#desfic

The members tease, and San is careful not to divulge a relationship that others have no business knowing of.

But late at night, when the lights are low and the house is quiet, when Wooyoung sneaks past security and into San’s room, his mind goes quiet. His headphones are on his ears but there is no music playing; instead he waits, happy to be patient and idle his time until he is once more allowed the physicality that he craves.

It’s when Wooyoung slips wordlessly into San’s lap, arms looped around his neck to hold him close, that San is able to relax. His hands find Wooyoung’s waist immediately, thumbs rubbing gentle circles into his hip bones - the unspoken rule that this is where his hands belong.

“Missed you,” comes the confession when Wooyoung buries himself into the crook of San’s neck, enough to shift the headphone off of his ear, breaking the noise cancelling seal. The sentiment is returned in kind with a sudden confidence that finds lips at Wooyoung’s jaw, with little nips and the special kind of affection that only Wooyoung is afforded.

Wooyoung hums, back arching; a hand cups the side of San’s neck while the other weaves into the soft hairs that barely brush his neck. San makes a little noise in the back of his throat, enough that he’s obvious about everything that he will never say out loud.

As if Wooyoung can’t read him like a book.

San is quieter about his desire but is nonetheless not subtle. He’ll say nothing with words but everything in his longing gaze, in the arm slung around Wooyoung’s neck during rehearsals and the way that he, somehow, always makes too much lunch, enough to be split with someone else. He’s not a man of grand gestures or elaborate declarations, but of implications and unsubtle subtleties that leave the object of his affections gasping for more.

And this - this is what San dreams of at night, when schedules keep them separated or when something gets in the way of the little alone time that the pair are afforded in as high pressure an environment as they are.

(If San is asked, he’ll say that diamonds are formed from high pressure. The members understand that he means performance and teamwork, but Wooyoung wonders if he means something else entirely.)

Wooyoung can feel him digging into his thigh, separated by two swathes of fabric that feel like the end of the world. He adjusts the headphones on San’s ears, forced askew by the brief show of weakness that finds San’s neck covered now in sentiment and devotion, words that Wooyoung wouldn’t speak outside of these walls whispered into San’s skin like a prayer.

He doesn’t realize he’s pouting until Wooyoung smiles the fond little smile that usually answers a pout. He breaks San’s eye contact for just a moment, looking around the room and being met with nothing that he’s looking for - but if there’s one thing that San knows, it is that Wooyoung is a quick thinker and never without options.

“Close your eyes.”

The sound is muffled but understandable. San does as he’s asked, eyes slipping shut in the already dark room; the desk lamp remains on as the only light in the room, brightness rivalling the smile he knows is plastered on Wooyoung’s face. He knows because Wooyoung does his best work unsupervised, left to his own devices.

That he begins moving the moment San’s eyes slip shut helps, too.

He feels a hand slip up his shirt, cool against his warm belly. The other follows and their foreheads meet, Wooyoung’s breath washing gently over San’s face as his hands slide upupup slow enough that San feels he may explode with the anticipation. His thumbs find San’s nipples, pebbled with enthusiasm; he flicks the left and presses against the right, content to play for as long as he can hold out.

A gasp hisses through San’s teeth. This is far better than he’d expected whilst waiting, far more exhilarating; he presses his forehead into Wooyoung’s and feels his dick twitch in his sweats, and hopes Wooyoung doesn’t hear the sound he makes when his nipple is left abandoned. He says something that San doesn’t quite catch - a request for patience, a demand for quiet.

His hand is warm when it finds its way into San’s pants, fingers wrapping slowly around his throbbing cock. San gasps and is met with grinning lips on his, tongue shoved into his mouth and Wooyoung’s drool pooling with San’s own. Wooyoung explores and San allows this, allows his tongue to feel every perfect tooth and finds a comfort in feeling so full.

