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It's a balmy evening, the sun low in the sky, cicadas singing lazy songs into the humid air.
His feet kick up dust earning him yells from others in the street.
He has no destination, merely a vessel dancing along dirt roads, going wherever the wind flowing through his kimono takes him.
He climbs the highest hill, digs his fingers and toes into the old bark of the lone tree atop of it, and settles into its thinnest branches.
The splinters in his skin today are particularly hard to squeeze out, fingers slippy with sweat.
He watches the sun cast warm rays of soft pinks and oranges over the lulling town, until the sound of thundering hooves breaks through the haze.
He clambers down, curiosity pushing him forward, until he is racing back the way he came, weaving his way through the crowd that has gathered to see what all the fuss is about.
It's a call to war.
His stomach churns at the thought of fighting, of killing for a cause.
He looks for a chance to slip away, to run, to hide.
But Tatsuma is tall and easy to pick out.
And he's a Sakamoto.
His father calls him just as he finds a small opening to squeeze into.
His voice is stern; expectant.
Tatsuma takes a deep breath and unleashes it with booming guffaws as he strolls his way back into the circle surrounding the soldiers.
He is made the first volunteer.
The summer heat presses down on him. Tatsuma licks his lips and opens his mouth to protest, but his father’s glare forces him into silence.
A few more men are picked out or volunteer and then the crowd disperses, allowing the new recruits to prepare for departure the next day.
Dinner at home is subdued. Tatsuma's too busy pushing his food around his bowl to fill the room with his usual chatter. When they finish dinner, the family each withdraw to their own quarters in the house.
Tatsuma only packs the necessities — some clothes, small, wrapped confectionaries, and small bottles of sake. He's content to finish there, but his sister comes into his room, a sheathed katana in her hands. He recognises the coloured wrappings of the tsuka . She holds it out to him, eyes firm and expectant. He takes it and she nods in approval.
"Seems you're being set loose on the world." Tatsuma snorts at his sister's choice of words. "Keep sharp, make us proud. And for once make use of your skills and assets."
He watches her leave, lips curled in distaste.
Among his siblings, he's always had the most raw talent and charisma, but, to his family's frustration, he's never had the drive his siblings have for strengthening their family's status and business — and digging their roots deeper into their one spot in Tosa.
He's always wanted to fly. To move where the world deigns to guide him.
And by the time the sun crests the horizon line, he'll be free.
~~~
Dawn light diffuses the shadows in his room, quietly urging Tatsuma to rise from his futon, gather his belongings and walk down to the port.
The whole village is lined up along the dock ready to see off their small group. They cheer for each of the young men, and it seems to ease some of the tension in their wound limbs.
Tatsuma quickens his pace.
He doesn't want to listen to what they have to say, all the various ways they pack burdens upon his shoulders — with his family name placed heavily on top.
As a Sakamoto you should—; remember, because you're a Sakamoto—
And because he's a Sakamoto, he's given leadership of their vessel.
He sidles up to his brother, whose eyes are fixed on the ship before them, eyebrows furrowed. Then, he turns to Tatsuma and something just a stroke off a gentle smile makes its way onto his brother's face.
"Guess you'll get to indulge your love for boats this way, Tatsuma. Was gonna let you work in the company, but at least now you can send me notes on this one's performance to improve our work."
Tatsuma nods absentmindedly, his focus already on the ship in front of him.
It's huge, the shadow it casts long and intimidating. He has to crane his neck back to even look past its hull.
Up close he can truly appreciate the craftsmanship. The wood is firm yet supple. Large white sails remain bound to stocky masts, waiting to be freed.
His heart thrums in anticipation.
Tatsuma steps onto the deck and immediately throws up over the side.
Amongst the snickering and yelling of the village that this is typical Tatsuma, he feels, rather than sees his family's disapproving look.
Screw it, Tatsuma thinks.
This ship heading towards blood and death is his ship to freedom.
He calls for the sails to be hoisted and released. They unfurl like pale wings against the gentle light of the rising sun.
Cheers of well-wishes drift up from the shore. He doesn't care to give more than a playful salute before fixing his eyes on the horizon.
Looking back is meaningless now. His path is forward.
~~~
After days of fighting the urge to jump overboard and swim to their destination, if only to quell the storm in his mind and stomach, they make it.
There's a palpable hum on board the ship as Tatsuma orders the anchor to be dropped. They lower the rowboats into the water, the men carefully stepping into the swaying wood.
Tatsuma stands at the bow of the small vessel that leads their group. He wills himself to lock his spine, eyes solely focused ahead, dutifully ignoring the sloshing water beneath his feet.
The boat approaches the shore and he makes out a crowd of men awaiting their arrival on the sand.
Three stand before the rest.
The clothes they're wearing offer no clues as to their rank among those gathered on the beach, but Tatsuma can tell these three hold sway here.
He'll need to make a good impression.
The rowboat scrapes gravel and sand. The trio approach.
The one in white immediately fires withering remarks at Tatsuma, seemingly in defense of one of his companions. The shorter one beside him fixes Tatsuma with a glare — though, with his green eyes occasionally flicking over to the young man beside him, Tatsuma is unsure if he's angry at him, or at his chattering companion. The final one seems more composed compared to the other two, olive eyes clear as they look up at Tatsuma expectantly.
Right. He hasn't stopped staring at where the horizon line should be.
The long-haired one clears his throat. Tatsuma focuses his gaze down to the trio. Something bubbles up from the pit of his stomach.
Say something. They're talking to you. If this was a business deal you'd be dead!
He opens his mouth—
And vomit spews all over the white-haired and grumpy man. They stand stock-still, the sick dripping from their hair and clothes. The long-haired one, the only one miraculously saved from the deluge, has a hand to his lips, eyebrows furrowed. Tatsuma catches him trying to suppress a laugh as the two jump comically into the ocean.
Gods just end him now.
The long-haired man manages to compose himself and formally welcomes Tatsuma and his group before gesturing for them to follow the others to their camp.
Tatsuma sighs as he steps onto solid ground. He's going to have to play the long game.
They'd arrived during a lull in the fighting, so Tatsuma's first day is spent training.
For hours the only sounds he hears are wood cracking against wood and laboured breathing.
It's reminiscent of the training back home and his body remembers the movements well.
He easily parries a thrust to his stomach then lightly taps his opponent's thigh. They reset and the man lunges forward again. Tatsuma dodges and uses the butt of the bokuto 's hilt to hit the centre of the man's back.
His opponent turns and backs away, eyes narrowing with wariness. He breathes in deep before releasing it through pursed lips. "Again."
