Tsurumaru Kuninaga, for all of whom whose demeanours paint a picture as vivid as the setting sun, feels of nothing, smells of nothing, and reminds no one of anything.
Ichigo Hitofuri discovers after a particularly harsh battle, on one of the rare occasions they were grouped together, as his hand reaches out to the other to pull him up from his crouch.
The hand in his own, skin against skin, feels cool as the steel they were born from; but it is a kind of coolness that confuses Ichigo and strains his senses in attempting to grasp the sensation it bestows. Ichigo's heart jumps an unfathomable beat. He does not falter in his grip, however, steadfast enough to ensure Tsurumaru is properly up and standing. His right hand is still holding onto Tsurumaru's left, his left beneath the other's elbow; the coolness pricks at his skin, and they are close enough that a sharp inhale would be all it takes to identify the scent cranes might carry. Ichigo does not intend to, but not all actions are planned by one's intentions. A shallow breath, and air fills his nose, the kind with no colour nor odour. Ichigo stills and quiets. Just inches from him, that pale nape bears no scent; no sweat, or blood, or anything that may whisper Tsurumaru. Then he moves away, and nothing lingers. Not fluttering air, not warmth. Nothing at all. He shivers.
Ichigo Hitofuri then exhales and thinks, Tsurumaru Kuninaga suddenly feels more a shadow than reality.
He blinks, the constant thudding behind the cage of his ribs hardly explicable. Shadow and Tsurumaru; the comparison does not necessarily bother him, but it is a startling thought, of the rationale-has-no-business-here kind. Perhaps because no shadow could fight like Tsurumaru does: savagely alive in his energy and fierceness. Perhaps because he is all vibrancy and vivacity; there is no room for something as dull and formless as shadows in such a man. But Ichigo Hitofuri has always been a sword too sensitive for his own good. What he does not see with his eyes, he sees with his too-scarred senses and (long ago) too-burnt skin. He sees an absence on Tsurumaru's, that clings to him like a fine, wispy cloak.
An absence that is not Tsurumaru Kuninaga.
It almost upsets him, and Ichigo chides himself for being absurd. After all, despite all the years they had spent alongside one another, Ichigo knows Tsurumaru no better than the next person. On which and what would he claim anything of Tsurumaru seems different? If something were indeed different, Ichigo is sure it would have been his assumptions of the man.
But in the end, there would only be a mind-blockade capable of hindering Ichigo's mind from trying to grasp at that supposedly-strange nothingness.
"Ah, yes?" Ichigo barely registers the low timbre calling out to him, answers, and thinks he must look especially daft, wide-eyed and gaping. He blinks quickly to clear the layer of fog that has gathered behind his eyes. And crushes the urge to face away the moment Tsurumaru's gaze meets his.
"Ha-ha, even Ichigo Hitofuri can be distracted, huh." Tsurumaru chuckles, golden eyes and even more golden chains twinkling under the waning light. A bright citrine amongst sand-coloured stones. The silver of his hair glimmers softly, reflecting the pale rays of dusk. Dark teal linings stand out against the snow-coloured background as the man shuffles his robes. The whiteness of his garbs does very poorly at hindering his colours, minimal as they are. Tsurumaru is in front of him, waving a hand to catch his attention. He is smiling broadly. Ichigo feels warm. This is the Crane they all know.
"Ah, my apologies, Tsurumaru-dono," he says, "I, ah, perhaps am still a little winded." Tsurumaru seems a little amused. Like he knows. Ichigo wants to bury his face in the fold of his cape.
"I see, I see. It was a tough fight," Tsurumaru says with a grin, "Are they ready yet? The sky is getting dark."
"Yes, I have received signals. We should be able to leave in five minutes or so."
