t falter from backlash. Your hands feel damp, your face is hot and your heart is hammering against your ribs. Is this what love feels like? Do you understand now?

The man falls to the ground. Blood looks strange on your skin. It’s quiet enough to hear the wind chimes.

After that, fighting in general seems to lose its charm. You sneak The Book of Five Rings away to try seeing if you can learn anything new, but you’ve never learnt from anything other than Okita himself. Every parry is easy, and every encounter is a breeze when Okita uses you to your full potential. You become the sword that everyone else watches, because you blaze Okita’s family emblem as you stick out your chest, face adorned with red lips and bright eyes. You become confident to the point that victory is the minimum expectation. The Shinsengumi coat fits so snugly on your shoulders.

But then, there is another.

Your swordsmith had no friends, and even if he did, it would’ve been so long ago that you wouldn’t remember what it felt like. Okita has comrades, but perhaps not too many friends, because it’s dangerous to get attached to anyone in a profession like this. So when Yamato no Kami Yasusada offers to sit with you and train together, you don’t know what to say.

He is kind, definitely. Gentle, of course, but only outside battle. He smiles at you and doesn’t turn up his nose when you seem more interested in books and appearances than anything else. He follows Okita like a puppy, but he doesn’t study, doesn’t care about anything except whether he’s still able to fight and how Okita is doing. Horikawa and Nagasone say Yasusada is just like you, but you are so much more than him. You are so much more than what they think of you.

And yet-- and yet, he continues to outdo you in everything. Yasusada ties up his hair, and the other spirits coo over him immediately, while you need to steal makeup from travelling ladies and entertainers to even look presentable. He walks like Okita, talks like Okita, and fights like Okita even though he’s never even been used in battle. You will not stand for this. You did not go through years of serving Okita and suffering in a choked riverbed beforehand so that you could be bested by another sword who doesn’t even try half as hard.

Yasusada is innocent, too innocent to understand the meaning behind killing and any other method of murder besides the use of a sword. Which is why he doesn’t struggle when you tighten your fingers against his neck, pinning him to the floor with Romance of the Three Kingdoms still open next to you. The air smells of nail polish, and you belatedly realize you haven’t left them to dry yet.

The red marks on his neck look like blood. He stares up at you, confusion dancing across his eyes, breathing calm and slow. Did I catch you at a bad time, Kashuu?

You let go. He always catches you at a bad time, anyway.

Later, he visits again and apologizes for a multitude of things he hasn’t done. But he tells you, convinces you that he just wants to be your friend, so you two can fight side-by-side, even though it’s not like Okita can use two swords at once. (There was something about dual-wielding in The Book of Five Rings, but it seemed too confusing.) He says Okita loves you the most, so he wants to learn so much from you, please. He also catches you when you break into tears upon hearing that, even as you struggle to get away and hide, because you don’t want to cry, Okita does not cry.

Yasusada holds you in place wipes your tears, asking what he did wrong this time. You cry harder. You want to stay like this.

The next day, you ask him why he serves Okita. You’ve asked this before of other swords and their respective masters. It’s always the same answer, because it’s my duty as their sword. None of them question it further, or rather, none of them know what it’s like to wait in a filthy riverbed to be sold. You didn’t question it yourself till Yasusada turned up, after all. You either took Okita for granted, and the rest simply don’t understand how life would be like masterless, unloved, despondent. Love is the only thing that can save you. Love--

Yasusada answers that it’s because he loves Okita. You realize you don’t actually understand what he means. You finally agree to train with him, and he hugs you out of excitement till you shove him off. You realize the one place where you two are both equals is in the battlefield. And that’s the only place that matters-- or perhaps he doesn’t want to outdo you in strength out of fear for your own ego, but you don’t think about that. You pluck spring flowers from the roadside for Yasusada and never give them to him. They’re blue, like his eyes and the sky, so his smile is like the sun. It certainly feels like sunflowers coiling around your heart when he thanks you.

By the way, you decide to say. Don’t tell anyone I cried. Or I’m reeeally going to strangle you.

Pfft-- haha, there’s nothing wrong with crying, he replies. His hand on your cheek feels warm. The people in your storybooks cry all the time.

You want to tell him that they’re not storybooks, they’re real, but for some reason, you also don’t want to talk back to him. And who are you to say they aren’t storybooks, anyway? They are all of people you will never meet, and will never talk to. You have tried to make yourself better than the people of the riverbed by following the ideals of people whose bones have turned to ashes, eating and breathing the samurai code like you’ll be thrown away the moment you stop. You’ve been so focused on their accomplishments, their prestige, all the honor which you do not have, and that’s what drove you to put your fingers around his neck. Because you are Kiyomitsu, but it’s just so hard to live up to that name.

So, instead, you say-- Wait, you actually read them?

You don’t understand it yet, but now you train with him whenever he wants to, and you treasure his smile just as much as Okita’s victories.

---

And you don’t really know what friendship feels like, but--

It’s different compared to how you feel with other swords. Yasusada feeds your imagination, your strength, your ego most of all. You still ask him, what is driving you? And it’s always the same, always I love Okita, always and forever.

(Who are you to want him to say I love you instead?)

It’s laughable. Yasusada isn’t even used by Okita except in performances and for show. And yet, you are the one who fears being thrown away, while he is content with simply being around Okita. Is that love, then? Yasusada knows Okita doesn’t love him the most, but he’s happy to help. Just happy to be there.

