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Kenshi Takahashi has been fighting since he was able to pick up a sword.
He's rarely been without one. Strapped to his back, held tightly in his hand, telekinetically held close by. Hell, he's worried he'll take it to bed one day and have an embarrassing story to tell the ER nurse.
He's been training since he was a young teenager. Probably a little younger than most people learn how to handle a sword, but he's always been nothing if not determined. He's been putting his strength and his blade to good use for decades, it's come to be all he's known. Fight for survival, spar for entertainment, practice for next time.
It's tiring. For anyone else it would be impossible to keep this up. But Kenshi has never been too keen on giving up.
He has people, family, who rely on him.If he stops now, he loses all his work. Many members of his family are nearly out, ties nearly cut, nearly free . His recent connection to the FBI is useful, but it doesn't take any of the weight of his shoulders.
Those days where he isn't moving between missions or actively fighting on missions are mostly spent with his family. Reassuring them that everything has been, is, and is going to be fine. Those days aren't for his comfort, though. They're brief, far between, he has to stay focused on making sure everyone else is alright.
He doesn't have time to take care of himself.
Kenshi’s hair is getting longer, he knows it. He feels the tips on his forehead when he swings his Sento around in the training area. He feels his stubble growing more than he likes. The muscles in his back and arms ache from non-stop strain, pushing himself further and further.
It's uncomfortable, all of it, but he's busy today, and tomorrow, and the day after that. He'll get to it when he gets time. For now, he swings his sword into the training dummy, a burst of Sento’s energy blasting it to pieces.
—
Kenshi arrives in America dead tired. He got some fitful rest on the flight over, but his nightmares were something awful. They've been worse since outworld, something about losing your sight makes your dreams more vivid, it seems.
He gets one day to prepare before he has three straight days of infiltrations and questionings and, possibly, a little more blood on his hands. Sento is packed securely among his belongings, just in case.
But today isn't about that. Because when Johnny heard word of Kenshi’s trip to America, he jumped at the chance to host him. Even when his plane arrives at 4 am and he knows Kenshi will end up sleeping most of the day anyway, and be gone in the morning. But hey, if Kenshi was going to be in town, Johnny would jump at the chance to see him.
Kenshi’s phone immediately begins to rattle off (through his headphones, of course, he’s not out to be a public nuisance or have all his conversations out to the public) line after line of texts from Johnny as soon as it connects to the Wi-fi. These go back hours , from late last night to 2 minutes ago. He smiles, faintly. It’s nice to have someone check up on him sometimes, even if he’s a little overbearing sometimes.
The most recent message says that he’s been at Kenshi’s terminal for an hour now, and unless he sees him soon, he’s gonna try to take a nap. He huffs out a little laugh at that, of course Johnny was over an hour early, and up half the night by the looks of it. Poor thing probably slept just as much as himself last night.
“Text Cage, don’t fall asleep on me yet. I’m here now, and Sento’s too far away for me to be able to see anything,” he says into his phone, quiet enough so hopefully no one else around him heard.
It is almost exactly a minute later when Kenshi hears a familiar voice, clearly tired, and feels a hand on his shoulder, “About time you showed up, I was worried they were gonna keep you.”
Kenshi lets himself smile at that, giving a little amused huff, “My flight is on time, you showed up here an hour early, like a maniac .”
Johnny pulls his hand back, gasping in mock offense, “I show up to pick up my dear friend from the airport? On my day off? And this is how I’m thanked?”
Kenshi brings his hand up to Johnny’s shoulder, “Can you just help me find my bags?”
“Fine, I guess I could,” Kenshi can hear the dramatic pout in his voice, and chuckles at it, “You are my guest after all, I gotta take care of ya’.”
It’s nice, Kenshi supposes, to hear someone say that. He’s not going to dwell on that, the warm feeling in his chest. He feels it often when he’s with Johnny, or when he’s thinking too hard about him (something that he tries not to do, it’s horribly distracting). He can’t quite place it, but it’s… Nice. It’s nice, which is a rare thing for him. Certainly not unwelcome though, he wishes he could bottle up that feeling, store it for later.
Johnny guides him through the busy airport, carefully keeping him from bumping into people (for the most part, Kenshi feels an arm or two bump up against him), talking his ear off about the movie, how great the cast is doing, and the fantastic sets they have. Kenshi listens, if only to hear about something other than missions for a while.
