[ Were it anyone else sitting outside in the frigid December air so poorly dressed for the weather, there would have been plenty cause for Yuta to protest and fuss. That's not to say that the urge to usher the only colourful figure amidst the dreary greys and desolate whites inside isn't there, but seeing as Muramasa was climbing the snowy mountain under dressed and in his sandals just fine only mere days ago, he knows not to bother. Muramasa is home and hearth personified (to Yuta) in more ways than one, the cold does nothing to affect his warmth. It also doesn't feel like it's Yuta's place to do anything of the sort within Muramasa's own domain now. It's still home in his mind, but it hasn't actually been for two months when he's only been around during lessons. Their relationship has been strained at best on top of that, he has no right to tell Muramasa what to do even if it had been a bit more necessary to get him out of the cold.
But that he's out here, seemingly for no other reason than to wait for Yuta's arrival, it feels— significant.
Yuta has to pretend the nervous fluttering in the pit of his stomach isn't there when Muramasa's intense undivided focus falls and remains on him. He manages not to squirm or falter, taking the few steps necessary to bring himself closer, at least right up until Muramasa greets him. Both heart and breath stutter in the confines of his rib cage at the sound of it. It is more formal, more solemn, than previous greetings exchanged during happier times, but still...
Standing in the place and with the person he considers his home, he feels utterly homesick. Yuta just wants to be back here for real. He can't help following suit in the once easy habit. ]
... I'm home.
[ Tentative, treacherous hope blossoming in his chest, June all over again back when the words had tumbled out of his mouth for the first time with the little unsure pause preceding it. ]
[ Muramasa's poker face is only good for a disquiet heart; the moment Yuta responds with the old answer, he lights up like the sun peeking through the clouds, a fond, tender smile rising on his face. He does his best to try to school it back into something "professional," aware of the supposed nature of this visit but fails entirely, soft edges slipping through his best efforts to respect Yuta's choice to stay away thus far.
He can't help it. He's missed Yuta. None of the other students have the same affection for blades that Muramasa does. None of the others call his forge their home when they return. After what he did in Windsor, Muramasa knows he has no right to stake a claim on Yuta's life that he disrespected by enabling the dream to continue, but its how he feels. He can't change that any more than he can pretend he's not happy about good fortune.
He rises to his feet in one swift, athletic motion, and beckons Yuta to finish crossing the yard, to come inside where it's warmer.
So he can work on Yuta's sword, like he wants. (That's all.) ]
Muramasa—not just the boisterous Susanoo part of him, Muramasa himself—smiles at him and it's as unexpected as it had been all those months back in June, leaving Yuta with a nearly dizzying sense of deja vu. What's far more striking is the smile itself though, dazzling in its warm radiance, as bright as his reds against their pale surroundings. It's such a vivid contrast to Muramasa's distant demeanor during lessons and most of their last mission together, Yuta is not prepared for the affection that seeps through as obvious as blood staining white cloth. There's no mistaking it no matter how he might try to look at it. It's the smile he's missed so, so much and can only drink in with greedy eyes, stunned and starved.
Muramasa might as well have kicked him square in the solar plexus for how breathless Yuta is left at the sight. He can't even begin to make sense of every emotion that sweeps over him in a rushing flood. There's joy and relief, certainly, yet also a heavy increase in guilt for his secret indulgence back at the ryokan and the improper feelings that inspired the lewd action. Would Muramasa still look at him like that if he knew what he did and what he's been hiding all this time? He wants to cry. He wants to fall to his knees in the snow and just confess everything right then and there. But it risks never seeing that smile again immediately and Yuta wants to be selfish for just a small moment longer, the additional weight making his bag heavier across his shoulder than usual a reminder of his original plan. He isn't ready yet.
So he quells the swift rise of emotions, the mad racing of his heart as best as he can, and swallows the sudden lump in his throat as he watches Muramasa nimbly get to his feet and beckon him closer, disregarding how his intensified longing feels like it's an actual physical ache as though a fresh wound being pressed entirely. ]
Yes, Shishou.
[ Good, dutiful apprentice in his obedience if nothing else at least. He goes to cross the yard, to kick the remnants of snow he brought along off of his shoes, and go through the usual proper polite motions of entering the humble abode. It gives him precious time to find and take fervent hold of his composure before he finds himself standing inside with Muramasa.
Too bad then that the way he's clutching the strap of his sword bag with both hands like its a lifeline now probably undermines his efforts if his karma and suffering haven't already betrayed him. ]
[ Muramasa doesn't have Fae Eyes. He cannot see the truth of people's hearts. He can only get a sense of deep unease, an upset and anguish in Yuta's heart that always seems to get worse whenever they're around each other. It doesn't feel right, then, to be so happy when his favorite apprentice is so grieved by his presence, by the reminder of how he failed in his duty back in England. So with Yuta safely inside, and dry, he falls back to his usual crutch. He extends his hand, silently requesting the sword in the bag, ever professional when something more personal might be better. ]
... If you got other things you'd rather be doin' instead of wasting your time here, you don't gotta stick around.
