友切鬼切❪髭切❫獅子ノ子

     She held no expectations for the demeanor of a sword given life. At best, she assumed, it would mirror the personality of it’s master. Otherwise, it was an open canvas of possibility. But it became obvious the moment he spoke. Arrogant. Arrogance was a personality trait that struck a nerve with the oni if only because she was the same. At least – the facade she wore was the same. With all of her failures in life she knew her attitude lacked the substance to justify it. But she was the leader of the oni race, and she had her pride.

“Hah? Do you have room to talk? A sword is an extension of it’s wielder.” From her crouched position, those amber eyes reflected the torchlight as she glared with clear fatigue up at the man. “Do you not recall me tricking your wielder and retrieving it? Or…” She held her arm out, revealing a thin incision along soft looking flesh. “If not, let me remind you.”

“No. What I wished to hear was that you were repulsed. The blood of a ‘monster’ that feasted upon human kind should hold no savory flavor. That goes for both I, as well as you. In this form, you and others of your kind are no different than the monsters you cut down. How amusing.” She turned her gaze to the sky once more. 

“I wonder how long it will be before you’re nothing more than a beast? Youkai can only resist blood for so long, and as a sword you sampled the blood of many I’m sure. Unless you earnestly believe you will never succumb to such an urge – in which case, I applaud your naivete.”

       ❝ Tricking my master and retrieving it? ❞ The laughter that left the sword’s throat was all too gentle for their conversation, for the atmosphere that surrounded such faithful meeting, though the way his fangs could be seen made it only slightly terrifying. Yet Onikiri cannot help but find it hilarious, find reason to laugh at the choice of an oni’s words that were, truly, just like her. Oni were truly fantastic creatures, were they not? With pride that put others to shame, they blinded themselves in it so often that they forgot at times their pride was just, in fact, cowardice.

       When he bares his fangs at her, it’s almost felt like their first and last battle. ❝ You have pride in covering your shame and defeat, pretending you’re a flawless being? I have never seen an oni as shallow as yourself, Ibaraki-Douji. It almost makes me want to spit out your blood. ❞ Almost, but he takes it as a trophy. ❝ Does the weight of your lies ever crawl in your back? I’m impressed you are able to live and challenge men after men knowing fully well a simple retainer was able to harm the so feared right hand of Shuten-Douji. 

       --And to think you didn’t put up a fight. You have pride in disguising yourself as Lord Tsuna’s wet nurse, retrieving your arm and running away, like a coward afraid of a man that was but a servant. I would admire your courage in showing your face in public if I weren’t so disgusted. ❞

       But this was neither here nor there. When the tachi’s expression falls and weakens, becomes the gentle façade he so often puts up to pretend he wasn’t a truly broken sword in spirit, his smile becomes soft as does his words. It’s hard not to find the oni’s words ironic. When she tried hard to shame the sword for being so alike to her kind, it was perhaps a moment too late; for now, Onikiri couldn’t help but agree that he, too, was just an awful as those he proudly cut down. 

“We have names and legacies to uphold. How could I forgive myself if something happened to you because you were worried over seeing me upset? It pains me to even consider it…”

But this wasn’t the time to think of such things. Reunions were meant to be joyful, and he hadn’t seen his brother for months on end. There were so many questions that flooded his mind when he fully came to realize the position he was in, he hardly knew where to start–or if he should even start at all. But in the end, his practicality won over in his mind. There would be plenty of time for for catching up once some cursory information was known.

          It has been only so long since Higekiri had found himself in such place that those questions meant little, very little; they no longer were questions he asked himself every now and then, but he still found disgust at the idea that men, humans he supposed, stood above himself and his brother and controlled them at will; played with his feelings, manipulated his dear brother and took him away much like the Minamoto seemed so fond of doing.

          When it all came to it, he knew, that the moment an opportunity was given, Higekiri would wield his blade and claim the heads of men who deserved nothing but death.

          ❝ Mhm.. I know just enough to get by everyday; I have been here for nearly a year, after all. ❞ How many months had it been since his arrival, he wonders; truly, more than enough, yet it allows Higekiri to wonder whether he preferred to be in a place where, for as long as he was allowed, he was able to live in peace with his dear brother, or whether living under their Saniwa and protecting history was a better choice. ❝ It seems to be an experiment, and we are to indulge our captors against our will. Granted, it is given us a place, food and a normal life to live as though we were humans, but when they seem to be tired of us, they simply send us back. ❞ As it happened to you, the tachi thinks of adding, but it dies at his throat. Hizamaru did not need the guilty of forgetting he was once there--

When he had first arrived, he didn’t believe when the others told him the young man had simply vanished without a trace. Though Tsurumaru Kuninaga was nowhere to be found, he thought it had been some terrible prank at his expense. But the hours turned to days and the days turned to a week and the week turned into another and there was still not sight of him to be found. He had gone.