An undercurrent of frustration. He needs to lose — the satisfaction of a win would lower the man's guard, making it easier to develop good rapport and embed himself into the group's network. Tatsuma settles back into the starting position.
His opponent lunges straight towards him. Tatsuma sidesteps but the man's bokuto follows his movement in a wide arc. Tatsuma steps into the swing; the momentum breaks, wood clattering to the ground. Tatsuma curls his hand around the other's wrist, then swings his own weapon — gripping it how one would a knife — just short of the man's throat, before hooking his right leg around the man's left. In one breath, Tatsuma pushes forward, his leg sweeping back. His opponent lands on the ground with a large thud, clouds of dust coming up from beneath him.
The man remains lying down for a moment, breathing interrupted by coughs, before slowly rising. Tatsuma grimaces — his body remembers the movements too well. Tatsuma quickly offers a hand and the man pulls himself to his feet.
"For someone who's never worked a day in his life, you're not too bad." Begrudging respect slips into his tone.
Tatsuma looks away from his training partner, tapping the bokuto against his shoulder. A dull ache is only beginning to set in even though his partner looks on the verge of collapse.
"Ahahaha! My family always thought swordsmanship would be a good way to entertain potential business partners."
His sparring partner looks at him quizzically. Tatsuma shrugs. There's not much else to say — he has always been a product.
By the end of the afternoon, they're sticky with grime and sweat. No one wastes any time stripping when they head down to the river.
A knot tightens in Tatsuma's stomach.
The river is too open, too public. A quick glance around informs him that there's nowhere to hide.
It's not that he feels inferior about his own body. Sure, he's still soft at the edges, not perfectly chiseled, not hardened in the same way as most of the others, but he's fit. Toned.
Still, he shivers at the stares he gets when he pulls his clothes over his head, back muscles stretching.
Nothing he can't ignore, but there's a particularly intense stare burning a line down his spine.
He turns to find the silver-haired youth — Gintoki, he remembers — looking at him, eyes curious but non-invasive.
Self-consciousness slithers up along the ridges on his back, so Tatsuma blurts out, "Oh my back? Ah, you know. Young kids love climbing trees — I just happened to enjoy falling out of them too, ahahahaha!"
The soldiers around him snicker, seeming to accept that this kind of behaviour suits the bumbling young noble in front of them.
The silver-haired teen in front of him tilts his head, face expressionless. His unfocused, red stare makes Tatsuma shudder, even without the river's chill.
Gintoki's not buying the lie he's peddling.
But the truth is a pity story. One he doesn't deserve to tell.
Because he's lived an easy life compared to everyone else. His life wasn't filled with demons and death like everyone else's. He didn't go to sleep petrified that he wouldn't wake up the next morning like everyone else.
His scars are not honourable.
Gintoki turns away and bends down to scoop water into his hands and pour it over his shoulders. Tatsuma watches the water run over raised skin in a pattern similar — yet harsher — to that on his own back.
"Yeah." Gintoki says it slowly as he looks at Tatsuma over his shoulder. "Trees suck."
Tatsuma had thought himself well-equipped to navigate the tempestuous waters of battle.
But Tatsuma drowns.
His body doesn't move the way he wants it to. Mentally, he knows he's on firm ground, but he's moving like he's at sea, head swimming and legs weak.
And the noise. Not like the crowded streets of the morning. The screams are not whoops of excitement at a festival or mock battle cries at tournaments.
The air snaps.
Tatsuma jerks back just as claws swipe at his face. His vision sharpens into such clarity that he can make out the dirt embedded in the grooves of the protruding bones.
What a pathetic way to go, having not saved a single person.
Rough fingers grab his collar and he's yanked onto the dirt. Blood rains down as he looks up at a back framed by a deep purple coat.
Takasugi looks down at him, lips twisted in annoyance, eyes screaming his thoughts at Tatsuma's face:
Don't get in the way.
He regroups with Gintoki and Katsura and Tatsuma can see it so clearly. It barely takes a second to know how different they are. How far apart he is from them.
How completely useless he is.
Katsura sweeps his hand in commanding arcs across the plain, guiding the soldiers into positions with the most impact, but with the least chance of injury.
Takasugi leads the vanguard, a single destructive unit. They carve a clear path for the rest of the troops to finish off any stragglers.
Gintoki is a brutal whirlwind of grey and white, spinning haphazardly through enemies and allies. He's barely visible, but erratic bursts of blood in the air give him away.
A soldier helps Tatsuma to his feet, eyes tracking Tatsuma's gaze.
"Those three really are something, aren't they?"
The awe in the man's voice is as tangible as that welling inside Tatsuma himself. He only manages a quick nod before the man is dragging him away.
His eyes never leave the three before him.
They're magnetic, their presence so great it draws everyone in without even opening their mouths to speak.
Not like him.
He hated the first day his father placed a katana into his hands. Hated how comfortable the hilt felt around his fingers, how quick his body molded to his movements with the blade.
Why would a pacifist even need to use one when words are the strongest weapon he has?
So this is what he offers at the end of his second week, having noticed the camp's rapidly depleting stock of supplies and morale.
The men had looked at him dubiously, distaste barely hidden in their faces.
Unsurprising, considering what it looked like. A wealthy youth, cocky with greed for the promise of victory comes waltzing onto the battlefield, only to run from it with his tail between his legs.
He'd pushed for it anyways — supplies are the lifeblood of war, after all — and Katsura had strategically agreed.
He'd returned with a haul so large the troops gaped at it in awe. Upon seeing the crates filled with jars of sake, their faith in his skills had been sealed.
They'd allowed themselves a night of quiet revelry. Men had come up to him to say their thanks and remark at how talented he was, how he'd been gifted with the ability to wield two types of blades.
He'd smiled tight at their praise, because his skills were born from pressure. The pressure to be a worthy son, a worthy heir. The pressure to follow a set path, to be someone.
But in those few shining moments before striking a deal to give their side the advantage, he feels important. He feels like for once in his life he's doing something he thinks is meaningful.
Not so much now with his men bleeding out around him, the other side's representative slumped over the table, blood leaking from a long, squirming neck.
It was just supposed to be a negotiation meeting.
He can't recall who started it, but he needs to diffuse the situation fast.
Tatsuma rises from his seat just in time to see a flash of silver.
White explodes behind his eyes.
At first, there is nothing.
But then it builds.
The pain builds and builds and races through his nervous system like wildfire until he can't even think clearly enough to know if he wants to pass out or vomit or tear off his own skin so that he can escape the corrosive feeling of metal grinding through his flesh.
He does none of these things.