[ The warmth from earlier has been carefully banked, pulled back into himself — but he can't do anything to hide the fact that he has put every effort into manifesting that warmth into the home Yuta has stepped into. It's cold outside, but in the forge, the air is warm despite the drafty old building. Far warmer than the little hearth should afford in a space like this, with the flames feeding both on the charcoal and Muramasa's own power. The small table that serves both for meals and for smaller, cleaner projects is cleared, with the usual patchwork clay tea set waiting, untouched, the kettle hanging over the hearth is steaming faintly, iron sitting at the perfect temperature. And Muramasa himself is there, having finally forced himself to behave, to act his age and remember where his responsibilities lie: to his work, and to Yuta.
If Yuta is miserable being around him, he won't ask for anything more than the chance to fix whatever is wrong with his blade, that makes Yuta choose that whip over it. ]
[ Something in his karma must be showing for the affectionate warmth to dissipate from Muramasa's demeanor and for him to extend the offer of dismissal just after urging Yuta inside. Not knowing what it is and how much can be glimpsed is enough to make Yuta want to slink away in shame again. The offer is such an easy out then, a chance to delay and spare his heart the rejection he's sure will follow, but the home is so warm and welcoming. Warmer than it should be were it just Muramasa in here. The expectation for company is plain to someone so familiar with both surroundings and the swordsmith's habits. It's there in the increased warmth, the cleared table, the gently steaming kettle above the hearth, in having Muramasa's undivided attention and the fact he was waiting on the engawa outside. Yuta really doesn't know what to make of it all when things have been so different and distant between them during lessons and the mission.
All he does know is that his heart aches terribly for how much he's been missing the simple, cozy space and its occupant. What he wouldn't give to get to lie on the floor by the hearth and listen to Muramasa work in the background again. Or better yet, to be half sprawled across Muramasa's lap, soaking up the soothing sensation of his warm body and the occasional fingers in his hair as they briefly pause whatever Muramasa is tinkering with to pet his head.
Even if he can't have that again, he doesn't actually want to leave. He wants to enjoy the place he's called home while he still can for however long this moment lasts. So, as tempting as it is to run and hide, Yuta shakes his head. ]
No, it's fine.
[ He needs to see this through. White knuckles are allowed back some color as Yuta eases his grip and shrugs his sword off his shoulder. It's retrieved from the bag with deft motions, placed in the waiting hand without delay or hesitation. ]
Like I said, there's nothing wrong with it.
[ Pulling the blade free from the sheath will reveal as much. Although it bears signs of continued frequent usage, Yuta's main weapon of choice as it remains, it's been impeccably taken care of and maintained to the best of Yuta's ability. Where in the past he might have occasionally given it to Muramasa for a more thorough maintenance by a hand that knows best in between his own careful upkeep (just to be sure), he's been doing it himself now. The action one of the few ways still available that allows him to feel close to Muramasa in some way via the sword forged by him. ]
How'm I supposed to believe that when... [ Focused now on the task at hand, Muramasa thoughtlessly flaps his hand at Yuta and his usual seat next to the hearth, right between the tea service and the kettle full of hot water, where he can still be close to Muramasa but not block any of the light that would stream in through the open shoji during the summer months and cover the worktable. The instruction, the implied expectation, is clear: sit. ]
There has to be something wrong with it. You were using that whip the other day for some reason, so...
[ Of course the sword-obsessed blacksmith, who can make other masterpieces upon request but will always choose his own specialty over anything else, would focus on that. He unsheathes his work from the saya, feeling for any strange hitches in the motion, though he knows he shaped the wood perfectly when he replaced the original unassuming saya for a new lacquered one during their month stranded in Japan. His work is still flawless in that regard, so why...
Puzzling over the seemingly perfect blade in his hand, which has clearly been taken care of with the same level of care that he would want to see if he cannot do it himself, Muramasa drifts over to his seat and prepares to undress the blade and to do a thorough examination. He's so focused, he barely seems to notice if Yuta's followed his instructions to sit or not. ]
[ Muramasa trails off and makes a gesture with his hand that has Yuta moving before he's even fully cognizant of his body obeying the unspoken instruction, mind still hanging on the unfinished sentence with bewildered interest while sheer force of habit kicks in. Already halfway to his usual seat, Yuta opts to just go with it, carefully setting his first responder's bag down off to the side, safely out of the way, and slinging his sword bag over it before he sits down.
His first real hesitance happens there. The inspection shouldn't take long given that there's truly nothing wrong with his sword, yet his eyes are drawn to the kettle, the same habitual urge that has him listening to wordless commands within these four walls making his fingers itch with the impulse to pour them both a cup. Is that too presumptuous when this hasn't been his home in two months?
Yuta gets distracted from his hesitant contemplation by what Muramasa goes on to say, blinking hard at his master as the words fully sink in. ]
No, Shishou...
[ He protests faintly. From how Muramasa's singular focus stays on the blade even as he meanders over, Yuta can already tell how this is likely going to go. (Not as planned, taking longer than it should.) He refrains from sighing in the swell of fond exasperation that blooms, instead settling in proper by shrugging off his coat and reaching for the tea set, explaining while he lets himself cave further to old habits and find refuge in the familiar motions. ]
That had nothing to do with the sword. I just wanted to test out LILITH's technology. The whip syncs with your ocular to respond to your thoughts and does extra damage with high frequency vibrations that you can control the intensity of.
