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Oboromaru did not think he would find peace so readily.
It has graced him in the arms of a lover, accented with the florals of cherry blossoms carried on the wind, warmed by sunlight. Its blessings outnumber the stars in the sky, daring to contest the heavens in their wonders. Oboromaru feels its joy with each breath that leaves him, with each smile he sees on Ryoma’s lips, with each day they see at each other’s side.
His liege and love, the man whose heart beats for the same Japan he wishes to see. Ryoma, who took him by storm upon their meeting that fateful night, who spoke with conviction and a resolve that he could not help but admire. To follow him was a path meant to be taken, Oboromaru believes, with how he answered with no hesitation. Love was not what he expected to follow, swift in how it gripped his heart. Ryoma’s smile had shined brilliantly when he accepted, a sweeping light that made the sunrise pale in comparison.
It was a light he chased when thrown through a rift in time. Wisdom he kept close to his heart, granting mercy to avoid further sorrow. Words he spoke with honor, Ryoma at the forefront of his mind. He had parted from his companions with a promise, an honor to serve, to follow his heart and what he bid correct. Bound by thread, guided by starlight, Oboromaru believes the fates wished for them to meet.
To say Oboromaru fell into Ryoma’s arms upon return would not be inaccurate. A blink, and he was back where belonged. The Middle Ages, the fight against a malevolent spirit in a young man’s body—it felt as though it were a dream. He’d nearly stumbled onto the ship, mind a whirl, Ryoma asking him where he had gone, he had missed him so, he was worried—all while keeping his hands tightly wrapped around Oboromaru’s.
All the while, Oboromaru looked at him as if Ryoma had been the one to descend from the heavens above.
Oboromaru can’t say when he had fallen in love with the man. Perhaps it occurred the night they met, simple as that. Simple as listening to every word he said, how often he smiled, his laugh a warm breeze. He could muse over such matters, or perhaps enjoy the blessings bestowed upon him: a moment of respite among a clearing of sakura trees, holding the lovers in their embrace.
“You are distracting me,” Oboromaru says with a soft lilt, “when you are supposed to be teaching me how to paint.”
“Hmhm,” Ryoma hums, lips concentrated on a particular area of Oboromaru’s neck, “what a terrible situation you have found yourself in.”
A soft laugh fills the spring air. “The season will pass before I finish.”
“Then we will just simply have to return when the flowers blossom once more.” Ryoma’s answer is sweet, gentle. “The grove will always be waiting for us, dearest Oboromaru.”
Ryoma had spirited them here shortly after Oboromaru’s return. There was much to learn about his new home, the hideaways he found solace in. The sakura trees were his favorite, he’d said, stretching out a hand for a petal to drift into. He’d always dreamed here, of endless better futures, of someone to share it with. The world could change, for better or for worse—though he always believed in the better—and the trees, year after year, would greet him like an old friend.
“I only hope my skills are sufficient enough—to offer this location the honor it deserves.” A difficult task, given how Ryoma’s need for affection grows by the second. “I know you do not take me here lightly.”
“You act as though I have not loved you from the moment you took my hand.” Ryoma’s arms slide around his waist. “As if the fantasy of taking in this sight with you did not dance around my head when you swore yourself to my cause.”
There’s no mask or scarf for Oboromaru to bury his face in, so he must simply accept the flush that creeps up his neck, rushing to his neck and ears. Somehow, Ryoma convinced him to dress casually, that his sword and gear were not required for a peaceful venture. Considering how Ryoma pulled off such a feat, all gentle eyes and words and kisses that traveled, Oboromaru simply couldn’t help but acquiesce.
“Furthermore,” Ryoma continues, chin on his shoulder, “I will love whatever it is that your hands create. No one else will be able to match what you have made for me. It does not have to be perfect.”
“Even so, it must be worthy of you.” Oboromaru steadies himself with a breath. His brushstrokes follow, a delicate line of ink on canvas, the beginnings of a branch. He’s careful in adding in each detail, hoping to capture the delicate beauty of each flower before him. “You are my liege and love, Ryoma. I cannot waver on these honors you have granted me.”