Just swallows the pain, forces it down his throat and back into his stomach — a hand pressed firmly against it to prevent anything from spilling out — and fights.
With each step, each wild swing of his sword, he tells himself he's fine, there is no pain, there is no raw flesh tickling his fingertips as viscous red oozes through the gaps.
He feels his own blade slide through meat and bone as he staggers through the fog of pain and the incessant buzz of death.
He's relying on pure survival instinct at this point. He can barely see ahead of him, the world flickering in and out.
Inhale. Cut.
Exhale. Cut.
Tatsuma repeats the movements, teeth grinding together so hard he feels they might shatter.
Through the haze he calculates every cut.
Achilles tendon. Back of the knee. The inside of the elbow.
Screams claw at his ears as enemies slump over, clutching their injured limbs. It wars with the triumphant yells of his men as the tide of battle turns to their favour.
Tatsuma doesn't care. He just needs it to stop.
After what feels like hours, the crash of metal and cacophony of death slowly fades out into laboured breaths as everyone silently scans the horrors in front of them.
Just like that, it's over.
Tatsuma drops to one knee, gravel digging into his skin. Sweat drips from his hair to his bloodied hand; the muscles and guts underneath tremble and writhe.
His men make their way to him, mere blots of darkness against the sun's harsh, white light.
When they lift him to his feet and ask if he's alright, his final breath before the world slips from beneath him is a lie.
Well, it's to be expected.
He is a businessman, after all.
~~~
He actually laughs when Katsura yells at him for poking his bandages, because he's stupidly ecstatic to finally get a wound that he knows will scar. That it's a scar he's rightfully earned, not because his parents felt that his dreams of more were ridiculous for someone who would be inheriting everything he could ever desire.
"They say you didn't kill anyone."
Gintoki stares at him, an expression of mild disinterest painted lazily on his face, but Tatsuma sees a hint of sharpness.
"Gintoki, not everyone can just run around and kill like it's no big deal."
"Takasugi."
"It's fine, Zura." Gintoki waves his hand dismissively. "I'm just curious, is all."
Tatsuma feels his eyebrows raise at the words, how easily Gintoki brushes off that statement.
He's heard whispers among the men that Gintoki is not like the rest of them, that he has spent more time breathing among the dead than the living. He's starting to wonder if there's truth to such tales.
But Gintoki is waiting for an answer, so Tatsuma says, "Well, I'd rather avoid needless bloodshed."
Gintoki tilts his head. "Ah. You are stupid, Bakamoto."
Tatsuma splutters. "Sorry what?"
"That's you. Just like these two here," he gestures at the other two in turn, "are Bakazura and Bakasugi."
"It's not Bakazura, it's Katsura!"
"And the most idiotic one here is you!"
"Yeah yeah, whatever."
Air bursts from Tatsuma's lips.
The other three look at him questioningly, but he's already erupted into a fit of giggles.
Gintoki snorts and then he's laughing too. It comes out in little snickers, like a kid who's just watched his friends fall for a prank he's done a hundred times before.
Katsura — Zura — adds his own laugh, low and unrefined, until Takasugi just huffs in exasperation, but Tatsuma sees the small smile on his face.
They invite him to stay that night.
And the next.
And the next.
They're travelling across pale sand, the tang of salt in the air, when he notices the plumes of smoke rising from small houses.
Something dark sinks beneath Tatsuma's skin and a shiver runs through him.
Takasugi must have noticed, for he brings his steed up along Tatsuma's own, face neutral, but eyes searching. Then, he turns to the view before them. "We're a few days from your hometown aren't we?"
Tatsuma nods, face grim. "I can't believe the fighting's spread this far."
Takasugi clicks his tongue, then urges his horse ahead. "We need to keep moving; we don't have enough men for a village raid." It's said coldly, but Tatsuma sees Takasugi's grip tighten on the reins.
It twists Tatuma's stomach to simply move on, but a scream pierces the dead air.
A child's.
Tatsuma yanks his horse away from the beach and gallops towards the town. He hears Takasugi's angry, chastising yells before they fade away into the rhythm of hooves and his own breathing.
His feet hit the ground with a thud and he sprints towards the origin of the noise.
One blink and he sees a tiny body quivering beneath scales and sharpened fins. The next, red arcs mar the clear, blue sky before falling like rain.
The body stands frozen, before slowly crumpling. The young child cries and bows repeatedly before running into the smoke, small feet making little indents in the dirt.
He barely notices.
Tatsuma is still staring at his hand, at the katana it's holding, its polished metal dripping red iron.
At the head cleanly severed from the Amanto's thick neck rolling slowly in grooves in the dirt, the sound dull and wet.
He waits for his horror, waits for the visceral reaction that is sure to come. He waits for that morning's sorry excuse for breakfast to tear through his throat.
It doesn't.
Blood rushes through his body, his heartbeat fast but steady. His mind is unnaturally clear.
And the only thought in his head is: more.
He stalks the front lines. Red paints the ground around him. Death shepherds quivering villagers to the sand, leaving trails of bodies in its wake.
Voices call his name as men swarm the town around him. He smirks as he stabs his sword through the eye of a wolf-like Amanto, dragging its mangled, bloodied contents out with the steel — Takasugi finally relented.
Metallic air fills Tatsuma's lungs, strengthening his movements. Bones crumble beneath his fists, the metal in his hand cutting through flesh as though it were sailcloth.
A low humming crawls under his skin and settles in his head, drowning his mind in its rhythm.
Light flickers in his periphery and he brings up his sword to block a whip-like tail, sparks flying. He stabs the Amanto in the soft flesh just beneath its sternum; its eyes bulge out in shock and pain. Tatsuma snarls and twists his blade in before driving it upwards through bone and sinew. Guts rain down on him as the Amanto splits open.
The squelching sounds of it peeling apart pacifies the howling beneath his flesh, reducing it to bloody whispers.
Ah . So that's what it takes.
He leaps into a sea of crimson and viscera. He carves strokes into it with the singing metal in his hand. He feels wild, something feral unleashed.
A beast tears into flesh, gnaws at thick hide, and pries open shiny carapaces. It shivers in pleasure at the metallic taste of blood vessels bursting beneath its jaws.
And so it continues to take, revelling in the screams of the dead.
Eventually, the drum beats in the beast's ears slowly fade into the screaming winds and the roaring sea—
And the creaking of burning wood.
The beast's claws sink back beneath tanned skin and a man emerges, scanning the carnage with cloudy eyes.
He turns back towards the beach.
~~~
Takasugi's arms are folded tight against his chest, green eyes dark and stormy.
Tatsuma takes a breath and squares his shoulders.
