If bees only gathered nectar from perfect flowers,
they wouldn't be able to make even a single drop of honey.
-Matshona Dhliwayo
Someone has been washing Yamanbagiri's cloak.
It's been going on for weeks. He knows that he should have noticed sooner. Fabric doesn't just start smelling nice on its own, as Horikawa has kindly reminded him whenever he's moping about the Kunihiro room. It feels nicer than it used to as well, his hood soft against his cheeks whenever he sinks into it for self defence. It was during one of these moments that he first realised that something is going on.
Horikawa is his first suspect. His brother is always so neat and tidy that it seems natural. He won't just ask though, that would be far too embarrassing, and then he would have to admit that he has only just noticed. How long has this been going on, anyway? He's never thought of himself as a deep sleeper. Horikawa is sneaky, though, can move without sound if we wants to.
It has to be Horikawa. Yamanbagiri vows to stay awake all night to catch him in the act. He only hopes that once he does he'll be brave enough to ask him to stop.
It's not that it doesn't feel nice. It's... frighteningly pleasant, when he thinks about. And that's the point, really. He doesn't deserve it. He half considers just not wearing the cloak for a few days but the possibility that this is all part of the plan is very real.
He's not going to give up the cloak. No way. But he's not going to let anyone keep looking after him, either. He'll roll in mud every day if he has to. That'd show Horikawa to stop being so considerate and to worry about himself for a change.
Yeah. That'll do it.
His mind is full of resolve as he settles down for the evening, turning to face the door so that his brothers can't see that he's not really sleeping. The waiting begins. It's going to be a long night but at least his bed is comfortable.
The cloak is really, very, wonderfully soft against his cheek. For the last night, though. It would be rude to not enjoy it just a little...
The sound of the shoji sliding closed wakes him up. He's sure he had only blinked but the room is fully dark and the quiet is that special, soft kind that only comes in the middle of the night. There is no-one in the doorway, no shadow he can recognise. He raises his head a fraction, moving the cloak and sending a burst of fresh scent into the air.
It smells like flowers, like morning, like sunshine. He inhales deeply.
Oh. I slept through it again.
He has never realised how much noise he makes when turning over. The sheets rustle and the floorboards creak and he managed to get caught up in his clothing on the way. By the time he has managed to turn back to the face the rest of the room he's sure he's awoken the whole citadel, shouldn't have expected anything less. Horikawa's the one who's good with stealth. Not him, not a fake who needs looking after, not a-
Horikawa is sleeping across the way from him, arms flung out across his own covers. Beyond him, Yamabushi is snoring enthusiastically.
This is bad. Worse than he had thought. If his brothers aren't the ones cleaning his cloak then who? Who would even dream of going to so much effort for someone like him? He knows it's not aruji, everyone knows that their master doesn't do their own laundry. Another sword, then. He lists names and faces, not coming up with a single candidate that makes sense. No one likes speaking with him for long. He doesn't blame them. Yamanbagiri doesn't like his own company either.
His opinions of himself aside, someone has been looking out for him and he's really not okay with that. He's going to have to try harder.
"You should really come to bed, you know..."
"I don't need to."
"It's going to get cold out here over night."
"Outside is fine for a replica like me."
It's the next night and Yamanbagiri has commandeered Horikawa's sake jug. He's sitting on the porch just outside their room, cloak wrapped around him like a cocoon and the jug clutched against his chest. Horikawa might be stealthy but he lacks the stubbornness to rival his brother. Yamabushi gave up arguing an hour earlier.
"I'm staying out here," Yamanbagiri repeats for what feels like the thousandth time. "You should go to bed."
"I'm not leaving you out here!"
He hasn't seen Horikawa this agitated for a while. Guilt will press in on him soon – he's taken the sake for a reason after all – but he needs to remain firm. His theory runs thusly: if he doesn't sleep, then he can't sleep through his cloak being taken away. The cold and the sake and the hard wood of the porch will definitely keep him awake.