Ryoma hums again. There’s a soft smile on his lips Oboromaru can’t see. “You honor me with words alone, beloved. I would ask you to simply relax , and enjoy this moment fully.”
It’s a sentiment Oboromaru’s heard before. He can still be as honorable as he pleases, as well as let himself rest. It does him no harm to untense his shoulders and appreciate each day for itself. Bearing this in mind, Ryoma taught Oboromaru about the little things in life.
They dance to no music, footsteps broad, arms sweeping as Ryoma hums against the shell of his ear. They watch the night sky, not for any other reason than admiring how brightly its stars shine. On days and nights they are at sea, the ocean wind tickles against their skin and hair, kisses tasting of seabreeze. Oboromaru glides a bare hand through Ryoma’s hair as it drapes over his shoulders. He laughs and smiles and is kissed like they’re the only two people in the world. It’s selfish of them, but deserved, Ryoma says, fingers tapping down his back. After all they have been through, Oboromaru displaced in time, have they not earned their keep as lovers?
He sinks effortlessly into Ryoma’s arms, finding his next stroke comes easier. Perhaps it’s not the easiest way to paint, but he is simply too comfortable to move. It’s hardly any fault of his own how warm the other tends to be.
“What do you plan on painting next?” Oboromaru asks.
“Hm…” Ryoma’s fingers brush over his sides, featherlight. “It is difficult to decide when I am inspired by you in many ways.”
Always a flatterer, he is, but Oboromaru fears his day is incomplete without these words. They warm him like the summer sun. “I would hear your ideas, then.”
He gives a small noise in thought, fingers tapping along his arms. It’s as though Ryoma cannot go a single moment without doting his affections. “May I show you instead?”
Oboromaru watches his eyes flicker to the paintbrush, sparkling and eager. As if he could refuse such a request—he did not plan to in the first place, but such a look… “You may.”
With a smile, Ryoma takes one of Oboromaru’s arms, resting it over his own. He threads their fingers together as his thumb makes small circles against his hand. Delicately, as if handling Oboromaru as though he were made of gold, Ryoma pushes his sleeve back to expose more skin. He takes the brush between his fingers, dipping it in ink before pressing it against his forearm, beginning to leave an array of small dots.
“The very stars we met under,” he begins, drawing thin lines between each dot, “and the constellations I see in your eyes, dearest starlight.”
“I—” Words have left him. “I… see.”
Ryoma continues as if he is not seizing Oboromaru’s heart with every word. Swirls are painted around his elbow, elegant and sweeping. “The sea that carried the ship where we admitted our love to another.”
Their love did not take long. With how Ryoma held him, hands cupping his cheek as he thanked the gods for Oboromaru returning safely, the confession left his lips in the same breath. Oboromaru, face warm and cast in a glow, whispered the very same before Ryoma’s lips ghosted over the fabric of his mask. It was gently pulled down shortly after, their lips meeting again and again until it was all Oboromaru knew.
With as much detail as he can muster, Ryoma adds in the ship as well, sails and all. “It is one of my favorite memories to recall, that we kissed under the very same starlight we met beneath. I could think of no better other name for you, my Oboromaru. It is perfect.”
He nods in reply, emotion caught in his throat. Ryoma is always effortless in his words, lovelier than any poem a writer can bring to life. At times, Oboromaru is in disbelief that they are for him and no other. He is always given new turns of phrase to show affection, names that reflect more brilliantly than a moon shining over the sea. They melt into a deep pool of kisses and touches that Oboromaru submerges himself in. They are blessings that ingrain themselves into Oboromaru’s soul, present and comforting, a balm he shall always have.
It is impossible to imagine his life if he did not say yes.
Satisfied with his work, Ryoma sets the brush back in the ink. “There may be more details I wish to add at a later time, but I do believe this is my favorite work yet.” His lips brush behind Oboromaru’s ear, smile faint. “It does help that I have such a fine canvas to work upon.”
Oboromaru’s face is warm, words tumbling and mashing in his mind. All he’s able to utter is, “You flatter me far too greatly, Ryoma.”
“Hm?” Ryoma’s head tilts to the side. Some loose hair tickles against Oboromaru’s neck. “I do believe I have spoken far sweeter words to you in the past.”
