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.
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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.
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.