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The touch burns. John spends days searching for another word to describe it, in Japanese or Portuguese or Dutch or Latin or English, but none quite suits. Even burn barely measures up to the depth of sensation, the depth of feeling, that lingers upon his skin.
To the memory of Toranaga-sama’s grip on his arm, firm and purposeful.
Even through layers of fabric, the echo of it lingers.
And no matter how many times he sits upon a stone in the garden, closes his eyes, and feels his skin sing with the memory, he cannot put a finger on why.
***
Months slip by, battles are won, ships are built.
Earthquakes happen. Only minor ones, mostly. Naturally, the first serious one coincides with Lord Toranaga’s return to Ajiro.
Naturally, the ground starts to shake just as John arrives for his audience.
The first time he’d laid eyes on his enigmatic benefactor in months, and they are both probably about to be covered in dirt once more. Perfect.
When the earth promptly crumbles beneath his feet, John just has time to utter a resigned sigh.
***
Being covered by half-a-hill’s worth of dirt and tree roots is rather painful, he soon discovers.
Gasping back to the land of the living to find the piercing eyes of Yoshii Toranaga barely an inch from his own almost makes the pain worth it, however.
John was rather good at mathematics. Had to be, to become the pilot he was. But he doesn’t want to even hazard a guess at the odds of this precise scenario playing out in reverse.
Even down to—John glances down. Yes, even down to the swords.
An amused chuckle jerks John’s gaze back to his savior—and oh, how appropriate that word is, in some many ways—who is holding out his own sword, face crinkled in that subtle half-smile of his.
The gesture is astounding, even John knows that at this point.
But if he has learned anything about Toranaga-sama in these past months, it is that the man loves to be surprising.
John reaches out a bloody hand to grasp the proffered sheath. “Katajikenai, Toranaga-sama.”
The smile spread to encompass both sides of Lord Toranaga’s face. The hand not holding the sword between them found John’s shoulder and gave a decisive squeeze. John suppressed a shiver at the frisson of warmth that ran along his skin.
They may be alone in that moment, concealed by a freshly formed hillock of ripped up turf, but despite the lack of an audience, John feels the inadequacy of his thanks all too keenly.
This was a Minowara he was talking to, his liege lord who had just offered him a priceless gift, to say nothing of an unprecedented display of sentiment.
There had to be something he could do, some way he could…. John’s eyes fell on Lord Toranaga’s hand, still clasped around the sword hilt, barely an inch from John’s answering one.
John is never sure what came over him. He wasn’t a damned papist, and Toranaga-sama certainly wasn’t a pissing priest.
Yet it felt like the most natural thing in the world, bending forward and pressing a kiss atop Lord Toranaga’s knuckles.
John scarcely breathed, wondering if he was about to lose his head, when a firm hand landed atop said head. There was force behind it—John doubted he could do more than twitch, even if he had wished to.
They remained like that for what felt like an eternity, neither of them speaking, scarcely even breathing.
Then the sound of Toranaga-sama’s guards cresting the hill sped time up once more, and they broke apart as if the moment had never happened.
But the feeling of that firm hand upon his head will keep John warm for many a long winter night.