Sorry, nii-san, he thinks, burying in face in the top of the jar. I'll make it up to you once this is done.
"Izuminokami Kanesada will worry if you don't get enough sleep," he says softly, knowing it's a low blow, knowing that it will work.
It does. Less than five minutes later, Horikawa has retreated to bed and Yamanbagiri is alone on the porch.
Darkness has fallen. The night sky is lovely to look at so he makes sure to keep his eyes on the ground. Moths flutter around the torches, drawn to the warm light. He'll watch them all night if he has to. Their fluttering make strange little patterns in the air and he feels as if he can see trails behind them, delicate little paths in and out of the shadows.
The night is cool, but not too cold. The sake's good. In a bundle of cloak, he falls to the side and lets his head rest against the boards of the porch. Tonight he can smell flowers and trees and the warm, living earth.
Sleep is gentle.
Waking isn't.
"Yamanbagiri-san?"
It feels like he has a splinter in his cheek. He sits up unsteadily, the long emptied sake jug rolling away across the dirt. As he watches it escape he pulls his hood firmly down over his face. It smells like sake and the cold morning dew.
Oh. They didn't come.
He should be happy about it but a failure is a failure and he hadn't meant to fall asleep.
"Are you all right, Yamanbagiri-san?"
Staying awake shouldn't be so difficult. It's not right for him to feel comfortable and sleep so easily, not because of someone else's comfort. It's not fair, it's not proper, it's-
"Yamanbagiri Kunihiro-san?"
The third call breaks through his usual morning gloom. Someone is standing beside him. He rubs his eyes – splinters there as well, he thinks – and tries to focus.
"Kasen...san."
"Good morning."
Kasen's smile is warm and relieved at finally receiving an answer. He's tall for someone so gentle, especially from Yamanbagiri's position on the porch, but he's never found Kasen imposing. Soft lilac hair and powder blue eyes, his clothes always so neat and elegant... no, it's impossible for him to be frightening. Of all the people to find him sleeping on the porch, Kasen is probably the best option.
Yamanbagiri clears his dry throat and nods.
"Morning."
He watches as Kasen moves to retrieve the sake jug, helpless to do anything with his arms all caught up in his cloak, useless as always.
"There we go," Kasen says kindly, setting the jug down on the porch. "No harm done. Are you feeling all right?"
Yamanbagiri feels like it would be best if the ground would just open up and swallow him, if he could just disappear and stop being such a burden on everyone. He feels as if he's being pitied too much, fussed over, treated like something he's not.
He says none of this. Kasen is kind. He doesn't deserve to hear such things.
"Fine." After a moment, he adds, "thank you."
"Are you having trouble sleeping?"
Yamanbagiri considers. Falling asleep isn't a problem. Or, more accurately, falling asleep is the problem. Not wanting to go into details, he shrugs.
"I think?"
"Sake isn't the right way to go about dozing off," Kasen says with a sad smile.
When Kasen reaches out to touch Yamanbagiri's shoulder it is with a small frown and an almost imperceptible wrinkle of his nose. Ah. Of course. Someone so elegant and refined won't be used to smelling alcohol all over someone's clothes. Yamanbagiri turns away, cheeks reddening, and keeps himself still as a large hand squeezes his shoulder.
"Take care of yourself, okay?"
He doesn't look up to see Kasen's expression as he leaves. It's easier that way. Better to remain distant, to make people hate talking with him. Maybe then they'll stop worrying and wasting their energy.
He hopes so. It would be nice if no one ever spoke to him again.
Several days later, the culprit strikes again. Only this time, it's different.
He awakes to the same scent that he had been missing, the same softness against his skin, the same carefully muddied white as if whoever is doing this didn't want to hurt his eyes by making it too bright. For a time after waking he simply breathes in the scent, hating that he loves it, hating himself for being so weak. It is only when he goes to sit up that he realises what has changed since the last time.
