Breathe for the First Time Now, I Come Alive Somehow

He was heavy, lonely, cloaked in shadows and unable to move. There was no cause for it, truly; he felt like nothing more than compressed energy bound to body, a solitary life-force tethered to something worldly, the limbs of this cage of skin and bone bound closely by the compressing forces of stone.

(His form was encased in a solid rush of crystal, suspending it above the cave floor and rendering him immobile, untouchable, almost nonexistent. A haunting figure trapped by lightning-blue semiprecious stone, held upright in an endless sleep only by the strength of the cave.)

There was no time in this forgotten place, no source of chronology, no sun to warm the surface and no moon to call him home. Lightning flashed far outside – a cry to battle, a call to arms – and the essence twitched, expanded, reached out with searching tendrils of energy –

But there were walls of flesh that no longer moved with him, blood suspended within that no longer thrummed with the force of his power. He was lost here, wrapped up too tightly and growing endlessly restless.

(Who knew how long he'd been in here, pulsing softly and exploring his cage, recognizing the body but unable to place it?)

As far as he could tell, ages had passed by the time he started to remember things. The reminiscences had originally come in flashes, bursts of colors and flames and a heat that had, if he recalled correctly, struck him to his very inner core. He remembered thunderbolts, sure and strong. He remembered a force at his back, a seething sky above him, an endless world all around. He remembered a rising sun, flashing blades and gleaming stars, sakura trees and a warm, solid hand gripping his own.

Sometimes, if he pushed hard enough, he could hear voices. Often, they were cruel, things like dark laughter and biting words, screams of pain and wails of terror. He listened to the sounds of death and war and pulsed violently in response, blue-white energy struggling to overcome the onslaught of the things he didn't want to remember.

(Sometimes, if he really pushed, he could hear better things. A stern voice masking fatherly pride, the unified chants of an army before a glorious charge, the strident roar of a worthy opponent just before their weapons clashed. A soft whisper against forgotten skin, a gentle murmur next to his ear, a broken cry of indefinable ecstasy.)

It wasn't long before the visions became more consistent, the memories lingering in his mind with gradually increasing clarity. Through these patterned recollections, he reacquainted himself with the scarred man, the protective, indomitable one, admiring his prowess and feeling strangely safe while remembering him. He rediscovered the tendencies of his fellow generals – how he knew his own rank, he wasn't sure, but it felt right to think it – impressed by the white-haired pirate and his stoic, green-cloaked rival. There were many others who passed through his thoughts – an army dressed in blue, a tall brute of a man with a great axe, a quiet swordsman on a white horse, even a cheerful vagabond and a variety of ninjas that flickered like shadows at the edges of consciousness – but never the one he sought most.

(Never the one who brought the warmth he so longed for, never the one with the voice that sang with the strength of a thousand men, never the one that made him feel as though he'd once had a greater purpose than just being trapped here, ignorant of the world outside of this prison but unable to reach beyond his own memories.)

There were some things he knew implicitly, at least. All the fighting and the shouting and the sounds of shrieking steel had to point to isomething/i of a non-peaceful existence. Those in his memories would say things to him, names, phrases, honorifics – The Tiger of Kai, the War God of Echigo, the One-Eyed Dragon of Oshu – and he had learned which ones referred to him and which ones pointed distinctly to others. Gradually, the pieces began to fall together, painting a broader picture than he had ever previously imagined, a glorious work of art that came alive in his sleepless dreams. He longed for the world outside his prison, the power he'd once possessed, the freedom he'd once claimed.

But there was still something missing, something very important. He clung almost frantically to the hints of its existence – a bright voice, a passionate blaze, a gentle touch – desperate for some sort of solid contact, for a realization, a vision, anything. There was a dark space where that something should be, a gaping wound blasted into his heart that made his very essence ache with an indescribable yearning. He needed to remember them.

(He needed to get out. The more and more he saw, the more and more convinced he became that he had to get out.)

The memories had ceased for a brief period of time when he had the first vision.

