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words are a need.
it's not that kazuha has a particular talent for poetry, it's simply that words are a need.
growing up in his household, the pressure of a failing clan — frail at the edges like the pastries he once had from mondstadt, crumbs falling everywhere until there's barely any to hold — it had silenced him for most of his childhood. it wasn't that kazuha didn't know how to speak, it was more that words felt like they came out wrong. no matter what sentences he strung together, no matter how hard he tried to soothe the worries of the people around him, it felt like building toy wooden blocks in the face of a sword, a real sword that reeks of the scent of blood.
he had always been a child with great love, someone who observed and swallowed his observation. albeit his tiny palms were helpless, kazuha still longed and longed to do something more, to be able to help. to cease the frown on his father's forehead, when he thought kazuha wasn't looking.
and yet, wood could not stand in front of a blade. it cannot parry it and does nothing to shield it.
however, as his feet carry him through multitudes of places, getting to know more than a dozen of different places, kazuha comes to a realization that words — are more than capable to defend against a sword. it's an oddity how something so simple, arbitrary sounds stitched together into syllables and then given meanings to, can become something so powerful. murmurs that hurt, commands that destroy lives. whispers that heal. promises that save and place a seed of hope. poetry and literature had been a staple of the past, the heavy robes he had been freed of. no longer is kazuha the heir of kaedehara noble clan — now he's a simple wanderer, on his feet most hours of the day, standing still to watch the sun rising and standing still to bid the setting sun goodbye, only his clothes and a sword to his name. yet, still. this is the one thing from the past that stays firm in his hold. an interest that used to be dormantly lying there, always in the back of his mind — now only activated with the acknowledgement of a need.
words are bridges, after all.
from one human to another, from a human to even those who aren't human. one time, the raiden shogun declared that all visions are to be confiscated. another time, a grandma told kazuha, "thank you," after he lent her the straw hat he was wearing during a light rain. one time, the ronins cornered him, thinking he was a weak prey, laughing to one another, "we're eating good tonight!" after he finished them off and sheathed his sword back in, he told them, "it seems that the promised good meal will have to wait." another time, an orphan ran up to him and his traveling friend, tugged on his pants and willed kazuha down. kazuha complied without much protest, receiving the tiniest whisper in his ears, "you look pretty, mister," and the sound of high-pitched giggles.
this is how he comes to fall in love more and more with it: the very art of arranging words into things that convey messages, into time capsules, into letters chock full with emotions.
five-seven-five is a rule as good as breakfast, rhymes to capture sceneries of places he travel to, short stanzas depicting the liveliness of people. he thinks of mythologies told to him during childhood and the stories of people's pain and happiness that he comes across with during his days on the road — weaves them together into bite-sized pieces, hidden meanings slipped beneath words, each lilt of his voice an eternity whose story is unfolding.
the first time he met the wanderer, he's not ashamed to say that the sight of him takes his breath away.
kazuha finds himself speechless for once, no flowery words or metaphors can truly describe kunikuzushi's beauty. is it dark blue or indigo? but when the sunshine hits his hair right, the hue is slightly purple, a little warmer and the color of amethysts. he finds himself torn time and time again. kunikuzushi's beauty, is it a mind-numbing storm, the urge of vindict and the fury, or the freedom that comes with the chaos of a tornado while he laughs? is it a still day, the way his pinky lifts slightly — a habit he hears he adopted in his days at snezhnaya — as his hand curl around a cup of tea? he's the rising sun, the gentle slope of his smile as it blooms slowly across his face like spring flowers. he's the moon on the skies, ethereal and untouchable, rested with his back against a rock, eyes shut as birds sing around him, hymns praising his beauty.
kazuha has been traveling with the wanderer for quite a while now. aether was the one to connect the two together and wanderer was — for all intents and purposes — quick to confess his involvement with the raiden gokaden and its subsequent effects towards the fall of kaedehara clan, his involvement with the fatui and the distribution of delusions in inazuma, down to everything that transpired to a point where nobody remembers his existence anymore. all of those incredibly heavy things — all stated in a matter of fact manner, the wanderer's eyes solemn and never straying away from kazuha's own gaze.
it felt like he was ready should kazuha ever decide to strike him down on the spot.
they definitely had a rougher start than most of his other friendships, but the samurai recognizes the efforts the wanderer put into being a better person day by day and, well, his utmost sincerity behind it.
it's very hard not to grow to like and appreciate him as a person in more than one ways. the wanderer's tongue is mean and he bites out snarks more than most, but his hands are always gentle. he doesn't bruise people and instead wraps up kazuha's physical wounds whenever they do get into skirmishes whether its with unexpected ronins, hilichurls, or the stray fatuus doing their job. his tone stays steady even when his words are cutting, though at some point kazuha has begun to see it more as a scolding or a nagging that borne out of concern, more than anything else. he levels others with an unimpressed stare and a sarcastically raised brow, calls lesser lord kusanali buer instead of nahida like she told him to and tells her that he doesn't give a flying fuck. the wanderer claims to not care about a lot of things, actually. but kazuha has seen him come to the night out invitations anyway, chatting with the acting grand sage and his partner, smugly smirking over a barely won game of tcg with cyno, tighnari visibly amused in the background. he's heard the callouses in wanderer's voice drop as he asks collei how she's doing and he's seen the way he trails after lesser lord kusanali like an overprotective brother.