"We're taking them back."
He can see the cogs working in Takasugi's mind, weighing the pros and cons.
"We don't have—"
"I will make enough space and get enough resources."
"We can't—"
"I'll protect them."
"Sakamoto." Takasugi's voice is gravel through a sieve.
"I don't care. Until we find them a safer place to stay, we're taking them back."
Takasugi's will collides against his own. Another person would have already wilted against the pressure. Tatsuma himself might have done so a few months ago. But he knows who Takasugi is now. So he does not submit.
"We can do it." He places a hand on Takasugi's arm. "Trust me."
Takasugi doesn't jerk his arm away. Tatsuma smiles inwardly at the unspoken answer. He lifts his other hand and beckons the group to begin moving.
The troops pass him by, all wide grins and shining eyes. They clap his back and their whoops of victory and cheerful chatter fill the air as they accompany the villagers.
They walk past, bowing almost reverently. They reach to touch his face, to grasp his arms, his hands; their palms pull away bloody.
Oh.
Tatsuma waits until they're further up the beach before turning his back and greeting his stomach's measly contents. He tries to wipe his mouth with his hand; the scent of copper smears across his face.
He staggers towards the shoreline, falls to his knees into the shallow water. He scrubs at his face and arms, the creases in his neck. Crimson bleeds into ultramarine; he shudders involuntarily.
He thrusts his head into the water, the cold assaulting his skin. The rhythm of the ocean's ebb and flow distorts the other sounds around him, soothing his racing heart.
He stays under until his chest feels like it's about to burst open. He breaks the surface with a gasp, salt air purifying his lungs. He takes a few deep gulps, almost choking on each.
A hand touches his shoulder, searing hot against the frigid cold of his wet clothes and skin. Tatsuma flinches, head snapping up to look at its owner.
Takasugi is standing over him, eyes focused on Tatsuma. His stance is relaxed, but there is tension in Takasugi's fingertips.
"Come on. We need to get back to camp. Gintoki and Zura are waiting."
Tatsuma returns his gaze to the sea, the setting sun turning the water into liquid gold. The cool sea air ruffles his curls, runs through the creases and folds in his clothes.
It dries rust on his skin.
"Tatsuma." Takasugi's voice is soft, coaxing. He's holding out his other hand, palm upwards.
Tatsuma slides his hand into Takasugi's and allows himself to be pulled from the water. Takasugi squeezes his hand, eyes solemn and understanding.
Tatsuma lets himself be guided back towards the shore, the sea continuing its languid dance with the sand. It makes him think of festival dances and bonfires, of shamisen strings beneath his fingertips and drunken tunes pulled from jovial lips.
There had been freedom back home, he realises, even with its repetition and rigidity.
But he'd traded away that life so long ago. That Sakamoto Tatsuma, with wings of naive innocence, died today.
The realisation makes something crack inside him, the shards cutting into his very being, slicing deep into his heart.
His grip tightens on Takasugi's hand and he presses into the other male's side a little more. Takasugi gives him a sideways glance, but curls an arm around Tatsuma's waist, warm and supportive.
They keep walking.
~~~
They've taken to calling him "The Dragon of Katsurahama".
He doesn't like it. It reminds him of the various titles given to him by a town with their own vision of who he was supposed to be. His family had hoped at least one would stick and lead him to abandon his choice to live as a peaceful man, an unassuming drifter through life.
Much like with his previous titles, he refuses to accept this latest one. It's too lofty, too loaded with praise and expectations.
Besides, he's supposed to be the approachable one.
Takasugi is too withdrawn, too willing to lash out. Zura, while amicable, keeps his distance while he maintains his position as a leader. Gintoki walks the line of a regular man and a legendary force bound in human skin.
But he knows what the others don't. Has known it since the first night their tent also became his and they'd played cards until his eyes felt like they would fall out.
He has spent many nights with them just being and every time it kills him to know that they're just children fighting for a world that adults are supposed to be protecting.
But they are the chosen leaders to save their land.
And, regardless of his principles, Tatsuma had an awakening on that beach.
He can feel it. The shift in his soul.
Flames curl across his skin and heart. Steel sits in clear-blue eyes, hardening their gaze. He's sharper, harsher, stronger.
Worthy.
So, Tatsuma takes the title, and wears it like a crown.
"We can't win without you." Zura's voice is calm, arms spread in a placating manner in an attempt to soothe Tatsuma's anger.
But Tatsuma is boiling.
"So we win the war. So what?! It's the idea that wins. It's the idea that gets paraded around while the other side's is spat on and torn to shreds. But us soldiers? We're just losing pawns in this game."
"That doesn't justify you putting yourself in danger just to save them!"
His gaze snaps to emerald, eyes wide and incredulous.
"Listen to yourself Takasugi! I can't believe you're giving out to me over the fact that I would rather be cut down than see innocent lives be taken just because their side went on a bloody rampage and could care less about the consequences!"
"You almost threw your life away to save the enemy!"
Tatsuma steps towards the smaller man, forcing Takasugi to tilt his head back to look up at him.
"The enemy? That's what we're calling them now? Children who held weapons with trembling fingers, clutching them like a lifeline? They shouldn't have even been there!"
His body tingles with heat, his breath coming out in quick bursts. He gestures sharply at the group that has gathered around them.
"What makes you think we're different from them? We who crown ourselves victors with their bones. We who've dragged ourselves through the blood and piss and shit just to see another day. We who've clogged our noses and ears just to block out the screams and the stench. Who've spent endless nights drowning ourselves with liquid fire just to rid ourselves of our fear, of their agony."
He swallows a scream when pain explodes from his wrist. He relaxes his clenched fingers.
The soldier beside him bows repeatedly at the other three generals.
"I am sorry for Sakamoto-san's condition. If only the Shiroyasha was with us—"
" Don't put the Shiroyasha on a pedestal," Tatsuma spits.
He catches Gintoki flinch slightly at the venom in his words, a movement so easily missed had he not gotten to know him so well.
He feels no guilt though, as he shoves the other generals aside and stalks his way to their shared tent.
"We're all demons here."
Once the coolness inside envelops him, Tatsuma slumps onto the nearest chair, fatigue assaulting his body the moment he relinquishes the buzz of adrenaline.
He feels nauseous. All that volatile energy was something he never wanted to see, to be a part of.
Yet there he was, at the very centre of it all, exploding like a dying star.
He hears the tent's canvas rustle and he groans internally.
"For once I'm not in the mood for conversation so if you could just—"
Takasugi drops a katana into his lap.
"Pick it up."
"Takasugi." Zura's voice is low, a warning. "His arm's only just been treated."