Mind hazy, he’s brought back to reality by Wooyoung’s thumb flicking against his leaking head and he moans around Wooyoung’s tongue, ignoring the dribbles of mixed spit streaming down his chin and onto his t-shirt. With one hand jerking him off and the other playing with his nipple, he’s inches, moments away from bursting already; his stomach feels tight and his face is hot and his hands have not moved from their home on Wooyoung’s waist, mind focused too much on the sensation to drift. He’ll kiss the bruises better later, and Wooyoung will thank him for it.

Finally, Wooyoung breaks the kiss for air, met with the most pathetic whine that San doesn’t hear himself make. Still, he takes the opportunity now to peek an eye open, and is met immediately with the consequences of his actions. Wooyoung releases his cock, which lolls lazily over the band of his sweatpants; San’s nipple is left alone too, the absence of stimulation almost too much for him to bear.

“What did I say?” Wooyoung asks, his head tilting and hair falling against his shoulder cutely. The image is stored lovingly away into San’s memory.

“Sorry,” he whispers, breathless. And though his eyes take one last sweep of Wooyoung’s face, with cheeks flushed and lips lightly swollen looking like everything San has ever dreamed of, he means it, and he corrects his behavior.

He doesn’t hear the praise that streams from Wooyoungs mouth, perhaps for the better; unspoken, they both know that if the words make it to his ears, if he is made aware of the babbled exaltations, the night will come to a quick and sudden end. So Wooyoung continues in his hushed tones, while San is content to enjoy the breath over the flushed skin of his cheeks and neck and collarbone.

Wooyoung shifts and when he touches San again, it’s with his own hard cock in hand, slick with precum. He rests a hand on San’s shoulder to keep himself steady, close enough to where he can brush his thumb against San’s adam’s apple; he gasps softly, head tilting up to where he believes Wooyoung’s face to be. Brows pinched together and raised, he can only imagine how he looks. Like a mess, he suspects.

(“Like a vision,” Wooyoung will tell him later, on his toes to give him a kiss goodnight before disappearing down the hall to sneak past security once again and hope that he doesn’t meet Hongjoong on his way home from the studio.)

It’s now that moans become louder and breathing becomes shallow. Wooyoung’s breaths come quick and his forehead falls forward against San’s once more, and knowing that Wooyoung is being undone so quickly only reignites the fire in San’s belly. He bucks his hips up into Wooyoung’s hand, feels his cockhead hit against Wooyoung’s; a quick tilt of his head has them kissing again, a mix of huffed breaths and moans and Wooyoung letting his saliva pool once more in San’s mouth.

San swallows it down when the kiss breaks and it’s over from there.

For the first time since the night began, San removes his hand from Wooyoung’s hip. It catches him off guard enough that San can place it firmly against Wooyoung’s throat, just under his jaw. He squeezes, slowly at first, drunk on the thrill; when Wooyoung takes the lead, San is not to move. He is to stay still, remain pliant, to not act until given the okay.

Yet he can feel Wooyoung nodding slightly, so he takes it as permission.

As Wooyoung’s hand quickens, San’s tightens its grip. Breaths are shallow, coming in quick and desperate as their cocks drool precum, letting it mix as it slicks Wooyoung’s fingers.

San wishes he could see what he knows to be true.

He knows that Wooyoung’s eyes roll back and his face turns upward, all but humping San’s lap as he strokes them both until they spill, hot against slick fingers that catch the most of it. Wooyoung is first with San quick to follow, making cute groaning noises that he knows he will be teased for later – but San, in this moment, is too blissed out to think about anything else and hopes that Wooyoung is too lost in the moment to remember that he, too, becomes a chattering mess of compliments and platitudes that warm San’s heart all the same.

The hold on Wooyoung’s throat lightens as they come down together. His hand moves to cup lightly the side of Wooyoung’s neck, to hold him close and only let go when he is forced to.

Their breaths mix and in that moment they are one in the same; spent, elated, together.

Because when San thinks of Wooyoung, he does not just think of him; he thinks of their time spent together, of the future that they share and the moments that are yet to come.

So maybe, he thinks, Wooyoung will ask to stay the night, to clean up the mess they’ve made together in the bathroom that sits just down the hall and sneak back to San’s bedroom to fall in bed and remain tangled underneath the queen-sized comforter San keeps for nights just like this. Maybe they’ll drift away to sleep immediately, maybe they’ll be too elevated and need to come back to Earth together, before Wooyoung decides that he’s too spent to leave.