kazuha is a poet. his inspiration largely comes from nature. it's always been easy to find the beauty in imperfectly natural things, in living beings. and the wanderer — he is natural in the way he tries hard and harder each day.
he'd say it's all merely for the atonement of his sins and still there is a burning drive that pushes him forward. the wanderer is a product of nature, one that blends perfectly into the joyful environment in sumeru, the nation where the air is warm and the people even warmer. kazuha is aware that a puppet needs not to breath or even eat and the wanderer always insists that he is without heart, different from humans in every way shape or essence.
and yet he is so alive.
so incredibly and authentically larger than life — in ways that get kazuha pulling out a notebook and jotting every thought down or murmuring a stanza of haiku for each three seconds his scarlet eyes find a figure of blue. the point stands: kazuha knows the wanderer well enough. perhaps he's not privy to *all* of him, but no one wholly understands another being.
understanding in itself is a flawed concept. he knows the wanderer enough and dare kazuha says, the wanderer is also familiar with him enough.
"don't move," kazuha whispers.
he holds kunikuzushi close, burying his face as if to muffle his breathing.
kunikuzushi doesn't breathe, doesn't ever need to breathe since the time of his creation — this is okay with him.
what isn't okay though — the sounds of footsteps thunder outside and through the layers of kazuha's sleep clothes, kunikuzushi's ear smushed against where his heart sits inside kazuha's chest, he can hear the rhythmic pounding of kazuha's heart. thump, thump, thump, thump. it's steady, not hurried.
kazuha's hands curl around kunikuzushi's shoulders. they're pressed flushed against one another, but if kazuha could pull him close, could merge into one with kunikuzushi at the moment, he would.
outside, screams and shouts pierce through their walls. kunikuzushi bites his lips shut and kazuha — kazuha is a renowned master of staying still, keeping quiet.
his hold tightens even more, the swordsman's knuckles whitening.
and then a loud noise.
and then nothing.
they still don't move.
kazuha inhales inaudibly through his nose. slowly blows it out through his mouth. no one moves. the pace of kazuha's heart remains steady, though his mind hazes with anxiety, fingers cold with desperation. he claws on kunikuzushi's fair skin and were it another person, they would have bled. would have hurt.
as it stands, kunikuzushi isn't just any random guy. it doesn't phase him — his arms wind around kazuha's midriff instead, loose and gentle. his lax embrace is a warm blanket on kazuha, the furthest thing away from caging — and should kazuha dislike it, he can always break free anytime.
still, kunikuzushi remains by his side.
"it was the kids, zuha," he murmurs softly, against kazuha's frozen body. dead in his tracks, unmoving as if in a cryostasis. "you play with aishaonce every few days, remember?"
"it's them — the troublemakers radja and maya are probably around, they were really loud too," kunikuzushi's voice drones on where they are crouched under the dining table. outside, afternoon sun continues to warm the entire house. "you're safe," kunikuzushi softly sighs.
"you are safe... zuha."
he still makes no way to move past the table. the space is cramped, but kunikuzushi lets kazuha cradle him, lets kazuha stay motionless. the fists clawing at him loosen their hold — the slightest bit, just the slightest bit. though it doesn't escape kunikuzushi's notice. "no one is here," he starts again, lowering his voice. kazuha once said, in the middle of the night when humans tend to be too honest and their thoughts too naked, that he likes hearing kunikuzushi talk. his voice sounds like a cat's pleased meow, or whatever kazuha said back then. and though he isn't particularly quiet, kunikuzushi usually does not see the need to keep a conversation going just for the sake of it. this, though. this — and cooking, or even moving entire mountains — he can do.
for kazuha.
"dhea told me that they've been liking playing cops and robbers. she said sivrian suggested it one day — and everyone just decided it sounded fun. after that, it's been all they play for two weeks straight now," he snorts, amused. "children are such easy bunch to please."
kunikuzushi rubs his hand, a simple upward-downward motion, across kazuha's back. his shoulders are still tense, but kunikuzushi, deep in kazuha's protective hold, can feel them slowly unraveling. "naivety and simplicity," he continues, "sure are useful."
he talks about children and what aisha told him about things she learned recently, food dhea recently keeps begging her mom, radja's new favorite pastime, the flowers maya have been showing him.
they're in their dining area, kunikuzushi doesn't say. no one is pursuing them, kunikuzushi doesn't say. kazuha's hold softens its fangs, the lines of shielding kunikuzushi with his own body blur and slowly morph into receiving kunikuzushi's warmth. his fingertips twitch, less chilled and more peaceful. kunikuzushi says nothing about how the hunt is over, how everything has settled years ago, how it isn't real — because kazuha knows that already, even if his reflexes are somethig beyond his help.
when kazuha's hand falls lower, when kunikuzushi feels kazuha squeeze his sides gently, he pulls back just a tad, runs his palm to cup kazuha's cheek, color slowly returning to his features. sumeru's sun is warm against their skin, but kunikuzushi's love for kazuha runs even more tenderly — and kazuha thinks, for someone who dislikes sweets, his lover sure is sugary and lovely.