Ichigo busies himself with looking around for their comrades. Having checked in on their statuses earlier before his whole episode, Ichigo allows himself a nod of satisfaction knowing that no one has proceeded to bend or keel or something of the same connotation. He returns to the figure before him. Tsurumaru is patting himself down from head to toes. There is not a speck of dust on his white coat. The only stain Ichigo could see is the red blood on Tsurumaru's chest. Like a bleeding heart, Ichigo finds himself fancy the thought, if he chooses to be poetic. Red, vermillion, scarlet, you name it; as long as it resembles the life liquid that flows in their veins, Ichigo, loathe as he is to see his comrades hurt, has always thought the colour lends Tsurumaru a sort of vitality white fails to give. It looks right on him, no matter how uncomfortable that makes Ichigo feel. He looks down at his person then. There are spots of drying red on his uniform as well, barely visible and makes no difference on the dark fabric. He has this urge to ask, even though the answer is a well-heard line engraved in stone, why white of all colours, like black or navy or even red? Then no blood would be seen, and no stain would be conspicuous.
"Well, practically, yeah, maybe I should wear something else."
Hm?
"Then I don't have to fuss over laundry so much. But then I wouldn't be a crane anymore, so…," Tsurumaru says, hands still brushing over snowy fabric.
Ichigo's lips form a round 'Oh' and he almost stutters through his words, "My apologies, I did not mean to…," Ichigo trails off, averting his eyes. His face feels unnaturally warm, Ichigo thinks and covers an embarrassed cough with his fist. To be so intrusive, he wonders if the battle was truly that difficult to render him incapable of controlling his thoughts and mouth anymore. Tsurumaru laughingly tells him he does not mind, and promptly launches into one of his odd jokes.
The distraction is to Ichigo like water to a man parched to death, yet it is not enough to make him dismiss entirely the ease with which The Gojou sword brushes away discomfort like fallen leaves, without so much a second glance. Not just discomfort, Ichigo realises, Tsurumaru has never been one for matters of heavy emotions and feelings. Always so beautifully light and facetious. It is a good thing, Ichigo supposes. (Swords like him do not deserve to live in the misery of their past every moment of their lives.) There has to be a reason why he was that one addition to Izuminokami's unit.
He thinks of his brothers and their tales of the Citadel before his arrival then. The day after their reunion had been filled with lively chattering of tales of the games and tricks Tsurumaru had played on and for them, amongst other things. Namazuo especially was enthusiastic wherever one Tsurumaru Kuninaga was concerned: he seems to be quite taken by the man's knack for mischievous surprises. Ichigo remembers, when he had been trying to catch a fluttering white sleeve, just to proceed to get caught under a shower of fine powder. He had not been amused, but a dejected Namazuo had laughed himself tiredly enough that he forgot he had been miserable just minutes prior. Ichigo had indeed been torn between reproaching the older sword and being happy for his brother; but for all it was worth, he had not missed the tiny quirk of Tsurumaru's lips then.
Ichigo does not suppress the smile that blooms on his own.
Ichigo wonders to himself, where do you find such amorphous existence like shadows in this man? He does not think about the cool imprint on his hand, or the odourless air in his memory. Because Tsurumaru is standing before him, and he radiates heat with just his presence alone. After all, shadows do not exude warmth nor possess personalities or tales. So Tsurumaru Kuninaga must be anything but.
Thus, Ichigo smiles and forgets.
Hurried footsteps echo across the halls leading to a secluded room in one of the corners of their citadel. Shokudaikiri Mitsutada has just received the news of the return of one Tsurumaru Kuninaga not too long ago. But that is no reason for him to hurry anywhere. Under normal circumstances, that is.
"Tsuru-san!" He shouts, though it does not come out more than a mild call. Mitsutada is anything but tactless, after all. "I keep telling you to stop putting yourself in danger! What happened?! Do you have any idea how terrible it is to have to scrub all the blood off your uniform every single time?!"
No, he is not tactless. But that little fact would not stop him from doing things to prevent one of his precious brothers from throwing himself into unnecessary peril. Such as throwing open the sliding doors to their private chamber without knocking, using such force that it almost unhinges the frames. Because, said brother might have already been incapacitated by blood loss and thus rendered unconscious.
