Yukimura had many things to learn about Masamune.
When they first became rivals, Yukimura had to learn the way he lived - a warlord, for whom the glory of battle was above all other triumphs.
Time and time again they clashed, and with each fight, Masamune became more familiar to him - the way he moved, at once both fluid and jagged, sidestepping easily only to dart forward and plunge the edge of his six claws into the nearest opening, gliding through the air, a dragon that did not need wings to fly, striking like lightning and retreating just as quickly. It dazzled Yukimura, made it hard to see as he just barely blocked another lunge, breath catching at the way Masamune's single eye was trained only on him, the ferocity, the savage but graceful beast focused only on him, only for him.
Over time, his lungs grew used to that glint in Masamune's eye, but his heart never did. He learned that only Masamune could ignite the blaze in his chest, the only one who could make the terror of an inferno into the comfort of a fireplace - only for him.
When they first became friends, Yukimura had to learn the way he laughed - a man, for whom beauty was in the rare calm of an afternoon spent watching the cherry blossoms.
On these occasions, the times they had salvaged from the dust of an era consumed in turmoil, Yukimura finally remembered what it was like to breathe with his whole body rather than crushing down just enough to drive himself forward. The silence between them as they sat was easy, as natural to them as conflict, as instinctive as the feel of a weapon in their grasp. Nevertheless, it was not the silence that Yukimura treasured, though it was important to him, but the few instances in which they murmured quietly to each other. Simple exchanges, nothing more than to point out a pink petal as it slid along the breeze or to recall a long-lost memory; but every now and again, Masamune's lips would curve upward in a smile of ethereal contentment, a soft sigh of amusement resonating in the sweet air, and Yukimura's heart would slow to a stop as he was reminded that these moments were only for him, those shy, vulnerable glances were only his to cherish.
Over time, his heart conformed to the beat of the sun on their skin and the grass sweeping along its windy path, but his soul never did. He learned that only Masamune could weave the bloodshed into harmony, the only one who could soothe the tiger to sleep.
When they first became partners, Yukimura had to learn the way he loved - a companion, for whom an equal completed the missing hollows of his very being.
And each time Yukimura laid him down on his bedroll, Masamune's fingers would brush his cheek, curl into his hair, trembling with a waver so slight that Yukimura sensed the vibration more than he felt it. Remembering how to breathe with his spirit was so much clearer when it was through the aroma of Masamune's skin, through the scent that made every touch an earthquake and every sound a hurricane. Their affections presented themselves as a ballad of war, each bite a tender kiss, every cry a whispered devotion, and Yukimura was snared by the dance, forever entrapped in that electric eye overwhelmed with a passion that was only for him, only his to keep, a promise that was only theirs.
Over time, his soul, worn and faded, became irrevocably knotted with the only one who had ever, who could ever, make him whole.
But his beloved never did.
He learned that life was unforgiving, ugly and selfish, and death was but a complacent shadow that gathered the stragglers.