It was clearer than any of the other previous recollections had been, with sharper colors and images in high-resolution. Thunderclouds blotted out the skies, forked bolts of lightning flickering ominously along the mottled blackness overhead. Rain poured down in torrential sheets, icy drops striking his form and chilling him to the bone.

(This was the first time that he'd actually been present in one of his visions. He'd always seen them from a distance in the past, merely an observer of personal events long-since transpired, listening more than watching and unable to discern many of the specifics through the haze over his internal line of sight. But this time he wasn't just witnessing it. This time, he was living it.)

Agony lanced through his limbs, driving him to the ground, knees crashing into the mud and leaden arms barely moving in time to break his face-first fall. Dimly, he heard voices crying out, the mixed tones of shock and fear settling like a rock in his stomach and he struggled to rise, to reassure them, to beat the pain and exhaustion that was making his vision swim and threatened to knock him into the dirt.

A presence drew closer, thrumming with life and familiarity. Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him up, the warmth seeping into his veins and strained muscles, and someone called out close to his him. Softly. Gently. Worriedly, the timbre of their voice suiting the nature of their touch –

(And oh, it was the one that he'd been searching for!)

Sleek brown hair spilled over his shoulder in a long ponytail and a familiar coin necklace hung loosely around his neck. His red clothes, although drenched, were bright against the forlorn backdrop of the battlefield – oh, but his eyes! Alive and warm, they stood out from the boy's drawn and worried face.

He frowned. Well that wasn't right. There should be a bright smile where that concerned frown was, he was sure of it. Without thinking – and now he realized that because he was living this, his thoughts did not always correlate with his pre-determined words and movements – he closed the short distance between them and kissed him, if only to steal that fear away for a moment.

The other held him tightly, kissing back with the exact level of ferocity that he'd been expecting, that he'd been craving; it was all he could do to just hang on in his horrifically weakened state, gripping the red warrior's arms and trembling at the force he felt behind the contact of their mouths.

All too soon though, he had to pull away.

"We have to go." He rasped, and the other's brown eyes widened with shock.

"But – "

"Now." He cut in, voice uneven with fatigue. "I'm not...I'm not going to make it. We have to go."

The worry morphed into full-blown pain and the red warrior tore his gaze away, gritting his teeth in agonized frustration.

"Alright. Let us retrieve Katakura and be on our way then."

The vision left him raw and wounded, his soul aching with some kind of indescribable, unnamed yearning. He wanted to see his face again, feel his touch lingering upon imaginary skin. He remembered things now, all about him – a bright smile, his boundless enthusiasm, the bright blush that would dust his boyish features.

(A passionate kiss, his fiery touch, the endless rush that pulled them ever-closer and left them both breathless when they finally came together.)

The desire became unbelievable, an agonizing tug on his spirit that drained him of his energy. He couldn't stand it anymore. He had to escape. The overwhelming, absolute need to see them all again, to use this body he was trapped inside of, to live like he knew he once had before...before...

How had he gotten in here?

That was the one thing his recollections had never alluded to, not until the vision, anyway. Prior to that, he'd been left completely in the dark – literally – unaware of the events that had led up to his imprisonment and unable to fill in the gaps.

But then the vision had come, clear and powerful, and he started to put it all together.

(Clearly, he'd been injured. But what for? And why put him here? Why cage his very being within something that was supposed to assist him in life? Why isolate his being from his body in the first place? Why take him away from those who cared about him? Why keep him here?)

The second vision came soon after, not a continuation of the first but important all the same. Again, it was intense, clear as day; the feelings that swept through him were stronger than any pulse he had ever tried to emit in his prison. Connected to his humanity, he felt everything.

(And there was so much more to feel this time around.)

While the first vision had been pain, the second was pleasure. It was the red warrior leaning over him, strong hands fisted in the front of his clothes, mouth hungry and desperate against his own. It was him reaching out only to have the other stay his hand, brown eyes sad but determined and so full of love that he forgot how to breathe. It was beauty in long hair spilled over bronzed shoulders, perfection in the arch of his own back as the other pushed against him, bliss in the soft cries that tore their way from both of their throats. He trusted the other, and so let him lead; there was majesty and luminosity and a helpless finality.