"Ha-ha, so Sada-bou managed to talk to you first, huh," Tsurumaru Kuninaga says with an infuriating grin that Mitsutada would have tried to wipe off if not for the fact that he does not particularly want a bloodbath. His eyes wildly give the other man an assessing once-over, mind registered that he has shrugged out of his battle gear and donned his casual citadel-attire. He looks healthy enough; pales limbs are scratch-free, neck intact, organs still stashed behind abdomen. Mitsutada feels a breath similar to relief leaves his lungs. (Tsurumaru has that horrible habit of wanting to bleed out rather than telling anyone he is seriously injured. Mitsutada has walked in on him on the brink of death far too many times and he refuses to let this be another occasion.) That is when a bundle of white fabric finally catches his attention. Sada-chan has told him Tsurumaru has somehow gotten himself all smeared in blood. That was all it took for Mitsutada to run like mad to Tsurumaru's room; to drag the man to the infirmary even if he has to fight tooth and nail for it. But Tsurumaru's robes barely have any stains, except for a large splotch near the openings. Mitsutada heaves another sigh and walks over to the mess on the tatami.
"Either Sada-chan has to be more detailed in his reporting, or I need to be less hasty," Mitsutada laments tiredly, "How did you even get blood at such a place anyway?"
"Ah. I stabbed one of them upfront. To be honest, though not that I'm complaining, I have always thought they have far too much blood for something definitely looking like those formless apparitions master likes to watch." Mitsutada straightens himself to face Tsurumaru. The shorter male's hands are now fiddling with the golden chain adorning his neck. "Like a normal living being. They probably have more blood than many of us do." His words have trailed off into a mumble, as his fingers keep up a series of looping motions with his hair and the accessories. Mitsutada is not entirely certain, but he thinks he hears a faint hum of 'and isn't that ironic' breathed into the cool air of the room. Light and breezy. Yet Mitsutada incomprehensibly finds himself wrestling with the words to grasp their meanings.
"Tsuru-san, do you need help with that?" He says instead, having been watching Tsurumaru struggle with his own accessories for the better part of their conversation.
"Yes, if you'd please." Tsurumaru grins at him sheepishly, lowering his hands as Mitsutada approaches, "Really. I'm continuously surprised today. Being unable to take this off is a first." Tsurumaru's voice is bright as always, yet Mitsutada cannot help the chill slithering down his spine, alien in its familiarity. There is something in the man's voice that keeps Mitsutada from an equally cheery response.
"Ah-ha-ha. You're probably tired right now, Tsuru-san." Mitsutada tries and receives a lilting murmur in reply. Tsurumaru seems to have found silence more companionable than conversations, so Mitsutada decides to continue his task without another word.
It is calm and serene, the quiet space they are sharing. There is no other sound aside from the occasional fluttering voices of the swords in the backyard. But in the wake of such undisturbed quietude, though, Mitsutada's mind begins to wander.
What was that just now? What was ironic? Should I have asked him to clarify? Wait, no, should I have not even pondered about this in the first place? Why am I even bothered?!, and on and on and on. The questions loop into his brain cells and neurons and neurotransmitters, like their master's threads on torn skin (without the healing factor, however), while Mitsutada absently notes how thin Tsurumaru is and how pale his skin is. Beneath the chillness that would have calmed Mitsutada under other circumstances, now abruptly more unnerving than anything else, Mitsutada could count with his eyes the knobs of Tsurumaru's spine. The bumps are sharp and distinct as scraped-clean bones under almost-transparent skin, wrapped tightly by thin cords of barely palpable muscles. And underneath that translucence, Mitsutada could have missed the green-blue veins, if not for the fact he knows they have to be there. Against the brush of Mitsutada's fingers, Tsurumaru's body seems as though it is made of white-wash alabaster layered over with paper-thin silk.