Yamanbagiri is clumsy; everyone in the citadel knows as much. When he ties his own cloak it's with big messy knots, frayed edges and loose strings. The culprit has retied it differently, in a small and neat knot that seems decorative, almost like a linen rose. Tied into the knot is something even stranger; a small handful of flowers with bright green stems and purple tops, brushlike and delicate. As he picks them out of the knot their scent rises to greet him, a sweet but smoky smell. It's soothing, somehow. He breathes them in until his thoughts stop racing, the scent seeming to go straight from his lungs to the tightness in his chest.
He feels better and known he shouldn't. A gift? Too kind, too thoughtful. What is this person thinking, being generous like this? He doesn't deserve any of this. He should throw the flowers away and tell his brothers what has been going on, let them find whoever it is and talk them out of it. He might be a failure but surely they can sort it out?
It's tiring, worrying so much about being a burden. Regardless, he feels rested. He wonders if these small flowers are to thank.
"You've taken up flower arranging, brother? Very good, very good!"
Yamabushi is too loud. It's far too early for shouting and it's always too early for being so carefree. Yamanbagiri shakes his head and climbs out of bed, heading for the door.
"No... It's nothing."
"Flowers are nothing to be ashamed of!" Yamabushi insists. Yamanbagiri is only grateful that Horikawa has already left for his daily duties. One lot of encouragement is already more than he can bear.
"I told you, I'm not-"
"Aruji recently started growing these ones," he continues, pointing one large finger at the small sprigs in Yamanbagiri's hand. "Lavender. It's supposed to help you sleep when night time troubles you. Has it been working for you, brother?"
Yes. No. Probably. He doesn't have an answer. Nodding is easiest and so he does that before scurrying out of the room and away into the gardens. Aruji might be growing it but it's not them, it's not them, it can't be, that would be the absolute worst thing that could happen. He knows that, just like laundry, aruji never attends the flowers themselves. Someone has to be growing it, the same someone that has been wasting their time with him.
He races to the gardens, ignoring the greetings from any other swords he passes. Underneath his hood his cheeks are red and his blue eyes are wild, desperate, frightened, and he just wants all of this to be over as soon as possible.
Once he reaches the gardens, he realises that he has been being foolish. A handful of swords are working among the plants, both the flowers and the crops, and none of them are declaring themselves as the culprit. Yamanbagiri knows he should be able to work it out – people that can remove and then retie a cloak someone is sleeping in should be rare – but he honestly has no idea.
There's Kashuu, complaining about his nails but smiling as he works the earth. A few of the Toushirou tantous are laughing together near the herb garden. Tsurumaru is creeping up on them from behind a large bush. Kasen is carefully gathering berries into a basket. All good people, all kind hearts, all too good or too talented or too valuable to be wasting time with Yamanbagiri.
He drops his hand to his side, the sprigs of purple flowers hanging there limply. His only option seems to be asking people and he would rather die than do something so embarrassing. After all if someone says yes, it's me, what is he even going to do?
Hopeless. Useless. The same as always. The garden swims in his vision as tears of frustration build up in his eyes.
"Yamanbagiri-san?"
Again a soft, kind voice breaks through his melancholy. Kasen has approached and is standing beside him, bringing one hand to rest on his shoulder again. Yamanbagiri looks away, frantically pulling his hood down to cover his eyes.
"I'm fine," he lies, even though Kasen hasn't asked.
"Do you like lavender?" he asks, tactfully not commenting on the way that Yamanbagiri is shaking with the effort of not just running away. He gestures to the flowers in the other's hand, smiling. "It's becoming popular around here lately. It's supposed to aid you in falling asleep and securing pleasant dreams. Did you know that?"
Yamanbagiri shakes his head 'no' and holds the flowers up in front of him, wiping his eyes with his other hand.
"Pretty," he says vaguely, voice barely above a whisper.
"If you like it, I can show you where it grows," Kasen suggests.