They were alone.

No matter how vigilantly Hachisuka Kotetsu stood guard over their Citadel, eyes sharp on the gate awaiting for that familiar silhouette to return, he knew it would never come to pass again. But it didn’t help him understand why. 

Why had they been left behind? Hadn’t they been strong enough? Hadn’t they been loyal? Hadn’t they been true? Hachisuka had turned those questions over and over again in his mind so much that it sounded like some haunting chant to him now, taunting him and raising concerns he would have never dared to even consider before.

Were they not worthy of his attentions? Were they not who they thought they were? Were they not… real?

The mere notion of it made him sick to his stomach. That couldn’t be the case. He was the spirit of the Hachisuka Kotetsu. There could be no other. 

‘But the one everyone looks to as your brother is a fake,’ said the voice in his mind. ‘What makes you above such a thing? Would a genuine article be left to rust as you have? Would it be forgotten as you have?’

“No!… I am Hachisuka Kotetsu. I am genuine! I am real!…. aren’t I?…”

The room full of things his master left behind gave no answer, but he still asked, still needed an answer.

          When you’re a sword, things shouldn’t hurt at all.

          When you’re both, you become stronger.

          He hadn’t meant to intrude as much as he had found some sort of satisfaction in the words that left Hachisuka Kotetsu’s mouth. It had been case in point with the absence of Issei, swords that once belonged to him and remained in the city found it weird to deal with something that for long they had been blessed and spoiled with both. He hadn’t asked Iwatooshi, hadn’t really cared as much since something similar had happened months prior. With Hachisuka, however, he had always been interested.

          But to think he had been abandoned, which Higekiri doesn’t think as much as his master didn’t quite have a say in it-- he finds it overjoying. Finds it to be a weakness of the uchigatana, thinks he’s showing a side of him that many wouldn’t imagine it would even exist. But he finds it pitiful, too; to even come to doubt his origin, come to doubt whether he was truly a real Kotetsu or not-- how low the absence of a master he had grown so attached to, a master he would kiss his feet if ordered and commit seppuku for if asked... How low had Hachisuka Kotetsu reached, for a master that little told him, little trusted him, and much lied to him?

          ❝ Hachisuka. ❞ His voice is ever so soft, and he means no harm this time. Though Higekiri knows well his space should be minded, there is a comforting ( that is what he was aiming for, after all ) hand on the uchigatana’s shoulder, and he rubs it once or twice. He should act like he sympathizes, like he understands--

@tomokiri

     Just how many of these tsukumogami were running around this city? Or rather, why were they all handsome men? No, there was something different about this one. She sensed familiarity. The horns that decorated his head, his aura, it was an existence she knew very well.

For that existence was responsible for the existence of her Noble Phantasm; for the arm she had lost at Rashoumon and had been forced to retrieve later.

The oni’s expression was not one of amusement as her golden eyes reflected the dim light of the night’s lanterns scattered through the park that bore uncanny homage to the Heian era they came from. A fitting stage prepared by fate itself.

“Tch… That aura. Did you think I couldn’t sense a piece of myself in there? Or perhaps that’s why we’ve been drawn together.”  She was speaking spiritually, of course. Youkai to youkai. A blade that had tasted the flesh of an oni. The hatred in her gaze flickered only for a moment, before she clicked her tongue and re-positioned her back against a lantern, crouching comfortably like some sort of Heian thug. 

          And it might be fate, might be a warm reunion under an atmosphere much from their time, that Onikiri finds the reason for his name under lights that almost had him think she was beautiful-- beautifully disgusting, perhaps, but he only smiles, softly and kind almost as if he didn’t despise the oni that was, in a way, his.

             ( name after name after name, though he is now higekiri, there is something amusing at being called onikiri once again. )

“Pardon me.” She called out towards the stranger. “May I have a moment of your time?”

Without waiting for a reply Yorimitsu quickly caught up to him, and walked around to face his front. Without a doubt she knew what she had seen, yet still she wished to have a better look at him. 

“That insignia on your clothing…”

Under the glimmer of the morning sun, the pins upon his coat had shone like gemstones. Though they had only briefly caught her eye, before the stranger had rounded a corner, she needed no more time than that. It was all too familiar of a design, with details which had long since been etched into her memory.

“If I am mistaken, I shall apologize, but…  it is the emblem of the Minamoto Clan, is it not?”

He could only have been a fellow member of their clan, or a trusted retainer. At least, those were her initial thoughts. Yet, the more closely she studied him, the more another possibility arose. He did bear a rather striking resemblance to a certain someone else.

