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Inside of the darkness, I called your name over and over again
Inside of the endless time, there's no one there but you.
[…]Even the soundless smile is happy right now,
I can't return to that time ever again
when we were laughing.
Autumn is the season of warm colors and falling leaves. Yasusada likes it, not only because everything seems more comfortable and familiar, but also because he thinks that being able to sweep the walkway when it’s needed is a pleasant thing to do, even when it’s not his turn. Autumn is a warm sun in the late morning which is perfect to leave the clothes drying outside and it’s the inebriating smell of sweet potatoes that sometimes reaches the Shinsengumi headquarter or – even – comes from the less exposed side; autumn is the creaking of the dried leaves under his feet, it’s the summer heat that still lingers at the beginning of a new season and the cold breeze in the evening, which forecasts the winter when it’s getting closer.
Yasusada has learnt to mark time through the details the nature offers him, which he often has no time to observe carefully enough and he has ended up loving more when he finally can look at them thoroughly.
Autumn is the season that reminds him more than any other about Kashuu more than any other, because of the colors, of course – there’s something almost artistic about him, when he wears his red kimono and stands, with leaves on the ground and trees still not fully bare –, but also because of something he doesn’t know how to explain well even though it feels so natural in Yasusada’s mind. Kashuu, even if it could be otherwise, does not appear strong to Yamato’s eyes; not the kind of strength he shows through his sword, the feeling Yasusada has when they are next to each other has nothing to do with Kashuu’s fighting skills. Kashuu has nothing similar the suffocating summer heat, nor to the bitter cold of the winter, and even if he’s so focused on his physical appearance and making himself look handsome and lovely like bloomed flowers that show the world their beauty, Kashuu hasn’t that frailty which reminds Yasusada of spring.
Kashuu is the warmth that lingers on the skin, the warmth that softens little by little and sometimes makes you shiver when it suddenly disappears. It’s not expected, it’s not always there but after so much time spent together – and so many years, so many fights – Yasusada has learnt that when he has no more certainties Kashuu has the ability to become what he needs the most; or at least, this is what Yamato has always thought about him. That’s why he never thought it was weird for Okita to have so much faith in Kashuu, like there was no chance at all that Kashuu will end up betraying his expectations, even with just one cutting blow. And when Yasusada had just arrived and had seen Kashuu training with their master for the first time, he felt an irrepressible joy: he and Kashuu were – are – both swords hard to handle; at first Yasusada was afraid Okita would never be able to make some use out of him, but in that very moment he had understood that it would’ve been his place.
Kashuu is like autumn: he makes you feel like, after the summer atmosphere and an adventure that seem almost unreal, you were finally coming back home.
Winter is the season when Kashuu feels loved the most by his master, because the swords cleaning maintenance means water, and he knows too well how uncomfortable is for Okita to get his hands wet when the water and the wind outside are too cold to be bearable. Nevertheless, Kashuu is cleaned every day, and he is always ready to serve Okita at his best.
Winter is the season Kashuu associates Yasusada with, maybe because during that season his – their – master brought him there, without notice. Kashuu has hated him the way you can’t bear your step-brother, more than the way you wish for your enemy’s death. It took Kashuu time to understand that Yasusada’s presence wouldn’t have meant being loved less, and above all it wouldn’t have meant he had failed to the point Okita Souji was forced to use another sword. It took hours of silence, callings without answer and what was, thinking about it now, an endless pulling back from a hand stretched towards him. Sometimes, Kashuu says to himself that they were just children, after all, but the truth is that he’s always been “the child of the riverbank”, a place where you are not allowed to learn anything beside how to steal, and to hate, and to curse your fate – which is, ironically, the only thing that belongs to you.
Yasasuda appeared to him as the one who would have deprive him of fate itself, so he had used any trick a childish person could think about against him: he had ignored him, treated him coldly, made him feel unwanted beside the fact that Okita cared about both of them; Kashuu could even make Yasusada reply harshly to him, Yasusada who was so kind, far from the battlefield, and then indomitable when he was needed in a fight. Yet, Yasusada isn’t as cold as the winter, his eyes aren’t as empty as the sky that forecasts a snowy day: they have nothing to do with the summer sky blue either; if only Kashuu had seen it, they would have recalled him of the deepest part of the ocean, where the only light that can reach it is dim, maybe, but it’s always light in the end. But the only water Kashuu has known is the river’s and, despite this, the first time Yasusada’s eyes have looked at him with some sort of anger is not something he’s able to forget. Who would ever forget one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen?
When he realizes those are his real thoughts, Kashuu still wants to move away Yamato’s hand when the other stretches it towards him at the end of a training, or when he hands out something to him; Kashuu really wants to do it, but he never does, fingers that touch lightly the other’s – and so he learns that while Yasusada is always so warm, his hands are not. During winter they are so cold that sometimes Kashuu thinks they are just revealing their nature as swords, because a blade never heats up if not when it’s forged. Sometimes he wants to allow himself to take those hands and hold them, because Kashuu’s hands are inexplicably warm enough for both of them; he never does it, though, if not when Yamato is fallen in a dreamless sleep and Kashuu can do what he could never explain otherwise. Maybe he wouldn’t need to. Maybe, if only he would dare to do so, Yasusada would not ask any questions. Kashuu never had the chance to find out.