Maybe San will ask first, offering his space to Wooyoung in an always open invitation.

He stays through the sleepless nights, the flashbacks, the isolation. He stays through Kakashi’s emotional invulnerability, he stays through the self-destruction and the self-loathing and he embraces it, never tries to shrug it off or tell Kakashi that he’s wrong. He listens, he responds, he offers a shoulder to cry on and a distraction when needed, and most importantly, he gives his love.

Kakashi knows that Gai has never been one to hide his emotions. Gai believes in wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve, believes in showing one’s deepest feelings and letting one’s heart be the guide, and Kakashi admires this endlessly.

Kakashi, who lost his father at age four, who was made an assassin at age twelve, who had already taken Obito’s and Rin’s lives by his own hand and who had to relearn how to love.

Friend-Killer Kakashi.

And yet, none of it has ever mattered to Gai.

Gai, who loves unconditionally, with his whole being, and who loves Kakashi. Not in spite of his past, but in light of his past. Because of his past. “You can’t change the past,” he’d said, long ago; “but you can grow from it and learn from it and become stronger because of it.”

And Kakashi does.

He can’t decide what it is that makes him trust Gai so implicitly. Maybe it’s that he’s speaking from experience, as the son of the Eternal Genin, as a kid who never really fit in anywhere, who was the victim of bullying not only at his own expense, but at his father’s, too, even well after giving his life for something precious.

Maybe it’s his optimism, Kakashi wonders. His ever-present smile, his perpetual cheering on of his team and comrades. His never-wavering ability to project his enthusiasm and confidence onto anybody who will listen. He’s always had this, and Kakashi thinks it must come from his father, like much of his personality and philosophy. When Gai speaks, people listen. When Gai smiles, others do, too, and Kakashi would be lying to himself if he didn’t envy it just a little bit. But at the end of the day, Konoha’s Green Beast is always one for cheering the hearts of Konoha, and everybody knows that if they need something - if they need assistance, if they need a smile or a kind word - Gai will be the first to offer his help.

Or it could be his strength, perhaps, both physical and emotional. Gai feels his emotions with his entire being, allows them to flood his heart and his mind and refuses to suppress them. He lets others’ emotions sway him, lets others share their feelings and helps others to hold them, helps others deal with them. He’s indestructible on the battlefield, and he gives it his all, and yet the moment the enemy has been defeated he is fully prepared to help his comrades shoulder their hurt, their celebration, their pain.

But it could be his resilience, too. Gai doesn’t let his failures get to him; what others see as failure, Gai sees as an opportunity. An opportunity to better himself, to learn, to grow. He’s the first to tell you that you’ve done your best, that you’ll get it, just hang in there. He’s always willing and eager to give a helping hand, to ask what’s needed of him and deliver it at 100% percent of his ability.

And that’s when Kakashi decides, no, it’s not one of these things at all and he’ll spend far too long considering what exactly it is if he doesn’t reign himself in. Kakashi can’t decide what exactly it is that makes him trust Gai so implicitly because there isn’t just one thing. It’s the whole combination. He doesn’t need to narrow it down at all.

It’s not lost on Hongjoong, the way Seonghwa gets under his skin and does it so clearly on purpose.  It’s that fucking tanktop, the one that hangs just a little bit loose over his slender frame and exposes a bit too much of his chest, bunches and rides up enough to expose slips of skin that should be saved for Hongjoong alone.

Rage blossoms under his ribcage, creeping up the column of his throat the same way it always does.  It’s smothering, what Hongjoong feels; his chest feels tight and hot and his hands leave damp spots on the leather steering wheel cover when he shoves an anxious hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead.

The cashier is lucky he’s getting out of this alive.

It’s a familiar song and dance, this; Seonghwa does it on purpose, and it’s not ignored.  They finish their business, knock out the security cameras, and drive away in their unplated car to the shitty, rundown motel on the other side of town where Hongjoong makes Seonghwa understand where he’s done wrong.

