[ 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... ]
[ There's a moment in which the steady footsteps that have been following him stop and Yuta's heart seems to halt right along with the ceasing of the sound, dread that Muramasa's caught on turning his insides as icy as their surroundings. His face is schooled into a blank mask, the slight turn of his head to glance over his shoulder kept minimal so as to seem casual. He's almost half expecting to finally be questioned when he hasn't elaborated on the reason or destination for this outing in the slightest, but the question never comes and Muramasa's hesitance does not last long. It's both a relief and also not when it means seeing his haphazard plan through. Whether he fails or succeeds, the likelihood of Muramasa getting upset with him for his deception is probably high.
Still, Yuta has to do something when he can't carry on like he has and he doesn't know who else to turn to that can give him the answers he needs. So he persists.
His heart resumes beating, hard and loud like a taiko drum, as Muramasa falls into step by his side again. Yuta keeps walking, clings to silence as his cover, and prays that Muramasa can't hear the rhythmic thumping when it seems deafening to himself. A swift pace leads them deeper into the shrine grounds. The remains of the smaller shrines are ignored, the moss-stained statues of a rabbit and a figure rendered indistinct for missing a half not even spared a glance as Yuta moves with singular purpose past them.
The weathered stage equally goes unacknowledged, Yuta's destination becoming clear as he hones in on the main hall. There, at the center of the sanctuary, the structure that purportedly enshrines Susanoo-no-mikoto and his family still stands, in clear disrepair and missing parts lost to the elements and neglect and rot, but standing all the same.
Yuta comes to a stop before it, heart speeding up into a desperate staccato. Already steps are skipped in the usual ritual at the lack of purifying water to wash his hands and mouth with at the entrance, but here Yuta is careful to go through as proper the motions he can. In lieu of tossing a coin, he begins opening his bag to retrieve his somewhat illicit goods, breaking the silence again as he does. ]
I wanted to make an offering.
[ His voice comes out remarkably even (albeit distant to his own ears) for the devastation nervousness is wreaking on his organs. Carefully the sake bottle is set upon the safest bit of wooden surface along with a set of elegant sakazuki cups before Yuta cautiously rings one of the bells that seems least in danger of falling when disturbed, the sound dull and flat. He wastes no time bowing twice, clapping twice, and then making his wish. Saying it aloud. ]
I wish to speak with you.
[ Abruptly, he pivots on the spot to face Muramasa instead of the shrine, before he makes his final bow; deep, reverent, eyes closed. When he opens them again, straightening slowly, it's to make direct eye contact with Muramasa. ]
[ Maybe if it had just been a walk through the grounds on their own, or if Yuta had stopped at a different shrine to make an offering, the storm god would have remained dormant. Gion-jinja is the home of Gozu-tennō in his mind, warding off pestilence and disease, not slaying serpents and saving a girl from the fate that befell her sisters. Yet he'd said as much himself, that a man becomes a Heroic Spirit for his deeds in life or for the tales he leaves behind after, and that a Divine Spirit gets built up from the start by human worship and legend. In the summer, he'd come here alone and unsupported, looking for power to fix a wound from Muramasa's myth.
The last thought that Muramasa has before the Divine Spirit tugs command over himself out from under him, is that the bell is clearly machine-cast. Even without the rusting hinge and the decaying ropes, its clatter would leave a sour taste in his mouth and an itch in his fingers to cast a proper one. It's the last thing he thinks of, right before the sea breeze whisks him away.
In front of Yuta, Muramasa stands, stormy eyed and sturdy, the wind whipping at his sukajan and yanking a tired paper lantern above the stage behind him from its ties, sending the yellowing paper into the slush with a wet, spinless plop. If his presence in Inari had been just a bit of wind and a shifting demeanour, here... it is almost palpable. There is something electric to it, like the moment before he activates his circuits and calls a sword into being, spreading outward with the wind. ]
That's a brazen wish for a boy, eh? [ His eyes flit from Yuta's face to the delicate blossoms growing from porcelain and he grins, all of Muramasa's resigned stoicism from the walk gone with the smith. ] But since it's you, I'll have to accept.