«Stupid mirrors.» Kashuu murmurs while the shoji slides and the other sword enters the room they share, steps that stop almost immediately; Kashuu looks for him in the corner of his eye e catches Yasusada kneeling not so far from him and then there’s his amused smile when his gaze meets Kashuu’s: «Are you still doing your hair, Kashuu?»
He replies with a grumpy cry, his eyes once again on the mirror that reflects his sulky face: «I can’t see where I’m cutting, and I can’t do something risky and irreparable here.» he explains, scissor in one hand and a lock of hair in the other, trying to turn enough to make everything visible in his own field of view. In that moment Yasusada notices, at a careful look, that Kashuu’s trying to cut his hair: he raises an eyebrow, perplexed, leaving on the shoulders the towel he was using to dry his own hair.
«That’s something rare» he observes calmly «don’t you usually ask Okita-kun to do it for you?»
«I don’t want him to cough in my ears, thank you very much.» he replies harshly, and Yamato knows that in reality Kashuu is not peeved by the cough, but he’s worried it could become fever if their master doesn’t rest enough at least when they have no reason to go out with the cold of the past days. Some time ago, he would have probably fended, not knowing Kashuu; but now Yasusada approaches him and stretches his hand, waiting for the other to give him the scissors.
«I can do it, if you want.» he offers, and then – like there’s no need to think about it – the object is at his range.
There’s silence, and it’s not that strange because even if they’re used to the other’s presence in their lives, they’ve never been the kind of allies or “brothers” who talk to each other. There’s always been a peculiar balance made of hours of silence and few, casual, meaningful sentences.
Actions. They are the kind of people who can say everything they need to say to each other with just actions, gestures, and that’s the reason why Yasusada takes Kashuu’s lock of hair between his fingers, almost studying it with a careful expression before cutting it; for the same reason, when he’s finished and he’s cleaned what he has used, Kashuu covers his head with the towel still on Yamato’s shoulder, he does it with no gentleness, and then he dries the other’s hair like it’s a nuisance.
They take care of each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world – and so it will be, when they’ll be alone; they know, in their heart, because metal is immortal.
People are not.
Spring smells of flowers and feels like warm air on skin, tastes of sweets and sounds of laughs as children come back to play on the street without being at the mercy of an unbearable cold.
Yasusada thinks it’s the most pleasant season of the year, even if maybe it’s the less peculiar to his eyes: since he can remember he’s taken the habit to associate what he sees and feels to people, sure about the fact that it’s all a mix of sounds and smells and feelings, more than what the eyes can catch sight of. So he’s always compared Kashuu to autumn, and thought that Horikawa felt like the summer, or that Izumi was like a mid-season, too much balanced to be clearly identified; to Yasusada, Okita has always been winter – not only because he brought him at home during that season, but because Okita could seem cold and unpleasant and far from every human feeling when he fought his enemies, killing men like he was stepping on dry leaves, but Yasusada knows – knew – he is as human as anybody else, more than anybody else.
Spring doesn’t look alike anyone Yasusada has known since he opened his eyes, even if he has associated it with something else more than once, a confused image that has never cleared in his mind until the evening in which he went with Okita to a geisha house. Yasusada remembers really well how obvious it was that he had never gone in such a place before – and looking at how Izuminokami, Horikawa and even Kashuu were at ease, it saw also obvious that it wasn’t their first time there; his gaze followed the gestures of graceful dances and fingers that moved elegantly on the shamisen’s strings, and he was enchanted by that art and those colors, oblivious of the fact that in the streets there were nothing more than the usual shades, not sparkling nor tempting; the battle has never been something made to seduce men, after all. Even if sometimes it seemed to have that exact effect on people like Okita.
After that evening, there have been days when Yasusada had watched Kashuu training in the garden, unconcerned with the cherry-blossom trees which were beginning to bloom: sometimes Yasusada has done the same, in other occasions he’s asked Horikawa to be his opponent, but there are times when he simply observes Kashuu who splits the air with his blade like he’s dancing. Flowers are not meant for men, Yasusada has understood it and has heard it a million times – they’re delicate, meant to enhance a woman’s beauty and frailty, and he knows the other wouldn’t be too happy knowing he’s been compared to them or to the elegance of thin fingers, nor to any other thing Yasusada thinks about while he looks at him. He knows it all too well, but it just happens: he looks at Kashuu and he can’t shout his mouth, he just speaks words not meant to belittle him or make fun of him.
«It’s beautiful.»
«Ah?»
«The way you move.» he says looking at the spot where, until now, the other has stood hitting again and again an imaginary enemy. Kashuu puffs between annoyance and satisfaction, because stressing the obvious doesn’t suit him: «I know. The undersigned’s style is and will always be flawless. I can be hard to handle, but Okita is able to do it.»