"I don't care." Takasugi's eyebrows are fighting to reach each other as he folds his arms, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise. "Pick it up. Or you're useless in this war."
Takasugi's words are rational, but being rational means nothing to the dragon roaring inside Tatsuma's head.
"So what?" he bites out, "Some of us didn't come running to war, signing a blood oath to save some perfect man, tales of grandeur hanging off our lips."
His head whips to the side.
Fresh iron mixes with the taste of dirt in his mouth. His rage submits to the guilt surging in his stomach. He doesn't want to look at Zura and Gintoki, doesn't want to see the hurt that's bound to be carved all over their faces.
But Takasugi's voice is a harsh command, compelling him to fix his gaze upon the shorter man. His arm is still spread, frozen in its arc. His eyes are sharper and more dangerous than any blade he has ever pointed at Tatsuma.
"Pick. It. Up."
Tatsuma exhales slowly. He places his hand on the weight in his lap and slowly tries to raise it. The metal hits the ground.
He leans down, healing ribs pressing daggers against his lungs.
His fingers barely lift the hilt before pain lances through his wrist. The katana falls with a resounding thud, the steel vibrating.
Splotches of red bloom across white bandages.
He bites his lip in frustration, tastes salt on his tongue.
Takasugi growls. "Pathetic."
He tears the canvas aside as he stalks out of the tent.
Zura rushes over, pity carving lines into his forehead.
"Ignore him, he's just—"
"Justified in his anger and royally pissed off?"
Zura gives him a wan smile. His gaze drifts to Tatsuma's arm. "May I?"
"As if I can stop you."
Zura looks at him sheepishly, fingers already at the edges of his bandages.
As the wrappings fall away, the damage is slowly revealed. Tatsuma's yet to assess it, consciousness flickering in and out when he'd first gotten it treated.
It's bad.
Viscous yellow stretches between his skin and the bandages like waxy strings; the light tugs Zura does to sever the connections make Tatsuma hiss through gritted teeth. Stitches pull together his tanned skin, contrasting with pink, slowly healing flesh in between that falls into a chasm of deep red, small beads of blood bubbling out.
Zura stands to call for supplies but a younger soldier rushes in with them already cradled in his arms along with a basin of steaming water. Zura thanks him then turns and raises the basin triumphantly.
Tatsuma sighs and raises his left arm in surrender.
Zura kneels in front of him again and squeezes the excess water from a cloth. He brings it up over Tatsuma's broken skin, drops of water falling into the crevice carved from his wrist to just below his elbow.
Tatsuma watches Zura's muscles twitch as the cloth hovers over his arm. He's failing to maintain a face of composure; Tatsuma can see the creases between his brows.
Slowly, Tatsuma brings up his other arm, places his palm on top of Zura's and gently guides it down until the cloth presses into his flesh.
It is Zura who shudders at the contact.
"Does it hurt?"
It should.
His arm has been carved open, nerve endings exposed. He should be jerking away from the lightest brushes of Zura's calloused fingers, hissing at the warmth of the water slipping into the wound's deep fissure, but he barely feels anything.
He shakes his head.
Zura grimaces.
Tatsuma hates it.
"Maybe I should have died."
There's a dull feeling of pressure against his wound — Zura's grip is tight. "Don't say that."
"You would be better off. I'm basically dead weight now. A burden. At least my death could have rallied the men — a martyr against the callous malice of the enemy!" His attempt to be grandiose crumbles at the grave look on Zura's face.
"Don't. Don't say your death is worth more than your life. You will never be a burden."
"The blood soaking your hands right now begs to differ."
"Tatsuma—"
The tent shudders. Their gazes turn to the other youth in the tent. Tatsuma had forgotten he was there.
Gintoki raises his head and trepidation spikes in Tatauma's sternum.
"I'm gonna kill him."
"Don't be stupid." It slips from his throat, urgent and afraid.
Because he's seen them fight, has seen them tear their clothes to shreds and pull out matted clumps of hair. Has seen them dig fangs into skin and cut close to arteries with practised ease.
Always fighting with killing intent, but never with the desire to sate it.
But there had been something dark and cold in Gintoki's voice, nothing like his usual outbursts of hollow anger. It was heavy and sharp, like the blades of the Shiroyasha.
And it scares him.
Gintoki fixes lazy, red eyes on him. He looks bored, body leaning against one of the tent's wooden posts.
Tatsuma knows better.
Gintoki is simmering, body vibrating minutely with barely controlled rage.
Gintoki takes a breath. It sounds like wind cutting through dead trees.
"Idiots who destroy their ability to be a warrior in a war don't get to say that to me."
He exits the tent, steps slow and measured. He takes the air with him, like a cloak, and Tatsuma finds it difficult to breathe.
Zura silently returns to treating Tatsuma's wound, hands quick but gentle. When he is satisfied the bandages are securely in place, Zura pats his arm and stands.
"Come on, let's get some fresh air."
~~~
The sun is completing its daily journey across the sky when Gintoki returns, blood dripping from saturated hair and clothes. Takasugi, surprisingly, is at his side, looking just as gruesome, a glare carved onto his face. He grunts in greeting before trudging off to clean up.
Zura watches him go, concern darkening his gaze, before turning back to Gintoki. He quietly asks, "Are you alright?"
Gintoki scoffs. "Of course. It isn't mine." He spits out a wad of mangled meat. His teeth are stained a multitude of colours Tatsuma has learned to call blood.
Corpse-eating demon, Tatauma's brain supplies.
Zura tsks and reaches out to wipe at Gintoki's face. Gintoki bats his hand away, huffing in annoyance. Zura sighs, exasperated, and folds his arms, expression hardening into that of a general.
"Are you satisfied?"
Gintoki tugs at pieces of flesh in his hair, hissing when they get tangled in his curls. Tatsuma thinks he's trying to hide his eyes behind his bloody locks.
"No."
Gintoki flicks the pieces he manages to yank out to the ground. "The bastard wasn't there."
Tatsuma's stomach twists. They look like this because of him. They look like this for him.
He's not even worth it.
"Hey—"
"Here. Use it."
Gintoki lightly shoves cold metal against Tatsuma's chest. He curls his right hand around it, to Zura's chagrin.
The shape is foreign. Two rough rectangles fused at an angle. Yet, he knows this shape.
Has watched limbs tighten around its soft firm grip. Seen fingers curl around its small, metal trigger.
Stared down its dark cylinder before feeling the air warp around his face as lead and steel grazed his cheek.
"A gun."
Gintoki nods slowly.
Tatsuma's wrist throbs as he holds it, the heaviness similar to the dead weight he feels in his chest.