[ A sword will always be his preferred weapon, the very first placed in his hands by the man who saved his life and gave it purpose, but he was trained by a master weapons specialist and he can't have those skills getting rusty. Familiarizing himself with the futuristic weaponry of this era also seems a sensible thing to do. He's meant to keep up his training and he'd chosen the whip simply because it was of a sort he needed more practice with. It seemed extra handy when it can be used as more than just a weapon, able to grab hold and pull on objects or to be used as a tool to traverse a distance with via swinging. That's all. He really hadn't put much more thought behind it than that. ]
The sword is fine.
[ It bears repeating even if it falls on deaf ears. Hopefully the poured cup he makes sure to set down with a little noise for Muramasa won't. ]
[ Is it any wonder Muramasa let Tasuke be his face instead of try to lie to Yuta, in Windsor? He can't hide things in moderation for the life of him. The silence, the cold demeanor, the clipped instructions of the last two months that have made the lessons in the forge a miserable experience, all of those are the best he can do to keep himself from slipping up. The extreme of it is his only option, or divesting himself of care entirely. And he can't make himself not care about something like this... so coldness was his only option. But the cracks have started to splinter their way along the ice, and he's not going to be able to keep it up. He's the one who chose to only care about his work, instead of his heart, and now he has to pay the price.
With easy expertise making the motions seem casual, Muramasa begins to disassemble the mountings on the tsuka, fingers weaving deftly despite the burns. In comparison to Yuta's fumbling attempts in the forge these last two months, Muramasa has lost none of his finesse. His hands move exactly how he wants it to. His expression, not so much; the look of consternation doesn't quite match the ease with which he unwinds the ito, removes the kashira. ]
If you wanted something different you could have just said... You know the stuff they make is garbage. They've got no finesse.
[ Even though the whip had clearly worked fine in Yuta's hands, slicing through kaiju and ensnaring legs and debris. ]
[ Maybe Yuta should be offended or hurt that Muramasa chooses to ignore his reassurances about the sword, but he simply cannot muster it. He knows how Muramasa is about his work. Knows, too, how stubborn the old man can be. It would be a waste of energy. Besides, this buys Yuta some time to enjoy his home again and let the forge's soothing barrier ease some of the nerves fluttering around in his belly as well as provide some much needed energy after all his continued sleep deprivation. With Muramasa's tea served and his own cup soon poured, he quickly runs out of things to keep himself occupied with though.
All he can do is watch Muramasa. His eyes are naturally drawn to the movements of those expert now-scarred hands, gaze tracking nimble fingers as they divest his sword of its mountings with deft ease. The more he watches, the more he feels... some type of way he's struggling to pinpoint. The attraction is there, familiar at this point, and no surprise when he's always loved Muramasa's hands—strong yet capable of being so gentle, so telling of what he is at just a glance—long before his inappropriate feelings ever came into play. Naturally watching someone do what they do best with such easy confidence is always appealing as well. But there's something else.
Something that... kind of makes him want to snatch his sword out of Muramasa's hands?
Yuta's still trying to make sense of the odd urge, gaze glued to the process of his sword getting taken apart, turning his response somewhat absentminded. ]
It was more about the tech than the weapon itself...
[ He knows better than to argue and point out how well the whip had functioned, the special nanometal it is made out of, nor does he particularly care to jump to LILITH's defense. He's a little too distracted anyway. ]
And what happens when one of those little bastards have got an EMP in them, huh?
[ He's barely listening as he grumbles; all of Muramasa's focus has been centered on the blade in hand, eyebrows furrowed, concern growing as he removes each subsequent mounting. The tsuba, the habaki, each part is carefully removed with a preciseness that wastes no movement, and set aside next to the teacup with a quiet clank each time. The sword looks nearly as perfect as it was when he left it in Windsor, repaired with the last touch of his mana as Yuta went and restored his memories. It's perturbing. Yuta insists there is nothing wrong with the sword, and it looks like he's right, but...
Perhaps, with another blade for another customer, or one of the other students, Muramasa would leave it at a visual inspection on its own. But the itching feeling, that empty spot where up until October, there had been the steady comforting effort of taking care of someone, just won't stop bothering him. Instead of leaving it be, he breaks one of his own rules — he runs his fingers the length of the blade, following the edge with a feather light touch. The grain remains unbroken, the hamon perfectly mirrored in that gentle wave pattern, the edge as sharp as ever. Even under the extra scrutiny his work remains flawless.
So. ]
Mn. Guess I was wasting your time, having you come all the way out here for no reason.
[ Still balancing the bare blade in one hand, Muramasa finally casts his gaze back towards Yuta and the offered teacup. He's been serving his own drinks for over a month, now, which is to say he hasn't bothered while he's been working.
At least the tea's still hot. Probably will stay hot until he's finished. ]
[ There's the slightest flicker of surprise at the mention of an EMP, there and gone again, dragging his gaze up to Muramasa's face for only as long as it lasts. Sometimes Muramasa surprises him with the more modern day things he knows (and then also doesn't), but this one isn't so weird to know between Tasuke and him having been in this world for months now if nothing else. ]
Ah, well, then it's still a serviceable whip.
[ A light argument when he's aware that Muramasa's barely listening and his own eyes are drawn right back to his master's skillful hands and the strange new feelings they're currently inspiring. Watching the sword get stripped down with proficient fingers, it takes the distant, errant thought of wishing that Muramasa would touch him again—to have those hands on him instead—to realize what the nagging feeling is.
