kashuu/anyone and 9
9 - âthings you said when i was cryingâ
here u go have some kashuu/okita angstÂ
@ the real okita-san if ur watching please forgive me for shipping you with your swordâŚ.
He can see their silhouettes through the paper of the sliding door. Okitaâs figure is imposing even when he kneels, and even now Kashuu feels a shiver of pride and longing as he watches the careful, seasoned gestures the man makes with his arms as he talks. No matter what happens, Okitaâs hands are Kashuuâs home, and his body tingles with the need for their comfort. It hurts him, to stay on the other side of the screen.
He only knows one other among the crowd of men in the room, though it stirs in him a feeling of bitter repulsion despite the glowing warmth of its familiarity. Yamatonokami Yasusada, his weak, modest house-brother. The idea that a sword so clearly beneath him has a say in his future is more humiliating than his injuries. He has to grit his teeth when he hears Yamato laugh.
Laugh. At him.Â
Soundlessly, he picks up his crutch and gets to his feet. Let them conspire- he doesnât have to be here for it. Hopefully nobody in there is bored enough of discussing him to be watching the shadows on the screen.Â
The garden is warm, and in its quiet he finds he can breathe around the knot in his chest. His abdomen protests as he sits down, bandages screaming at him to stay still and let them do their work. In spite of them, he stretches. If he canât heal for Okita, why would he heal for himself?
He closes his eyes. He painted his fingernails carefully this morning and applied powder, borrowed from the swordsmenâs wives, to his face. The scars are still there, but he thinks and hopes that now they resemble the old, honorable scars of a long life of service than those of the swords on the walls; name-plates in careful calligraphy, a layer of dust on their handles as on the bones of their masters. Sunlight glints off the pond, lights up the glittering red of his eyes.Â
His fatherâs words ring in his head.
âYouâll do fine things, dear one. Youâre the best Iâve ever made.â
If this soil wasnât walked by Okita, heâd spit on it. Fine words, from a man too poor to smith him to his sure potential. The delusions of a man no better than a peasant.
Itâs not fair. He tried so hard. He was the best, by his own effort and by Okitaâs, not his fatherâs. He was the best, and when Okita used him, he said it felt as effortless and joyful as a dance.
Itâs with dancerâs grace that Kashuu pulls himself up, with the agility of an actor that he drops to the ground and hurls his fist into the rock. His broken leg twists and his hakama scrapes against dirt and he thinks with a vicious sort of satisfaction that a better sword would take better care, that the blood leaking from his knuckles and rubbing off against the rock is a more similar colour to the earthy ground than the red of his eyes- and Kashuu Kiyomitsu, who has fought by his masterâs side in countless battles and witnessed the deaths of countless good men, is crying like a child in loud, wailing sobs that tear from his mouth and spill down his carefully made-up cheeks to mix with the soil heâs sure to soon return to.
The next time heâs aware of himself- and it could be minutes, hours or seconds later- there are firm, weathered hands on his, and his body has stilled.
âThatâs enough, Kashuu.â
Kashuu lets out a tiny, broken gasp, and turns his head. His face is a mess of artificial colour, smudges of pink flush on his pale skin and the raised irritation of scores of cuts and scars. For the first time in years, Kashuu feels unworthy of the arms around him. Okitaâs scars are neat and white, his skin a healthy tan and his expression always only as telling as he wants it to be. It only makes him cry harder. When Okita pulls him close, he falls into him and starts to scream.
When heâs calmed- when his sobs become dry hiccups, when his eyes close once more in defeat despite his shaking shoulders- Okita lifts his chin and kisses him chastely, soft and kind. When he draws back again, his eyes are as firm as the veins in his hands.
Kashuu speaks before Okita can, croaking out-
âYou donât want me.â
To his surprise, the words make his master smile.Â
âIs that what you think?â
Cautiously, he nods, looking a little like a child waiting for a scolding. His master only smiles at him, though itâs a sad sort of smile that makes his heart twinge.
âRetired swords are not unloved, Kashuu. Indeed, like childrenâs toys, the damage only shows the usage. I was careless with you. Now we both must learn from it.â
Retired. So itâs true. Once again, his body is trembling, but he bows his head, does his best to accept it with grace this time.
ââŚI want to fight with you again, master. Just once more. Please.â
Slowly, Okita shakes his head.
âIt would break you beyond even superficial repair- and we would lose. The risk is too great.â Here, his master smiles. âI am getting older, and have a cat to tend to. You, it seems, have only just discovered your own beauty,â (he gestures to Kashuuâs ruined face, making him blush with embarrassment), âand should continue to embrace it. Youâll be an antique someday. Even now, you are a treasure.â
Kashuu isnât so sure he likes the idea of being antique, and his face must show it, because Okita continues quickly:
âHowever. Even if we cannot fight, we can still dance together.â He gestures, in that familiar, endearing way of his, to the centre of the garden. âPractice strokes around the wisteria. What say you?â
Okitaâs hands are Kashuuâs home, and his body itches for their love, even when his master holds him. It;s going to hurt him, always staying on the other side of a screen.
So heâll take this chance, do this one, reckless thing. Even if it hurts, even when the wind whistles through the cracks in his metal and brings him almost to his knees, Kashuu will find it somewhere in this body diagnosed as âbrokenâ to smile at the pleasure of their unity.Â
If Kashuu is a storm today, then Okita is the sea; deep and dark and graceful, and there to catch his rain.