If that’s so, then this isn’t love. Because you deserve him more than anyone else, because you are the one who talks to him, who trains with him, and it’s not fair that he can see you cry but he always whispers Okita’s name in his sleep-- you deserve more than anything you have right now, you were promised, someone will love you, and Okita isn’t enough--

It’s not fair. You are Kashuu Kiyomitsu, he tells you. You are the sword of Okita Souji, and you can do anything. It’s not fair that he keeps looking away from you when Okita walks by. It’s not fair that he can soothe all the insecurities bubbling up your chest and foaming out your mouth, but you can’t give him your love.

The other swords tell you that your pride has only gotten worse, and you are, as expected, proud of that fact. Because Yasusada is innocent in his earnestness, his purity to be a weapon and nothing more, in his love for Okita. And so, you know he does not lie, and everything he says is true.

You are capable of anything. You can never lose. You are the sword of the greatest swordsman in this entire country, the crisp autumn wind, the splendid sword which can slice clean through any target and reflect light in the night. Who is Yasusada, to say that you can do all that-- and who are you to say he isn’t right? You believe in it, in his words, out of fondness or maybe desperation. You believe it so much that you almost can’t feel your own neck snapping in the darkness of Ikedaya Inn.

You don’t know the name of the rounin who did this to you, and you try not to see the horror in Okita’s eyes. Your hands fly to your neck, and adrenaline makes the searing pain a little more bearable. You scream at the rounin because how dare he, anyone who sees you like this must die, and you’re going to do it, you’re going to kill him because you are not dying now. You are Okita Souji’s prized sword, it will take so much more than a lucky hit to kill you. You taste the metallic tang of your blood in your mouth, and it makes speaking a little harder.

Okita falls back, and your eyes widen. No, you can’t leave, you haven’t killed him yet-- you haven’t won, we haven’t won, Okita, and Yasusada is waiting for you to win. You have to win, you will win, your knees and buckling in on you but you won’t slouch, maintain your posture, your fighting stance, how can you possibly be a role model to Yasusada if you’re standing like this in the middle of battle? Look up, look up and pretend you know what’s happening, pretend the ground isn’t quickly rushing up to your face. You can’t lose, you love Okita, and he wouldn’t let you die-- no, no, Yasusada wouldn’t let you die either, somehow, just-- think of Yasusada, Yasusada is strapped onto the other side of Okita’s waist, and he’s calling your name, your name, Kashuu Kiyomitsu--

You don’t know the first time Yasusada said your name, but you like the sound of it on your lips. You feel the blood welling up your throat and you think about the flowers you plucked for Yasusada just weeks ago, now shriveled up in the pocket of your coat. You planned to throw them away, but you would always remember how blue they looked when they bloomed.

You were killed while surrounded in darkness and clutched desperately in someone’s hand.

There’s not much else to think about as your vision fades from you. You think of Okita, and whether Yasusada will be able to handle the fight if you couldn’t. You think of your swordsmith, and wonder if he had ever dreamed of glory. You think of heroes of old and how they always fell all too soon. You think about living.

And then, as you are dying, you decide that this doesn’t really count as death if you’ve never lived in the first place. Who are you to ever think you were in love in the first place? You are not a hero of old. You are not a human. You, Yasusada, everyone-- you are all just weapons, and that is all you ever will be. And love, love is reserved for the living.

So in the end, maybe it’s fitting, how love isn’t enough to save you.

Chapter Text

“Hey,” Kashuu begins, “I think our saniwa’s a robot.”

Mikazuki raises an eyebrow, looking slightly amused. Of all the things to say, right in front of the saniwa-- “Ahahah, is that supposed to be rude?”

“No,” Kashuu retorts, and he waves his hand in front of the saniwa’s face. But of course they can’t see it-- there’s a thick cloth over their head, hanging from their obnoxiously tall onmyoji hat. “Has anyone ever seen the saniwa’s face?”

“Don’t be too loud, now. They’re sleeping,” Mikazuki reasons, seeing the saniwa hasn’t done anything or even moved in a while. He’s definitely seen people who could sleep while sitting down before-- and for someone who works as hard as the saniwa does, it’s a plausible assumption. “Hm, who knows, though. What is a robot, really?”

Kashuu rolls his eyes. “Duh, it’s a modern invention dating, like, a century back or something. Basically, they can get metal and electricity to act like humans. Kinda like tsukumogami, but without magic, just electricity. I think it creates a soul or something called a ‘program’.”

“Creating a soul? Sounds dangerous,” Mikazuki jokes. “What makes you think the saniwa is one, then?”

Kashuu tilts his head, looking back at the saniwa. “Well… they don’t talk to us. Like, at all. I’m their first sword, and I know this the best! They just give commands, ‘forge this’, ‘fix that’, ‘go on a sortie here’, and keep making us do the same thing over and over until we get what they want! Like they only have one goal, and they can’t ever get away from it. They systematically train every-single-sword till they’re the strongest that they can be, and whenever they hear reports of a new sword spirit being sighted they’ll literally go to the smithy a thousand times to forge them if they have to!” He seems very proud of this observations, so Mikazuki lets him continue. “You know, I read on the internet that robots are like that. Creating a soul from electricity and not from memories or learnt human behavior means they’ll never be that close to humans, and not even at our standard. So, like, robots tend to have their minds set on one thing at one time, can never deviate, just follow commands, no emotions, just judgment… like our saniwa!”

Mikazuki sits down, and at one point he began pouring tea. Kashuu stares in bewilderment at the cup suddenly put into his hands. Has he been talking for that long? “Now, the way you say it makes the saniwa sound like a bad person. Hm, a stone wall, perhaps. I’ve definitely known a few people like that, back in my day--”

“Don’t even begin, old man.”