“That is beside the point,” he replies, overcome with the urge to run his fingers through Ryoma’s hair until sunset.
“Then may I ask what the point is?” Ryoma’s barely concealing a laugh.
For what it’s worth, Oboromaru does attempt a reply before Ryoma’s lips press a sweet, chaste kiss to his cheek. He simply lets out a sigh, his smile soft as he takes in the warmth of his own personal sun.
“I am certain that you already know,” he says, looking at the vista that has been painted on his skin. “If you would allow such, I would wish to return the honor.”
Ryoma’s eyes widen with joy, delight in the gasp that leaves him. “Such a blessing you are to impart on me, my starlight! How could I refuse?”
“I know you would not either way.” Before reaching for the brush, Oboromaru turns his neck to capture Ryoma’s lips in a gentle kiss. “I only hope you are able to feel its warmth.”
“With you, there lies nothing else to feel.” Ryoma extends his arm to rest over Oboromaru’s.
The words of love, the smiles and laughter—it’s something Oboromaru never imagined he would experience. Happiness to this degree hardly seemed to align with a shinobi’s line of work, but Ryoma dared to challenge that with a single question. He still holds his position, of course, guarding Ryoma from the shadows when necessary. Yet those moments he steps out into the sun may be his favorite, following his heart’s desire to fall further in love with the man he had rescued.
The brush is dipped carefully in ink before it’s brought to Ryoma’s arm. The first brushstroke is a thin line. Smaller ones follow underneath, slightly spaced apart, some blending together. Rippling waves, moving them ever forward on their path. “The horizon,” he murmurs, adding a curve over it next, “and the first sunrise we bore witness to.”
Ryoma only smiles, watching his movements through lidded eyes.
“A light that showed me my true path,” he continues, “sunlight so bright and pure that it was the only object in the sky.” It’s not as defined as the one his arm bears, but Oboromaru puts forth his best effort in adding a small ship. “The very beginnings of our journey.”
“What a wonderful journey it has been,” Ryoma’s voice is achingly fond. “Every step is a blessing… I cannot wait to see where it guides us next.”
“I do not doubt the wonder it will hold.” Once the brush is settled in the ink, Oboromaru observes their arms side by side.
Though not seamlessly, day and night blend together as one. The stars fade into the warm colors Oboromaru can see, the oranges and reds that complement the blues and purples from a clear night sky. A perfect marriage of nature, a showcase of the simple beauty that is able to give.
“Look,” Ryoma says, “together we make the very twilight we met under.”
“We do,” Oboromaru whispers, voice soft. “We always shall.”
Ryoma brushes his knuckles against Oboromaru’s cheek, kissing it after. “It bids me well to see you at ease, my starlight. I know you hold your duties with the utmost importance, but you must allow yourself these moments. You are always welcome to find this solace in my arms, where I will sweep any exhaustion away.”
“You need not worry.” Oboromaru’s melting further into his embrace. “I will not forget the wisdom you have shared with me—no matter its subject.”
They adjust so his head rests in Ryoma’s lap. In the sun’s rays, filtered through soft petals, Oboromaru finds himself lost in how devastatingly gorgeous Ryoma happens to be. His hair appears amber in the warm light, glowing—heavenly, ethereal. Obvious in his admiration, Oboromaru smiles as he lifts a hand to brush his fingers through the end of Ryoma’s ponytail.
"Like silk," he says, "the finest I have felt."
"Is that so?" Ryoma goes to loosen his hair. "I cannot deny you such privileges."
Oboromaru gives a hum of his own. "What fortune, then."
He cups his hand to Ryoma’s cheek, gently leading him downwards for a kiss. His fingers brush Ryoma’s hair behind his ear, tangled deep in soft tresses. His other hand rests over Ryoma’s, curled gently against his chest. The pair almost looks as if they are a painting themselves, a private moment between lovers permanently etched into memory. Into history.
"Perhaps we should remain here a touch longer," Ryoma’s eyes sparkle. "What do you say, beloved?"
"There is no other place I would rather be, sunlight." He closes his eyes, a content sigh to follow. "I am always to remain at your side."