A voice quietly whispers to him, so quiet that has he not been listening to himself, he might never have heard,
Does it remind you of a pallid corpse swathed in pristine cloth?
"Ow. Mitsu-bou, is my hair that tangled?" Tsurumaru is peering at him from the corner of his eyes, his mouth lopsided in a startled smile, brows slightly scrunched up. Mitsutada belatedly realises he has yanked on the strands too harshly. And the tangles from before has become a true mess, a spider web whose every thread and lock seem connected with no end or beginning. Mitsutada is stunned to discover he now truly does not know where to begin untangling the silver and gold in his fingers.
"Mitsu-bou?"
"Sorry, sorry, Tsuru-san." He attempts at an embarrassed smile. "I might have used too much strength. It's almost out." Tsurumaru watches at him for a long moment without saying anything. Mitsutada feels his legs going numb at the flash in those glowing eyes.
"It's fine." Tsurumaru turns away finally. "You're only trying to help. If you need me to turn or something, tell me, 'kay." Mitsutada could hear the smile in Tsurumaru's voice. Instinctively, he understands Tsurumaru does not just mean this hair-business. He does not reply; his nod cannot be seen but he has a feeling Tsurumaru does not need to anyway. He feels something hot burning at the back of his eyes. Tsurumaru has always been more perceptive than people like to give him credits for. Here he is, trying to be of help, trying to bring Tsurumaru the healing he might need; yet, he is the one being looked after.
"Tsuru-san, have you been eating enough?" If Tsurumaru hears the tremble in his voice, he does not indicate it.
"I don't leave food behind, you know." That doesn't tell me if you are eating enough! "Why?" Mitsutada pushes down the words on his tongue and hastily replies with a 'nothing', followed by a jumbled explanation of how thin Tsurumaru looks. The man does not interrupt, only listens without input. Mitsutada has never attempted to guess at Tsurumaru's expression, for he only ever shows three: indifferent smile, blood-curdling grin, excited laugh, all in distinguishable situations; however, this time, Mitsutada wishes he could at least guess what face Tsurumaru might be carrying.
"This is just how I am." Tsurumaru's voice is as easy and seemingly without much thought as ever when he responds. Mitsutada wants to argue. He does not want to. So he bites his tongue and remains quiet.
He tries not to think of the protruding bones beneath his fingers. Tries not to think of the veiled tone from before. Not of the red splotch on the floor. And he tries not to think of the chill that now ices him to the core.
A shudder rakes across his frame: a terrible, prickling emotion slowly worms its way up his spine, to his throat, to the sides of his head.
He shuts his eyes and grits his teeth, fingers pulling at glimmering silver strands. The chain around Tsurumaru's neck is unyielding. Mitsutada does not stop to wonder at the situation, but he can sense somehow, somewhere, someone must be making one unsavoury joke. When Mitsutada opens his eyes again, white greets him.
There is only one problem: it is not the white of the present.
The white in his vision is the white of a not-so-distant past; a white he would be lying to say he is anymore acquainted with than he is with the current state of affairs as of right now. Yet, it is a terrifyingly familiar white.
It is indeed the white of an immobile figure lying under the winter sky, flurries of snow teasingly lifting loose fabric into the shape of crane's wings, icy flakes covering the figure from head to toes – so that no one could distinguish where the snow begins and where the figure begins. The dancing snow lingers as though promising it would take the figure away when a colder wind comes, and the figure lays as if it would follow however the wind wishes.
Mitsutada always wants to reach out, to call a name already poised on his tongue. But whenever he is about to, the figure would leap up and gone from chasing eyes. Mitsutada would remain powerless, would force himself to walk away – to will away the image of a white-clad, stock-still, bone-thin body ready to be buried.