[ There's a telltale salt-kissed tinge on the wind as it picks up in intensity that already speaks of Yuta's success in drawing out the divine storm that's part of the whole that makes up Muramasa. It's far more potent now than it was back on the mountain only a scant few days prior, the strong wind accompanied by a charge hanging heavy in the air. It reminds him of Kashimo, a little, in that moment before Yuta almost came to blows with him. Voltaic. Dangerous. It's no wonder given where they are and who the shrine belongs to; hundreds of years of worship for the god Yuta calls upon steeped into the structure and the very grounds.
Yet it's still cause for his breath to catch in his chest a little when his gaze meets stormy greys instead of the usual molten gold — true confirmation of his success. Here, he feels more aware of whose presence he's in. Not that it deters Yuta. Seeing the grin that spreads across Muramasa's face, unrestrained and free, is already enough to make it worth the awkward, nerve-wracking trip. The sight along with the words of acceptance to his bold request get his heart to skip a beat, but Yuta does not let himself falter. ]
Thank you very much for indulging me.
[ He bows again in appropriate gratitude and polite habit. When he unbends his spine, he has to resist the urge to fidget or grab hold of the strap of his bag to soothe the nerves still fraying beneath the surface, keeping his hands by his sides and his composure firm. ]
I'm sorry about the state of this place, but I hope at least the offering is to your liking.
[ Shifting his stance and turning half a step leaves it in even plainer sight. Yuta has certainly spared no expense in his illicit, somewhat spur-of-the-moment purchase. Possibly a big part of the reason the store's employees didn't bother to verify his age is because he bought the expensive cups (sold only as a set, chosen the second he laid eyes on them for how fitting they seem) and asked for their finest sake. ]
[ Muramasa continues to track Yuta's movements with singular focus instead of taking the opportunity to get a closer look at his offering, inscrutable as his power slowly settles over him like a mantle. He has no Authority as a god like this, with all of his presence carefully sharpened into the edge that allows the manifestation as a whole to slay other gods without needing magical energy. He can't even make sense of the things Muramasa sees when he looks at people, nor does he care to. To Susanoo, what matters now is that Yuta's ears are pink from the cold, and the shadows under his eyes are bruise-like. He can feel it keenly in the request to talk, misery is still there under the polite words and careful bows. ]
You know, you could have asked for me at home — no need to come all the way out to this dump in the cold.
[ When he steps forward, and extends his hand to grip Yuta's shoulder in acknowledgement, finally shifting that electric focus from Yuta to his offering... his hand is still warm. He's still Muramasa, even when he isn't. ]
[ Under such heavy focus, there's no hiding the genuine flicker of surprise that passes over Yuta's face upon hearing those words, eyes widening briefly before his whole expression turns sheepish and apologetic. He'd never thought of the simplest and perhaps most obvious solution, never even considered that to be an option. He'd simply assumed... ]
Oh. Sorry, I thought hallowed ground was necessary and I didn't think Muramasa-shishou would agree so easily...
[ He'd seemed plenty embarrassed after the Incident on the mountain after all. Between Yuta's doubt that Muramasa would want to let the Susanoo part take control of him willingly in the wake of that and all his previous experiences with Susanoo emerging happening around shrines, this seemed the best way to go about it.
Yuta can't dwell on his mistake too much when a warm hand is set upon his shoulder, instantly snaring his attention. It's practically on instinct that he leans into it ever so slightly, a subtle shift of his weight from one foot to the other closest to Muramasa, made easier to escape his own notice for the loss of electric scrutiny. His gaze can only flit down to the cups for a split-second before helplessly being pulled right back to Muramasa. ]
Mm. They made me think of you. [ The blue pattern like waves for a storm god while the white and the chrysanthemum bring a certain haori to mind. ] They said the sake is their finest too.
[ Hopefully worthy offerings to make up for their dilapidated surroundings. Except they apparently don't even need to be here, so: ]
When was the last time you asked the smith for anything, hm? He'd have caved, I bet. Man doesn't know how to do anything else besides what he's asked to.