“Hahah. Though, you don’t seem to dislike the saniwa.”

Kashuu turns his head to the side, looking back at the saniwa again. They haven’t moved an inch. “...Well, they’re not bad to me, either.”

“Oh? But I thought you said they pushed you to keep doing the same task and trained you to your limits. You’ve always been the secretary, right? Captain of squad 1. They’ve never changed you out.”

“Mhm. I heard other saniwas like to change their secretary whenever they get a new sword, like a new toy… ooor, the saniwas who don’t care about secretaries and just swap them out whenever they need to, for forging and armory… but I’ve never been switched out. It’s probably because they don’t think it’s important, if they’re a robot,” Kashuu hums.

Mikazuki shrugs his shoulders. “Or, maybe they simply like you the best.”

“Well--” Kashuu looks back again. “Maaaybe.”

“Tsurumaru told me this before, ‘the simplest explanation is probably the right one’.” A slight breeze flits through the Citadel doors, and it brushes the back of the saniwa’s long cloak, but they still don’t move. “It’s probably that.”

Kashuu takes a drink. “I guess so, I guess so~ well, I wouldn’t be so surprised. Still, it’d be nice if they talked to me, once in a while…”

“I suppose they’re the kind of person who just doesn’t show emotion through words, just actions. They don’t seem predisposed to being affectionate. Hm, a ‘tsundere’, if you will!”

“What-- that’s not what a tsundere means! You’re so embarrassing!”

Mikazuki laughs at himself while Kashuu huffs. “Mm. But the saniwa does have inhumane concentration and determination. Though, is that a bad thing?”

“...I guess not, but it does get tiring sometimes,” Kashuu sighs. “Would be nice to just get a pat on the back or something.”

“The saniwa will always return the moment any sword gets heavily injured, and they always heal them before going out again. They wouldn’t be so diligent about that if they didn’t care about us,” Mikazuki says. “Whenever we spar with other swords under different saniwas, we hear horror stories about swords breaking in battle. But no one’s broke under our saniwa’s commands. They’re stubborn, maybe, but they’re also very careful.”

Mikazuki’s smile softens a little. “Our saniwa always fulfills every daily mission, every monthly job, gets enough resources for us to be fixed, trained all of us, from the strongest oodachi to a timid tantou, and do that all without much of a break. Maybe it is tiring, sometimes, to keep going on sorties over and over, but if anyone’s working the hardest, it’s the saniwa.”

Kashuu sighs. “Yeah. It’s like… they’re a robot, or something.”

Mikazuki just grins in response when Kashuu loops make to the same conclusion. “Well, in that case, is being a robot so bad? Perhaps I’m just an old man, but if they care about us and make sure everything is in running order, I wouldn’t mind them perhaps not having a fully human soul. Of course, if they even are a robot.”

The saniwa still hasn’t stirred. Kashuu closes his eyes, trying to parse his thoughts. “Jeez, after they finally found Juzumaru in the Retrograding Army’s camp and brought him back here, they’ve just been sitting there without moving. And then they’ll just get up at the break of dawn tomorrow to do the daily missions, make us spar against other saniwas, go on expeditions, forge new swords… can’t they at least-- actually move to bed or something? It’s-- I don’t know. Even if they do take care of us--”

Mikazuki pats Kashuu on the head. “Good job on leading the squad to get Juzumaru, Kashuu. I’m sure the saniwa is proud of you.”

Kashuu freezes, then stutters as he tries to snap back. “Hey-- no, that’s not what I need!”

Mikazuki pats him again. “But you would like to be congratulated, right? Hm, or am I doing it wrong?”

“Stop patting me so hard!”

Mikazuki laughs again. “Alright, alright. But, Kashuu, I wouldn’t worry so much about it if I were you. I can understand, you’d prefer someone a bit more… emotional, to be your saniwa. But I’m sure the saniwa put you as their secretary to do all their duties from the start till now for a reason.”

Kashuu huffs. “...Do they really like me the best?”

“I wouldn’t know. But it’s an intelligent guess, and the simplest explanation,” Mikazuki answers.

Kashuu gets up, walking over the saniwa. Their back is slumped over, head bowed to face the floor, as it they’re a rag doll with simply a skeleton to keep them from falling over. He raises his hand, turning back to look at Mikazuki-- Mikazuki doesn’t seem to be trying to stop him, and Kashuu faces the saniwa again, wondering if he should give into the urge to slap the saniwa, disrespect them, disobey their orders, do anything out of line or routine to force them to address him, personally, for once.

Instead, Kashuu turns on his heels and walks away. Mikazuki wonders where he’s going, when suddenly Kashuu appears again, dragging the spare futon from the secretary’s room-- his room. He lays it on the floor, right next to the open door staring out into the garden outside, beautiful pond and intricate pagoda. He wonders if the saniwa ever appreciates the view-- though, perhaps they do, if they sit here all the time, seemingly staring at nothing but Kashuu and the scenery all the day.

He kind of just-- pushes the saniwa over gently, leading them head onto the pillow, and cover them up with the blanket. Kashuu wants to rip off the stupid hat and look at their face, but if they wear it all the time, Kashuu supposes doing that would be disrespectful-- they don’t want it to be seen, for whatever reason. So he resists that urge, for yet another day, before moving his arm down to lean over the saniwa.

“Go away, Mikazuki,” Kashuu orders first. Mikazuki smiles and leaves, not at all worried what Kashuu will do.