Suddenly, Mitsutada is all too aware of the chillness beneath his much, much warmer fingers. A chillness that should have told him many things; but ah, Mitsutada in the end is only as omniscient as an adolescent would be before an old sage. (He has wondered once, if his fingers on Tsururmaru's skin would feel like the searing flame from which they were born. If he had asked, Tsurumaru would – might – have told him he was not born from flame, but from ice and snow and the whiteness of death cloth and coldness of tombstones. And what's a bit of fire to freezing winter?)
And just as suddenly, Mitsutada is aware of the stories he has heard one too many times: long, winded, rumoured stories of a sword named after the fortune and grace of a Crane; of how he was sought after and desired, of how he was lost and found, and of how he was buried and reborn. He has also heard just as many versions; the plain, the elaborate, the simple, the embellished. But he does not think he has ever heard the truth; because they never tell him of the white coldness he is now so terrified by.
Because Tsurumaru Kuninaga does not discuss his past.
Because Tsurumaru Kuninaga does not discuss himself.
Mitsutada does not think there are many swords all too happy and willing to let their life be subjected to so much speculation and fabrication. Tsurumaru is one of those. Mitsutada does not know how to take it, now that it is presented right before his eyes.
But the puzzle behind a cool, thin frame now has all the pieces, is that not right?
Tsurumaru Kuninaga, a sword not so much hollow as hollowed, is that it? That he chooses it? That he chooses a frame as slight as the bones of the bird he is named after? That he chooses skin as cool and as cold as a coreless marionette? That he chooses robes as white as the blank page that is his life? Is that it?
(Mitsutada has all the pieces now; he puts them together; his puzzle is nothing but disjointed.)
Mitsutada's breaths are coming out in short bursts, he is quite sure. His mind feels miles away from his body. The feeling that has slithered its way up his head has grown thorns and barbs, and it digs into Mitsutada's brains and heart.
Mitsutada does not notice he has been gripping at his own shirt, not the silver strands of Tsurumaru Kuninaga. Just as he does not notice the look he is currently levelling at Tsurumaru, who is shaking him by the arms and calling his name more than several times.
But he does notice when the words leave his mouth.
"Why would you."
Mitsutada's eyes never stray away from the man before him, but if someone asks him what sort of face Tsurumaru is carrying then, he would say he does not know.
Why would you. How could you. When did you? Mitsutada wants to scream. When did you? When did you become this hollowed being? Why would you? Why won't you live? Why can't we give you a reason to? Are we not enough?
Hah, Mitsutada chuckles, Isn't it ironic? Now I get it.
"SHOKUDAIKIRI MITSUTADA!"
Like a needle shoved into a balloon, Mitsutada is brought back to reality. Tsurumaru is staring at him, eyebrows scrunched up in a terrible grimace. Vaguely, Mitsutada registers something in the back of his mind laughing in satisfaction at the expression. But Mitsutada is nothing if not tactful, so he does what he would normally do.
"Sorry, sorry, Tsuru-san," He laughs feebly, sheepishly, "I was lost in thought. Sorry I could not get it off for you. It's quite tangled." He gestures at the other's still tightly-clasped golden chain. Tsurumaru barely acknowledges his apology, instead regarding him with eyes sharp as their blade.
"Mitsu-bou—," Tsurumaru begins.
"Ne, Tsuru-san," Mitsutada smiles, "Have you ever thought of yourself as a doll?"
Far, far away from himself, Mitsutada thinks he does not mean that. But what is out cannot be taken back. Something about even a thousand horses would still be unable to help take back what is already said. Mitsutada feels something inside himself scramble to keep his mouth shut.
"What—?" Tsurumaru raises an eyebrow at him. And he cuts off his so-called brother again.
"I mean," Mitsutada does not stop smiling kindly, gently, "Probably not right? Really, neither did, I mean, do I." Mitsutada's tongue slips and corrects itself. He suddenly feels very warm. Tsurumaru is worried about him. Look, he seems so concerned, his whole being says so.