“The guy we have playing you- ugh , he's doing a great job, I thought we weren't going to get anyone close , but I think we got the best guy we could outside of the real deal!” Johnny rambles.
“Glad my busy schedule isn't hurting you too bad,” Kenshi jokes, and he feels Johnny freeze for a moment.
“Speaking of, when was the last time you took a break?”
“What do you mean?” Kenshi asks, urging Johnny to keep moving. He needs to get his bag as soon as possible so he can stop grabbing onto Johnny. Frankly, it's a little embarrassing.
“I wasn't gonna say anything, but,” Johnny leans into Kenshi's air, “you look like a fuckin’ wreck , man.”
Kenshi chews on his cheek. He once again tries to get Johnny to move again with a light push on his shoulder. This time, he moves again, much to Kenshi’s relief. “It's been awhile, I haven't had much time off.”
Johnny sighs, “Alright, then when you're here with me , I don't want you to even think about fighting or training or whatever it is you've been doing. We're going to just relax, yeah?”
The thought makes Kenshi nauseous.
He really can't remember the last time he just relaxed and didn't have fighting on his mind at all. Hell, even when he normally visits Johnny they tend to spar a little bit. It's been so long since he hasn't purely focused on keeping his skills sharp and his blade sharper.
“I'll try my best.” Is all Kenshi says. He gives Johnny's shoulder a gentle squeeze, and feels one of Johnny’s hands reach up and squeeze him back.
“Alright, let’s go find your bags.”
—
“Guest bedroom upstairs as always, right?” Kenshi asks as they both step into Johnny’s house. It’s nowhere near as big as the mansion they first met in, but it's definitely larger than average. There's at least no indoor pool this time, which is at least a start.
Johnny gives a ”mhm“ before speaking, ”Just put your stuff away and meet me back down here.“
Kenshi cocks his head in his direction, (now able to more or less see, thanks to Sento in his luggage), “Aren't I supposed to be resting, Cage?”
“You will be! I promise! There's something I want to do first though.” he can hear the smile in Johnny's voice, and Kenshi finds it hard to argue back.
“If I still had eyes, I'd be rolling them.” He grumbles, heading up the stairs.
He hears Johnny laugh at that, and Kenshi feels like he's at least won a little bit.
Once his things are tucked away (and Sento is strapped to his back, it's more of an aid than a weapon right now, he's sure Johnny will let it slide), Kenshi walks back down the stairs. What on earth could Johnny be planning? He likes to surprise Kenshi sometimes, sure, but he usually gets some amount of warning that something is happening sooner than this.
Johnny immediately perks up from where he’s sitting when Kenshi reaches the bottom on the stairs. He puts an arm around his shoulder and starts guiding him into the bathroom, “Now, i’m sure it’s been a bit since you’ve really been able to look into a mirror,” Kenshi grumbles in response, but Johnny continues anyway, “You look like a mess, figure I’d treat you before you’re off to do whatever it is you’re doing tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ve been cutting my own hair since I was 19, I won't do you too dirty.”
Kenshi is taken aback, “You just want to… Cut my hair?”
“Maybe shave down that beard a little, unless that’s something you’re trying to grow out,” Johnny sat him down, bracing his hands on Kenshi's shoulders.
Kenshi chuckled lightly, shaking his head, “No, I'm definitely not.”
“Alright, let's start there then!” And Johnny is walking away.
He's out of Kenshi's range of sense for just a moment, and something in him tenses up. He's not exactly sure why, it's not like he constantly needs to know exactly where Johnny is, but something about everything happening makes him… vulnerable. He’s letting someone in on something intimate. Which isn’t even true, it’s a fucking haircut, it’s not like he gets all flustered when he goes to the barber or something. But it feels different, sitting in Johnny’s bathroom, on his one day off, letting him… what, take care of him? Let those hands gently handle his face, let him undo whatever his latest cycle of “train, fight, repeat” has done to his appearance? He suddenly regrets agreeing to this. It feels too open, in some strange way. But before he can think on it too hard, Johnny’s back, with an electric razor in one hand and scissors in the other.
“Alright, that should be everything,” Johnny says, “You’ll probably need to take that blindfold off, need to get at the hair underneath it.”