[ The indecent thought itself and the realization that quickly follows it are more than enough to leave him deeply embarrassed. It's utterly absurd and he knows it and yet... The dark feeling is there. It takes everything not to squirm and flush with the shame of it and Yuta forces himself to look away when Muramasa runs his fingers down along the length of the blade in a gesture that seems downright tender. This yearning of his is getting so ridiculous.
Pretending not to feel the faint heat under his collar, he forcibly concentrates on his cup of tea, taking a sip to ease his suddenly dry throat. It helps not to make him stumble over his words too much when Muramasa speaks and it's time to reply even if being looked at increases the urge to fidget on the spot. ]
It's okay. I was on my way back and it's not like it's far... It's good to be sure.
[ It's not exactly why he came even if it is good to know he's been doing his maintenance to Muramasa's standards. Now is likely the best time to bring up his real reason before his sword is swiftly put back together and Yuta runs out of an excuse to linger and might lose his nerve. Still, he hesitates, eyes darting from his half drunk cup to familiar figure, teeth worrying his bottom lip until he just forces the words out. ]
Actually, there's something I would like to ask of you.
[ He's started it, so he won't leave the job half done. Just the briefest pause to sip at his own cup of tea, the ceramic warm against his fingers where Yuta's steel was cold, and then Muramasa picks up his tools to finish cleaning and polishing Yuta's perfect sword. ]
Sure. Whatever you want.
[ His answer is casual, but he means every word. Even if things hadn't been strained between him and Yuta, he would do it, but especially now, when Yuta's been distant and unhappy... if it's something he can do, why not do it? ]
Muramasa just keeps throwing him off with his reactions. First the smile, now the casual response of which Yuta knows every word to be sincere. Muramasa wouldn't have added 'whatever you want' if he didn't mean it and that's—
Yuta doesn't know what to do with that, what to make of that easy readiness after all the awkward tension and the colder demeanor during lessons. It momentarily distracts him from his internal fretting and jittery nerves. Maybe what he's planning isn't even necessary when Muramasa seems so willing to indulge whatever his request might be, but... But Yuta's already come this far and he wants to be selfish for a little longer. So, after a brief surprised blink or two and a gaze straying to Muramasa's hands when they return to work before Yuta catches himself, the actual request comes out, surprisingly even and calm. ]
There's somewhere I'd like to go here in Kyoto together. Will you come with me?
[ Muramasa's glance towards Yuta is short, slipping into the brief moment between the uchiko tapping against the blade, brows drawn. ]
... So long as you're sure. I already agreed, didn't I?
[ Yuta has avoided him all the way up until this point, when he needed to prove Muramasa's guess wrong. Even with the proof of the blade's well-being in his hands, he's still not convinced that Yuta's assertion that he isn't upset is true. Maybe he isn't lying but it's as clear as the look on his face that something is hurting him. Something to do with Muramasa.
But he also won't — can't — refuse him when this is the first time he's availed himself to Muramasa's services in the time since Windsor. He'll take this opportunity in stride, even if it would be... easier, maybe, to just stay here in his forge where his presence can do the minimal amount of harm, waiting for their employer to summon him to battle. ]
[ It's a merciful thing that Muramasa's glance is kept short when the second their eyes meet, Yuta has to desperately suppress the urge to avert his gaze under the weight of warm gold. He isn't exactly being honest in not just telling Muramasa the reason for his upset right here and now and getting him to come elsewhere with him to... well, it's more or less tricking him, isn't it? He knows that. The nervous twisting in his gut akin to trapped eels in a barrel indicate that, no actually, he isn't sure at all. Yuta nods with a soft affirming hum anyway. ]
Thank you, Shishou.
[ A bit of true sincerity that he can offer; genuine gratitude for indulging even if it means leaving the forge. Accompanying the words is the dipping of his head, a slight bow as both reinforcement of the earnestness behind them and an excuse to look away however briefly. He probably should elaborate, pick any of the flimsy excuses about why he has to bring Muramasa with him that he's haphazardly tried to conjure up before. Yuta doesn't. None of them are convincing and he does not particularly want to lie. Instead he banks on past experiences in which Muramasa never bothered to ask where they're going when he cajoled him out of the forge for an outing or even question why when he asked something of him and simply hopes for the best.
He's rewarded for that being the case as always when no such questions follow. (Both a relief and a reason to feel worse about his sort-of-deception when it's an indication of Muramasa's implicit trust in him still being there despite everything.) Not about to look that gift horse in the mouth, he simply drinks his tea while Muramasa tends to his sword, trying very hard not to stare too much at those expert hands on his beloved blade or linger on the dark, irrational feelings that doing so inspires. The familiar dull ache in his stomach and vague sense of nausea that always come hand-in-hand with his anxiety don't entirely leave him even in his home's soothing atmosphere, but in the time it takes Muramasa to perform maintenance on his sword and put it back together, it's lulled into bearable dormancy for a little while.
Too bad it can't last.
Once Muramasa's done, the nervousness spikes right back up again even as his master slips away into the storage room to go change into civilian clothing. Notably without complaint for once. It's not something Yuta gets to linger on when the sound of fabric rustling and the knowledge of what Muramasa is doing sets his imagination running in the direction of the untoward. Rather than pouring himself another cup of tea while he waits, it spurs him into putting his coat back on and gathering his things so he can go stand at the ready to leave on the engawa, escaping the sounds and letting the bracing chill cool his heated face and thoughts.