[ And there's a laugh, boisterous and sunny in the overcast morning light; the hand lingering on Yuta's shoulder gives a tug, pulling him in close to be caught against Muramasa's side like he had on the mountain as the hand shifts, resting easily between Yuta's shoulderblades. The kind of casual gesture that Muramasa hasn't availed himself to in months, which is as easy and natural as the laugh. ]
Let's have a drink, first, and we can have our talk.
[ The smith wouldn't know what to do with good booze anyway, probably. Teetotal ass Buddhist bitch. ]
[ It's not meant as an accusation and it doesn't quite feel like one either, but.. it hits as something close to it anyway when what Yuta wants to ask of Muramasa is something he doesn't feel like he can. There isn't anything else he wants from him save for that one thing that is too big an ask to make. His feelings aren't sure what to do with the revelation that Muramasa would likely have caved if Yuta had just asked. Maybe it shouldn't be surprising given that Muramasa came all the way out here without even once questioning Yuta about it. With the importance his master places on jobs, that last statement certainly rings true.
But bright laughter and a warm hand chase away the clouds of rumination before they can linger. Unlike back on the mountain, Yuta's more prepared to be reeled in this time. In fact, he'd be lying if he said these casual touches weren't part of the reason he wanted to draw out Susanoo. So very selfishly, he wants to experience them one more time before he comes clean and potentially ruins any chance of receiving such easy affection from Muramasa ever again. So, without resisting or even tensing up, he lets himself be tucked against Muramasa's side, ready to be steered wherever by the hand between his shoulderblades. There's still a slight bloom of heat in his face, the frantic fluttering of nerves in his gut, and a quickening drumbeat of his heart to throw him off and reply without thinking though. ]
Alright.
[ It's only after that he realizes what he just agreed to and has to quickly amend: ]
Ah, but I'm technically not allowed to drink alcohol....
[ And after the last accidental experience he had, he really shouldn't. ]
[ Even though it is so simple in theory, Muramasa's dedication to his work is a complicated beast, one that he has more flexibility in than his single-minded devotion to it seems to allow. Work given to him by others is not-negotiable, but the execution has room for other options if he finds it distasteful, slipping through technicalities to keep him from straying too hard from himself. Work that he chooses for himself, he sets his own prices, and he chooses the lengths he can go in them. Through war, to the edge of the world, even to the heart of the planet and into the forge there. He'd told Yuta plenty of times that Yuta was his responsibility — and it would be his choice to do as Yuta asked of him.
Susanoo has no care for things like that, though. Instead he's focused on the time and power he's been afforded here on sacred ground, in a shrine housing his own spirit. The hand on Yuta's back gives a gentle push, but is firm in its intent; Muramasa wants to steer Yuta towards the inside of his hall. ]
Hah? If I say you can drink, you can drink. Whose shrine do you think this is?
[ There isn't much in the way of actual resistance, but the step Yuta takes when he gets pushed is hesitant, his (slightly fretful) uncertainty only increasing and plain in the way he glances between Muramasa and the direction of a hall he's likely not meant to set foot in even as he opens his mouth to retort. ]
That's— [ not how that works.
But who is Yuta to argue with the manifestation of a god? Trying to explain the legal drinking age to a being like that who is not going to care anyway is folly and he knows it. He doesn't want to be rude either. Not in general and especially not when he summoned Susanoo to talk to him. Staying on the tempestuous god's good side is key. Although the doubt lingers, the attempted protest is swiftly abandoned before it can be spoken aloud fully. ]
It's meant for you, but if you wish to share... Okay.
[ Alcohol is considered a low grade poison, so he can probably mitigate the effects with reverse cursed technique in order to avoid getting drunk like the last time he (accidentally) consumed some. He's better prepared for it this time and knows what to expect, too. That should help. Hopefully.
Resigning himself to this fate, Yuta dutifully gathers the sake bottle and cups again to bring with them and lets Muramasa steer him wherever he pleases. ]
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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.