Ah. This is where those weird intimate feelings worsen. How long has it been since he’s had that blindfold off in front of someone who isn’t his family? As far as he can remember, it was the day he got his prosthetics. But Johnny seems to have a way of convincing him into things, because despite the weird twisting feeling in Kenshi’s stomach, he unties the blindfold, gently placing it on the counter.
“So you went with the white prosthetics, huh?” Johnny asks, and even with Kenshi's limited vision he can tell he's smirking, “It looks cool! Kinda ghostly or ethereal.”
“I didn't think too hard about it,” Kenshi replies, “Just didn't see the point in realistic ones if no one was going to see it anyway.”
“I think it suits you!” Johnny says, though Kenshi can barely hear it over the sound of shaving foam squeezing from out of the can, “It’s like… spooky !”
“You think I’m spooky? ” Kenshi asks, just before Johnny presses cold foam to his jaw. He flinches slightly at the temperature, but quickly recovers.
“I mean, you’ve got a sword with ghosts in it, that’s pretty spooky!” Johnny clicks the razor on, “How short do you want it?”
“Keep my stubble,” Kenshi says, “Just make it manageable.”
“You got it!” Johnny presses the razor to his jaw.
Kenshi freezes for a moment when the blades reach his skin. Something in him wants to push it away, fight back against it. Something in him senses danger. But there’s no danger here, it’s Johnny’s gentle hands taking care of something he’s been too in his own head to do himself. It's courtesy, it’s kindness. So why does he want to run away from it so bad? Why is this so terrifying?
Why can’t he accept the love he’s being given?
Kenshi shoves that thought into the back of his head.
When Johnny is finished, he brings a warm washcloth up to Kenshi’s face to wipe away the remaining foam, “How well do mirrors work for you?” He asks.
“Not very, it's easier just to feel it,” Kenshi responds, reaching up to feel his face. It's a little shorter than he normally likes it, but he can definitely still feel the stubble. Gives him a little bit of leeway with having to shave again, which is nice.
“How’d I do?” Johnny asks, his voice is smug but something cuts through that tells Kenshi he's genuinely asking.
“I don't typically go quite so short, but it's good, thank you.” Kenshi smiles at him- not a smirk or some other snarky expression, but something a little sweeter.
“Don't thank me yet! Still have to take care of that hair!” Johnny says, and immediately gets to work.
His hands card though Kenshi's hair like they've done it a million times before, his nails are short and he can feel them just barely pressing into his scalp every now and then. Johnny's skin feels soft against his own, heavily moisturized to prepare with shaking hands with fans. Kenshi clenches his fist, and feels his nails dig into his calloused palm. Maybe he should deal with those next.
Johnny works quick, clearly actually experienced with cutting hair. Kenshi doesn't get much time to think about how the treatment makes him feel, but that may be partially because it's starting to feel pleasant. The hands on his face and in his hair don't feel as intrusive as when they first began, and he nearly mourns the loss of them when Johnny finally pulls away, admiring his own work.
“I think you look pretty good,” Johnny says, resting his hands on his hips, “Feel for yourself!”
Kenshi does. Again, it's slightly shorter than he typically likes it, but he's starting to think that's on purpose. It gives him a little more time of looking presentable before he has to actually think about doing it himself.
“Maybe you should've gone into cosmetology instead of acting,” Kenshi jokes.”
“Nah, don't get as much creative freedom there,” he says, as if he's actually considered it, “Now, I need to clean up my bathroom and you need to get some rest. I'll make you something to eat when you wake up, yeah?”
“Don't push yourself too hard,” Kenshi says as he stands up, but, thank you, really.”
“Anytime.”
—
Kenshi is glad he brought Sento along. His mission did end up getting a little violent.
Though, something about his movements feels a little smoother. Maybe the time off from training did him some good, a nice mental reset. Maybe that haircut boosted his moral a bit, gave him some sort of pep in his step.
Maybe it's that Johnny promised to cook for him again after this. He said he had a new recipe to try, something that Kenshi would probably love. Maybe it's the thought of those gentle hands checking him over for injuries, soft fingers brushing over bruised skin.
Whatever the case may be, this fight better end soon. He doesn't want to keep Johnny waiting.