"welcome home." kunikuzushi has his eyebrows slightly raised, the same smile entirely too bratty as always on his face.
and kazuha is home. kazuha is home.
kunikuzushi is a walking contradiction no words would be enough to describe.
and so he starts studying. they stop by sumeru and he stops to scan through the inked words on their literatures. they visit mondstadt and kazuha listens to the songs of bards and of the people. they return to liyue, familiar faces of old friends, and kazuha finds himself learning. local dialects, inventing new words. anything — anything for the sake of being able to find the perfect words to pen down kunikuzushi. not just the beauty of his vessel, but also the way kazuha's chest warms and squeezes, clenches as if he's in pain when kunikuzushi teases him, a playful tone escaping his lips. the way his heart skips a beat and his lips twitch into a grin when kunikuzushi reaches for his hand in the middle of a crowded market, mumbling some dumb reason like not wanting to get separated since it would waste their time.
and no matter how low and high he scavenges through the libraries, how many scholars and poets he speaks to, kazuha finds that there are no words that can truly encompass kunikuzushi. no hyperbole nor metaphor, no simple or complicated words, no idioms or expressions can ever truly embody the way kazuha holds him dear, near to his heart, beloved with all his being.
because the moon is beautiful, but kunikuzushi is even more so.
"you've got something on the side of your mouth," kazuha points, looking all too amused. kunikuzushi reaches to try to wipe it away, but kazuha's hand is faster in doing so, the heel of his palm soft against the left corner of kunikuzushi's mouth.
his touch is barely a touch at all - and still, kunikuzushi relishes in the feeling. the absence of pressure, featherlight, a simple graze of skin against skin.
a giddy smile accidentally makes its way to his lips for less than a second, which kazuha has the front seat for because the samurai is chuckling at him.
"stop laughing."
"i'm not laughing, though." he says, still stifling giggles.
"you are, do you think i don't have eyes or something."
kazuha zips his mouth, refusing to prolong their little argument any longer.
and because he's secretly just as mature as kunikuzushi, he mimes locking a key over his mouth and chucking it away to the direction of the sea.
below the cliff they stand on, the waves rage on, crashing against the stone walls. seagulls fly overhead, chasing each other like they're playing around on the free skies. the breeze sings alongside their two lone figures, seated on the soft grass on the expanse of the clifftop.
"here," kazuha rummages through the bag they have with them, gingerly and carefully opening a box of mochi, "you ought to eat more, kuni."
kunikuzushi sighs, "i told you i don't need to eat." numerous times, in fact. yet, kazuha continues to pick one of the tiny treats into his hands and feed it to kunikuzushi anyways.
yet, kunikuzushi opens up his mouth, chews and eats anyways.
the rock they're leaning back on feels warm on his back, but kazuha's body heat is warmer even through the layer of clothes he wears. they're not even touching, though they sit partially facing one another, thighs almost pressed together but not quite there. and still, kazuha's warmth radiates so strongly and tenderly that kunikuzushi feels like he can taste the sensation of his delightful smile on the back of his mouth.
sakura blossoms above, the mellow floral scent mixing in with the salty ocean breeze. this is far from kunikuzushi's first time on a flower viewing outing - and yet, it feels like something is different this time. it's unlike the first time he witnessed the raining petals of spring with hisahide, katsuragi and everyone else from tatarasuna. it's unlike the scenery of narukami shrine, the bitterness of anguish and desperation. it also isn't the same as nahida right by his side, a sight conjured only in dreams, a setting carefully picked from what once was a good memory.
"a sweet scent of spring," kazuha suddenly murmurs.
when did he get so close? kunikuzushi is certain he just jumped out of his skin - and that had he a heart, it would be rabbiting like mad against his rib cages at the moment. kazuha's voice suddenly resounds right next to his ear, who wouldn't be surprised?
kunikuzushi surely feels the fan of his breath on his skin.
kazuha's smile melts into a bigger grin, slightly smug around the edges and blindingly boyish. if kunikuzushi's reacting this cutely, kazuha just might push him further. after all, sakura blooms always smell sweet, but the sight of pink tinting kunikuzushi's cheeks and the tip of his ears is far sweeter.