          But they were dead, all of them, and this era did not belong to the Minamoto any longer. Though their treasure still walked proudly around with their crest on his clothes, though he still shouted his title at his enemies ( hear, for i am the treasure of the genji, higekiri! ) with pride & love, only a fool wouldn’t admit the clan was a fallen one, after so many years had passed that the Heian period was but a tale, memories and history for elders to pass onto their children.

          Even now, Higekiri can recognize well every one of his masters, every Genji his sword had slayed despite belonging to them, every enemy his blade had sucked the life out of. Even now, when a voice reaches out to him and he is stopped in his tracks, the tachi can’t help but draw a soft smile to his face when the fact of someone who had wielded not him but his brother comes to sight.

          ( eventually, he had expected such thing-- to come across fallen genji who, for the most part, higekiri wondered why at all had they been leaders. )

          She, opposed to that little, sickly boy, had the authority of a leader, of a commander; her voice was imposing, her attitude didn’t falter and though Issei had unwavering eyes here and now, though he acted like he didn’t fear his swords, wouldn’t fear if one or two rebelled against him, Higekiri knew he was much too weak even with the godly powers Saniwa sages possessed. She, however-- she wasn’t like that. From her, the tachi felt that a wrong move here and there would cost him a missing humanoid body and a spirit back to his sword.

          Again, he found it no worrisome. Hizamaru wasn’t around. Living with himself with such body was much too exhausting when he saw no reason for such existence. Not without his brother, not without the only one who mattered.

          Yet he smiles weakly, relaxes his posture yet raises his blade; not in a threatening way, no, not now. He raises his blade, tip pointing at the Saniwa before him, not at all close to her skin but aiming for the very center of her throat.

          ( higekiri much liked those; it was the reason of his origin, in a way. )

This game of being human, of feelings and sensations that they were gradually becoming accustomed to. He was easing into it, piecing things together one-by-one until they fell into place. It wasn’t all bad. There was plenty good.

Still, that smile of Higekiri’s – so soft and amused and yet still so mocking.

It was beyond frustrating.

Even when the two of them were at their worst, when their closest companions had been ripped from their sides without so much as a goodbye, how was he still able to act so completely unshaped? How was he able to keep up that impenetrable wall? 

The light is dim and his mind is buzzing, searching through memories for the right answer. Through those long-gone times when his former Master had sought to relieve himself of fear and frustration in private. Hidden away, hands grabbing at soft sides while kind words whispered into his ear. The lights had been dim then, too.

There’s a slight delay, an apology fumbled under his breath.

And then his approach is rough, colliding against the soft of Higekiri’s upper lip without much finesse or technique. He doesn’t care to be kind, doesn’t care to have time to think about whether any small, shameless moans that threaten to escape Higekiri’s throat would later be shared with his brother, no – there’s a hint of pleasure pulsing in his blood, a rise that dulls slowly with the guilt as claws rake gently against where bruises should be. It tastes of regret and warmth and it’s wretched, enough to make him sick if it weren’t so good.

          It’s not pleasant like when his soft lips touch Hizamaru’s, when he leads his brother even when they share intimate moments, when his brother so desperately muffle a moan that is nothing but needy, saying anija in such a begging way. It’s not pleasant at all, and unlike a drunk Iwatooshi ( much drunker than he ), he does not hide orange hues behind eyelids. Does not act in the way lovers do when they kiss, closing themselves from the world by embracing darkness and letting their human bodies enjoy the wave of feelings that the touch of lips provided.

          Higekiri does neither, because that man was far from being the one Higekiri would be most vulnerable to.

          When he pulls away, there is a single thumb across his lips, the sight of his own blood dirtying his skin, and the tachi simply licks it clean, the same taste of iron that dared to be part of their kiss ( as much as they could call what just happened that ) invading his taste again. When months prior they were at each other’s throats, to share the same act lovers often did was ironic of them.

          Like humans, too, Higekiri blames the alcohol.

         And for once, he is glad Hizamaru is not around. ❝ We are swords a thousand of years old, and yet you still cannot comprehend me? ❞ There is a light chuckle, and the tachi realizes he, too, doesn’t understand himself. When he came to be, names and names later, he had simply become too corrupted. ❝ ... I miss him, if that’s what you’re unsure of. I miss him so much that if bringing him back would require killing any and all of the swords in this Citadel, I wouldn’t think twice. We have been separated many times before, but even now that we have our own bodies, the thought that someone I can’t see or touch being able to take him from me when I least expect it sickens me. Do you not think the same? ❞ It might be strange; the tone of his voice, ever so soft, quiet, unlike anything he had used with Iwatooshi prior. A tone that is free of his usual venom, a tone that is more honest than it is cryptic. Orange eyes do not deviate to the naginata before him; they close upon a longer sip of his sake than any of his priors, and open again to stare at his empty cup. ❝ When you are this old, Iwatooshi, sometimes you simply stop making sense behind your actions. What I do is what I have always done, so much that it has become automatic. Everything I do, and everything I am, is for Hizamaru’s sake. I cannot fight for the Minamoto any longer, but I can fight for my right to live besides my brother once more. ❞

A feeling of relief and peace that only grew as he felt the other practically fall against him. The feel of his hair against the bare skin of his neck, the way his arms wrapped around him so tightly, just the weight of his human body–there was nothing to compare it against. This was the only thing that could give him absolute calm: the knowledge that his brother was close and here and alive. Nothing could make him happier.

