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The rock provides the perfect perch for the lord to gaze upward. Summer has finally come, the threat of cold and snow and more illness long since past. Night is falling, the first stars appearing in the sky. Cool air descends from the canopy above and through a gap in the trees, he can see Orihime-sama* and Hikoboshi-sama* just beginning to flicker into sight. It’s a welcome view as opposed to watching his retainer, the swordsman, eat his breakfast of bamboo shoots, wild yam, and fish that had been caught from a recently passed stream.
He shouldn’t feel jealous, shouldn’t want to live like the swordsman now has to–on food scavenged from the wild. Then again, neither should Yuuichirou. Yuu should be well fed on rice, fowl, fish brought in from the coast, and (were he to have his way) every delicacy in existence. How can a swordsman hope to keep his strength if he’s not well fed? But such meals are an impossibility now, for the both of them. Blood is the only fare he can intake and while they remain outcasts, refugees, Yuu must subsist on what they can find. Stolen goats or pigs, fish caught with hand-made nets, wild onions.
He’d send the ronin away, urge Yuu to find a new lord. One who would feed him properly. One who isn’t cursed as the young lord is. Had already tried to once. But he knows that Yuu will never leave. That Yuu holds his oath as seriously as he holds his own.
Licking his dry lips and tugging the rough fabric of the stolen yukata over his scarred hands, he drops his gaze from the sky above back down to the swordsman. Yuuichirou has finished eating and is in the process of kicking earth over the remains of their fire. When he stands, one hand settles on the worn handle of his sword while the other extends, palm up for his lord to take. He hesitates before taking it, but only for a split second, unable to deny the pull he feels toward his retainer. When the distance between them is diminished, he can very nearly feel the heat of Yuu’s singular gaze. The intensity will never be something he can avoid.
“Thinking it again?” the swordsman asks and drops his hand to his lord’s waist. Above them, the sound of a falcon’s screech draws their attentions skyward and he uses the opportunity to avoid Yuu’s stern expression. He feels that concerned look return to his own features but merely licks his lips again.
“Who’s going to help you with your garden?”
Eyes the color of blood–no, don’t think about it; push the thought away; wait a few days longer–blink in mild confusion until the comment registers. He’d been the one to suggest it, hadn’t he? His throat tightens, constricts. For once, it isn’t thirst. It seems like they’ve been traveling forever and have yet to find the “home” he’d promised.
“Your imp.” Said with a hint of humor. “Told me there might be an abandoned farm next village. We’ll fix it up, grow your garden, get some pigs, some chickens. And a goat. Wouldn’t mind a goat.”
Something in his chest that he’s hesitant to call his heart (because his heart has long since stopped beating) seems to swell at the proposal. An end to their wandering, a home at last. There are logistics they’ll have to sort out, like how they’ll hide his lineage and the monstrous gleam of his eyes. But those are details to be pondered later. He can feel his retainer’s hand warm against his side, through the cloth of his yukata. Moving in a sedated pace to slide up his chest, along the path of his shoulders, along the line of his throat, along the curve of his jaw. Making him suck in a breath. Until fingers callused by the hilt of a sword slip into straw-colored hair. Guide foreheads together in a gentle press.
“You’re too suited to gentle things. I have things I can teach you too.”
A smile breaks out on his lips like the rising of the sun. His eyes close as he revels in the touch and hums a quiet noise of assent.
“I will look forward to your lessons.” Breathes the words against the swordsman’s mouth before he’s pulled into a kiss.