"You can keep fighting." Gintoki's eyes are a dull red, but quietly focused on Tatsuma.
He can stay. They want him to stay.
It should ease the pain in his chest, but his bandaged arm reminds him that his honour as a swordsman, a samurai, is lost forever.
He lets out a breath, a ghost of a laugh. "I don't even know how to use it."
"You will. You're a fast learner."
"But—"
"He'll turn up sooner or later so just—" Gintoki's hand hovers over Tatsuma's shoulder then quickly retreats. He curls it into a bloody fist as he walks past him. "Just stay."
Gintoki melts into the bustle of men going about their respective routines.
Running through sparring drills. Moving boxes of provisions where needed. Tending to the injured. Burning the dead.
Two arms. Two hands. Ten fingers.
Tatsuma looks away.
The sky is quiet, gentle orange fading into deep blue blemished by soft, pale clouds.
Beyond that sky is the home of all the Amanto currently on Earth. Beyond that sky there is so much unknown, so much yet to be explored.
So much freedom.
"What would you do, if you suddenly fell into the sky?"
Zura's eyes flick to him, confusion furrowing his brow, before he tilts his head up, contemplating.
"I… I don't know."
Tatsuma hums.
"I think I'd let myself keep falling."
~~~
The sky has darkened by the time Gintoki returns to camp.
Tatsuma tracks his movements towards their tent. His steps are slow and weary, as if weighted down by phantom blood on his skin. They lock eyes across the grounds, but Gintoki quickly looks away. He rakes a hand through his hair before slipping into their tent.
It causes a pang in Tatsuma's chest, and so he looks to Zura. He's frowning, tutting and muttering under his breath.
"Honestly, you three are such a handful."
"You say that like you aren't the exact same."
Zura chuckles softly, the sound soothing the knot between Tatsuma's ribs.
Tatsuma sweeps his gaze towards their lulling camp, men now resting in their tents, with only the first lookouts of the night still outside.
It's quiet; hazy.
If only their nights were always like this.
Warmth blooms on the small of his back. Zura nods his head towards their tent and gently pushes Tatsuma forward.
At the rustling of the tent flap, Takasugi and Gintoki look over. Tatsuma resists the urge to squirm and hide his arm under their gaze.
They've taken one side of the tent, quietly keeping to their own pockets of space. Zura raises an eyebrow, but makes no comment.
He nudges Tatsuma to their side, then brings their thinning futons together. Zura lays down, giving Tatsuma the side that allows space for his injured arm to breathe.
They each make rough sounds of goodnight before Katsura blows out the lamp and engulfs them in darkness.
Tatsuma stares at a square of starry sky through a hole in the tent. Something swells up from his chest, clogging his throat; he bites his lip as tears quietly slip down his cheeks.
He's a line of tension as he tries to keep still, listening to the breathing of the other three slowly even out. Eventually he lets out a shuddering breath into the night and closes his eyes.
In the darkness, he feels Zura lace their fingers together and squeeze. He stops twitching.
His right arm throbs in response, slow and languid, and soon, the world slips away into oblivion.
There's a difference when holding a gun.
The distance the weapon offers means there's a delay between the release of a bullet and its deadly impact; a string of life pulled taut before he severs it.
It also means he doesn't have to bathe in waves of terror before he cuts an enemy down.
His arm has started hurting less since he gave up the sword. Yet the ache in his heart continues to be a heavy weight.
It aches because he had it. The man who had everything finally had the one thing he truly wanted, and it was wrenched from his bloody fingers, his arms useless in holding it tight.
And he lost it while lying on a fucking sick bed, right arm dangling to the side, pus oozing from his wound as another soldier tried to clean it up (the bandages always hang too loose now, not like when they did it). Lost it due to his stupidity at trying to fight without it being fully healed, getting it reinfected for no reason and putting himself out of commission.
He lost it the day three pieces of his soul left for revenge and never came back.
He won't deny his feelings of betrayal. He can't. It's obvious in his laugh, loud and empty, when he sees other soldiers look at him with reverence and pity. It's clear when he hears whispers among them that the Dragon of Katsurahama is a trader first, a soldier second; they won't survive this war if the Four Heavenly Kings are not together.
Betrayal bleeds through his body as he fights and kills and desperately, desperately looks for them. Looks for a glimpse of deep, purple stormclouds, of smokescreens and smoky hair, of a white, blood-stained blade.
Tatsuma remains alone.
He's guiding rowboats full of scavenged supplies from a recent shipwreck back to shore, when a group of soldiers make their way down the rocky beach to greet him.
"Sakamoto-san?"
He forces a smile on his face as he turns to the group. "Yes?"
He doesn't want this.
They're staring at him with so much hope, so much dependence it makes him feel like dying.
"Will we be getting more supplies soon?"
"There'll be a trade in two days' time. For now, we can salvage what we can here."
"Sakamoto-san? The foodstocks are running low again."
"Ah again?" He takes stock of the crates, wood waterlogged and rotting. He tries not to frown, but it's unlikely any food would've survived drowning. "I'll send out a squad tomorrow to head to the nearest village. We can use whatever valuables we've got to barter."
He watches their shoulders slump, their eyes dull ever so slightly.
Gods, he wants to cry, just crumple onto the dirt and disappear. He's so tired.
So tired of watching men die when he can do nothing. So tired of watching bodies being thrown into ditches and burned, the stench of roasting carcasses filling the air.
His nose burns as he vomits onto the sand.
Curdled chunks splash against his boots, seeping into the rocks below.
He takes a breath, then heaves for a second time.
He coughs once his stomach has finished upending itself. He wipes his mouth, then looks up at his men, at the worry poorly hidden in their eyes.
He laughs. Laughs in the obnoxious way that has the soldiers sighing in fond exasperation, small chuckles scattering away the tension before they help him lug their findings back to camp.
Throwing up his guts is definitely the better option. It's something expected, a small shred of familiarity amidst the turmoil.
But the feeling hurts now, the acidic pressure of their expectations of him to lead, to keep them alive until the end presses down until he can barely breathe.
He doesn't think he can do this alone.
He knows he can't do this alone.
But what else can he do?
It's been half a year.
They're losing. Miserably.
Their numbers are culled with each passing day. Morale is so low that not even his bravado and skills to provide strong sake are enough to lift the curtain of hopelessness hanging over the troops.
Tatsuma clenches his fist and pain flares from his wrist to his elbow. Fire licks along his scarring skin, embers crackling.
It's frustrating to know that he's not good enough to lead. He's not good enough to fight. He's not good enough if he's the only piece left of a fine-tuned unit.