What chill? What white? Mitsutada does not – cannot – care for that right now, not when Tsurumaru looks as though he is two words away from dragging Mitsutada to master's infirmary. Not when Tsurumaru is radiating warmth just inches away from Mitsutada. Not when his eyes shine a gold so sincere, so kind, so heart-wrenchingly alive.
Mitsutada smiles a reassuring smile, or what he thinks is a reassuring smile.
"Yes," Mitsutada finds himself saying, "You are not a doll."
Dolls are cold where Tsuru-san is warm, warm in the grin on his face, in the gold of his eyes, in the tone of his voice. Dolls are terribly stilted where Tsuru-san is all grace and refinement.
He would make a terrible doll.
Yes, that's right.
(Even though that's not true.)
Tsuru-san cannot be a doll.
(For he is a sword. And yet….)
Thus, Mitsutada smiles and ignores.
"How was your expedition?"
A hand pours fragrant sake into a shallow dish of the finest porcelain. The early spring breeze is still brisk as winter as it sweeps through the quiet garden, onto the nearly empty veranda. Cold enough for warm food and hot drinks, warm enough for company and small talks. Spring this year will be the most beautiful yet, promise the playful zephyr and the youthful patches of green shoots visible under the dim light of the night sky and the lanterns.
"Good, not bad at all," Tsurumaru Kuninaga says with a toothy grin, "They were strong this time. It was surprising. I think you would have enjoyed it, too, Mikazuki."
Mikazuki Munechika brings the full dish to his lips. He sips at the liquid delicately, tasting the alcohol on his tongue with reverent appreciation. They say alcohol only gets better with good company.
"Ha-ha, this old man might have, but my bones may not share the same sentiment, I'm afraid. I see you did enjoy it thoroughly though." Mikazuki gestures. His white-clad companion looks down at his fingers. The tapered digits are slightly red, almost certainly from the force with which he had gripped his sword. Tsurumaru waves at the Tenka sword's observation.
"I did. It wasn't often surprise presented itself so readily after all." Mikazuki watches the self-satisfied stretch of Tsurumaru's lips with mild interest. His old friend has always been a little battle-manic, as far as Mikazuki's understanding of his character goes. While he is not terribly concerned at the fact, most swords do not survive for long looking for ways to challenge Death. Then again, this is only as good as most swords do not carry the name Tsurumaru Kuninaga, and most swords do not seek meanings in destruction and blood. Mikazuki does not make it a habit to worry himself over the life choices of his fellow blades, but he does feel Tsurumaru might need better hobbies. And maybe even a better life.
He has not forgotten the look on Yagen's face when the unit returned and Tsurumaru walked past the gate with a bloody expanse right where his heart should be. He was not draped over someone's shoulder, or even limping, and the man had laughed cheerily that he was fine, but Yagen insisted he stop at the infirmary for a thorough pat-down nonetheless. Mikazuki was on the porch having tea with Kogitsunemaru as usual when it happened. The stained stretch looked as attractive a red as the plums they were enjoying. He had thought, has always really, that blood never looks out of place on Tsurumaru; he wears it like a lady would rouge, and he wears it well. Mikazuki wonders if anyone realises Tsurumaru Kuninaga has never stopped bleeding; from a wound as old as a millennium. He doubts it.
"I imagine they must have put up an excellent fight, hm?" Mikazuki says, reaches over to pour more sake into Tsurumaru's dish and then some for himself. He sits back on his cushion, picks up a dango stick and offers it out to the other. Tsurumaru murmurs a thank and moves to take the stick, fingers brushing over Mikazuki's own. He does not flinch from the coolness, disturbed not by the warmth of the sake nor the crispness of the air, that seeps as far as his bones from the contact. He has long been accustomed to the soft chill of Tsurumaru's skin, from that of cold hard earth underneath layers of snow and ice. And each time they brush, Mikazuki does not – cannot – forget that he, too, had had to learn to acquaint himself with questions and non-answers. That there was a time he, too, had hoped that one day Tsurumaru's warmth would be of his flesh and bones, not of vacant smiles and aimless surprise.