"for the next line.." he hums, adding, "petal lips worth affections - waiting to be kissed."
a stray petal makes its way onto kunikuzushi's indigo locks, a pop of pink against an unending night sky. kazuha's hand reaches out, fingertips barely brushing and tucking the pink flower away. "you had something on your hair," he explains, voice so soft it's almost a whisper. the way he gazes at kunikuzushi makes something in his chest squeeze, reverence and adoration heavy in every way kazuha looks at him, every way he moves towards him. his eyes feel transfixed on kazuha, drinking in everything it can touch - the crescents of his smiling ruby eyes, the way his cheeks flush slightly from joy, the flutter of his hair tousled by the seaside wind. "..if you're going to ask for a kiss," kunikuzushi croaks, flustered out of his mind. "do it the normal way."
and they meet in the middle, love converging into one.
"come and sit, rest your legs," kazuha smiles, patting his thighs.
kunikuzushi stares at him.
kazuha doesn't give up, arms still held out open for the other man.
"why—why do i have to," kunikuzushi narrows his eyes, voice betraying no thought.
"well, we've been walking all day and the places we traversed were full of ups and downs, isn't it simply nice to be able to stretch your legs and rest your body a little? there's no harm in sitting down."
"not—not that. why are you, no—stop patting your thighs."
"why not? come sit, kuni," the smile stays curled on his lips. ruby eyes glint with mischief. "the world is hard and cold, my thighs are surely a lot more comfortable."
kunikuzushi looks at kazuha like he can't believe kazuha just said that. cheeks set ablaze, the tips of his ears tinted scarlet, he stays rooted where he stands. kazuha does little to coax him in, finally, and instead starts snacking on the little cookies they were served as snacks.
in the end, though — he wins. as is usually the case nowadays.
kunikuzushi shuffles closer to him, swatting kazuha's arms out of their places before squarely planting himself down on kazuha's lap. score. kazuha tries to feed him the cookies next — which kunikuzushi barely protests. it's cute and kazuha is about to die on the spot.
"it's not sweet," he hears the wanderer mumble.
"it isn't too much, right? i thought similarly when trying it," and that's why kazuha fed it to kunikuzushi. not that he'd say that part out loud though — for his own safety. kunikuzushi, his beloved who acts way too much like a cute cat distrustful of people, should be allowed this much dignity still, lest he ends up fussing and huffing.
even though that's cute too.
"do you want some tea to go with? i will tell the servers to pour us some."
"...yes."
kazuha's right arm winds itself securely around kunikuzushi's narrow waist, giving his hip the barest squeeze. he feels kunikuzushi curl up, resting his head on kazuha's shoulder.
certainly, a good way to spend an afternoon.
a long time ago, kazuha promised kunikuzushi that he would not leave. death is a different matter entirely, but he will never leave kunikuzushi — for the entirety of his lifetime since that very moment, kazuha was kunikuzushi's.
in the way that kazuha will always hold him through the worst of nightmares, he would by kunikuzushi's side through sunshine and through the storms, he would wipe kunikuzushi's tears and laugh with him, would share moments and smiles together with him. kazuha is kunikuzushi's, his to care for, his to playfully tease and bully, his to press sweet kisses to. his to love, for however long kunikuzushi wants him.
that was the day kazuha and kunikuzushi became *kazuha and kunikuzushi.* both wanderers, both free souls. a past wih pain behind them, but two pairs of feet that continue to trek forward anyways.
in hindsight, kazuha's only mistake is one thing: kunikuzushi never promised his entire lifetime back to kazuha.
at the time he had thought it was only rational and necessary. telling kunikuzushi to make a similar oath feels not unlike shackling him down. kazuha's life is a mortal one, a pitiful span of less than a century at most in comparison to kunikuzushi's long-standing years alive. to drag a fellow free spirit down with him when death eventually earns his hand is simply something kazuha doesn’t wish for.
at the moment though, kazuha can't help but think he was wrong. that he should've been more egoistic, should've acted more selfishly.
"kuni," he shakes the unmoving body in his hold. kazuha chokes on a sob. the tears falling down his cheeks are indistinguishable from the harsh rain biting his skin. kunikuzushi doesn't feel temperature the same way humans do — but he doesn't like the feeling of wetness on his body. still, his chest does not rise and fall. his eyes do not flutter. his fingers do not twitch. nothing moves out of their place, which is exactly why kazuha feels anxiety crawling up his throat.
he calls more desperately, "kuni, dear. wake up."
and yet, there's no snarky answer or hidden soft smile awaiting his calls. no response, nada, null. nothing but the echo of the storm raging around them.
kunikuzushi has always been light, but he feels surreally lighter than ever in kazuha's embrace. cold skin, the piece of his leg that got broken off god knows where. in its place, sharpnels that end his thigh now digs into kazuha's skin — though the samurai pays it no mind, finally relegating with the undead, yet unclear if alive puppet in his embarce.
he bites back the urge to wail and cry his lungs out — not yet, kazuha. not yet. maybe there's someone who can help if he quickly acts. kazuha swallows, suppressing the grief that threatens to eat him whole and the fear that gnaws at the back of his mind and chills his entire figure. not yet. if he gives in now, that would truly be the end for kunikuzushi.
and he can't have another loss yet.
