It had been roughly a week since he’d found the memorial. At first, Itto hadn’t been sure who it was for, but with a sinking realization, he knew. It wasn’t to say that he could distinguish Masterless Visions and swords apart from each other, but the death that had been infamous drove an epiphany home: this could’ve been Sara’s memorial. A duel that was an even split meant she could’ve died instead, and it made him cold with realization. The cat that had mewled for food only confirmed it further, an inky sensation of melancholy burbling in his breast.

So, he returned each day with freshly caught but gently cooked fish, earning the white feline’s trust. This could’ve been her grave. Instead, it was the grave of someone else’s friend, he thought obsessively for minutes on end. 

It reminded him of the immense guilt he felt when he hadn’t prevented that fateful fall, a shuddering breath exhaled, the drip of a beginning rain despite how his sagged shoulders provided a lee for the cat to take shelter in while asleep on his lap, large hand stroking over their milky coat absently.

                                   in  retrospect    —    this  was  not  their  best  idea.  

            liquor  lands  heavy  on  his  tongue,    warmth  creeping  down  towards  his  toes  in  a  long,    spindling  path  towards  pleasure.    the  inn  rouses  with  its  patrons,    a  night  to  commemorate  new  beginnings  after  the  war    (  something  which  tomo  believes  impossible  —  and  yet  )    his  beloved  companion  sags  against  him  in  the  throes  of  intoxication,    voice  sweetened  and  slurred  by  his  drink  yet  still  sound  enough  to  parse  through  his  thoughts  and  suggest  an  outing.  

            tomo  follows  off  his  hand  willingly,    bumping  against  his  warmth  as  they  maneuver  out  of  the  crowd  and  takes  each  glorious  opportunity  of  contact  to  slither  a  wandering  hand  over  the  length  of  him,    unnerved  and  emboldened  by  the  eyes  that  follow  his  grotesque  display  of  affection.    the  breach  of  cold  air  that  enshrouds  them  is  barely  enough  to  knock  an  inch  of  sobriety  in  him,    and  tomo  has  the  beginning  of  a  thought  to  drag  kazuha  off  to  the  shadows  between  buildings  and  have  his  way  with  him,  when  instead    —    he  is  being  dragged  again.  

            their  coupling  footsteps  rattle  off  in  echoes  against  the  high  walls  of  ritou,    stumbling  into  each  other  more  often  than  straying  apart.    quick  laughter  and  rushed  shhhhh!  ‘s  accompany  their  foray  into  the  estate  seated  at  the  top  of  the  hill,    golden  light  filtering  out  from  its  windows  barely  enough  to  light  the  way  to  their  destination    —    which    —    tomo  still  isn’t  entirely  sure  of.    anyone  of  more  sound  mind  could  easily  recognize  their  location,    a  family  crest    —    while  worn  away  in  disuse    —    still  obvious  to  native  citizens  of  ritou  emblazoned  on  the  outer  walls  of  the  estate  they  now  intrude  into.  

smash ???

⠀⠀ ❝ i adore you, darling.  but don't you dare touch my booze to keep me from drinking. ❞ ⠀ otherwise you'll lose your bedroom rights and megatron will take over your bedside for good .

make him overpower the whole verse, i want to see

@rikyos: you think me more naive than i am.

ㅤㅤㅤ𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧   𝐡𝐞   𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬   𝐚𝐭   𝐡𝐢𝐦   -   he   sees   painful   familiarities   -   agonizing   instances   of   memories   that   flit   through   the   vestiges   of   his   mind   like   petals   on   the   wind.   at   times   -   the   handsome   face   of   the   swordsman   blends   with   the   rivers   of   time,   so   quickly   becoming   the   ghost   of   niwa   that   hachi   finds   himself   back   in   tatarasuna   -   hammer   in   hand   and   laughter   on   his   tongue.   and   yet   as   quick   as   the   resemblance   is   there   -   it's   gone,   replaced   by   carmine   eyes   and   a   sonorous   but   firm   voice   that   quells   even   the   riotous   song   of   ire   in   his   veins.   

ㅤㅤㅤ❝   aren't   you?   ❞   he   echoes,   but   naive   is   not   the   right   word.   perhaps   he   is   simply   idealistic   -   as   so   many   humans   tend   to   be.   regardless,   kazuha   is   made   of   many   things   that   even   the   wanderer   cannot   turn   away   from   -   the   stark   resemblance   to   his   own   past,   the   touch   of   wind   at   his   fingertips,   and   the   denial   with   which   he'd   deflected   divinity.   some   humans   were   fascinating,   even   more   so   than   the   god's   many   of   them   worshipped.   indigo   eyes   do   not   remove   themselves   from   the   other's   visage,   and   instead   he   grabs   the   pitcher   between   them,   warm   rice   wine   poured   into   the   saucer   before   he   passes   it   to   his   companion.   rare   -   for   hachidori   to   pour   anyone's   drinks   but   his   own,   yet   he   supposes   kazuha   has   earned   just   one.