He is just not enough.
The night is cold as he stalks up a hill, the gloomy mumbles of the remaining men fading into the wind.
The climb is steep. His leg muscles voice their displeasure with each trembling step. He places his hands on the ground in front of him to steady himself and electricity lances through his right arm.
He glares at the offending limb, the scarring tissue a taunting reminder of what he has become.
Then, he sees one. A cog from a machine that hasn't moved in months.
He's sitting on a rickety roof, white cloth shining in the moonlight.
Tatsuma calls out to him, relief and joy welling up within him, threatening to burst through the cracks in his soul.
The desolate look in the other man's eyes causes him to falter.
Gintoki's not the same. There's something broken inside him, like a piece of him was wrenched out, leaving him hollow.
Tatsuma carefully clambers up to settle beside him, and simply sits.
Because he can't help, no matter how much he wants to. He's an outsider to this part of the story.
Always has been.
For a while, there is nothing but the distant crackles of fading fires. Dead winds rouse grass corpses, their empty husks hissing at the disturbance.
Tatsuma grits his teeth in frustration as he watches the stars slowly rotate in the silence. He turns to snap at Gintoki, to yell at him to say something, anything .
Then Gintoki exhales, and it's so devoid of will that it dampens his rage.
But the flames in his chest flare back up because after everything they've gone through, Gintoki won't let himself be supported by Tatsuma. Not properly.
Still doesn't consider him worthy to shoulder this burden.
"Why? Why didn't you ask me to come with you or at least tell me what was going on?'
"What's there to say?"
He grabs Gintoki's collar and pulls. Gintoki comes willingly, body limp. They would be nose to nose if Gintoki would just look at him.
Sparks burst in Tatsuma's chest.
"You're seriously gonna act like this? You three disappear without a word leaving me to lead everyone on my own without even knowing where the fuck you are, and you're just gonna show up like it's nothing?!"
There's a flicker of heat in Gintoki's voice as he grinds out, "If you know, you'll leave!"
White floods Tatsuma's brain.
"Bullshit. You are the ones that left me. And I'm leaving anyway so what does it matter?!".
Finally, finally, those dead eyes snap to look at him. What he sees surprises Tatsuma.
They're wide, shock and confusion blending together. But there's panic there, red flitting over Tatsuma's face.
"You— You're… what?"
He loosens his grip on Gintoki's collar. He gives him a small smile, the muscles in his face aching from the forced use.
"I'm leaving. The war, Earth. I'm going to space."
He's finally spoken it aloud.
It leaves him like an exhale; precise; definitive.
Gintoki doesn't move.
To anyone else, they'd think he was frozen, the gentle breeze the only thing breaking the illusion.
But Tatsuma isn't anyone else.
He sees the muscles twitch in Gintoki's arms. He sees the miniscule way Gintoki's brows slide closer together ever so slightly. Sees the way his throat bobs as he swallows.
"Why?" It's barely a whisper.
"I have no place here anymore. I never really had one in the first place."
"That's not true." Gintoki says it so quickly, so firmly, Tatsuma wants to believe it.
He shakes his head. "But it is. I can't lead. I can't even fight the way I'm supposed to. I'm not like you three. I never was."
"Why do you— why should you be like—" Gintoki's hands clench on air, the strain in his voice climbing higher and higher—
He uncurls his fingers. The storm brewing around him vanishes. His face becomes impassive, his eyes shadowed.
"Your arm is still giving you trouble."
It's a cheap attempt at redirecting the conversation, but Tatsuma's hand instinctively covers his forearm, the tattered tendons beneath jumping under his touch.
Still so weak.
He laughs. It's barely even a breath.
"It lets me do what I need to."
Gintoki looks away.
A strange feeling blooms in Tatsuma's chest, something raw and desperate, forcing its way out in the form of three simple words:
"Come with me."
"What?"
With one rush of wind between lips, Tatsuma is yanked down from whatever strange cloud he had been floating on.
And yet.
"To space. Come with me."
Gintoki looks down, a silver curtain covering his face. "I...can't."
"Why not?"
"I just can't ok?!"
"Of course," Tatsuma laughs bitterly, "You'll always choose them over me."
He gasps as air forces itself against his lungs. Gintoki has a forearm pressed into Tatsuma's chest, face twisted into something akin to pain.
"Don't— Don't you ever say that."
Tatsuma scoffs. "Why not? It's true. I'm offering you a way out and yet you'll let me leave and you'll stay behind."
"You think I want you to leave you big idiot?!"
They're so close. He can feel Gintoki's breath, small and rapid against his cheeks.
A drop of rain hits his face.
Then another. And another.
One slides down into the corner of his mouth. He flicks out his tongue to taste it.
Salty.
He focuses his gaze on eyes the colour of dried blood, at the glass that continues to fall from them. The shards land on his face, sliding down his cheeks as if they were his own tears.
He blinks, shocked.
"Kin—"
Gintoki collapses on top of him. "Use my real name dammit."
Gintoki's body is tense, quivering from his stubborn refusal to acknowledge he's crying.
Tatsuma tentatively places a hand on Gintoki's head. Gintoki's body locks up, but, to his surprise, Gintoki doesn't pull away.
Instead he burrows into Tatsuma's neck, taking aborted breaths against his collarbone, and Tatsuma remembers with a start that Gintoki is the youngest of them, still a child on the cusp of adulthood.
You don't belong here either.
They lie in silence, save for the rustling of clothes and quiet, staccato sniffles, until a rough, watery voice makes its way into Tatsuma's ears.
"He's gone, our sensei. We lost him."
Tatsuma's pulse jumps.
"I killed him."
His hand stills on top of Gintoki's head, breath caught in his throat.
"It was him or them. I barely thought about it. He looked at me like he chose for me — like my oath to him chose for me — but I know I decided first. What kind of… student does that make me?"
Tatsuma listens to the wind, feels it snake into the pockets of space between them.
He searches for the right words to say to use as a balm for Gintoki's agony. But everything that surfaces turns to rust on his tongue.
Gintoki coughs into the crook of Tatsuma's neck.
"You remind me of him. Sometimes."
"In a good way, I hope," Tatsuma blurts out.
Gintoki laughs weakly, a small flicker of life. "Yes in a good way."
There's a tightness in Tatsuma's chest. He feels untethered, slowly drifting into a hole of loss for a man he's never met.
"I'd have liked to meet him."
Gintoki's fists twist into the fabric of Tatsuma's collar.
"I think he would've liked to meet you too."
Quiet settles over them. Sounds seem far away in Tatsuma's ears, barely perceptible things on the other side of the bubble surrounding him and Gintoki.