After that, once Muramasa has joined him, it's only about a thirty minute walk towards Yuta's destination — a span of time that simultaneously feels too long and too short as Yuta leads the way and makes the trek mostly in anxiety-induced silence. It gets broken once his feet have taken him up the steps of his destination and they stand before what remains of Yasaka Shrine, heart beating in his throat, hands clutching the strap of his first responder bag for a change, fervently hoping Muramasa isn't catching on somehow. ]
It's just a little further here.
[ He announces before swiftly moving past the ruined gate of the entrance, not letting himself falter after coming this far and fully expecting Muramasa to continue following. ]
[ The speed with which Yuta goes to prepare for his request isn't missed. Even after Muramasa's attempt to keep his forge hospitable enough that Yuta would want to linger for once, this request is more important. All things in the universe are impermanent — and Yuta's willingness to remain in his smithy is apparently one of those impermanent things things. He can be grateful for the chance to work, at least, on a project that's not meant to simply fill his time, and he relished the opportunity to let habit and expertise guide his hands as well as any mantra. That's plenty, for him.
It just stings, that's all.
But instead of arguing about the perceived slight, Muramasa hikes his sukajan thrown over his shoulders up just a bit higher, and slips his sandals on without complaint, letting Yuta lead. The streets of Kyoto are cold, wet, and slushy; apparently the provisions the locals have managed to put towards things like electricity, or running water, has not extended for managing unusual weather like this three day cold snap. The cold has never been an issue for Muramasa, anyway, and he radiates warmth like his forge as it is left behind them. The silence that falls over them is drowned out in the sound of vehicles moving in the streets, the quiet hustle of other residents more concerned with getting from one safe zone to the next than the boys walking through the cold. Muramasa lets the silence keep them company while he walks, waiting for Yuta to break it and explain, or at least give him instructions, and when that doesn't happen, he keeps letting the silence have it's glory. They move quickly, Yuta's speedy pace and lanky stride matched by Muramasa's immense stamina, even though he needs three steps to cover the same ground as two of Yuta's.
By the time Yuta speaks up, the river and its crumbling bridge blocks behind them, Muramasa knows they're in the Gion district. It's the same as it was in the summer, a hollowed out shell of former glory, still abandoned and well outside the safe perimeter they've spent the last half a year building. At the top of the stairs, the three bays of the western tower gate for Gion-jinja rise up over Yuta's lanky form, red paint fading, tiles sagging from years of damage and disuse, and Muramasa finally hesitates in following behind him. He'd made a fool of himself in Inariyama, with the other part of him taking control, but there had also been the sheer volume of gates, the number of divine thresholds he'd crossed that let the Divine Spirit's influence on him overpower the swordsmith. One or two gates alone shouldn't matter...
He'd been fine when he'd visited in the summer, anyway, right? It will be fine.
Muramasa climbs the steps in sets of twos, ignoring the peeling paint and respectfully taking the side of the road to fall in at Yuta's side once again... ]
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But that he's out here, seemingly for no other reason than to wait for Yuta's arrival, it feels— significant.
Yuta has to pretend the nervous fluttering in the pit of his stomach isn't there when Muramasa's intense undivided focus falls and remains on him. He manages not to squirm or falter, taking the few steps necessary to bring himself closer, at least right up until Muramasa greets him. Both heart and breath stutter in the confines of his rib cage at the sound of it. It is more formal, more solemn, than previous greetings exchanged during happier times, but still...
Standing in the place and with the person he considers his home, he feels utterly homesick. Yuta just wants to be back here for real. He can't help following suit in the once easy habit. ]
... I'm home.
[ Tentative, treacherous hope blossoming in his chest, June all over again back when the words had tumbled out of his mouth for the first time with the little unsure pause preceding it. ]
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He can't help it. He's missed Yuta. None of the other students have the same affection for blades that Muramasa does. None of the others call his forge their home when they return. After what he did in Windsor, Muramasa knows he has no right to stake a claim on Yuta's life that he disrespected by enabling the dream to continue, but its how he feels. He can't change that any more than he can pretend he's not happy about good fortune.
He rises to his feet in one swift, athletic motion, and beckons Yuta to finish crossing the yard, to come inside where it's warmer.
So he can work on Yuta's sword, like he wants. (That's all.) ]
You look cold. Get inside.
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Muramasa—not just the boisterous Susanoo part of him, Muramasa himself—smiles at him and it's as unexpected as it had been all those months back in June, leaving Yuta with a nearly dizzying sense of deja vu. What's far more striking is the smile itself though, dazzling in its warm radiance, as bright as his reds against their pale surroundings. It's such a vivid contrast to Muramasa's distant demeanor during lessons and most of their last mission together, Yuta is not prepared for the affection that seeps through as obvious as blood staining white cloth. There's no mistaking it no matter how he might try to look at it. It's the smile he's missed so, so much and can only drink in with greedy eyes, stunned and starved.