Practiced, efficient.  The same routine they’ve had since they started running, which is how Seonghwa finds himself on his knees with the barrel of a gun pressed to his cheek with tears threatening to spill.

And he’s so beautiful like this, Hongjoong thinks; he snaps a picture with the polaroid camera from two birthdays ago, a memento to go with the rest.  The undeveloped film is tossed aside on a table, the camera on the bed.  

Seonghwa doesn’t look when normally his eyes would follow the path of the camera to be sure it doesn’t fall.  Instead he stares up through thick lashes, eyes wide, watching, waiting.  Hands balled into fists on bent knees, his patience endures through Hongjoong’s rants, his threats, all but screamed from the rooftops.  If the hotel were any nicer, they’d probably care.

The cool metal of Hongjoong’s gun brushes against a high cheekbone while he brushes dark hair from Seonghwa’s face, pretty as a picture.  He’s fallen to silence, panting lightly with flames behind his darkdark eyes; it’s like playing with Seonghwa’s hair calms him, stamps down the blaze inside him.  But it’s not enough, never enough; there is nothing that can extinguish the light inside of Kim Hongjoong and Seonghwa has long since stopped trying.

There is no sense when dealing with a madman.

Maybe that’s why Seonghwa stays; the danger is a turn-on, the mood swings keep it interesting.  Maybe his mother was right when she’d kicked him out and reminded him he was fucked up beyond repair.

But Hongjoong, Hongjoong makes him feel wanted, desired, cared for.  Gives him a place to stay and makes him feel hothothot inside.  He’d lifted Seonghwa when no one else would, when the world was against him and he was two shots away from jailtime or worse.  It’s only natural that Seonghwa continues to revere Hongjoong in kind, give him the same energy that he’d sworn his life away with.

Their lifestyle isn’t lavish by any means but the run keeps them from trouble, keeps the cops from staying on their ass for too long, keeps things interesting; and that’s all he can really ask for.

It’s the most fun he’s had his whole life.

His mouth parts as the muzzle eases its way between his lips.  Hongjoong grins that grin, the one that sends a flutter to his core - and the hand playing gently with Seonghwa’s hair turns gentle no longer, fingers twisting to grip tight the hair at the back of his head.  Seonghwa’s face turns heavenward as he tastes metal on his tongue.  It’s sharp, makes him think of blood – the thought vanishes quickly as Hongjoong chases it away with words of praise, of flattery and undying devotion.

“Beautiful,” he says, his voice hoarse.  Seonghwa sticks his tongue out and takes the pistol deeper, a hand on Hongjoong’s thigh to steady himself.  Hongjoong swallows thickly.  “Taking it so well.  Gorgeous like this, y’know?”

It’s enough to get a reaction, which is all he can really ask for.  A moan, a smattering of red across high cheekbones; Hongjoong shifts, foot kicking out just enough for his toes to rest against the straining bulge in Seonghwa’s joggers, heel on the floor to keep steady.  He hums, gives a tug to his hair in the same beat his foot presses harder, and he thinks he sees Seonghwa’s eyes roll back.

“Ohh, my angel; you want it to be me so bad, don’t you?  Want my dick down your throat?”

There’s a noise that Seonghwa makes from deep in his belly, strained past the metal.  His eyes shine and tears threaten to spill as his head bobs but he never takes his attention away, doesn’t even seem to notice the steady stream of spit running down his chin and along his neck.  He doesn’t realize his hips are jutting forward until his cock aches, too hard and not hard enough and Hongjoong’s weight coming down on him despite it all.  A sob spasms his body and he gags around the barrel and Hongjoong thinks it’s the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever seen.

“Dumb little cockslut, only good for one thing.”

Hongjoong wishes he still had his camera on hand.  

Instead he jerks Seonghwa’s head back, causing his mouth to drop open and the gun to fall from his lips.  A scoff from Hongjoong, a flash of fear from his pretty toy; it’s fucking obscene how ravishing he is, from swollen lips to the dusty blush across his cheeks and the way his jaw drops and his tongue lolls out of his too, too empty mouth.