And he’s right to not worry, because Kashuu just wraps his arms around the saniwa for the moment. They’re warm and not made of cold steel, not like their swords, and much like a human. “...Good job, saniwa. Thank you for your hard work. Keep taking care of me, alright?”

He then pulls away, before looking up and realizing Mikazuki left his teapot behind. Instead of clearing it away, he takes it and puts it by the saniwa’s side, wrapping it in the towel to try to keep it warm over the night. He then leaves a cup there too, and walks away, wondering if the saniwa will ever stop to look, perhaps even drink it.

---

The next day, Kashuu finds his futon folded up and returned, and the distinct smell of tea coming from his sink.

Chapter Text

“Can’t you act more human, for once?”

Kashuu pats the top of Yasusada’s head, almost patronizingly, and Yasusada jerks his head away in response. “...But I’m not human,” Yasusada answers simply, not quite seeing what Kashuu means, or why he’d use that choice of words.

“Well, I mean-- yeah, but my point is--” Kashuu huffs in annoyance, before yanking on Yasusada’s ponytail in retaliation for absolutely nothing. Yasusada says ow. “You need to stop being so obsessed with training all the time! Go out with us on vacation sometimes, to the city. See the sights or something, jeez. I’ll bring you to aaall my favorite restaurants!”

Yasusada’s face is still lined with sweat from sparring, so he doesn’t quite have the energy to rebut Kashuu right now. Still, he shoots Kashuu a sideways glance, making no effort to hide his irritation. “Thank you, but I don’t really want all that, Kashuu.”

“Yeah, you don’t want it. You need it.”

Kashuu throws a towel from the rack at Yasusada’s face. Bullseye. Yasusada has gotten used to this, so he doesn’t fall over his time. “Look at you! Aruji gave us a big day off, and I went off shopping, spa, watching movies-- but in the entire time, you’ve just been cooped up here, training? With all those goody-two-shoes tantous who Ichigo doesn’t allow out of the Citadel? You don’t know how to live at all!”

“I did go out with you once,” Yasusada mutters, trying to find a retort as he wipes his face dry. “I didn’t really like the noisy streets, so--”

“Theeen, I can just bring you to somewhere less noisy! I’ll nobly sacrifice my shopping spree time for you,” Kashuu remarks sarcastically. “Really, though. While everyone else is living like it’s 2205, you’re still-- acting like it’s four hundred years ago. You’re not just a weapon, so stop being so fixated on just acting like one!”

Yasusada blinks. “...But… we’re literally swords.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re literally weapons, Kashuu.”

“The saniwa said something about this before. You’re just as human as you make yourself be. If anything, we’re soldiers, but not just weapons anymore. Plus, you walk on two legs, talk, eat, lungs still breathing and heart beating, right?”

Yasusada’s fingers instinctively grace his chest, as if he needs to check. Kashuu flicks him on the forehead. “Ow.”

“What a ‘weapon’ was four hundred years ago doesn’t apply right now,” Kashuu concludes. “If someone without spiritual power looked at you, they wouldn’t be able to tell the difference! So what’s wrong with you? There’s nothing shameful about living like a human.”

Yasusada sighs. “But I am living like a human, right? You said, I walk on two legs, talk, eat--”

“No, no!” Kashuu regrets not taking a shower and resting before having this conversation, because it’s going to go in circles for a long, long time. “I don’t mean living to, like, live and not die. I mean, using the two feet you walk on to explore. Just keep walking without anyone telling you to stop, or where to go. Live like you can decide every step you take, not follow your schedules and keep on good behavior like an old dog.”

“Alright. I’m not stupid, you know-- I get what you mean,” Yasusada tries to explain. He walks out the dojo, tailing Kashuu while they walk back to their room. “I guess I tried that before, but… ah, Kashuu. You wouldn’t disagree with me on this, right?”

Kashuu raises an eyebrow, opening their room door. “What?”

“That most importantly, we should all try to be happy first,” Yasusada declares with a smile. Kashuu would pinch his cheeks if he wasn’t being so annoying.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, I’m happy living here. I’m happy doing all this. Living to be happy is enough, right?”

“A dog is happy living in its own little world chasing its tail, sooo…” Kashuu shrugs. “It’s good to be happy, but don’t you ever end up tired of it? Don’t you ever end up wanting more? How can you even stand living like this? You haven’t left the Citadel in months other than on sorties and expeditions!”

Yasusada opens the bathroom door. “You’re saying I live more like a dog than a human?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm… then explain to me,” Yasusada begins. “Why you keep trying to go out and find something new?”

“The fact that I have to explain it to you…” Kashuu kicks his shoes off, sitting on their futon. “People-- well, normal people, I guess-- can’t be happy with the same thing the whole time, you know? If you lost a leg or won a lottery, eventually, no matter what, if nothing else happens to you, in a few years or even months, you’ll get used to it, and life gets boring. Not that I want to lose a leg or something, but eventually, you’ll just get used to life. And that was fine while we were still just swords, but now it feels like a waste, you know? The world is much bigger than what we’ve ever thought it would be.”

Yasusada turns on the tap. “Even if you won a lottery, you’d end up getting used to it…?”

“Right, right. If I lived like a king, eventually, I’d get used to living like a king. But of course, I wouldn’t be averse to living like one,” Kashuu laughs. “I’m not saying living in the Citadel is bad. It’s just that-- there’s a lot better out there to see, you know? And you’re cutting yourself off from it.”