"are those rashes? you feeling okay, hat guy?" kaveh's concerned voice resounds. he's such a sweetheart, really. unexpectedly naive at times too.
kunikuzushi isn't sure how to tell him that this isn't at all a case of rashes.
tighnari looks like he's going to die holding in laughter. cyno and nahida are still focused on the set of cards in front of them, while alhaitham flicks his gaze disinterestedly towards the wanderer's direction, something like amusement evident on his eyes.
fuck— really?
"it's not rashes," he mumbles. how the hell is he supposed to respond?
"ah, bug bites then?" the blond nods, something like sympathy forming on his face. "there really are a lot of bugs during the more humid seasons, huh?"
archons above, save him from this hell.
although, the archon kunikuzushi serves in particular is still ignoring him in favor of trying to pick a good move against cyno, thoughtful frown marring her features, nahida's tiny hands hovering over her cards carefully.
tighnari shakes his head when kunikuzushi shoots him a helpless look. although, the wanderer is persistent and eventually tighnari relents, opening his mouth — just in time as aether enters the room, bringing a variety of drinks along with him.
and the culprit of the "bug bites" in tow.
kazuha must've heard their conversation as he was walking in somehow, because there's a clear amused glint on his eyes that can be seen even with the dim lighting of their gathering place. "indeed, the scent of the air has been more on the humid side," he comments innocently, taking a seat next to the blond and passing over two beverages to them as the traveler rounds the drinks to everyone else in the room. the wandering samurai is newly introduced as an addition for this gathering night, invited as both aether's and wanderer's friend who happen to be in the country.
although, the moment the traveler introduced kazuha as their friend, the inazuman had the gall to instead look at wanderer with the most amused expression. a still polite smile, mirth glinting on red eyes as he mouthed to kunikuzushi.
'friend.'
kunikuzushi just thinks kazuha is ridiculous, really.
"..days, it'll disappear on itself without being treated."
he's brought back to the reality of this.. "bug bite" conversation he'd much rather not be present at, barely catching the ends of tighnari chiming in.
kaveh worries, "wouldn't it be itchy though?"
the wanderer snorts. oh, believe him that it wouldn't fucking be.
tighnari throws a funny look at his direction the same time kazuha whips his head to turn to look at him. ah, kunikuzushi probably said that outloud? those two are way too sensitive to sounds or whatever.
the conversation moves over to places to visit, festivals soon to be celebrated, what sights are must-see when one is visiting sumeru, where kazuha is staying during his time here. by this time, nahida and aether — even cyno and alhaitham — have started to be roped into the conversations as well, citing their own suggestions and daily life anecdotes or fun facts about spots all around the city, numerous different people inhabiting it.
"ah, by the way, what's wrong with your—well, there were scratch lines or something by your shoulders and it looked to go down your back too. were the bug bites that itchy? or did you get hurt?" though, aether's amendment comes soon, "i don't mean to pry, of course. i'm just concerned accidentally the marks when your robes shifted earlier. sorry if that's uncomfortable."
so this is why the traveler had to shuffle close and whisper? this is what he wanted to ask kazuha? by his worried expression, one would think the samurai was mauled by a wild beast or something. aether doesn't seem to realize that a lot of the people in their group have actually noticed and heard this exchange, including kunikuzushi. unfortunately. kazuha's lips curl, his chest warm at his friend's genuine care. although, to be honest, this is really, really funny.
or at least that's what the slightly twitching fingers on his bandaged hand seem to say.
kunikuzushi sighs.
tighnari does not ask him what's wrong, although nahida eyes him precariously.
"i thank you from the bottom of my heart for such care, traveler. although," he pauses, "it's fine, i just happen to be unfortunate enough to meet a... rather feral cat during my journey." he places his words so carefully — like puzzle pieces or building blocks — as to not shatter the jovial atmosphere surrounding the night. aether halts his movements, eyeing kazuha. something he finds there must have been sufficient, and so he nods. and that's the end of the conversation—not.
the wandering samurai just can't resist glancing at kunikuzushi, expression morphing into a somewhat boyish small grin. he rolls his shoulders with so much casualty and smugness to be natural.
kunikuzushi is caught there, unable to do anything but fume silently. the room feels significantly warmer and so do his cheeks.
he's going to fucking kill this guy.
a clatter jolts them both out of their thoughts, seeing aether falling out of his seat with a flabbergasted gasp. he looks bewildered as he points back and forth between kazuha and kunikuzushi — like he's trying to connect some unseen dots.
