T W I L I G H T ;

          “It’s, ah, quite…” Distracting. It takes nearly all of his effort in fact not to let his eyes wander obviously, even if such was her intended reaction. Izanagi leans back in his chair, finally allowing himself to steal a glimpse, comparatively modest when against how shameless he usually is when indulging himself with her.

     Granted, it’s largely because they aren’t yet alone in this room.

     For some time, after having heard for so long the whispers that accompany her whenever they should be seen together, Izanagi came to doubt that there could exist any lingering compatibility between them despite these past hundreds of years. As before, there was nothing that could dampen her mood, nor displace that smile of hers, the one that’d endeared her to her much more experienced, much more determined colleagues.

     Except for him, that is. On the rare occasions she would seek him out, without some of the peers she’s made into friends flanking her that is, she becomes this way: so quiet, so disturbed, unsettled by his presence, perhaps just as everyone else is.

     Still. Just as it did centuries ago, this unheard of softness in her voice, and this shyness about her as she asks, it softens his own heart, too. Even if she doesn’t yet know why, he could never stay so cold in her presence.

     For all that he fights to save face in public, especially when amongst his own or his father’s men, he offers not a single ounce of resistance to her affections—when she tugs on him, gently, he bends at the waist to accommodate her, when she rested her chin upon his shoulder, he urged his arms to return her careful embrace, ever mindful of not squishing his poor mother.

     Mother. At times, even now, the realization hits Azuma all over again as it had the first time, so forceful at first before melding against him so easily. A sigh leaves him through flared nostrils and in a moment of (maybe childish) impulse, he allows himself to nuzzle down against her shoulder, to soak in the warmth of the woman he has come to know as his mother.

         “Hey. Hey!~ Do you see what I did?” He twirls in some delighted display, as if it were anything but the most fine details of his appearance that he’s altered thus far—somehow, perhaps merely by his nature, the freckles he’s adorned his features with can’t simply be ordinary markings, seeming to catch the light when he turns this way and that, perhaps even glowing...

her tears delicately brushed away, the comfort she yearned for so desperately while at his side. his absence bared a heavy toll upon saber, longing for his return. but even as tears were wiped away from flushed cheeks, meeting his gaze only provoked further streaming tears for a few moment before pulling away ever so slightly to be escorted back inside the palace.

❝ I wasn’t ever going to leave, Iza-san.. Not when there was a possibility that you would return once again, the thought of leaving hadn’t even crossed my mind. ❞

her voice grew hoarse, a slight strain lingering in her throat as a result of suppressing the building emotion that had inevitably emerged. eventually, the pair were reunited within the comforts of his quarter, a warm swelling resided within her bosom as musashi pulled away ever so slightly, watching him wander into the comforts of his own room once more. it was a sight to behold, knowing that the balance had finally been restored.

approaching the emperor from behind, arms smoothly wound around his waist while features nuzzled gently into the silken material he donned so effortlessly. izanagi being in her hold once again was entirely uplifting, ceasing her slowly streaming tears until nothing remained, only the remnants of her flushed disposition.

❝ You still feel as warm as ever, iza-san.. I’ve missed this indeed.. ❞

     He feels like some great beast rising from slumber, the way that his mind races, and the way that his heart seems to awaken, every instance longer he can bask in her presence. His heart wars upon hearing of how great her conviction is: the voice inside of him that wishes the best for her is drowned out by his desire to be near her, with her, have her all to himself–

     He takes a moment, centers himself, before straightening and moving his hands to rest instead upon her shoulders, pulling her just slightly away—enough that he might look into her eyes. “Musashi,” he murmurs, “Musashi, you waited for me.” How he ought to sing her praises to the very heavens, that his woman would be so saintly, so patient for him... a careful thumb brushes against the skin of her cheek, caressing so gently as if she were made of porcelain.

          “I will.”

     No dramatics. No absurd reactions, or grand declarations; he lowers the glass from his eye, sets aside his brush, before turning from his desk to face Musashi full on. Not even an ounce of hesitation crosses his features once he meets her gaze. A hand reaches out, beckoning for the Saber to join him seated; his palm cradles her gently, coaxing her close and down, before moving to steady against her hip as she sinks to sit beside him.

          “If you are certain, then I will.” At a moment’s notice, without pause, he would give his life, his world, to this woman: has he not already, after all? A growl in his chest, he turns to bury himself in her hair, pressing a kiss to her earlobe after his hands begin to card through her hair how he adores it when she lets it down, allows it to flow past her shoulders in its full length, a wave of cherry and plum blossoms cascading around her…