Muramasa might as well have kicked him square in the solar plexus for how breathless Yuta is left at the sight. He can't even begin to make sense of every emotion that sweeps over him in a rushing flood. There's joy and relief, certainly, yet also a heavy increase in guilt for his secret indulgence back at the ryokan and the improper feelings that inspired the lewd action. Would Muramasa still look at him like that if he knew what he did and what he's been hiding all this time? He wants to cry. He wants to fall to his knees in the snow and just confess everything right then and there. But it risks never seeing that smile again immediately and Yuta wants to be selfish for just a small moment longer, the additional weight making his bag heavier across his shoulder than usual a reminder of his original plan. He isn't ready yet.
So he quells the swift rise of emotions, the mad racing of his heart as best as he can, and swallows the sudden lump in his throat as he watches Muramasa nimbly get to his feet and beckon him closer, disregarding how his intensified longing feels like it's an actual physical ache as though a fresh wound being pressed entirely. ]
Yes, Shishou.
[ Good, dutiful apprentice in his obedience if nothing else at least. He goes to cross the yard, to kick the remnants of snow he brought along off of his shoes, and go through the usual proper polite motions of entering the humble abode. It gives him precious time to find and take fervent hold of his composure before he finds himself standing inside with Muramasa.
Too bad then that the way he's clutching the strap of his sword bag with both hands like its a lifeline now probably undermines his efforts if his karma and suffering haven't already betrayed him. ]
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... If you got other things you'd rather be doin' instead of wasting your time here, you don't gotta stick around.
[ The warmth from earlier has been carefully banked, pulled back into himself — but he can't do anything to hide the fact that he has put every effort into manifesting that warmth into the home Yuta has stepped into. It's cold outside, but in the forge, the air is warm despite the drafty old building. Far warmer than the little hearth should afford in a space like this, with the flames feeding both on the charcoal and Muramasa's own power. The small table that serves both for meals and for smaller, cleaner projects is cleared, with the usual patchwork clay tea set waiting, untouched, the kettle hanging over the hearth is steaming faintly, iron sitting at the perfect temperature. And Muramasa himself is there, having finally forced himself to behave, to act his age and remember where his responsibilities lie: to his work, and to Yuta.
If Yuta is miserable being around him, he won't ask for anything more than the chance to fix whatever is wrong with his blade, that makes Yuta choose that whip over it. ]
I can have the bird bring it back when I'm done.
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All he does know is that his heart aches terribly for how much he's been missing the simple, cozy space and its occupant. What he wouldn't give to get to lie on the floor by the hearth and listen to Muramasa work in the background again. Or better yet, to be half sprawled across Muramasa's lap, soaking up the soothing sensation of his warm body and the occasional fingers in his hair as they briefly pause whatever Muramasa is tinkering with to pet his head.
Even if he can't have that again, he doesn't actually want to leave. He wants to enjoy the place he's called home while he still can for however long this moment lasts. So, as tempting as it is to run and hide, Yuta shakes his head. ]
No, it's fine.
[ He needs to see this through. White knuckles are allowed back some color as Yuta eases his grip and shrugs his sword off his shoulder. It's retrieved from the bag with deft motions, placed in the waiting hand without delay or hesitation. ]
Like I said, there's nothing wrong with it.
[ Pulling the blade free from the sheath will reveal as much. Although it bears signs of continued frequent usage, Yuta's main weapon of choice as it remains, it's been impeccably taken care of and maintained to the best of Yuta's ability. Where in the past he might have occasionally given it to Muramasa for a more thorough maintenance by a hand that knows best in between his own careful upkeep (just to be sure), he's been doing it himself now. The action one of the few ways still available that allows him to feel close to Muramasa in some way via the sword forged by him. ]
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There has to be something wrong with it. You were using that whip the other day for some reason, so...
[ Of course the sword-obsessed blacksmith, who can make other masterpieces upon request but will always choose his own specialty over anything else, would focus on that. He unsheathes his work from the saya, feeling for any strange hitches in the motion, though he knows he shaped the wood perfectly when he replaced the original unassuming saya for a new lacquered one during their month stranded in Japan. His work is still flawless in that regard, so why...
Puzzling over the seemingly perfect blade in his hand, which has clearly been taken care of with the same level of care that he would want to see if he cannot do it himself, Muramasa drifts over to his seat and prepares to undress the blade and to do a thorough examination. He's so focused, he barely seems to notice if Yuta's followed his instructions to sit or not. ]
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His first real hesitance happens there. The inspection shouldn't take long given that there's truly nothing wrong with his sword, yet his eyes are drawn to the kettle, the same habitual urge that has him listening to wordless commands within these four walls making his fingers itch with the impulse to pour them both a cup. Is that too presumptuous when this hasn't been his home in two months?
Yuta gets distracted from his hesitant contemplation by what Muramasa goes on to say, blinking hard at his master as the words fully sink in. ]
No, Shishou...
[ He protests faintly. From how Muramasa's singular focus stays on the blade even as he meanders over, Yuta can already tell how this is likely going to go. (Not as planned, taking longer than it should.) He refrains from sighing in the swell of fond exasperation that blooms, instead settling in proper by shrugging off his coat and reaching for the tea set, explaining while he lets himself cave further to old habits and find refuge in the familiar motions. ]
That had nothing to do with the sword. I just wanted to test out LILITH's technology. The whip syncs with your ocular to respond to your thoughts and does extra damage with high frequency vibrations that you can control the intensity of.