“So,” Yasusada begins, tilting his head. “Being human means being unhappy?”

“Eh?” Kashuu blinks. “Where did you get that from?”

“You keep chasing after something new, something better, or at least, something fresh…” Yasusada splashes his face. “Ahh-- so, that means you constantly end up being unhappy with where you are, no matter how good it is. Right?”

“I-- I guess, but if humans were just content with however they lived, no matter how good or bad, we wouldn’t have all these phones and showers and electricity,” Kashuu tries to reason. “The way you say it makes it sound bad. Being human means trying to find ways to be happier.”

Yasusada lets the water run through his hands. “Hey, Kashuu. Did you ever know someone who had a lake running through their house?”

“What? What’s with all your weird questions?”

“Nothing. I’m just thinking-- when you said you’d love to live like a king.” Yasusada turns the tap off. “But you live in a gigantic castle above the hill, overlooking the world. You can reach the town below in just minutes using modern vehicles. The saniwa feeds you every day, and we have water running in our Citadel, and the ability to even travel through time. If everything goes right, the both of us are also immortal. Kings never lived like this, right…?”

Kashuu huffs. “I’m not being ungrateful!”

“I’m not saying you are,” Yasusada retorts. “But, if that’s what you say being human is like… I think I understand. But I still don’t feel like leaving the Citadel too often. There’s new things every day here, right?”

Kashuu raises an eyebrow. “Here? New things…? Other than sorties, and new locations now and then… no?”

“But every day is different. And every conversation is different. Like this one,” Yasusada says. “I’m not very good at speaking, so I’m not sure how to say it. If you like leaving the Citadel to explore on your own two feet, that’s fine. But I’m fine with just staying here, because I don’t really need things as big as winning a lottery to make me happy, Kashuu.”

Kashuu tilts his head back. “You’re sure as hell better at speaking than I’d like, though… but I guess that makes sense. I can’t understand how you’d possibly be happy with all this, but sure.”

“Not understanding each other is also a human thing, too. That’s why they fight, right?” Yasusada smiles to himself. “...I think I know why you brought this up, though. I assure you, Kashuu, I don’t live like this because I only see my worth in being a weapon. I feel-- I’m not really human, yet I am. Is that fine? I think it is.”

“Being a human is cooomplicated,” Kashuu groans. “Are you sure I can’t bring you out again one of these days, though? Happy or not, I want you along sometimes.”

“I won’t annoy you?”

“You always annoy me, but more so when you don’t do as I say,” Kashuu answers evasively. “You’re fine with living in the Citadel forever, like a prized trophy, and fine, I’ll accept that. But I want to drag you out, too!”

Yasusada grins. “Fine, fine. I’ll go out with you, Kashuu.”

“Ah, it’s a date, then!” Kashuu smiles to himself. “I can’t say that I live like a king till I bring my queen out on a date, right? I’ll make you try out all the blazers, and the tuxes, and--”

“Wait, wait--” Yasusada suddenly realizes the extent of what he’s just agreed to partake in. “No, why am I the queen?!”

“Too bad! I’ll show you what I think being human feels like, Yasusada. And my queen,” Kashuu hums. “...Not in some kind of lewd way either, so stop giving me that look, you pervert!”

Yasusada rubs his face. “I didn’t mean anything…”

“Hey, no, serious question now,” Kashuu interrupts. Yasusada looks up. “Does being with me make you happy?”

“Ah? Yes.”

“I’m glad,” Kashuu sighs contently. “You make me feel more human, Yasu.”

“...Huh?”

“Do I make you feel human, Yasu?”

“If it’s up to me to decide… I guess so. You make me happy, and I like to hear you talk even if you annoy me, so...”

“What a roundabout way to say you looove me-- well, that’s as good of an answer as I could’ve hoped for,” Kashuu laughs. “You’re just as human as you decide to be. Mm, there’s no other way to describe it.”

Chapter Text

This is the first time they meet.

As far as he knows, Mikazuki Munechika is a national treasure, a gem, born of nothing but pure talent and the crescent moon. He walks the path of nobles and magnificent castles that must touch the sky, looking over fields upon fields running with rice and people who must tilt their head upwards to see him.

So, when Mikazuki says Is that you, Honebami?, it sends an electric shock down his spine like a cattle prod. He stares at Mikazuki, not quite realizing he’s gaping until the words who are you bounce to his lips, and from how Mikazuki’s face doesn’t fall, Honebami thinks he expected that answer. Assumes that Mikazuki was just messing with him.

But instead, Mikazuki spills a name which Honebami doesn’t recognize. Honebami declares the truth, nothing more but that. A simple, ‘...Sorry. I don't have any memories from before I was burned…”

Mikazuki’s eyes only slightly widen before his smile wanes. “Ah... I see. In that case it was my bad. Well, don't worry about it.”

That same electric shock makes Honebami step in front of Mikazuki before he turns away. “Did you know the previous me?”

“Yes. For quite a long time... but, it doesn't matter. From here on, let's get along with each other once again.”

Contrary to what Mikazuki wants-- or perhaps it’s exactly what Mikazuki wants-- his words fill Honebami with some kind of insatiable curiosity, mixed with desperation and loss.

He needs to find out about Mikazuki’s past. After all, if Honebami can’t remember his own--

The saniwa has the greatest library filled with books borrowed (or stolen) from across time itself, and Honebami gets to work the moment they return back to the Citadel. Forget about showering or eating lunch. But there isn’t much he can find, despite his steadfast determination-- the language predates him, or predates his memories, and the records focus on the masters, not the weapons.

