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Kondo runs his fingers along the rows of iron bars that half encircle the sleeve. He feels shallow, acute indentations in places from sword strikes, but it's clear the arm guard is still sound as a piece of armor. It had not yet lost its integrity, despite its history, or recent modifications.
Inoue had—well, he might've had someone do this, but it's likely he checked the handiwork personally—severed the top of the arm guard that typically covered the wrist and terminated in a loop for the middle finger to hold it in place. It looks more like a sleeve now, with its edges re-sown.
Kondo marvels at the piece. It may have been in Inoue's old master's family for generations. Or he stole it. Either way, Inoue had no problem sacrificing it for Kondo's gambit.
As soon as Kondo starts to unravel the leather drawstrings holding the arm guard together, Inoue clears his throat.
"Allow me, Kondo-san."
He looks as serious as he always is. At least he's no longer defaulting to Kondo-dono, at Kondo's insistence.
Kondo grins, and holds his forearm out, pulling the long tapestry of his sleeve up to his shoulder.
Soon only the soft swift sounds of leather straps weaving are the only noises in the room. Inoue's brows furrow into familiar sharp angles as he tightens the drawstrings, touching Kondo's arm through the fabric and checking the fit as he works. Kondo stays still, enjoying the concentration on Inoue's face as his fringe occasionally jostles.
It reminds Kondo of sweltering summer afternoons in the dojo, when he was less cloistered and covert, sweat rolling down his temples, his muscles tightened to hold the sword in midair. Inoue had yelled "Stop!" after he'd performed several strikes with the wooden sword and drew back to his tennen rishin stance. It was a hell of a position to hold, as Inoue circled him and checked his form, pushing his elbow inward when it was out too far. But even with his heart thrumming and his breathing heavy, he'd still thrilled at Inoue approaching him. He had half a thought to continue screwing up his form just to have Inoue continue to fix it, the natural fruit produced from an constantly-scheming mind.
But Kondo didn't, of course. He knew when to simply be direct.
"You're awfully quiet."
On reflex, Kondo replies with a light, "I thought you'd appreciate some silence before having to sit through all this palaver. It's the least I can do, eh?"
Inoue huffs slightly, but says nothing more. Not the reaction Kondo wanted, but he doesn't deter easily.
Once the job is done, Kondo admires Inoue's careful handiwork. It feels a little tight, but it does have to stay concealed.
"Thank you, Gen-san. I appreciate it, as ever."
"We should practice."
"...Hm?"
"We should practice the move," says Inoue firmly. "You haven't seen Saito-san in action yet. Better to rehearse in advance."
Inoue is sensible, able to pounce on the devil in the details while Kondo is a hawk in flight, scoping out paths and routes that sprawl ahead, strategizing where the Shinsengumi should traverse.
Kondo nods, and proceeds to throw his forearm overhead a few times, committing the move to muscle memory.
Inoue cuts in. "You mentioned you'd goad him over sake?"
He stops, smiling at Inoue's urgency.
"Did I?"
He knows he did, but he's enjoying himself.
"Yes."
Oh, is Inoue a little irritated with him?
Kondo settles down heavily on the floor, meeting Inoue's gaze. He fails to raise his arm.
"How's this?" he asks, a touch of innocence in his voice. He thinks Inoue's onto his playfulness now, but the man is too serious to not follow through.
Despite the foresight, he's still enthralled by the smooth flash of steel as Inoue unsheathes his blade, holding it out in front in what Kondo assumes is Saito Hajime's favored stance.
The seconds stretch between them as they stare at each other. Inoue is waiting for him. For this to be a real rehearsal, he has to make the first move.
Kondo smirks, his favorite provocation.
The blade swings over Inoue's head and drives down, like the snap of a snake's head at its prey. But Kondo's arm meets him, a force as unblockable as his will, the loud clang of steel reverberating through the cavern of the room.
Kondo holds Inoue's gaze, his arm obscuring the other man from the neck down as the blade bisects his face waveringly under the tension, that jagged scar a crooked parallel to his dark eyes. Kondo's breath catches in his throat, and he's sure Inoue's does the same. Their eyes stay locked.
Finally he feels the slightest bit of give against his arm, and Kondo shoves the blade off, acquiescing. He doubts this part perfectly replicates Saito's habits.
"Very good, sir," says Inoue, finally satisfied. "Though I don't suggest using that look on Saito-san," he adds, with a sardonic dryness.
Kondo lets out a hearty laugh, as Inoue sheathes his sword. Perhaps he's more transparent than he'd like at times.
"I'll save it for a different opportunity."
That gets Inoue to smirk amusedly, and Kondo is pleased, light as a ginkgo leaf detached by the breeze.
"I suppose it's time for me to hide. The courtesans will be here soon."
Kondo sighs heavily, leaning back on his elbows as Inoue slides open the closet door.
"If only I could play janken with you or give chase around the room, Gen-san," Kondo dares, feeling silly and bold.
Inoue laughs, a lone ray of sun briefly breaching through his stormy face, and that's the real prize Kondo's after, every time he sees him.
Kondo knows their roles. Men followed Kondo Isami into the Miburoshigumi and then the Shinsengumi for a few reasons, whether they believed in his dream for the country, idolized the legend of the man, or simply wanted the opportunity to slit his throat given a chance.
But Inoue is disrespected up and down the ranks and it incenses Kondo. A man of Inoue's competence and skill doesn't deserve that.
But seeing Inoue chuckle, briefly treating life with the lightness Kondo so easily finds, what he continually wishes upon this diligent assassin who remains humbled by his lot in life regardless of what he gets in return, pleases Kondo. It's his way of recapturing a feeling, the ease of running a hand through Inoue's unbound hair as he drifts off to sleep on Kondo's bare chest as the sweat dries on their bodies, hastened by the cool spring air wafting in through a window.
"Good luck, Kondo-san," says Inoue, about to close the door.
"Thank you, Gen-san."
The closet shuts as Kondo hears giggles and soft whispers approaching in the hallway.
"Oi oi!" he shouts, wearing a wolfish grin. "Kondo-sensei is ready to play!"