Thus, Mikazuki did not feel the need to reveal nor explain, when Ichigo Hitofuri had sat with him later that return and asked if he had ever thought there was a cloak of fine void and dainty absence that wrapped around Tsurumaru like it had always belonged there. Perhaps not in so clear a thought, but Mikazuki supposes it is difficult to ask when one does not even know what or why they need to ask in the first place. Their conversation had been hushed amongst the rustles of feet on wooden floors and the shuffles of leaves over their heads. It was not given speech, but Mikazuki knew Ichigo Hitofuri had wanted to know something quite different. His voice had carried distance then, as he breathed out words of skin cool and unscented. Of white clothes and red stains. Of what, why, and how. Mikazuki smiled, serene, and said some cats disliked the outside world, safer in its bag, and so, fuller of its secrets. He found no reason nor aim, in telling Ichigo Hitofuri that the dead only ever wears white, and life bonds only ever bleed red.
"Mikazuki?"
Tsurumaru looks at him, gold eyes half-lidded and gleaming under the mellow glow of the lanterns. White lashes brush against Mikazuki's fingers every time the Crane closes and opens his eyes. Whiteness, on anyone would be a shade of purity and innocence; on the Gojou sword, Mikazuki thinks it is a mourning robe, a stark reminder of a certain life and a certain month. Tsurumaru likes to liken himself to cranes, all grace and fortune, but the Tenka sword deems him a poltergeist whose grief runs so pure he refuses to stain it with nothing but nostalgic blood.
When Mikazuki glances down, he thinks those golden sparks of colour are nothing but lavish shackles that chain them all together.
Mikazuki sips his sake, and reaches for Tsurumaru's pale neck. The man tilts his head to squint at him, yet says nothing and simply picks up another stick of dango. Mikazuki's fingers lower, circle around a thin wrist, tips of slim digits touching each other without so much a strain. The pad of his thumb runs fleetingly over veins barely visible even underneath such pale skin. Tsurumaru does not retract his arm, and if he thinks anything is strange, he speaks nothing of it. Mikazuki exhales then, a breath warm and sakura-scented, and thinks: too delicate, too fragile, he could break these bones as easily as a long-dried twig. And when halved into clean pieces, he is certain they might be just as well hollow.
And apparently, it is not just Mikazuki, but also a certain Shokudaikiri Mitsutada who happens to share the same sentiment. It had been surprising enough, to borrow Tsurumaru's most favourite feeling in this world, to find the man at his doorstep demanding to discuss the issues of one Tsurumaru Kuninaga. Mikazuki had no reason to refuse, so they talked. Shokudaikiri Mitsutada had asked then, in the most broken of voice Mikazuki had ever heard since becoming a tsukkumogami, how Tsurumaru became only as good as a doll of himself, all light and fine silk, yet devoid of everything but the blankness of a lifetime. And why were they not enough for him to be otherwise. Mikazuki had stared at Mitsutada and conjectured; past curiosity, past selfish concern, past ephemeral interests, this man wanted something beyond. Mikazuki settled for truth. He had only one reason to say only of what the Date sword had already known: that Tsurumaru has long been full insofar as a quarried vault could be; and he had many more to say none of what not yet exposed: that no amount of hope and lie would give him back the life once lost. A heart which broke is not yet broken, Mikazuki would rather keep it that way.
Mikazuki now gazes at the sword before him, and searches the corners of his eyes. He finds it there, the wrinkles of lingering concern for a friend, a brother, woven all too tightly with cold, jaded determination to remain detached. So, the Crane stays quiet; what only he knows does not exist after all.