"no way, you.. the cat..? you two—?"
alhaitham's amused snort and cyno's smirk are lost in the background, but tighnari's soft chuckles and kaveh's questioning are loud enough to add onto the chaos. nahida looks at wanderer, confused eyes — she probably wasn't paying attention to their conversation, some sort of 'giving them privacy' thing or whatever, he's sure.
the only thing kunikuzushi can do as a response is habitually reach for a hat that's not there — he leaves it resting by a wall during these gatherings everytime, or else he'd have to deal with kusanali's sad puppy eyes, like she thinks his hat is a physical manifestation of his emotional walls he's unwilling to let down in front of the group or something. well, curse that decision now. dammit. his hand awkwardly catches on air before he smooths the gesture, his motions robotic as he decides to omb through his fringes instead.
yeah, whatever.
WHATEVER.
nahida's gaze turn even more puzzled, the dendro archon quizzically murmurring, "you're dating?"
and why does that sound like a— no, kunikuzushi wishes the ground would just swallow him whole, actually.
"your hair has gotten longer again, kuni."
he feels a hand gently combing through his dark strands, tucking some of them behind his ears. kazuha's hand doesn't leave his face afterwards though, cupping his cheek with much tenderness.
"it's finally longer than yours," kunikuzushi replies, knowing full well how cheeky it sounds. a grin blooms on his lips, small and a little shy even after all these years — as he leans into kazuha's warm touch, kunikuzushi's hand over his.
the paper he was reading just moments ago sits forgotten — something about mondstadt history and the recent changes of its culture, an interesting one — kazuha's lovely ruby eyes are much more exquisite to look at, after all. not to mention, kunikuzushi has missed his favorite mortal quite a bit, whatwith kazuha's recent trip with the crux fleet taking almost a year — it's one of their longest expeditions together recently.
the puppet voices none of this, certainly a bad habit from centuries distant past, though kazuha isn't exactly unaware.
he has missed kunikuzushi too.
the samurai secures an arm around kunikuzushi's waist, pulling him closer and closer until they're flushed, chest to chest. over the years of knowing each other and being together, kunikuzushi doesn't grow at all — such is the nature of a puppet — and the only thing that changes is the length of his indigo hair, silky and smooth and now reaching up to his butt, tied up in a high ponytail to keep it away from his pretty face as kunikuzushi goes on to do his day-to-day tasks.
on the other hand, kazuha, albeit not much, gets taller. his hair too had grown — though in all honesty, he had considered cutting it sometime ago, only for kunikuzushi to one day murmur, as they laid in bed together cuddling, a confession that he liked the look on kazuha. and well, who was the wandering samurai to say no?
what his beloved princess asked, he would always get. anything to see the sight of kunikuzushi lowering his eyes to his sides, hands a little fidgety from how he still isn't used to being honest about such little, trivial things — and pink staining his cheeks, the exact shade of sakuras back at home, hidden slightly by his messy hair as he laid on his side and snuggled closer to kazuha.
"kazuha."
perhaps he has gotten caught up in a trance once more, swept away by the breeze of memories — his lover is right in front of him at the moment, the insistent tone of which kunikuzushi calls kazuha with clueing him in that he needs to pay better attention.
with that in mind, kazuha presses a kiss onto kunikuzushi's forehead and another tender brush of his lips on his right eye. he makes full use of their rather newly gained (albeit small) height difference and smushes his cheek against kunikuzushi's hair.
"i missed you a lot, kuni." he whispers, tightening his hold around kunikuzushi's waist, "and i'm glad to be home."
home is an odd concept for them, a pair of wanderers — for kazuha and kunikuzushi both, home could've been inazuma, where they both hailed from. home could've been inazuma, the land where storms reign and thunders echo — were it not so full of history. as much as good memories were had there, bad memories were too. it puts inazuma in a place neither black nor white, neither good nor bad — but still not comforting enough to be called a home.
home could've been liyue and the crux fleet, where cherished people gather and friends are plenty. home could've been snezhnaya, where centuries stretch and last into new ones even when now the records are gone from the world's memory. home could most definitely be sumeru, lush trees and warm air, people who helped kunikuzushi find himself and unfamiliar paths that led kazuha into meeting kunikuzushi.
or home could be not a place but a person. this divine puppet in kazuha's arms — and he hasn't failed to notice that kunikuzushi, today out of all days, chooses to wear one of kazuha's older robes over his shoulders. the day isn't cold, kazuha's scent has long washed out since he gave kunikuzushi this particular robe. but the man is here anyway, within kazuha's embrace and donning the colors of maple leaves and autumn breeze. this man who's over centuries old, who doesn't tell kazuha that he misses him too, this man — kunikuzushi, who in turn just holds kazuha back as tight, like he isn't letting go now or anytime soon and buries his face into the kazuha's chest. the months apart may change them a little or even a lot, but his home stays the same, unmoving and comfortable. warm and dear. treasured greatly — and treasures kazuha back just as much.
he lets out a chuckle as he reaffirms, "i'm home, kuni."
kunikuzushi is pretty when he's cooking. actually, kunikuzushi is pretty whatever he's doing.
there's a certain charm though — the fact that this.. this.. guy who's known to everyone else as arrogant and rude and bratty and sarcastic actually likes to be in the kitchen.