(Seonghwa feels – dirty.  He can feel the muzzle pressed up against his soft palate as Hongjoong fills his mouth once more, the metallic taste on his tongue and the heat surging through his core enough to bring any greater man to the brink.  The brink of orgasm, of obsession, of death; it’s a disorganized mess, he knows, but in the low light and through the fog of his brain, Hongjoong has never looked more beautiful, and maybe that’s all that matters.

Maybe Seonghwa is broken after all.)

The noise that comes out of his mouth when Hongjoong rubs the growing wet spot with the ball of his foot is something he wishes he could replay over and over.  Something needy and wanting, grotesque the way he craves more, more, more.  Another tug of his hair has Seonghwa seeing stars, and Hongjoong can feel his cock jumping under his sole as he comes.

Seonghwa’s knees ache when he’s allowed up again, desperate to be stretched straight.  Hongjoong urges him up with a yank to the fistful of hair in his grasp, the muzzle of his pistol digging into the hollow below his jaw when he stands.  The wince doesn’t go unnoticed, smothered instead with a kiss full of teeth and heated ecstasy and pure unfettered hunger.  The gun cocks with a practiced flick of Hongjoong’s thumb.

“Tell me you love me.”  Hongjoong’s voice is hoarse, barely audible between soft breaths.  He’s panting; Seonghwa can feel his erection through his pants and the heavy thrum of his pulse as he cups the side of Hongjoong’s neck.  He’s panting too, he realizes; head tilted up with the press of the gun but eyes trained on Hongjoong nevertheless.  

“I love you,” he answers easily as breathing.  His voice is gone too, and he thinks this may be the first time he’s confessed to Hongjoong’s conscious form.  “Anything for you.  You know that.”

“Till death.”

Seonghwa nods.  “Till death,” he agrees; free hand finding Hongjoong’s where his clammy finger rests gently on the trigger, ready and eager.  Something shines in Hongjoong’s eyes, ready to spill, and Seonghwa picks it up, greedy and craving.  He shifts slightly and feels Hongjoong’s hand slack on the gun underneath his own. 

“Prove it,” Hongjoong whispers.  He sounds almost - somber, wistful, wanting.  Seonghwa feels a laugh deep in his own chest and a heady bubble of exhilaration in his throat.

“I’d kill for you, y’know that?”  There’s a fire on Seonghwa’s eyes, flickering along the sparks in Hongjoong’s.  “Die for you.  Say the word.”

Hongjoong feels pressure against the column of his throat and nearly moans, mouth falling open in a silent gasp.  The tempest is calmed, even if briefly; music to his ears 

“Yeah?” Hongjoong is breathless.  “Just for me?”

“You go, I go.”

Hongjoong’s grin is audible, the static from his eyes palpable, sparking on Seonghwa’s skin where his gaze burns into Hongjoong’s skin. His pupils dilate and they’re both drunk on the thrill, the anticipation.  

Hongjoong’s grip on Seonghwa’s hair tightens, pulling his face down enough that their foreheads and noses press together and their breaths mix and neither is sure where one begins and the other ends and decide that maybe, maybe they’re okay with that.

“Do it.”

“It’s too bad,” he says, so casually you could forget where you’re at. “Kushina wanted to be here, y’know? But it’s busy work, being a Hokage’s wife.”

He’s silent a moment; you hear shuffling, the clamoring of metals against the table he’s got them laid out on, a sigh of all things before he speaks again, his voice growing closer, slowly; agonizingly slowly.

“She may as well be in charge, after all, everything she does for the village.”

You feel your top tug away from your body, gentle fingers pulling the fabric away from you. The faint chill of silver is a shock to the system, a reminder of where you stand, who’s in control; and before you know it, the draft in the room sneaks its way across your chest, dancing along your skin as your shirt falls away, slips off your body onto the floor.

“Don’t know why they didn’t want to give her the hat. Shame, really.”