One of his hands finds a steady rhythm along the line of Gintoki's spine and the tension slowly drains from the other youth's body.
Tatsuma allows himself to feel Gintoki's weight on top of him, feel his warmth seep into his skin. Each inhale carries the scent of metal and earth. He feels grounded as he stares up at infinity, something he hasn't felt for a long time.
The sky ripples.
"Hey." He whispers it into Gintoki's hair.
Gintoki grunts a non-response.
Tatsuma jostles him a little. "Come on, look, the stars are falling."
Gintoki twists his head a ridiculous amount to look at where Tatsuma is pointing. The position has Gintoki's cheek squished against Tatsuma's chest — Tatsuma smiles at the strangely adorable sight.
"Cool. So what?" Gintoki mumbles, voice distorted from his position. He returns to his refuge against the curve of Tatsuma's neck.
"Make a wish."
Gintoki scoffs. "There's nothing and no one up there who'll listen to the wishes of men like us."
"Perhaps." Tatsuma cards his fingers through liquid silver, imagining he can pluck the falling starlight from the sky and weave it into Gintoki's hair. "But I'm still making one."
"Of course you are," Gintoki grumbles, but the intended bite of the words lacks the necessary rough edges.
Gintoki rolls off Tatsuma and onto his back. The wind replaces his warmth with a frigid blanket.
"Well, what is it? Something stupid like money and booze? Possibly a harem?" Gintoki wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Tatsuma places his hands on his chest, mock offence on his face. "Kin-chan how superficial and positively depraved."
Gintoki snorts at that, head shaking. Tatsuma snickers before the sound trails off into the night.
"I wish for happiness. Including yours, Gintoki."
That's what he says out loud.
What he doesn't say is that he prays with his entire being that the stars grace Gintoki with happiness. That the earth eventually becomes soft and kind to his wandering feet. That one day he is surrounded by loved ones who don't wield him as a weapon, that allow him to live.
And if he prays for something similar for himself? Well, that's between him and the stars.
Gintoki's eyes are wide, blood-red rubies glittering under the starlight. Then he shoves Tatsuma's shoulder.
"Disgusting. Lame. You haven't even gotten up there yet but your head's already exploded from the lack of oxygen."
Tatsuma rubs the back of his neck, chuckling softly. "You know I've always been a dreamer."
Gintoki looks at him with something soft and fond in his eyes that makes Tatsuma's chest squeeze tight. "Yeah that's true."
They lie still for a little longer, the silence between them more comforting. But Tatsuma knows if he doesn't pull himself out of Gintoki's orbit right now he'll never leave.
He pushes himself up off the roof, a dull knife pricking his right arm.
"Well, I guess I'll be going. Better make my swan song a good one."
"They still need you."
It's you they need, he wants to say, but he doesn't want this final moment to end with a sour aftertaste.
"You've been away too long. I think the fighting is nearing its end. Besides, with us gone perhaps they can be spared from meaningless deaths, live to see the future, whatever it may be."
Gintoki opens his mouth, but acquiesces with a small nod of his head. Tatsuma climbs down from the roof, his feet landing on the ground with a gentle crunch.
He forces himself to take a step forward. Then another. Forces himself to resist the pull of who he's leaving behind.
"Oi. Tatsuma."
He turns to look back up at Gintoki. The moon bathes him in ethereal light, making him look more demon than man.
"You know I— I mean, that we—"
Gintoki sounds so helpless, and it's a painful victory to know that it's for him.
"Yeah. I know."
He manages another three steps before Gintoki's voice wraps around his wrist, tight and urgent.
"Wait, Tatsuma."
He turns once more.
Gintoki's hand is outstretched, as if he could close the distance between them through the sheer power of his will.
The air feels charged, the night quiet, the space they consume holding its breath.
Then he drops it, and the world sighs.
"Be careful. Out there."
Tatsuma turns and laughs. Laughs because if he does nothing he will break.
"Mn. I will."
There is a western tale that has fascinated Tatsuma ever since he heard it from a traveller who came from across the seas. A tale of a boy who yearned for too much and fell to the earth for his hubris.
But Tatsuma is not Icarus.
His wings are not wax, but a steel hull and sails replaced by energy beams. He does not succumb to the sun but ventures higher, further, until he sees a thousand suns burning in the void.
The sight is breathtaking, but it does not amaze him as he had dreamed it would.
Though it is hardly fair, considering the suns he circled on Earth. Those suns who he fought and played with, ate and slept with; slept with them under the very stars that Tatsuma could now just reach for and brush with his fingertips.
And oh how they burned him.
He still feels it, the searing heat of their hands against his skin. Their breath scorching his lungs with their shared laughter. Their warmth melting into his thinning clothes when they'd press against each other during chilly nights.
Every moment branded on his heart, alive and aching.
"Are your eyes alright?"
He startles.
"Ahahaha, sorry what was that, Mutsu?"
"Your eyes. Are they alright? You never take your shades off."
He brings a hand up to his face. "Oh. I guess I don't."
Mutsu merely stares and waits for him to offer an answer.
He leans down and offers her a smirk. "Isn't bargaining easier when your eyes can't be read?"
It's miniscule, a twitch, but he sees her eyebrows draw together before smoothing out into her usual bored appearance.
"Ah, is that so? Well, I hope it doesn't affect anything."
"Ahahaha of course not! If anything, they probably make me more suave and mysterious!"
Mutsu gives him another deadpan stare before making her way to the ship's common room.
He's not lying. Being a trader means keeping your cards close to your chest. Concealing every emotional tell naturally gives you a more advantageous hand.
Nor is he telling the truth. He's skilled enough to mask his emotions even without the glasses. It's what's in his heart that he can't conceal.
He longs for home, even after building one amongst the supernovae in the abyss. Not that he dislikes it — it's overflowing with material riches and adventure, bursting with life in spite of the darkness.
But he yearns for one that is moored and tethered, not just drifting at the mercy of his whims. He yearns for the place he once thought would always harbour him.
A beeping on the ship's interface pulls him out of his thoughts. A glance down tells him they are nearing their destination.
He sets his steel gaze onto their next planet. Its two shades off the blue and green that he cherishes.
The skin of his right arm itches, not sitting perfectly over the mangled muscle below. He presses the fingers of his left against his wrist. The pulse below is still slow, still sluggish, faint pop pop pops of life to a barely functioning limb.
Someday. Someday he would dock at that place once more. Someday he would return to lands and arms wide open and welcoming.
Once a galaxy is formed, everything that orbits each other is bound to meet again eventually.
He sails on.