Mikazuki sighs. Most people would think Tsurumaru would hide the least from him. But Mikazuki knows better: Tsurumaru indeed does not hide from Mikazuki, but he is scarcely open, preferring to let Mikazuki read his carefully concealed thoughts from the lines of his body to the tone of his voice. Sometimes it is as effortless as brewing tea, other times much less so, or simply because Mikazuki prefers not to. It seems almost a game of hit-and-run. Mikazuki thinks of Mitsutada's sorrow over the mumbled words Tsurumaru let slip, and finds himself the least bit envious. Occasionally, he wishes he were not Mikazuki Munechika; perhaps then Tsurumaru would tell him more.
How people suffer because of you, my disgraced Crane.
(Ah, but if you ask Tsurumaru why he never tells Mikazuki, he would tell you he does not need to. Because Mikazuki knows anyway.
And it's the truth.)
Mikazuki breathes then, deep blue eyes wander down the length of his arm to the fingers still circling around one thin wrist, then peer up at glowing amber. Mikazuki not for the first time wonders whether heat would travel from his own hand to this lifeless body if he holds on long enough. Or if he could take away even a fragment of the chill. Or, he thinks, if Tsurumaru would ever share with him a moment of his all-too-private emptiness.
"Tsurumaru, are you still alive?" He murmurs, each breath from his lips disappear into the pair grazed against his own. Fingers lax and loose around the other's easy and laid-back. Tsurumaru does not move away, nor does he move closer.
"Ha-ha, I wonder, old man. I'm here and breathing. Does it look like I am?" The question is exhaled weightlessly into a huff of laughter. Mikazuki's lashes flutter and he leans forward, drinks it like prized sake.
"You feel like air in a coffin, and smell like the inside of a tomb," Mikazuki says, "A deserted tomb." Tsurumaru no longer lives, as far as Mikazuki is concerned. He breathes, and eats, and bathes, and drinks. But he does not live. Because, for a sword like Tsurumaru Kuninaga, a sword born to bring about fortune and longevity, yet bestowing the exact opposite to those who owned him, has his soul not already been removed by his own existence? Mikazuki often wonders if Tsurumaru has not been aware.
The breaths out of his mouth make Mikazuki think of corpses, beautiful corpses wrapped in nothing but the finest of silk and the whitest of flowers and the purest of gold. Ah, but Tsurumaru is a little more special than just a beautifully decorated corpse, is he not. Tsurumaru Kuninaga is a corpse carrying two souls: one empty and the other long, long dead. Mikazuki muses and he ponders, whether Tsurumaru has always carried the ghost of his young master with him every day for a thousand years. (Mikazuki does not mourn every day for his Lady Nene, but he supposes his story is not quite the same.) The wisps of winter chills surround Tsurumaru like thin fingers of fine bones, cradling his face in their embrace and curling around him like a scarf to keep warmth at bay. Mikazuki sometimes thinks he sees grey, fading prints of hands that would bruise red and purple if they could grab the pale limbs of the Crane. He closes his eyes and they disappear, a smiling Tsurumaru sitting before him instead, gold eyes reflecting nothing but winter skies and digging hands. He opens his eyes and there he is, a smiling Tsurumaru sitting before him, gold eyes reflecting nothing.
"Perhaps I do. You know where I came from." His fingers curl into Mikazuki's hair. His back curves a delicate arch under the bridge that is Mikazuki's own body. There is humour in his voice, resounding as Mikazuki blows air back into his moving lips.
"Ah, I suppose it makes sense." The Crescent Moon chuckles, hovering and letting his heat cascade gently onto the Crane's nothingness. Tsurumaru draws the words from his mouth, Mikazuki closes his eyes, and smiles.
Ichigo Hitofuri sees Tsurumaru Kuninaga and thinks of a Crane suddenly swathed in shadow and emptiness. Shokudaikiri Mitsutada sees Tsurumaru Kuninaga and is presented a doll in disguise of a Crane. Mikazuki Munechika sees Tsurumaru Kuninaga, and understands the Crane is already dead.
The sword Tsurumaru Kuninaga died the day he was buried; the dead bears no scent, nor warmth, and carries no memories.
Mikazuki Munechika cannot change that.
So he smiles and agrees.