#revaival

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Kojuurou hates how much he remembers, and in turn, how little Masamune remembers. Sometimes, he wonders if they boy knows anything at all outside of his own life. He wonders if Masamune ever thinks that maybe a lot of what he’s gone through has happened before.

One night, Masamune takes it upon himself to try to cook dinner, since he honestly does have a penchant for getting recipes right (Kojuurou remembers Masamune refusing to allow the cooks to make dinner for the visiting lords because he--) even though he burns things from time to time. Part of the recipe he picks calls for diced onions, so he gets out the cutting board and starts chopping. Suddenly, Kojuurou hears a sharp hiss coming from the kitchen and turns to see Masamune cradling his left hand, a tiny sliver of crimson visible on his fingers.

“I’m good,” he says stiffly once he sees Kojuurou looking at him. The smile that comes is obviously forced.

His left hand is littered with scars and bruises, courtesy of his right hand. He doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s because he can’t see, and what he can see looks too flat, too short, too far away. When Kojuurou bandages him, the retainer pretends he can’t see the angry tears threatening at the corner of his lord’s left eye.

At first, Kojuurou thinks that maybe Masamune will react accordingly, like the pain might muster resonance with another memory. Instead, Masamune just sighs in resignation and shrugs while wiping the blood on his pants.

---

Masamune comes home from school early one day, a bruise blossoming violet on his right cheek. Just under his nose is the dried remainders of a hastily-cleaned bloody nose. Of all things, he looks immensely satisfied, despite the unconcealed detention slip sticking out his pocket.

Kojuurou raises an eyebrow. “...And?”

“I won,” Masamune says cheerfully, tossing his backpack over the back of the couch. “Against Kanetsugu. He cried like a preschooler.”

“I assume he’s not the one who gave you that bruise.”

That makes Masamune stare down at his feet, but his grin doesn’t fade. “Nah, Kenshin backed him up. Didn’t do so good against him.”

“Ah,” Kojuurou says thoughtfully.

His lord’s grin is wide, despite blood running from a gash on his right arm. Immediately, the maids scramble for sake or clean towels, even after he waves them off. “Well, he’s not invincible,” he says, sounding oddly philosophical.

Before Kojuurou can say anything, preferably scold Masamune for fighting and getting detention in the first place, Masamune languidly walks to the bathroom, presumably to wash off. There’s an obvious air of victory about him, and for just a moment, Kojuurou feels hopeful.

---

His lord is drunk, which isn’t a surprise. The smell of sake is pungent. It’s just that he hasn’t gotten this close to Kojuurou in a long time. He leans against his retainer while they sit on the veranda, facing out to the silhouetted mountains in the distance. Masamune’s one eye is glassy, his countenance thoughtful regardless of being inebriated.

“Hey, Kojuurou,” he mumbles, staring out at the tall grass, lit silver in the moonlight.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Yer gonna stay here forever, ya got that? I always tell ya that ya don’t have m’permission to die,” he says quietly, swaying a little. “Ya still don’t.”

Kojuurou allows himself the barest of smiles despite himself. “Of course.”