[ 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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no subject
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. ]
no subject
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... ]