Yamanbagiri follows Kasen between the vegetable patches, past the herb garden, listening to Kasen talk about flowers. He's not really paying attention but it's nice to listen anyway, to think about anything other than how stupid he feels. Kasen has a soothing voice, not like Yamabushi, and as they walk in the sunlight he calms down little by little. In the sunlight, Kasen's hair is similar to the colour of the lavender – he holds them up in front of him for comparison – and he could believe that the similarities don't end there. If he was sitting down, surely he would fall asleep if Kasen continued talking like this. He was glad to be walking, to not be allowed to enjoy that final comfort. This was bad enough.
"Here we are."
They arrive at a row of large purple bushes, sprouting upwards in all directions, the flowers swaying in the breeze. The scent is almost overpowering here but Yamanbagiri doesn't mind it at all.
"Do you like it too?" he asks when the silence stretches too long. He hopes the answer is a 'yes', at least that way Kasen can get something out of this excursion too.
"I do," Kasen replies with a smile. "And so do these little creatures."
He gestures down towards the bushes and it takes Yamanbagiri a moment to see what he means. Among the busy blooms, dozens of bumblebees are flitting back and forth. They drift from flower to flower with a gentle humming, their yellow and black bodies fuzzy and covered in pollen. Despite himself, he crouches down for a better look. He's never seen so many at once, and never ones this large. Yamanbagiri thinks that it would be nice to a bee, to just go about your business and not be forced to bear expectations, comparisons, criticisms, compliments.
"They seem happy," he says, so entranced that he forgets to pull his hood down far enough to conceal the curiosity in his eyes.
Kasen crouches next to him, setting his basket of berries down on the grass, and nods with an encouraging smile. Instead of looking at the bees, he's watching Yamanbagiri's face, the way his eyes are following the insects back and forth. H
"They're quite friendly, too," Kasen says. "Look."
He reaches out, extending a finger towards the nearest insect. Yamanbagiri tenses, almost yells at him to stop, to not interrupt. If it was anyone else he would but Kasen, who radiates knowledge and calm, Kasen must know what he's doing. Yamanbagiri watches with wide eyes as Kasen gently strokes his finger along the back of the bumblebee. It doesn't seem to mind, doesn't seem to even notice, and once Kasen moves his finger it happily flies to the next bush.
"Doesn't it... hurt?"
Yamanbagiri can't help but ask. For him, touch is a frightening thing. A hand on the shoulder, a pat on the head, an arm around his shoulders... He never invites such things and is usually left shaking afterwards. He often imagines people's hands coming away dirty when they've touched him, their own brightness sullied by his lies. Even the gentlest touch can be harmful. He looks to Kasen with worry evident in his eyes and is comforted by an apologetic smile.
"It doesn't hurt them," Kasen explains. "I didn't mean to worry you. If they're busy collecting pollen then they don't mind being petted like that, if you're gentle. Only the bumblebees, though. Honeybees are a little delicate."
"The fluffy ones... right?"
He feels stupid. Fluffy is a stupid word. Why did he always-
"The fluffy ones," Kasen agrees and hearing it in his voice makes it okay somehow. "Would you like to try it?"
Yes. No. Maybe.
"I don't..."
Kasen is probably a mind reader because he understands what Yamanbagiri is trying to say where most people wouldn't. At least, it seems that way.
"You won't hurt them. Shall I help you?"
Saying 'no' is the right thing to do. So why is he nodding, letting Kasen take his hand? The other's hands are large and warm, softer than his own. Just as a sword of the arts should be. He leans closer so as to not reach too far across Yamanbagiri and he smells of the lavender and the same sweet scent that now cling to his cloak. Distracted by the way his hand is being moved closer to a particularly large bumblebee, Yamanbagiri doesn't think much of anything, not until he is touching the small fuzzy body that quivers gently beneath his fingertip.
Nothing bad happens. Once he draws back it doesn't even fly away, simply continues what it was doing. He can feel Kasen watching him but he can't stop looking at the insects.
Bees are kind. Cute, even. He sits back heavily on the grass, looking stunned.
"See?" Kasen says with a gentle laugh, one completely lacking in the malice or pity that Yamabagiri expects. "They're our friends. Well, I think of them like that."