He doesn’t learn much other than what he already knows. Mikazuki is old, Mikazuki is grand, Mikazuki is a treasure and you can kill him but he’ll laugh at you as he dies. He laughs at everything as though it’s the national anthem and everyone else is the Emperor.

Honebami is looking through a book on Ashikaga Takauji when Mikazuki simply appears from behind, putting a hand on his shoulder. He lets Honebami straighten up in surprise before saying anything. “Hm, I knew him. He had three great qualities.”

Mikazuki doesn’t continue, and Honebami turns around. “What do you mean?”

“One, he was calm in battle, yet brave without fear of death. Two, he was merciful and tolerant. Three, he was grateful and generous to those who serve him.” Mikazuki says those things without missing a beat, and Honebami blinks in blank confusion for a moment before flipping through the pages.

Honebami places his thumb indignantly on the text. “...But the records say he was a cowardly backstabber who turned on the Emperor and denied him rightful Imperial rule, leaving the royal family without power for over five centuries following this till the Meiji Restoration.” Mikazuki looks at him, smile not wavering, so he looks down and takes a deep breath before continuing. “He was not merciful either, with how he crushed Kusunoki Masashige’s smaller force at Minato River. Even though Masashige was incredibly loyal, the end of his life was a ruthless slaughter.”

“Mm,” Mikazuki nods, and that gives Honebami enough confidence to spit out the last part of his tirade.

“And lastly-- he almost caused a three-way civil war by creating a splinter within his own family by accusing his brother of treachery. How can you say he was grateful and generous?”

And when Honebami looks up, not full of protest but brimming with genuine curiosity, Mikazuki finally realizes exactly how much he (the both of them) have lost.

“Haha, you’ve really done your research, haven’t you?” Mikazuki could say a lot of things. He could talk about how the Imperial family wouldn’t have been able to pull Japan together like a samurai clan, or how Emperor Go-Daigo was the one who sent Kusunoki Masashige on his suicide charge in the first place. Or how, oh, Ashikaga Takauji’s brother was a back-room dealer who saw to the deaths of two Imperial sons and no one could tell what he was thinking, not a single person, and Takauji had every right to fear his own brother.

But he doesn’t, because no matter how he parrots Honebami’s own words back to him, nothing can bring back the dead.

“How about this?” Mikazuki pulls a chair, and takes the book out of Honebami’s hands. “When I was still under his possession, I met a sword who told me all about his adventures. On our first meeting, I could only look upon what was within the palace, but his tales gave me the eyes of the world. Honebami, do you want to have the eyes of the world, too?”

“Eyes of the…?” Honebami nods, not quickly enough to be enthusiastic, but not reluctantly either. “Alright.”

“Ahaha, then, it’s settled. Though, there’s a lot to talk about.”

“...It’s fine,” Honebami hums. “We have all the time in the world.”

---

Mikazuki tries to imagine what battles are like.

He can’t possibly go out to them, oh no, never. He is the prized sword of the Ashikaga family, which has just so recently rose to this peak of power. Entire centuries will be titled with their family name. They will be as everlasting as the great moon, as Tsukuyomi, the god born from Izanagi-no-mikoto’s right eye.

(In retrospect, the moon isn’t everlasting at all, because it dies every month and is reborn from nothing.)

“Ah, hello--” And perhaps, a few hundred years ago, when Mikazuki still knew too little to realize that one day he would know too much, he waves his arm at the returning swords from battle as they pass the treasury. Most of them ignore him, marching right on alongside their owners, but one is temporarily placed at the doorway. Mikazuki takes this chance to bother the naginata while he’s waiting to be moved. “Hello there.”

The naginata, taller than Mikazuki could ever hope to be, looks down on him like a small animal. “Yes?”

“...Hmm,” Mikazuki pauses, not quite sure how to begin, because this is the farthest he’s gotten to actually speaking with a war sword. “What’s your name? I’m Mikazuki Munechika. Nice to meet you!”

The stranger doesn’t huff in contempt, at least. “Honebami Toushirou.”

“Honebami, what a fearsome name! How are you like in battle?”

“Well,” Honebami begins, and he looks down at Mikazuki, seeing his eyes brim with genuine curiosity. He decides to entertain the treasured sword. “As the naginata of Ashikaga Takauji himself, I’ll have to say I have to be as fearsome as I sound.”

Mikazuki nods along. “You belong to my master himself as well, then? Oh, maybe you’ll be stored here while he’s not in battle! Please, tell me all about your battles.”

Honebami blinks. “There’s a lot of talk about.”

“Ah, but we have all the time in the world.”

“Right,” Honebami says, and he wonders exactly what he’s signed himself up for.

Mikazuki tries to set a direction. “Let’s start with our master. How is he like?”

That’s something Honebami can talk about. “Ashikaga Takauji has three great qualities,” Honebami begins, preaching as though he has known their master for longer. “One, he is calm in battle, yet brave without fear of death. Two, he is merciful and tolerant. Three, he is grateful and generous to those who serve him.”

That’s not the part Mikazuki is interested in, though. But he knows better than to chase Honebami for stories, because Honebami may just shut up and bring the battlefield farther away. No, he has to butter him up. “Really? So, Honebami, as his naginata, are you just the same?”

Honebami lets out a huff, but he’s smiling. “Well, swords are always influenced by their masters.”

“So, what else is there?”

(After all, they have all the time in the world.)

Chapter Text

When the mirror is too far away, Kashuu almost looks like he doesn’t have a face.

