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Every morning, Samatoki took a minute or two to braid his hair. Always just that one lock that hung over his ear, looking so tantalizingly pretty that Ichiro had, more than once, found himself itching to reach out and touch it.
Of course, he never did. Never would. Not without an invitation. Touching someone else's hair, in Ichiro's mind, was every bit as intimate as sharing a lovers' kiss.
It was clearly an important ritual for Samatoki, anyway. Just like tying up his own hair with the kumihimo cord his brothers had braided for him was important to Ichiro.
Ichiro didn't even think of broaching that boundary until they were separated from Ramuda and Jakurai one day, in the wake of a battle that collapsed a bridge between them. According to their maps, it would take two days for their paths to intersect again.
That wasn't a problem in and of itself. Ichiro and Samatoki got along reasonably well these days, and they could easily fend for themselves until they reunited with the other half of their party.
But Samatoki's wrist had suffered a bad sprain—Ichiro strongly suspected it was broken, but Samatoki insisted he was fine—during their latest battle, which Jakurai hadn't been able to heal before they were separated.
Ichiro still hesitated to offer a hand, the next morning, as he watched Samatoki struggle with his hair, his jaw set in a grimace of frustration, the occasional curse falling from his lips. Clearly, Samatoki was as determined as ever to handle it himself, but…
"Fine."
Ichiro blinked at the rough bark that came in Samatoki's voice. He suddenly realized he had been staring, and now Samatoki was looking—glaring—back.
"Are you going to help or not," Samatoki stated flatly.
It wasn't the most polite way of asking, but Ichiro still found himself smiling as he ducked his head in a nod. He finished snuffing out the fire they'd built for breakfast, then moved to sit beside Samatoki on the sleeping mats they'd yet to put away.
"May I?" Ichiro asked, just to be sure.
Only after Samatoki gave a grunt of assent did Ichiro lift his hands to catch a bit of Samatoki's hair between his fingers. He held his breath, though he hardly realized he was doing it, as he worked that lock of hair into three and began the careful process of braiding them together.
It didn't take too much time; Samatoki's hair wasn't terribly long, after all. Even with Ichiro working so slowly, so carefully, he was done in what felt like no time at all.
His touch lingered, until he had no reason to let it stay.
"Ask," Samatoki said, just before Ichiro dropped his hands away from the finished braid. "I can tell you want to."
Ichiro bit back another smile. In their months of traveling together, he'd had plenty of time to get used to the way Samatoki spoke, as gruff and rude as it was.
"Tell me," Ichiro countered. "I can tell you want to."
Samatoki shot him a scathing look, but it was only a few seconds before the scowl on his face melted into something softer. Something more amused, maybe even fond. Something like a smile.
"My little sister," he said after a moment, as they both climbed to their feet to finish packing up. Ichiro did most of it, batting off Samatoki's attempts to help, given that he had two good hands. "She was the one…"
Samatoki trailed off, but Ichiro already understood. He'd heard about Nemu already, knew Samatoki was traveling, fighting, to save her. It was no surprise, really, that she had been the first to put that braid in Samatoki's hair, that she was the reason he wore it every day.
Once they met back up with the others, and had Jakurai's magic to heal Samatoki's wrist, Ichiro didn't offer to help Samatoki with his hair again.
But some mornings, Samatoki would sit closer to him than usual, hair undone, and Ichiro would know that he was being invited to help. To get a little closer, too.