For a time, Yamanbagiri is silent. Distantly, the other swords can be heard chattering amongst themselves, laughing, gossiping. The bees buzz to each other, busy about their work. Kasen remains silent. The minutes stretch away until Yamanbagiri can't take it any more and he speaks in a low murmur.
"Do you think it's really all right? For someone like me to do that?"
"Of course it is." The reply is instant, as if he had been preparing, as if he knows. "Why would you ask that?"
"A fake like me..." The words grate his throat as he forces them out, stick to the roof of his mouth and catch on his tongue. "They deserve better. Only real people should be allowed. I shouldn't-"
"You know, the bees don't mind what you are," Kasen says gently. "Or what you aren't. So long as you're kind and gentle."
"But I'm a-"
"A good person," Kasen finishes for him, smile fading. "The bees can see that, whatever you might say about yourself. It doesn't matter to them. Only what you are. You know, it's the same for people too."
"We're not people," Yamanbagiri whispers bitterly. "And I'm not 'good'. I'm... I mean..."
"The bees collect pollen from all sorts of flowers," Kasen says suddenly, looking back towards the bushes. His blue eyes seem brighter than before, shining in the sun. "The way they look doesn't really matter. The pollen inside is the same. We are the same, Yamanbagiri-san. I can't stand it when you say things like..."
It is Yamanbagiri who now turns away from the flowers, fixes Kasen with a confused stare. His sprigs of lavender have fallen to the grass at his side, forgotten. His thoughts are filled with anger and coldness but with kindness too, with the softness of bumblebees and the sweetness of lavender. Viewing Kasen with such eyes he can see that the other is very beautiful, more like a delicate flower than a man and nothing like that which he is, a weapon, an instrument, a tool.
Kasen is crying. Yamanbagiri feels tears on his own cheeks.
"I should go."
Before he can get to his feet, Kasen reaches for his hand. His touch is no less gentle than before and when he smiles it is as if sunlight has burst through the clouds.
"Please come here whenever you feel troubled," he says. "It soothes me. I hope it does the same for you."
Yamanbagiri feels Kasen's thumb rub gently at the back of his hand and it's too much, these feelings, this kindness, and he can say nothing. Kasen doesn't follow him as he rushes away.
He doesn't talk to Kasen until days later, when he finds that his weary footsteps bring him back to the lavender. Even then they skirt around their conversations from the day before, speaking instead of the weather or merely exchanging pleasantries. Sometimes they sit together, often in silence. More often than not, Yamanbagiri is alone. He grows used to reaching out and petting the bumblebees, begins saying hello to them whenever he arrives.
His cloak gets dirtier by the day. Sitting in the grass every day takes its toll on the tattered fabric. He completely forgets about his plan to track down the laundry thief, so taken is he by these new experiences. His dark thoughts, while never gone, are quieter when he's here. Even though he tries not to believe it, he always returns to what Kasen had told him.
Here, it doesn't matter what he is.
He tests it out, insults himself aloud over and over, conjures the most hurtful things he can think of to say, brings himself to tears. The bees let him pet them each time, no matter what he's said. They're not listening or, if they are, they don't care what he thinks of himself. They don't try to comfort him, either. No expectations, no comparisons.
Lavender is definitely his favourite flower. He's never had one before and he doesn't tell anyone, not even his brothers. It's a kind secret, one that doesn't hurt to keep. He keeps a sprig under his pillow and for weeks his dreams are kinder than usual.
The sound of the shoji closing wakes him. His brothers lay sleeping nearby and there are no noises out on the porch. Not an emergency, but certainly not morning.
Someone has been in their room. As he surfaces fully from deep sleep he can smell a nostalgic, forgotten scent.
They've been back. He's missed them, again.
He sits up slowly, finding his hood has fallen down around his shoulders and his blonde hair is tousled out of place. Before he can cover himself again he hears a rustling and looks down to see something tied into that elegant knot of his cloak. Paper, a small folded note. He opens it carefully to see elegant handwriting in black ink. It's too dark to read and so he slips from his bed and goes onto the porch, under the moonlight.