[ A sword will always be his preferred weapon, the very first placed in his hands by the man who saved his life and gave it purpose, but he was trained by a master weapons specialist and he can't have those skills getting rusty. Familiarizing himself with the futuristic weaponry of this era also seems a sensible thing to do. He's meant to keep up his training and he'd chosen the whip simply because it was of a sort he needed more practice with. It seemed extra handy when it can be used as more than just a weapon, able to grab hold and pull on objects or to be used as a tool to traverse a distance with via swinging. That's all. He really hadn't put much more thought behind it than that. ]
The sword is fine.
[ It bears repeating even if it falls on deaf ears. Hopefully the poured cup he makes sure to set down with a little noise for Muramasa won't. ]
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With easy expertise making the motions seem casual, Muramasa begins to disassemble the mountings on the tsuka, fingers weaving deftly despite the burns. In comparison to Yuta's fumbling attempts in the forge these last two months, Muramasa has lost none of his finesse. His hands move exactly how he wants it to. His expression, not so much; the look of consternation doesn't quite match the ease with which he unwinds the ito, removes the kashira. ]
If you wanted something different you could have just said... You know the stuff they make is garbage. They've got no finesse.
[ Even though the whip had clearly worked fine in Yuta's hands, slicing through kaiju and ensnaring legs and debris. ]
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All he can do is watch Muramasa. His eyes are naturally drawn to the movements of those expert now-scarred hands, gaze tracking nimble fingers as they divest his sword of its mountings with deft ease. The more he watches, the more he feels... some type of way he's struggling to pinpoint. The attraction is there, familiar at this point, and no surprise when he's always loved Muramasa's hands—strong yet capable of being so gentle, so telling of what he is at just a glance—long before his inappropriate feelings ever came into play. Naturally watching someone do what they do best with such easy confidence is always appealing as well. But there's something else.
Something that... kind of makes him want to snatch his sword out of Muramasa's hands?
Yuta's still trying to make sense of the odd urge, gaze glued to the process of his sword getting taken apart, turning his response somewhat absentminded. ]
It was more about the tech than the weapon itself...
[ He knows better than to argue and point out how well the whip had functioned, the special nanometal it is made out of, nor does he particularly care to jump to LILITH's defense. He's a little too distracted anyway. ]
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[ He's barely listening as he grumbles; all of Muramasa's focus has been centered on the blade in hand, eyebrows furrowed, concern growing as he removes each subsequent mounting. The tsuba, the habaki, each part is carefully removed with a preciseness that wastes no movement, and set aside next to the teacup with a quiet clank each time. The sword looks nearly as perfect as it was when he left it in Windsor, repaired with the last touch of his mana as Yuta went and restored his memories. It's perturbing. Yuta insists there is nothing wrong with the sword, and it looks like he's right, but...
Perhaps, with another blade for another customer, or one of the other students, Muramasa would leave it at a visual inspection on its own. But the itching feeling, that empty spot where up until October, there had been the steady comforting effort of taking care of someone, just won't stop bothering him. Instead of leaving it be, he breaks one of his own rules — he runs his fingers the length of the blade, following the edge with a feather light touch. The grain remains unbroken, the hamon perfectly mirrored in that gentle wave pattern, the edge as sharp as ever. Even under the extra scrutiny his work remains flawless.
So. ]
Mn. Guess I was wasting your time, having you come all the way out here for no reason.
[ Still balancing the bare blade in one hand, Muramasa finally casts his gaze back towards Yuta and the offered teacup. He's been serving his own drinks for over a month, now, which is to say he hasn't bothered while he's been working.
At least the tea's still hot. Probably will stay hot until he's finished. ]
Sorry.
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Ah, well, then it's still a serviceable whip.
[ A light argument when he's aware that Muramasa's barely listening and his own eyes are drawn right back to his master's skillful hands and the strange new feelings they're currently inspiring. Watching the sword get stripped down with proficient fingers, it takes the distant, errant thought of wishing that Muramasa would touch him again—to have those hands on him instead—to realize what the nagging feeling is.
Jealousy.
He's feeling jealous of his own damn sword. ]
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Pretending not to feel the faint heat under his collar, he forcibly concentrates on his cup of tea, taking a sip to ease his suddenly dry throat. It helps not to make him stumble over his words too much when Muramasa speaks and it's time to reply even if being looked at increases the urge to fidget on the spot. ]
It's okay. I was on my way back and it's not like it's far... It's good to be sure.
[ It's not exactly why he came even if it is good to know he's been doing his maintenance to Muramasa's standards. Now is likely the best time to bring up his real reason before his sword is swiftly put back together and Yuta runs out of an excuse to linger and might lose his nerve. Still, he hesitates, eyes darting from his half drunk cup to familiar figure, teeth worrying his bottom lip until he just forces the words out. ]
Actually, there's something I would like to ask of you.
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Sure. Whatever you want.
[ His answer is casual, but he means every word. Even if things hadn't been strained between him and Yuta, he would do it, but especially now, when Yuta's been distant and unhappy... if it's something he can do, why not do it? ]
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Muramasa just keeps throwing him off with his reactions. First the smile, now the casual response of which Yuta knows every word to be sincere. Muramasa wouldn't have added 'whatever you want' if he didn't mean it and that's—
Yuta doesn't know what to do with that, what to make of that easy readiness after all the awkward tension and the colder demeanor during lessons. It momentarily distracts him from his internal fretting and jittery nerves. Maybe what he's planning isn't even necessary when Muramasa seems so willing to indulge whatever his request might be, but... But Yuta's already come this far and he wants to be selfish for a little longer. So, after a brief surprised blink or two and a gaze straying to Muramasa's hands when they return to work before Yuta catches himself, the actual request comes out, surprisingly even and calm. ]
There's somewhere I'd like to go here in Kyoto together. Will you come with me?