He does a double-take every time this happens-- in the middle of the night, the bathroom door still ajar, while Yasusada snores on next to him and he raises his head to look at the clock hanging on the wall. His eyes will drift to the mirror, and in the blurred darkness, he has no face. Only a smooth, glowing white that only looks bright because the rest of his world is surrounded in the night, much like how the moon only glows because you cannot see the sun.

For some reason, it scares him to death, and he’ll duck back into bed, pulling up the sheets. He’ll bury himself into Yasusada’s arms and yell at him in the morning for not closing the door.

And Yasusada, with his quiet breathing and soft heartbeat, will just mumble that Kashuu is overreacting before turning over and falling asleep again.

“I’m here,” he mumbles, and Kashuu can only close his eyes after he wakes Yasusada up in the night and demands that he closes the door. He hits Yasusada in the arm, but doesn’t say anything, just buries his head in his chest. “It’s okay. It’s just a trick of light.”

---

Youkai live in the zone of uncertainty, the transition from one place to the next.

Oni live on bridges between civilization. Yamanba live on the mountains between cities. Tsukumogami are the things between the living and the non-living, the uncertainty of what constitutes as a soul, and of course, to Kashuu, they are very real.

But youkai do not live in just far-away places, in the middle of the vast oceans or the darkened corners of thick forests. The most frightening of most youkai-- the ones that leave objects misplaced, leave strange marks on the floor and creates sounds at night when there should only be dead silence-- they are a constant reminder that life is not what it seems to be. That Kashuu, Yasusada, and every sword in a Citadel is an abomination of something between life-and-lifelessness. You are never truly alone. You are never truly alone.

Kashuu has an unshakeable feeling that someone is watching him at night.

He already has nightmares as it is. But being awake when no one else is-- that’s the worst. Yasusada isn’t always there, sometimes he’s injured and still in the repair room, and so he lies alone, feeling all the eyes in the world watching him, staring at him, through the wall and the man standing at the bathroom door, the blank face in the mirror--

--didn’t he fucking close it?

Kashuu pulls up the covers, knowing it’s just a trick of light and knowing he can just run out the room and hammer on the saniwa’s door if he needed back-up. Even if they did intend to harm him, he could easily disable any attacker. He’s done it several times, after all, camping out on sorties and being ambushed. But this-- the darkness, the time between midnight and morning, in a room where even the moonlight refuses to shine-- it’s so utterly terrifying, and Kashuu’s heart is hammering in his chest, as if it’s trying to go through all the beats he would’ve lived if he died, right now, here, to his own fear.

But he doesn’t move. He’s too paralyzed to move. He grips his sword to his chest, knuckles turning white, and he does not move until the morning light shines into the room.

He doesn’t bring it up to Yasusada, because he’s already been through enough, recovering from his injuries. When he speaks to the saniwa, they simply nod their head and respond matter-of-factly:

The man standing by the bathroom door is probably real.

If tsukumogami are real, then by the spiritual order of the saniwa, all others are as well. Women whose necks can stretch for miles, monks who can devour you in one gulp, and kitsune who light up the night with fox weddings. If Kashuu feels fear, real fear, whether the source is imagined or not, it will become real. The consequence of living in a castle where everything is possible-- is that everything is possible. If Kashuu creates the horrific dream of a man who will stare at him from the bathroom door and watch him while he sleeps, then he will become real.

“So, what the hell am I supposed to do about it?” Kashuu just gets a laugh in response. Emotions are fickle; if Yasusada returns to sleeping with Kashuu, then the man will disappear when the fear disappears. Maybe order Yasusada to stay up-- he’ll complain but he’ll do it. The saniwa pats Kashuu on the head and tells him that the price of magic is magic itself. Everyone will learn, in time, that they are as capable as the saniwa of creation. Learning is difficult, but it can be overcome.

When Kashuu walks out the room, a man slowly walks towards him from the end of the hallway. Even in broad daylight, he refuses to walk any further, and he backs up into the saniwa’s room and lies on their lap until the saniwa casts a (placebo) spell to make him go away. There, I exorcised him. Kashuu, happy enough with that response, leaves to find Yasusada.

“You normally visit me right when I’m done being repaired,” Yasusada sulks.

“Sorry, sorry, I got distracted,” Kashuu shrugs. The fear melts away in the daytime.

---

At night, he makes Yasusada stand guard. Perhaps because of that, the man does not come, and Kashuu falls asleep to the feeling of Yasusada rubbing his back. The bathroom door is open when he wakes up in the morning. He locked it shut yesterday night, and he filmed himself doing it.

“Maybe you sleepwalked at night and unlocked it,” Yasusada tries to reason. Kashuu just laughs, not unlike how the saniwa did. It’s funny how, despite their own existence being a logical anomaly, they would still try to find reason in the world they live in.

Kashuu is not the only sword who has realized this. Gokotai, who has always fallen prey to night terrors, sleeps in the saniwa’s room because he cannot contain his own imagination-- so the saniwa does it for him. Ichigo knows, but he has remarkable self-control himself, and knows that everything he can make real, he can also undo. Kashuu has a feeling that some swords, like Shokudaikiri and Uguisumaru, have always somewhat known but never abused it.

The man at the end of the hallway, staring at him from the bathroom door, only appears when he is alone. And not just alone-- but alone in his own thoughts, in his fears, in his ugliness and his undying phobia that if he dies, when he dies, he will be all alone. Except for the man at the end of the hallway, walking towards him, one step at a time.

