Work Text:
The night sky is once again, clouded by the deep wintry fog. London does not relent with the monotonous weather. Thus, the wind blows daringly. Rattling the shutters of windows, and whistling in the leaves.
In one of those suites with battered shutters, a lawyerling sits blankly in his office watching the gusts of wind torrent the city.
Left with a prized family heirloom, treated almost like another person, or companion by none other than Kazuma Asougi. It’s been a couple months since he was left with only his soul, and his resolve. A sword and his signature red hachimaki headband, billowing in the breeze that seems to follow him everywhere.
Ryunosuke rakes over Karuma, pressing in the metal, to feel the gritted but polished edges, accidentally cutting himself on the blade. Before he tries to dress the wound strewn across his palm, he thinks to himself that only Kazuma last touched this blade. And he smells it, being too subtle to pick up on. out of curiosity, he smears it with a gentleness unlikely to be paired with the subject of blood. Only then does he smell the piercing iron of his own blood, and the forged metal of karuma. If Ryunosuke shuts his eyes hard enough, he can almost smell him.
The lavender of slumber, cradling him with care. The citrus spritzing from the shared tangerines on scorching Japanese afternoons, peeled with caution and skinned to its bare flesh. The proud, worn leather of his belts and buckles, holstering his body like a safety. As if he were a gun, armed and ready to shoot. A powerful thing, with precision and an explosive ferocity. From his shoes to his waist, a calloused hand resting on his hip bones that jut out. That strange spicy smell, akin to black pepper around his neck and collarbones, a peculiar scent only personal to Kazuma.
He takes an experimental lick, and it's definitely not the first time he has tasted his own lifeforce, but maybe the first he has imagined so vividly it to not be his own mouth tending to it. In a catchall sense, he nearly feels the touch of Kazuma's lips on the palm of his flesh, a kiss to mend the tears of his heart's seams back anew. Ryunosuke finds his hand grasping his wrist gently, possessed by another soul.
The warmth from his eyes swell, spilling over without his permission down his pinched face, deep in reminisce. Thumbing away the rivulets of tears, the pads of his finger tips are soft in comparison, and much less weathered. A sorry imitation of what should have been.
Moments like this, had a swinging tension, like a pendulum of clockwork. A mechanism as delicate as unprotected porcelain, or the childish caution of catching goldfish with thin paper nets. A memory full of joy and a hearty meal, settling on the floor of his stomach with the pleasant warmth in his cheeks and ears.
There is a tension now, in the airlessness of this attic. It's vastly different and heaving like he has been handed the weight of the world in his unwanting palms. A foreign sensation, drowning him deep into the depths, and he sees the blood is trailing innocently down his hand and wrist. A stark bright crimson against his tanned skin, almost enchanting but so much more dizzying. He's had enough of this foul taste, bitter on his tongue and staining his teeth.
Retreating to the bathroom he shares with his flatmates, he takes a bottle of antiseptic with a practiced touch and no anticipation of a wince. Dabbing the helpless wound with a frigid pad of cotton, he sharply inhales a singular fortified breath.
With ease and urgency, he nabs a hopefully clean rag off the medicine cabinet shelf on the wall, and haphazardly wraps his palm tightly in the fabric, knotting the two ends like a flowering sprout growing out of the cut. If it does end up leaving a mark, he seems to have sliced his flesh on the crease of his palm, so it wouldn't be visible anyways. Only for the sake of concealment, and less for his concern of cosmetics. Ryunosuke only hopes people will not question it.
For all he can say, his best bet is probably clumsiness from slicing an apple deep into the night. An alibi taken from past experiences of midnight snacks in his apartment back home. Sheathing the sacred thing back into its rightful clothes, it clicks with a solid sound and the wrapped headband accompanies it, fluttering.
At least he knows how diligently Kazuma sharpens his katana. Or soul, really. Perhaps he should've learned how to wield it earlier, but for now it will have to do as pure show. Ryunosuke is far too afraid to attempt to polish it and take care of it, tarnishing its genuinity.
Tucking the sword in a pouch resting beside his bedding, the lawyerling whispers goodnight to himself and whoever might be listening. He will not utter any name, for there is no need to.