On the paper is a poem. It mentions lavender, and sunlight, and kindness. Although it seems very nice he can't really say he understands it, or why it was there in the first place. He reads it over and over, not sure why it makes him blush all the way to his ears or why his heart is racing. What is this? If someone has written him a poem then things have really gone too far. He doesn't deserve this, or anything.
He walks without thinking. Through the citadel and across the inky black of the gardens. Weeks before he would have crushed vegetables underfoot but his body knows the route so well that he doesn't need to think to reach the lavender bushes. It's silent, and still, but the scent of the flowers is soothing, a memory of calm days. By moonlight he reads the poem again and again, looking for a signature, proof that it was meant for someone else.
Nothing. All he obtains is a gnawing guilt, a feeling that he should know who this is from, and why, and what to do now. He thinks in circles until he wears himself out and moves to lay in the grass and the dirt, muddying the clean cloth that's wrapped around him.
Why me? The worst question. Selfish. The one he hates the most.
"Yamanbagiri-san!"
His name, urgent, someone in distress. Yamanbagiri bolts upright with a gasp only to cry out again at a sudden pain in his palm. Kasen is running towards him across the gardens, robes fluttering behind him like silken wings. Why? And why does he hurt?
His fists are clenched with the surprise of waking and he looks down to the one that is hurting, tingling all over. He turns it over in his lap and unfurls his fingers, revealing the small twitching body of a bumblebee. The details sink into his mind with cold clarity. The pain, the pitiful buzzing, the way the tiny body is in two parts, one trembling in his palm and the other stuck into his skin. A bead of blood forms and he watches it in horror, eyes widening.
"What happened?"
Kasen has reached him, has flung himself to his knees beside Yamanbagiri and is wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Yamanbagiri can't bring himself to look away from his palm. He can hear other bees buzzing around them, can hear Kasen asking too manywhysandwhats.He raises his hand and turns it slowly, watching as the bee tumbles down and onto the grass. It is with careful and cold precision that he pulls the stinger out of his skin and lets that fall too, landing beside a crumpled note he has forgotten.
"I killed it."
"Are you hurt anywhere, you shouldn't sleep out-"
"I killed it."
He's on his feet in an instant, eyes and throat burning. He knows the sun is shining but he feels cold all over, sick to his stomach, and he wants nothing more than to run as far away as he can, to the end of the world, to somewhere where he will never have to be around himself again.
"Wait!"
A firm hand around his wrist stops him in his tracks. He tries to wrench away but is pulled back further, stumbles, falls against a warm body that enfolds him in strong arms. His hood has fallen back and the tears on his cheeks are cold in the breeze. The sky is blurred, darkening and he things his knees will give way. Then words, murmurs, Kasen's voice in his ear, a hand stroking his back.
It's all right. You didn't mean to. It's going to be okay. I'm here.
Words are meaningless. He knows this even as he presses his face to Kasen's shoulder, his hands rising to clutch onto the back of his robes. He's sobbing, shaking, fighting for breath and heknowsit's stupid but he just can'tstop.
He's a sword. Swords shouldn't have emotions like this. Swords are made to kill and maim and destroy. He's done it before, countless times, both humans, monsters and creatures, and never shed a tear for them. But a bumblebee, crushed in his hand? Reducing him tothis?
It's not about the bee. He's not stupid enough to not realise that. It's about acceptance, and humiliation, and never getting things right, and beingwrongjust by being made in this image. It's about hating that he wants to love others, that he wants to love himself, that no matter how dark things get he can't hate himself enough to just not care any more. It's about having to turn every gesture of kindness away because if he doesn'tthiswill happen and one insect is bad enough but breaking a heart would be the end of him.
Yamanbagiri cries until he has no tears left and his breath is coming in small gasps. Kasen's rubbing his back in small circles, still murmuring pointless words. His tears have left a damp stain on the other's shoulder and as he draws his head back he can't help but groan in open frustration at himself. Such an inconvenience. Such a nuisance. Such a-
"Was it the poem?"
