#rikyunn

A weapon though he is, Souza has been weakened from decades of cage-trapped trophy-sitting. It is an easy matter for Hasebe to wrap a hand around those brittle, greenstick wrists and pin the other sword against the bamboo-matted floor. With one hand, Hasebe leaves ugly, dark manacles of bruises on Souza’s skin. WIth the other, he tears at Souza’s clothing, ripping apart fluttering robes and beaded necklaces with a wild fury.It would be easier if the Samonji resisted, Hasebe thinks. But he doesn’t. Souza lies there, cold steel and dead silence. He isn’t even looking at Hasebe; his eyes are distant, trailing the path of the prayer beads as they roll and scatter across the floor. 

When he reaches the mark, Hasebe traces his fingertips along the ridge of deep scars and blackhearted burns. Souza shudders like a reed beneath him, and Hasebe feels a shaking breath brush past his ear. It isn’t a flinch, but a laugh. Hasebe releases Souza’s wrists and looks up, fearfully. Souza’s odd-colored eyes, dull jade and precious lapis, are blank with chalky resignation, lit only with a candle of knowing. The rusted slant of Souza’s smile is a deep-cutting victory, and Hasebe remembers that a trophy though he is, Souza is still a weapon with a very keen blade.

Hasebe dips his head to press his open lips against the mark, dead breaths escaping like a prayer. His nails press red welts like kiss marks into Souza’s ribs. Souza’s body is a shrine of unwished desire and envy, warranted by his beauty and his reputation. Hasebe kisses the mark, kisses Souza again and again, in hopes that he could one day bear the honor of burning this brand above his heart. He loves this name on Souza’s skin, would be glad for dreams of flames to dance behind his eyelids. For the unity of the land, for the wild ambitions of a man named Oda. 

Souza cups Hasebe’s cheek in his hand, and he is cold as a ghost. Souza’s touch is soft with pity, and Hasebe breaks into salty tears.