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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... ]
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Still, Yuta has to do something when he can't carry on like he has and he doesn't know who else to turn to that can give him the answers he needs. So he persists.
His heart resumes beating, hard and loud like a taiko drum, as Muramasa falls into step by his side again. Yuta keeps walking, clings to silence as his cover, and prays that Muramasa can't hear the rhythmic thumping when it seems deafening to himself. A swift pace leads them deeper into the shrine grounds. The remains of the smaller shrines are ignored, the moss-stained statues of a rabbit and a figure rendered indistinct for missing a half not even spared a glance as Yuta moves with singular purpose past them.
The weathered stage equally goes unacknowledged, Yuta's destination becoming clear as he hones in on the main hall. There, at the center of the sanctuary, the structure that purportedly enshrines Susanoo-no-mikoto and his family still stands, in clear disrepair and missing parts lost to the elements and neglect and rot, but standing all the same.
Yuta comes to a stop before it, heart speeding up into a desperate staccato. Already steps are skipped in the usual ritual at the lack of purifying water to wash his hands and mouth with at the entrance, but here Yuta is careful to go through as proper the motions he can. In lieu of tossing a coin, he begins opening his bag to retrieve his somewhat illicit goods, breaking the silence again as he does. ]
I wanted to make an offering.
[ His voice comes out remarkably even (albeit distant to his own ears) for the devastation nervousness is wreaking on his organs. Carefully the sake bottle is set upon the safest bit of wooden surface along with a set of elegant sakazuki cups before Yuta cautiously rings one of the bells that seems least in danger of falling when disturbed, the sound dull and flat. He wastes no time bowing twice, clapping twice, and then making his wish. Saying it aloud. ]
I wish to speak with you.
[ Abruptly, he pivots on the spot to face Muramasa instead of the shrine, before he makes his final bow; deep, reverent, eyes closed. When he opens them again, straightening slowly, it's to make direct eye contact with Muramasa. ]
Will you accept it, Susanoo-sama?
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The last thought that Muramasa has before the Divine Spirit tugs command over himself out from under him, is that the bell is clearly machine-cast. Even without the rusting hinge and the decaying ropes, its clatter would leave a sour taste in his mouth and an itch in his fingers to cast a proper one. It's the last thing he thinks of, right before the sea breeze whisks him away.
In front of Yuta, Muramasa stands, stormy eyed and sturdy, the wind whipping at his sukajan and yanking a tired paper lantern above the stage behind him from its ties, sending the yellowing paper into the slush with a wet, spinless plop. If his presence in Inari had been just a bit of wind and a shifting demeanour, here... it is almost palpable. There is something electric to it, like the moment before he activates his circuits and calls a sword into being, spreading outward with the wind. ]
That's a brazen wish for a boy, eh? [ His eyes flit from Yuta's face to the delicate blossoms growing from porcelain and he grins, all of Muramasa's resigned stoicism from the walk gone with the smith. ] But since it's you, I'll have to accept.
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Yet it's still cause for his breath to catch in his chest a little when his gaze meets stormy greys instead of the usual molten gold — true confirmation of his success. Here, he feels more aware of whose presence he's in. Not that it deters Yuta. Seeing the grin that spreads across Muramasa's face, unrestrained and free, is already enough to make it worth the awkward, nerve-wracking trip. The sight along with the words of acceptance to his bold request get his heart to skip a beat, but Yuta does not let himself falter. ]
Thank you very much for indulging me.
[ He bows again in appropriate gratitude and polite habit. When he unbends his spine, he has to resist the urge to fidget or grab hold of the strap of his bag to soothe the nerves still fraying beneath the surface, keeping his hands by his sides and his composure firm. ]
I'm sorry about the state of this place, but I hope at least the offering is to your liking.
[ Shifting his stance and turning half a step leaves it in even plainer sight. Yuta has certainly spared no expense in his illicit, somewhat spur-of-the-moment purchase. Possibly a big part of the reason the store's employees didn't bother to verify his age is because he bought the expensive cups (sold only as a set, chosen the second he laid eyes on them for how fitting they seem) and asked for their finest sake. ]
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You know, you could have asked for me at home — no need to come all the way out to this dump in the cold.
