Work Text:
Like spices, the characteristic aroma of his person, it was nothing more than a fine, tiny powder crushed by a mortar. Like spices, it marked its presence even with just a little of its fragments.
It shone in the environment, stood out in the middle of the crowd and yet inside it was nothing more than fine dust. Ground, but not brittle. Like someone who has fallen thousands of times and each time has gotten up, not unscathed but strengthened, willing to continue moving forward. The only problem was that he always stumbled over the same stone, constantly and with the palpable idiocy of continuing to try, like a real idiot.
It was as easy as turning your gaze, just a little, enough to take it away from them — because, after all, they were never going to see it — and focus it on him. As simple as noticing that between drinks of sake, each sip of alcohol became the spice that he couldn't possess even if he wanted to, because he wanted it — shit, he really did want it — but he didn't know how to obtain it nor did he dare to try it.
Because it shone, like fine gold dust and the wandering swordsman did not carry gold.