(Fingers in his hair, wrapped around his wrists, trailing up and down his sides and leaving fiery ribbons of delight in their wake, making him shudder and twist and arch beneath the other, voice scratched raw with heaving breaths.)

"Sh-shit," he panted, the words foreign yet familiar on his tongue. "R-Red..."

"Listen to me," the red warrior murmured, meeting his gaze with determined brown eyes. "I know...how this is going to end...as all things must."

"You think I fucking planned this?" the other managed. He hadn't asked for this, not once; who would want something that would inevitably kill them, no matter the power within their grasp? He would be obligated to fulfill a duty without his consent, something that he was stronger than, something that he would never do otherwise. Of all the times to fall in love...just when he was about to have to give it all up.

And for what? Everything, it seemed, but the things that he wanted, the things that he had built his life around. His country. His home. His friends and allies. It hurt just thinking about it, just considering a future where everything had been saved, but only briefly. Who is to decide how long peace lasts? Who is to decide how it all ends? The world could burn mere days after his sacrifice, and what could he do then? Nothing. Locked away, essence bled into eternity, he could do nothing. It was desperately hopeless.

He hated it.

"...Masamune."

He startled, inner thoughts reeling at the sudden breach of reality even as the being in the vision acknowledged the address. That was his name. That was his name.

He remembered now.

Something crashed in the distance, a clap of thunder, a scream of lightning, a roaring pull of wind and power and the vision shattered like glass and hearts and a no longer solid wall of crystal and he felt himself falling, falling –

It was not the cold stone floor that he landed on, nor was it the endless rush of oblivion that he almost feared. His essence twitched questioningly, pulsing blue and confused – and then there was a rush of pain, one very nearly akin to what he'd felt before his fall. His mind was racing, scenes playing out before his eyes – the trek to the mist-shrouded mountaintop cave, the red warrior leading the way and looking back as though to make sure he was still standing, the scarred man catching and supporting him when he finally did collapse, his own hands, bloodied and shaking, clinging to the stone platform inside the cave, someone's stronger arms around him and always guarding his back, one last burning kiss from someone else before the finality overtook him – and he could hear voices, words and sounds like the ones from his visions.

"Are we too late?"

"No...no we aren't. He's here."

He wanted to speak but couldn't, the pain was still lancing through his limbs and rendering him incapable save for a few pathetic pulses of his soul. He felt like he was being stretched, like he was being ripped apart to fill a new shape, like there wasn't enough of him to support whatever he was meant to really be but he had to –

He felt his fingers twitch and suddenly the pain began to ebb. One of the voices gasped and he felt them move against him – they were holding him tightly like he might slip away again, an arm around his waist and their chest pushed against his shoulder, supporting him. Another presence was close; dimly, he registered their hand on his other shoulder, always grounding him, always steadying him.

It felt like home.

"K-"

It was a horrible noise that tore its way out of his throat rather than someone's name, and he cursed himself inwardly even as the others' breaths caught, momentarily stalling the one's chest and causing the one he was trying to address to stiffen up, his hand gripping tighter in apprehension.

"K-Kojuurou?" he managed, and the twin exhales of relief told him everything he needed to know. His senses were returning now; he could smell the dampness of the cave, could clearly hear the drops of rain striking the rocks outside, and he could – he could –

At first, all he could see was red.

It was like a fire had embraced him, lighting the blood in his veins to a roaring fury of life, sending thrills of energy and power through his aching limbs and frozen heart. The warmth here was familiarity, the heat here was a promise that spoke of rivalry and futurity and eternity. The red was a bond, a tie, an endless link that lingered in his vision and rendered him utterly breathless with its singularity. There was nothing else that it could be, no one else that it could belong to.

And suddenly, there he was, just as vibrant and blazing in clarity as he remembered, hands strong against his shoulders and brown eyes staring deep into his soul.

"Masamune?"

That voice...that was his name, and his own dry throat worked as he struggled to speak the one thing that he had been held from until now.

"Yukimura..."