[ 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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
... 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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
1/2
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. ]
no subject
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.