cooking, one could say, is such a nurturing act. food is one of the main elements that keep humans going, day by day and dawn to dusk. every action humans do are powered by food as the fuel. the act of creating on itself is already such a tender act, but the makings of food — that is, cooking — feels oddly poetic in this way to kazuha.
or he's just a poet with a tendency to find beauty in every little thing on the world.
the most beautiful rainbows out on the sky can't ever compare to the slightest curl of kunikuzushi's lips as his hands busy themselves with pots and pans though. the hustling noises of the kitchen make the atmosphere all the more peaceful. it's usually slightly warm, thanks to the fire. hot even, during summer. on these nights, kunikuzushi's fair skin — ethereal and divine, something entirely inhuman — glistens slightly with sweat. his indigo eyes are laser-focused on the dish he's making, hands nimbly carrying their duties.
he's pretty, in the way the sharp attention looks beautiful on his shimmering purple eyes. kunikuzushi's pretty, in the way his cherry lips form a small, barely noticeable pout as he concentrates. a sakura pink tinting his cheeks, the heat leaving its mark on his skin. but he's pretty, even without that. he's already pretty, when all the food is done and cooked. when it's kazuha's favorite dry-braised salted fish paired with two bowls of steaming hot chazuke, finely prepared and served like it's the world's most delicious five star meal, and there's a smug smile on the wanderer's lips like he's begging kazuha to kiss him senseless. and kazuha does do that — eventually though, not immediately.
he'd rather enjoy the food his beloved cooks for him first. and when the dishes are fit to his exact tastes, pleasantly dancing on his tastebuds and quelling the hunger and pressing down the fatigue he's built up from a day's worth of adventuring, he softly murmurs, "thank you for the food."
if the smug smile on kunikuzushi's lips melt away into something else, something small and genuine and trusting, it's for kazuha and kazuha's eyes only. some beautiful things are meant to be shared — some are meant for one's keeping. and lastly, if kazuha finally cannot resist the urge to kiss kunikuzushi breathless anymore, then who else is to blame but kunikuzushi's own self? way to be too damn cute.
kunikuzushi scolds him afterwards for doing that suddenly. nags him for not focusing on eating.
the tips of his ears are red. and kazuha wants to kiss him even more after dinner.
kazuha holds kunikuzushi like a scarred beast. the way his arms wind tight around kunikuzushi's waist, lips pressed against kunikuzushi's temple. he always whispers something against the skin there — it sounds like a prayer to gods kazuha does not believe in but desperately wishes he still does. a prayer for kunikuzushi's happiness to be kept safe.
he likes cradling kunikuzushi's face in his hands, turning it side to side tenderly and inspecting it. his ruby eyes are lidded, lashes heavy with love dripping through his gaze. on nights of full moon, kunikuzushi thinks kazuha's eyes look like they're on fire, stoked by the wind, something deep and passionate. a way no one else has ever looked at him before. kunikuzushi thinks — this might be the closest he will ever get, in this lifetime, in this record, to being worshiped. maybe even better, for a god whose feet are kissed by his believers will never ascend to celestia the way he does, like this, pliant and putty in kazuha's hold, none of the bark nor bite that comes with kunikuzushi's mere existence. certainly much better: to be adored so closely by kazuha's loving hands, gentle in their ministrations and caressing his lonely cheeks like they've finally found a harbor to return home to.
less a puppet, more a human. no heart but kazuha's beating one, loud and thumping against his chest as his cheeks flush, lips pulled into a beautiful slope of a smile, joy dancing in his irises.
kunikuzushi feels alive like this.
kazuha says, "i love you." he always does — this is the routine of their dance, a sequence of side steps and twirls as follows: kazuha embraces him, engulfs kunikuzushi whole with his warmth. he plants a kiss on kunikuzushi's head, praying his love grows and grows. he squeezes his waist, gently but with enough pressure. kunikuzushi will then knock his forehead against kazuha. and then the "i love you" comes. but kazuha, always, always does this last part: he will mouth, inaudible like a kid on his birthday fearing that his wish won't be granted, 'be happy, beloved.'
kazuha does this again and again and again. everyday, every waking hour. every time he remembers. stopping kunikuzushi in the middle of a sentence to kiss his mouth and hold him close. this is what scarred beasts do: they are survivors. the lesson of the past clings to their sleeves and dirty their arm with shackles. kazuha smiles like he's a fleeting leaf free to float with the wind, but his heart is weighed by a wound that stopped bleeding long ago. a lingering phantom ache. not there, but felt.
i love you, be happy. i love you, be happy. like it's kazuha's last day alive, like it's his last day alive. like it's their last day together. a scarred beast — not yet cornered, always vigilant. on the look out, careful and cautious. fangs hidden underneath masks, waiting. watching. just in case — just in case.
i love you, kazuha says. be happy, like it's an inheritance letter. like it's his last message.