It was that feeling of complete and utter gratitude and calm and not his dear brother calling him by yet another unknown name that brought tears to his eyes as he returned the embrace, his arms wrapping around Higekiri’s equally slender form just as tightly as the lock placed on him. He could never forget the tenor of his brother’s voice, but hearing it here and now in this place where so much was foreign, he couldn’t help but feel all the more thankful to whatever power was at work that had managed to bring them together.

“Forgive me, Anija. If I had known you were here, I would have sought you endlessly. But it doesn’t matter. I managed to find you here, hale and whole. That is all that matters to me.”

And in that moment, it was truly all that mattered. Being trapped in this city, so far away from everything he’d ever known with no master, no other allies, not even a proper weapon to defend himself–he couldn’t have cared less.

          Not the Citadel, no; Hizamaru was the only home he had. Wherever they may be, if they were next to each other, if his brother was in his arms or if he were in his, it would be home. Where they belonged, their rightful place, somewhere they always felt comfort and a place to return. Higekiri loses himself in the smell, in the delicate touch of Hizamaru, and it feels like all his anxieties and problems had suddenly vanished, never to come back again.

          Hizamaru was soothing. He often made the tachi forget how much of a demon he was, at the same time he would often remember how much of one he could be even with the person, sword he loved most in the world.

          Because Higekiri’s love was unique. It wasn’t one normal people would feel; he doubts it’s one Ichigo Hitofuri feels towards his many siblings, one Hachisuka Kotetsu harbors for his young ( and not at all a fake ) brother, one the Kunihiro brothers possess for each other. He knows his love is strong enough to become unhealthy, to the point he manipulates his own brother in small ways only so he won’t leave, only so they can be together forever, like they were meant to be.

          No one would ever be able to understand how dependent Higekiri was of his brother.

          ❝ There, there. It’s fine now. I’m glad you’re safe. I have missed you so. ❞ For one such as Higekiri, who bathes in blood more often than any other sword in the city, the gentleness of his touch against Hizamaru’s hair, soft fingers threading through a green that fit his brother so beautifully. His voice matches his touch, ever so soft at the presence of the only one who deserve to see the side of the sword who was pure, who loved and treasured someone and would ever only kill another if they dared, dared to harm his little brother.

“Well, I wouldn’t personally know!” It’s honest, at least, “This is the first time I’ve heard about this holiday.. the occasion and way to celebrate do seem fun though, don’t they?” Kamui wonders in return, gloved fingers adjusting the jacket to his aforementioned ‘costume’. 

Still, he hardly considers it as one.

          Having knowledge was wise. Having interests didn’t quite help one succeed.

“Anija…”

He scarcely believed his eyes. It had to be some trick. After everything he’d thought and felt to himself all the while, to have him suddenly appear like this would have to be some sort of cruel prank. Fate conspired toward many things, he knew, but something like this?…

Though he kept a skeptic’s eye, hope drove his feet forward toward that all-too-familiar silhouette that could only belong to him–to the brother that meant so much to him. Heart won over mind as he drew closer and he could feel the anticipation swelling in his chest as he reached out for the figure that had its back to him. 

“Anija!…” From the way he grasped the sleeve of his jacket to the barely-masked joy in his voice, it was clear how in just that short span it took to get near to him how desperate Hizamaru was for his heart not to have betrayed him. But he already knew the answer.

          It’s always so soft, delicate and kind like he was, always calling out to his brother ( to him ) so eagerly that he can’t fathom how anyone would be able to resist him; but he is glad, too, that they do. Hizamaru was his, and his only. His dear, dear brother who Higekiri would create a sea of blood for.

          When the same voice he hasn’t listened in longer than the tachi would have liked to admit calls out to him once again, calls out to him with the same desperate anija that Hizamaru would say whenever he had to reach out to his brother, it’s hard to believe his ears. Hard to believe there’s a hand ( a hand he knows well, every little spot of it, how soft it could be despite how calloused as well ) grasping at his jacket, stopping him in his tracks.

          The moment he looks at Hizamaru again, it feels like all the time they spent apart meant nothing. It feels like the last time they ever talked ( when hizamaru’s sword laid against his throat and killed him ) hadn’t at all existed, hadn’t at all happened. But he doesn’t care, really; for all it’s worth, being with his beloved brother again was way more important.