Kasen's question is so soft that Yamanbagiri almost misses it.
"E-eh?"
"The poem. The one I left you last night. Did I... upset you?"
Everything falls into place so suddenly that Yamanbagiri wonders if the crash can be heard outside of his own head. How could he have been so stupid?
"I'm sorry," Kasen continues, pulling him closer. "I went too far, didn't I? I know you don't like compliments but still I-"
"I should be apologising," he manages.
He meets Kasen's eyes and the kindness he can see there is overwhelming. Kasen has been crying too. It's unthinkable.
"For what?"
"Using you. Taking up your time. Someone like you shouldn't go to such lengths for someone like-"
"Stop that."
He does. They stand in silence for a time, Yamanbagiri beginning to recognise the pattern of Kasen's heartbeat against his own chest. The other strokes his hair with one hand, ruffling it as he must have done during the night, and Yamanbagiri is lost for words. To be treated so gently, even when he's likethis,it's...
Not horrible. But it should be.
"Come on," Kasen says eventually, managing a smile that just meets his eyes. "You made it all dirty again. Shall I wash it for you?"
It sounded too much like pity. Yamanbagiri shook his head and pulled away.
"Don't touch it," he snapped, pulling his hood up and over his face with trembling fingers. "You don't need to. You shouldn't be-"
"Do you hate me, Yamanbagiri-san?"
He has never heard Kasen raise his voice before. He has heard stories, of his anger on the battlefield, of his rarely seen temper. His voice is angry but his eyes are sad. Yamanbagiri is frozen in place, completely taken aback.
"W-what? No, of course not. I..."
"Then why won't you let me care for you?"
"A fake like me is-"
"I don'tcarewhat you are!"
Once Kasen starts speaking it is as if his words are water, rushing down some rocky river without a care for what they swept up on the way. Yamanbagiri can do nothing but listen and watch as the other's cheeks flush with emotion.
"I didn't start washing your cloak because you're a fake. I didn't leave you flowers because I wanted you to hate yourself. I didn't write you a poem just so that you would feel guilty for it. You won't look after yourself. You don't sleep well and you're always brooding, worrying... I couldn't take watching it any more.Youdon't deserve that. You're..."
Kasen stepped closer, pressing one elegant hand to his heart. His smile was soft but bittersweet.
"You're a masterpiece," he said simply. "Not Kunihiro's masterpiece. Your own. You're beautiful, even if you hate to hear it. And you're kind, and gentle. You fall asleep on porches and cry over bumblebees. That's... amazing. You're amazing."
Yamanbagiri doesn't know what to say. His cheeks are hot and he has to bite his lip to stop himself saying something, anything wrong. Kasen is moving back towards him and he is helpless to protest as warm hands are pressed to his cheeks and a forehead comes to rest against his own.
"Kasen...san?"
"I love all of that about you," Kasen says softly. "These past few weeks have been wonderful. Can we... stay like that? Even if you know my feelings. Ah, you probably hate it, don't you?"
"N-no. I don't... hate it. I don't know how to..."
"Feelings can be difficult, can't they?"
"Yeah."
Yamanbagiri doesn't understand feelings at all. He's never done anything like this, has never even dreamed that someone would think of him like this, stroke his hair with such reverence, or close their eyes and lean closer to...
He knows the kiss for what it is. It's nicer than he would have expected, less frightening. Not much, barely a kiss at all, but it leaves him short of breath and his mind blank. Kasen draws away, hands on his cheeks, and questions with his eyes alone.
Am I okay?Yamanbagiri isn't sure. Lacking an answer, he steps away and struggles out of his cloak, holding it out at arms length and looking in the opposite direction.
"You can wash it," he says, voice trembling. "Just... let me help."
"As you wish."
Holding hands is nice as well. The darkness hasn't gone, it lingers at the edges of his thoughts like a storm cloud threatening rain. But for now, learning how to wash his cloak – learning how toaccept –the skies remain clear.