"i love you too," kunikuzushi always says. he who hates being a puppet most lets kazuha pull him along by his strings, tilt his chin up and crash their lips together — like two waves meeting in the ocean, conjoined. not nearly one, but almost merged.
"be happy, beloved," kazuha always says. and kunikuzushi isn't great with words. his syllables are sharp as knives if one were to hold them by the blades. his tongue is drenched in more blood than his hands can ever dream of. so he shows it with a pair of wisteria crescent moons. he shows it by taking kazuha's hands in his, the rough ups and downs of his scars against artificial porcelain skin, laces their fingers together sure and firm, like kunikuzushi is afraid to lose him. because he is. because he is. the world is a sea of storms and even a sailor like kazuha may get lost in the middle of the hurricane. so kunikuzushi ties kazuha down to himself tightly, anchors him to the ground, intertwined everywhere in every sense of word.
his other hand kunikuzushi uses to smooth down kazuha's soft white strands, twirling his red streaks between his thumb and his index finger. kunikuzushi tucks some strands of his hair behind his ear, the tip of his finger trailing against the sharp line of kazuha's jaw and cupping his face, mimicking kazuha's gesture just moments earlier. he doesn't say it, kunikuzushi still doesn't say it even when he grazes his thumb across the highs of kazuha's cheekbone.
kazuha doesn't need to tell him to be happy. kunikuzushi already is.
his hair has always been a sea of white, an unending sea of white. the signature red strands of his bloodline are also slowly fading in color now.
even then, kunikuzushi finds kaedehara kazuha beautiful. smile lines decorate his cheeks, a proof of a full life well-lived. the wrinkles that pull his forehead in are tallies of the decades he spends alive. kazuha's eyes are still the same warm rubies. the kaedehara clan's symbol are maple leaves — but to kunikuzushi, the crimson of kazuha's eyes are dyed in the hues of forgiveness and salvation.
"once, before.. during a summer in inazuma," he speaks. there's a rasp to his voice and a lisp to his words that weren't present twenty years ago. kunikuzushi strokes his forehead, combs the white strands back, content to let kazuha tell his tale where he lays on the puppet's lap. "... after the decree has finally been put.. to an epilogue."
he's still so, so extremely flowery. even when speaking costs him more energy than it usually does. kunikuzushi's heart squeezes, fond.
"we.. alongside the shogun, and she was trying, she was trying to make up for all the time lost — we held a festival, kuni," kazuha finishes. he looks frail like this, reminiscing a past he had told kunikuzushi a billion times already during their years together.
the next thing he will say is about the fireworks that decorated the skies that day. how it lit the night up, like man-made stars. and then the candies sold in the stalls by the big streets. how the children were laughing, throwing their heads back freely. kazuha always loved that part of the story the most. "...it had been a while, by then. to be able to see people — mulling about and looking so light," and kunikuzushi finishes in his head the same time kazuha speaks it aloud, the same drawl, the same pace, the same drag, the same way his syllables crack and break in the middle like his breathing is soon to run out, "happy. like they've never tasted a sky as free as that day. with their archon letting them lead her in these festivities — for once, like the role of god and worshipper has been reversed."
kunikuzushi kisses his forehead.
some days, this is the part of the story where kazuha — in his older days and every part the same person kunikuzushi fell in love with the first time he refused to trudge a blade into him like he deserved forgiveness — will break his sentence, stare out into a distance, thousands footsteps away. he'd sometimes restart telling kunikuzushi about the fireworks and kunikuzushi would dutifully listen without interrupting each time. some other time, this is the part where kazuha bridges into another tale of his travels, the wanderings and journeys to fontaine which kunikuzushi was present for, his first impression of natlan which kunikuzushi watched on his face all those years ago right by kazuha's side.
every time, kazuha ends his sentence lovingly, warmly. "kuni," he calls him, even after all these decades, even when his legs do not work the same and he leans on kunikuzushi as they walk during mornings through the back garden of their home, even now that his memory fades and resurfaces far less often than a swimming koi fish, kazuha still uses the very same ways to call him. the same nickname, the same honeyed tone. the same loving lilt of his voice like his affection overflows and he's not sure what else to do or say other than to call for kunikuzushi's name.
a name — for him — is the weight of a role. kunikuzushi was born without one. he had been the strange person, the wandering eccentric, a simple wanderer, the skirmisher, a crooner well-known for his trickery and manipulation, a country destroyer.
"love," kazuha calls him. his voice trembles and his hand shakes as it reaches for kunikuzushi's face, pinky minutely twitching. still bandaged even after all these years, like a habit he's too stubborn to give up. or a man he's too stubborn to not love. "kuni, love."
he doesn't talk about fontaine or natlan, or loops through his stories this time, kazuha in his diminishing years and still as bright as ever, smiles at kunikuzushi and tells him, "you — you're still as beautiful as the day i met you, kuni."
and to that, kunikuzushi's answer is only a wobbly smile. "you are too, zuha."