You’re exposed, what’s left of your shirt in ribbons across your shoulders, and each word out of Minato’s mouth, each passing second, each shallow breath you take finds you wetter. The thrill has a chokehold on you in a way you couldn’t have predicted; hands bound above your head, unseeing but feeling all, and your skin is so, so sensitive that every brush of his blades sends a thrum of want through you, trust in him, hope for release.

His hands are warm as they graze your chin, lifting your face to his with fingers so gentle, so delicate, so capable of harm. You’re nothing but putty in his hands, a weakened mess against his wall, and the urge to jump is strong when you feel the cool metal of his blade against the delicate, thin skin along your throat.

You trust Minato implicitly and it scares you.

“So beautiful,” he tells you. “Making a mess all for me, over what? Some tools?”

His tone is cheery as he continues but there’s an undertone you almost miss, one that sends a shockwave of desire through your core, pools at your cunt, dripping for him. He laughs, low and slow, and you can see his face in your mind’s eye, smile bright and blue eyes shimmering with joy. Choosing the right blade for the job, weighing each in his hands, testing the sharpness against the pad of his thumb.

A chuckle passes through him as the rise and fall in your chest quickens, heightened with the exhilaration that comes with threat. The cool metal of Minato’s blade rests against your collarbone and you stiffen, just slightly; you try and relax, you really do, because you know that one wrong move, one too-excited jump could spill red.

You whine as his touch moves, slowly, achingly slow from your chin, along the soft muscles of your throat, around your neck, not too tight, never too tight. His thumb brushes against your trachea, once, briefly before he moves his hand away from you fully, brushing against the delicate skin on your collarbone. And you drink it up, every second of it. You ache for him, for his touch, for his words of silk and the hands that make you feel so good, the same hands that kill.

When he speaks again, his voice is at your ear, barely a whisper, a breath against your lobe that sends you afloat.

His breath is hot in your ear and you swear you can feel it radiate through your whole body, his command for you and you alone. Strong hands grasp your hips, tugging you close against him, against the hardened excitement that's gone unattended for a week straight. You press back against him, wiggling a little, and Hashirama's lips are at the crook of your neck.

"I just got back," you whisper, reaching a hand back to tangle in his hair. You're sweaty, you're unshowered, and you're exhausted from your mission, but the Hokage would have it no other way.

"Don't care," he says, and you can hear the wide grin in his voice as his hand slinks into your pants, rubbing you slowly, and you know your little mewls are music to his ears.

You breathe his name as he pulls away a little, and before you even have the chance to whine, he's flipping you around, hands held high above your head by his strong grasp, breath stolen with a deep kiss that sends thrums of desire through your core.

He pulls away just a little bit, barely a hair's width between your lips, and his breath is hot as it washes over your face, his hand is warm against you as he strokes your core, your knees go weak as he nips at your pulse. You're horny, you're weak, and you're fully at Hashirama's mercy.

When he wakes again, feeling more rested and stronger than he had before, he’s not sure how much time has passed but he’s still happily in that familiar hold, leaning into the touch of fingers dancing along the crown of his head, playing with his hair.  And he realizes, belatedly – still sososo tired and bleary eyed – that he recognizes the voices around him; vaguely, like a dream.

“Can we keep him?”

“Father.”

“Sorry.”

Kagura squints against the light as he opens his eyes, brows pinching at their center.  It’s bright – and then he remembers.  He remembers the searing pain, the feeling of blood welling up inside his chest and out through his throat; the screams of his friends and his uncle and his father, desperate and aching and angry, so, so angry.  But here?  Here, it’s calm, bathed in a gentle light diffused by the mist surrounding them atop a shallow lake that Kagura can’t see the edge of.  He tries turning his head to look but a hand on his cheek stops him, and finally, finally he looks up at the person holding him, and he cannot suppress the urge to cry.

“...Mama?”

She smiles that smile that she reserved for him all those years ago, the gentle tug at her lips that Kagura knows so well from childhood.  He didn’t know her long, only a handful of short, short years, but Kagura knows a mother’s touch when he feels it, recognizes her familiar, warm presence like he saw her yesterday.  She brushes his bangs out of his face, wipes his tears with the pad of her thumb.