Kashuu can make every horror in the world come alive.

After a terrible sortie where Yasusada got scratched up, again, Kashuu tries not to let the horror of his possible death creep into his mind. He cannot create situations-- the saniwa has clarified that. But he can create images, images of fear like the man in the hallway, or Yasusada’s bloodied corpse in a bathtub. He doesn’t need that. He doesn’t need any of that.

He asks the saniwa if he can order sleeping pills online, and the saniwa just lends him some of their own. They’re very strong.

But even when Kashuu slams into bed, he wakes up in the middle of the night. He can already feel the man staring at him from the bathroom door. He grabs Yasusada’s arm-- “Come on, please, idiot, please wake up--” --and the footsteps become closer. The door creaks open. A mirror breaks.

Yasusada’s eyes fly open, and he grabs his sword before slicing the man in two. He disappears in a gust of wind.

“Kashuu, are you alright?” He cups Kashuu’s face with one hand, and Kashuu finally feels like he can drop his bed covers before leaning forward to hug Yasusada around the chest. “I didn’t know what that was-- he might be an enemy agent, I’ll call the saniwa--”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s nothing,” Kashuu repeats, just pressing himself against Yasusada’s body. When he opens his eyes, a piece of the shattered mirror lies on the floor next to him-- perhaps his created stalker had planned to stab him with the same bathroom mirror that torments him, both in the day as he stares at it with his imperfect face and imperfect make-up, or in the dim glow of the night. His eyes flit down, and he has no face. Whatever.

There’s a knock on the door. “I’ll go get it,” Kashuu mutters. It must be the saniwa, after the commotion he’s made. Yasusada looks at the door, and kisses Kashuu on the forehead before letting him go.

Kashuu opens the door, and--

It’s Yasusada. Yasusada was injured. Yasusada was in the repair room.

“Kashuu, what happened? I heard a noise,” Yasusada says, and his concern only grows when a look of horror passes Kashuu’s face. “Did you fall over? I heard a mirror break, I--”

“No,” Kashuu breathes, and he turns around. Yasusada is not there. He is there, the man in the hallway-- and he is close enough, so close he can hear him next to his own ear, but he has no face, he is dressed in red and black, he has Kashuu’s hair and Kashuu’s nails and a piece of glass gripped in his fist and he has no face, just loud footsteps that are really just the tapping of Kashuu’s heels--

Kashuu beheads the nopperabou that takes his form with a slash of his sword. It falls, but not before its arm drags across the thin paper door of their room. It tears the panels, but instead of just falling apart like paper, the paper gives way to eyes, all the eyes in the world, and they all stare down at Kashuu.

At some point, Kashuu begins screaming, but he can’t do anything. He just watches Yasusada lunge forward, popping every eye in the wall like a balloon, showing no mercy to the mokumokuren-- but they pop up in the floor, on the ceiling, and Yasusada’s yukata slips and they pop up all over his arm, oh, oh--

---

“You’ll get used to it,” Yasusada tries to says, but Kashuu isn’t too receptive to comfort right now. “When you fainted, they all disappeared. So they can’t do lasting damage. Just remember that they’re not real.”

“Easy for you to say. They are real,” Kashuu hisses. “Just… not in the conventional sense.”

Yasusada sighs. “Even then, they’re not always bad. You said you created an entire copy of me to protect you, because you believed I would be there when I woke up. If you’d maintained that illusion, then you wouldn’t have gotten frightened when you realized that wasn’t the real me, and it wouldn’t have turned into… whatever that was.”

“How many times?” Kashuu takes a deep breath. “You get injured so much, you idiot, rushing into battle with all your blood in your muscles and not your brain-- how many times have I slept with someone that wasn’t real?”

“Any version of me will still love and protect you, real or not,” Yasusada comforts. Kashuu just passes it off as cheesy. There is a man staring at them from the end of the hallway, but he has no face. Kashuu knows this now.

“How long will this take?” Kashuu closes his eyes, trying to will the man away, but it’s impossible to destroy fear. “How long until I can control this?”

Yasusada shakes his head. “You heard what the saniwa said. It’s the price we pay for living in the world in-between reality and fiction. I… don’t get it myself, but I realized that my mind could make up things some time ago. Sometimes, I wake up, and for a moment, you have no face.”

“I bet that’s a shocker,” Kashuu laughs tiredly. “That’s my fault, sorry. I keep feeding you the image of me without a face when I complained about the mirror. Let’s not fix the mirror. I can just go to the saniwa’s bathroom to put on make-up.”

The man is standing over the both of them, now, while they sit on the steps looking out the garden. Kashuu can see the shadow on the floor. “Sit down with us,” Yasusada offers, and Kashuu looks at him like he’s sprouted a third eye (and he can, so Kashuu decides not to push it.)

The man sits. Yasusada forces himself to look, brushing what should be Kashuu’s fringe back. It’s true, he has no face. “You’re still beautiful, without a face,” Yasusada says steely, and Kashuu tries to calm his racing heart, tries to forget all the days of him being watched from the bathroom door. Because he can control this, he can control all the horrors in his mind, and in his life.

The nopperabou grabs Yasusada’s hand and lies on his lap. “I know you’re saying that just to satisfy me, idiot,” --and that comes from both of them, both Kashuus, and it disappears as quickly as it appears. A fleeting existence, living by the will of the original Kashuu’s mind.

Yasusada smiles. “See, that wasn’t so hard.”

“You suck,” Kashuu mutters, and Yasusada just laughs.

They can create all the horrors and all the love in the world.