[ When he steps forward, and extends his hand to grip Yuta's shoulder in acknowledgement, finally shifting that electric focus from Yuta to his offering... his hand is still warm. He's still Muramasa, even when he isn't. ]
They're pretty.
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Oh. Sorry, I thought hallowed ground was necessary and I didn't think Muramasa-shishou would agree so easily...
[ He'd seemed plenty embarrassed after the Incident on the mountain after all. Between Yuta's doubt that Muramasa would want to let the Susanoo part take control of him willingly in the wake of that and all his previous experiences with Susanoo emerging happening around shrines, this seemed the best way to go about it.
Yuta can't dwell on his mistake too much when a warm hand is set upon his shoulder, instantly snaring his attention. It's practically on instinct that he leans into it ever so slightly, a subtle shift of his weight from one foot to the other closest to Muramasa, made easier to escape his own notice for the loss of electric scrutiny. His gaze can only flit down to the cups for a split-second before helplessly being pulled right back to Muramasa. ]
Mm. They made me think of you. [ The blue pattern like waves for a storm god while the white and the chrysanthemum bring a certain haori to mind. ] They said the sake is their finest too.
[ Hopefully worthy offerings to make up for their dilapidated surroundings. Except they apparently don't even need to be here, so: ]
Um, should we go back?
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[ And there's a laugh, boisterous and sunny in the overcast morning light; the hand lingering on Yuta's shoulder gives a tug, pulling him in close to be caught against Muramasa's side like he had on the mountain as the hand shifts, resting easily between Yuta's shoulderblades. The kind of casual gesture that Muramasa hasn't availed himself to in months, which is as easy and natural as the laugh. ]
Let's have a drink, first, and we can have our talk.
[ The smith wouldn't know what to do with good booze anyway, probably. Teetotal ass Buddhist bitch. ]
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But bright laughter and a warm hand chase away the clouds of rumination before they can linger. Unlike back on the mountain, Yuta's more prepared to be reeled in this time. In fact, he'd be lying if he said these casual touches weren't part of the reason he wanted to draw out Susanoo. So very selfishly, he wants to experience them one more time before he comes clean and potentially ruins any chance of receiving such easy affection from Muramasa ever again. So, without resisting or even tensing up, he lets himself be tucked against Muramasa's side, ready to be steered wherever by the hand between his shoulderblades. There's still a slight bloom of heat in his face, the frantic fluttering of nerves in his gut, and a quickening drumbeat of his heart to throw him off and reply without thinking though. ]
Alright.
[ It's only after that he realizes what he just agreed to and has to quickly amend: ]
Ah, but I'm technically not allowed to drink alcohol....
[ And after the last accidental experience he had, he really shouldn't. ]
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Susanoo has no care for things like that, though. Instead he's focused on the time and power he's been afforded here on sacred ground, in a shrine housing his own spirit. The hand on Yuta's back gives a gentle push, but is firm in its intent; Muramasa wants to steer Yuta towards the inside of his hall. ]
Hah? If I say you can drink, you can drink. Whose shrine do you think this is?
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That's— [ not how that works.
But who is Yuta to argue with the manifestation of a god? Trying to explain the legal drinking age to a being like that who is not going to care anyway is folly and he knows it. He doesn't want to be rude either. Not in general and especially not when he summoned Susanoo to talk to him. Staying on the tempestuous god's good side is key. Although the doubt lingers, the attempted protest is swiftly abandoned before it can be spoken aloud fully. ]
It's meant for you, but if you wish to share... Okay.
[ Alcohol is considered a low grade poison, so he can probably mitigate the effects with reverse cursed technique in order to avoid getting drunk like the last time he (accidentally) consumed some. He's better prepared for it this time and knows what to expect, too. That should help. Hopefully.
Resigning himself to this fate, Yuta dutifully gathers the sake bottle and cups again to bring with them and lets Muramasa steer him wherever he pleases. ]