“It’s good to see you,” she whispers, and the laugh she gives him is soft, gentle, accented with the tears prickling at her own eyes.  “You’ve grown so much.”

Kagura reaches up for his mother’s wrist, gripping it loosely with all the strength he can muster.  He’s tired, so, so tired; just wants to curl up in her arms and let her hum the lullaby that she used to hum for him, the one his father couldn’t get through without breaking down, the one passed down to her by her own parents.  But he knows he can’t, knows that he has someplace to be, others to be with.

“He looks just like you, father.”

He turns his head enough to greet him, finally;  the air he gets from Yagura is different from the one he’d expected, far different from the bone-chilling, murderous aura that he’d heard so much about.  This one is warmer, almost playful – it’s the same chakra signature that Kagura expects to come from an academy student, but he knows that face well, knows that he’s far from an academy student.

“Lord Fourth–”

“You can call me grandpa,” Yagura tells the boy, on one knee beside them, dodging the halfhearted swing his daughter takes at him as she corrects him – just call him Yagura, she says.  “Sorry we had to meet like this.”

Kagura frowns, sitting up in his mother’s hold.  And she allows this, allows him to move as he needs, but she doesn’t let him stray too far from her.  He feels like a little boy again, protected in his mother’s arms from the world.  It’s been years, far too long since he’s felt her hold like this; and he cherishes it, wishes he could bottle up the warmth he feels bloom in his chest and keep it for a rainy day.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he yearns for his father’s touch

His jaw clenches slightly watching Yagura’s face; Yagura, who he never met properly, who died nearly a decade before he was born but whose legacy he’s forced to remember on a daily basis.  But he seems at peace now, Kagura thinks, and though he’s not sure if he can ever fully forgive his grandfather, though his blood-stained legacy may never wash away completely, he can’t deny that being able to meet him finally, and to see him in a light that isn’t tinted red, is quite nice.

“I have to say I’m very proud of what you and the swordsman are doing with the village,” Yagura says.  His smile softens, just a hair, and Kagura feels his heart swell.  “It’s hard to come back from where it was.  I don’t know how you’re doing it, but I’m impressed.”

“It’s mostly Lord Chojuuro and Lady Mei, I haven’t been–”

“You’re a big part of the new generation of Kiri, Kagura.  You’re doing a lot.”

For a moment, Kagura wonders if the stories were never true to begin with.  He knows, realistically, that the Blood Mist era happened; Shizuma had made sure to make a point of ensuring he knew.  But this Yagura is not the Yagura that he’d ever expected to be the face of the Blood Mist.  This Yagura doesn’t instill the same fear that the stories of him had so many years ago, nor does he make Kagura want to run away and hide like he’d wanted to as a child, taunted by cruel academy children who knew too much, yet not nearly enough about the situation.

Perhaps he’s at peace these days after all.

“...Mama,” Kagura whispers, and he doesn’t meet her face – can’t meet her face.  “Am I…?”

“It’s not your time yet, beloved,” she assures him, holds him so close to her heart that it hurts to let him go, but Tamayo knows that she must.  She trusts Chojuuro and the Shimizu boy to watch after her son, trusts wholeheartedly that they will keep him safe, and although she wants so, so badly to keep her boy, she knows that keeping him here – to herself, to her father and to his father, all who miss him terribly and who never truly got to see the boy grow up – would be selfish.

“I can’t wait to see you again, Kagura,” she whispers to him, cradles him to her bosom like she did when he was young.  He grips onto her wrist loosely, already feels her dissipating as she kisses his forehead.  

Yagura offers him a smile as he ruffles his hair. “But don’t hurry back, okay?”

⋯

He wakes again in the hospital – for good, he knows, for there’s no more dreamlike quality dancing among his vision – and the first face he sees is Chojuuro’s.  His glasses are off, set off to the side on the table at Kagura’s bedside, and his eyes are red, puffy; it takes Kagura more than a moment in his hazed state to realize that he’s been crying.  Slowly, his gaze shifts around the room; Boruto, Sarada, Iwabe…  Hiroki.