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[nineteentwelve]

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[oldwarsfinished]

( While Kiyoaki wouldn’t consider himself brave, first and foremost because courage was a thing he associated with war and past eras of Japanese history, bygone, he also knew he was often left untouched by things that others feared, such as death, for example, or loneliness, while things others shrugged off and got over could ride him like a mare for weeks on end. A moment’s embarrassment. An amused glance out the corner of Satoko’s eye, a word from her lips… In many ways his world was an upside down one and he had gotten used to how it set him apart not only from his family, but from his peers, even from his closest friend.

Who it didn’t set him apart from was this shinigami who, as if Kiyoaki had asked to meet him in duel – or possibly worse than that, since no doubt the shinigami would win the duel and walk away unscathed, succumbed to his own emotions so visibly that on anyone else, Kiyoaki would have found it a great embarrassment. Because he would recognise it from himself and judge it a shortcoming. Still, the other man didn’t rouse any pity or unwelcome self-reflection or even – if not, least of all – fear in him, leaning in and looming over him like a tree in the wind like that. Instead Kiyoaki just looked up into his red face, half the heavens coming down into his eyes as he did, the rain cold and beating against his skin. At this point, he almost didn’t mind. It served as a contrast. It reminded him, he wasn’t dead.

Yet.

The sword by the shinigami’s side got a brief once-over, too, making him think of the sword kept in his grandfather’s shrine. His family was formerly samurai, and although neither his father nor Kiyoaki himself had served in that occupation, Kiyoaki had always got the feeling that the Marquis felt at least an affinity with what it symbolized. Kiyoaki was the first not to look at a sword and think belonging. If you asked him, swords were a tool of another time and in this world, in this world… Well, he’d thought it was a time after the sword, but following the gesture of the other man’s hand, indicating the weapon like an extension of his arm, perhaps that time simply hadn’t come yet. Maybe humans were really waiting, in between birth and death.

Then, the man did what Kiyoaki always struggled to do, maybe the sword would prove to be the real difference between them, then, and let his temper subside, he let go of his emotions and instead grabbed hold of Kiyoaki’s wrist, his arm, his touch curiously warm and hard, firm. In a way that was beyond this world, but very much in this world. This time it was Kiyoaki’s face that couldn’t suppress his reaction, his eyes going slightly wide and his mouth opening, closing again, opening as if to speak, but no words came out. It was real, then, not a dream, not a fantasy or a illusion of his mind. This moment belonged to the rain. It was truly happening.

Not quickly enough, but quickly nonetheless, he caught himself, scoffed and shook his head, not in a way that meant no, but in a way that meant yes, but it doesn't matter, shifting slightly in the other man’s hold, twisting his arm so that he could brush his fingertips over the sleeve of the shinigami’s uiform in careful reciprocity. )

It seems fair that if I asked to touch you, but you touch me first, then the one who asked for your name should be the first to give his own, right? ( His fingertips curled for a moment into the fabric that the other man was wearing, then Kiyoaki bowed his head and stepped back, acknowledging finally that the interaction for all intents and purposes was probably out of bounds. He wasn’t here to get the stranger in trouble.

He just had to be sure. He was too used to being apart from those around him. ) I’m Matsugae Kiyoaki.