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... So long as you're sure. I already agreed, didn't I?
[ Yuta has avoided him all the way up until this point, when he needed to prove Muramasa's guess wrong. Even with the proof of the blade's well-being in his hands, he's still not convinced that Yuta's assertion that he isn't upset is true. Maybe he isn't lying but it's as clear as the look on his face that something is hurting him. Something to do with Muramasa.
But he also won't — can't — refuse him when this is the first time he's availed himself to Muramasa's services in the time since Windsor. He'll take this opportunity in stride, even if it would be... easier, maybe, to just stay here in his forge where his presence can do the minimal amount of harm, waiting for their employer to summon him to battle. ]
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Thank you, Shishou.
[ A bit of true sincerity that he can offer; genuine gratitude for indulging even if it means leaving the forge. Accompanying the words is the dipping of his head, a slight bow as both reinforcement of the earnestness behind them and an excuse to look away however briefly. He probably should elaborate, pick any of the flimsy excuses about why he has to bring Muramasa with him that he's haphazardly tried to conjure up before. Yuta doesn't. None of them are convincing and he does not particularly want to lie. Instead he banks on past experiences in which Muramasa never bothered to ask where they're going when he cajoled him out of the forge for an outing or even question why when he asked something of him and simply hopes for the best.
He's rewarded for that being the case as always when no such questions follow. (Both a relief and a reason to feel worse about his sort-of-deception when it's an indication of Muramasa's implicit trust in him still being there despite everything.) Not about to look that gift horse in the mouth, he simply drinks his tea while Muramasa tends to his sword, trying very hard not to stare too much at those expert hands on his beloved blade or linger on the dark, irrational feelings that doing so inspires. The familiar dull ache in his stomach and vague sense of nausea that always come hand-in-hand with his anxiety don't entirely leave him even in his home's soothing atmosphere, but in the time it takes Muramasa to perform maintenance on his sword and put it back together, it's lulled into bearable dormancy for a little while.
Too bad it can't last.
Once Muramasa's done, the nervousness spikes right back up again even as his master slips away into the storage room to go change into civilian clothing. Notably without complaint for once. It's not something Yuta gets to linger on when the sound of fabric rustling and the knowledge of what Muramasa is doing sets his imagination running in the direction of the untoward. Rather than pouring himself another cup of tea while he waits, it spurs him into putting his coat back on and gathering his things so he can go stand at the ready to leave on the engawa, escaping the sounds and letting the bracing chill cool his heated face and thoughts.
After that, once Muramasa has joined him, it's only about a thirty minute walk towards Yuta's destination — a span of time that simultaneously feels too long and too short as Yuta leads the way and makes the trek mostly in anxiety-induced silence. It gets broken once his feet have taken him up the steps of his destination and they stand before what remains of Yasaka Shrine, heart beating in his throat, hands clutching the strap of his first responder bag for a change, fervently hoping Muramasa isn't catching on somehow. ]
It's just a little further here.
[ He announces before swiftly moving past the ruined gate of the entrance, not letting himself falter after coming this far and fully expecting Muramasa to continue following. ]
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It just stings, that's all.
But instead of arguing about the perceived slight, Muramasa hikes his sukajan thrown over his shoulders up just a bit higher, and slips his sandals on without complaint, letting Yuta lead. The streets of Kyoto are cold, wet, and slushy; apparently the provisions the locals have managed to put towards things like electricity, or running water, has not extended for managing unusual weather like this three day cold snap. The cold has never been an issue for Muramasa, anyway, and he radiates warmth like his forge as it is left behind them. The silence that falls over them is drowned out in the sound of vehicles moving in the streets, the quiet hustle of other residents more concerned with getting from one safe zone to the next than the boys walking through the cold. Muramasa lets the silence keep them company while he walks, waiting for Yuta to break it and explain, or at least give him instructions, and when that doesn't happen, he keeps letting the silence have it's glory. They move quickly, Yuta's speedy pace and lanky stride matched by Muramasa's immense stamina, even though he needs three steps to cover the same ground as two of Yuta's.
By the time Yuta speaks up, the river and its crumbling bridge blocks behind them, Muramasa knows they're in the Gion district. It's the same as it was in the summer, a hollowed out shell of former glory, still abandoned and well outside the safe perimeter they've spent the last half a year building. At the top of the stairs, the three bays of the western tower gate for Gion-jinja rise up over Yuta's lanky form, red paint fading, tiles sagging from years of damage and disuse, and Muramasa finally hesitates in following behind him. He'd made a fool of himself in Inariyama, with the other part of him taking control, but there had also been the sheer volume of gates, the number of divine thresholds he'd crossed that let the Divine Spirit's influence on him overpower the swordsmith. One or two gates alone shouldn't matter...
He'd been fine when he'd visited in the summer, anyway, right? It will be fine.
Muramasa climbs the steps in sets of twos, ignoring the peeling paint and respectfully taking the side of the road to fall in at Yuta's side once again... ]