Yasusada knows that for Kashuu it’s something to be proud of, that he shows himself at his best so that Okita doesn’t have to get along without him – he knows that Kashuu is not aware of the fact that their master would never leave him even if Kashuu was dirty from end to end –, and maybe that’s the reason why he turns to look at him, showing him he’s serious as much as Kashuu.
«Yes.» he admits with a sweet smile, maybe too sweet and too honest, one hand that moves a lock of hair away, the same lock of hair that’s always annoying Kashuu when he’s training and he moves to attack (not to charm) «What I meant was that everything is beautiful.» and Yasusada means everything about you, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.
He expects something much different from the blush he catches sigh of, from the hand that pushes him away clumsily; and then Kashuu’s back is the only thing he can see, together with the stride of someone who’s in a hurry to distance himself from a transient happiness he doesn’t know how to welcome.
Summer is everything Kashuu hates to deal with: the typical humidity of the riverbank that has seeped through his bones since his birth, that will never leave him, the feeling of something unknown that insinuates itself under his skin and crawls, crawls to the point he’s unable to get rid of it. It’s the presence of voices too loud, of too much vitality that he doesn’t know where it comes from, it’s a mass of tireless children who run breathlessly. If there’s something Kashuu can appreciate of summer, that’s the colors that beautify the streets during every matsuri: he rarely has had the occasion to take part in one of them, moving forward next to Okita, but when he’s been able to do it he has appreciated the stands, the cheerful chatters, the charm of the lanterns at night – he had already seen them, sure, but never during a festival. When he has had the chance to enjoy that show, Kashuu has felt weak and even though the feeling was not appreciated, he couldn’t include that festival in the things he hates about summer.
He’s felt weak because he’s seen only the things a nocturnal squad could glimpse about the streets – he’s always laughed bitterly about it, because he can almost visualize himself presenting to Okita and being able to say that he’s Kashuu Kiyomitsu, the “child of the riverbank” who learns about the world nothing more that its ugly, dirty aspect. To Kashuu, it’s never been a curse, because if he knows what’s the worst then he can only do his best, be the best, but there are times when he sees everything he could have had and then he understands how horrible is to feel emotions like humans do; those are the times when he wishes he had feelings that could resemble his body, his real one, made of metal and with linear, sharp, clear shapes.
Summer is mainly made by sounds: cicadas that seem tireless while singing all day; it’s the heat that exhaust Kashuu after a few minutes outside, the green of the trees so strong that it makes his eyes burn if he looks at them too much. He doesn’t understand how Yamato can train as if a cool spring breeze was still greeting every movement he does; he doesn’t even seem tired or aware of the sweat that makes his hair stick to his forehead or flows along his features. Kashuu is aware he’s not in a better state, his pigtail annoyingly stuck at the side of his neck even when he moves quickly, a sweat hand that holds the sword more firmly because he refuses to lose like the worst of the amateurs.
«Kashuu?» he hears Yamato’s voice like it’s far away, too lost in his own thoughts to be focused; he doesn’t dare to ask how it was his last hit: «Hm?» he almost grumbles, without looking at the other. He hears Yamato laughing quietly and looks at him out of the corner of his eye, catching him while he’s wiping the sweat from his forehead with his own arm, the bangs ending up in such a mess that Kashuu will never allowed himself to have.
«Why don’t we stop for now? We could continue tonight, it’ll be cooler.» Yamato tries, putting back his sword. Kashuu stays silent, because he feels something that’s not fatigue nor a curse against the heat that makes impossible to breathe after some stupid exercise like the one they just ended. It’s Okita’s voice that reaches them and distracts him, Okita who’s complaining to Hijikata about a meeting of the Shinsengumi which will be too long to be also considered bearable by his master, especially because of the hot weather – it will take time that Okita would prefer to use for training, or playing some jokes to his comrades, the kind of jokes that reveal how young Okita really is despite his position. His master’s voice softens before Kashuu or Yamato can make a sign.
«It seems we won’t be busy for a while.» Yamato says with an amused smile, referring to their master’s words; Kashuu decides he has all the rights to blame the few following seconds on the summer weather, when he notices his hand has moved Yamato’s hair away from his forehead and the distance between them is too little, is improper and above all is dangerous.
Kashuu hates summer: he sweats too much, thinks too much, looks too much – at the trees, at Okita, at Yasusada.
Especially at Yasusada.
He realizes he’s touching him when it’s too late, when his warm hand is already against Yamato’s warm skin.
«Hm.»
Neither of them sees it coming, neither of them expects to have the other so near in a room that ends up being in semi-darkness because of the sudden rains that give the name to the season; Kashuu vaguely remembers he has always found annoying the so-called “rainy season” when he was still in the mud before Okita, before the Shinsengumi. But now, he’s almost grateful to the darkness even if it’s broad daylight, because it’s easier to kiss Yasusada’s lips in that clumsy way he hoped to be able to disguise better. For the first time Kashuu doesn’t worry too much about his hair or about his clothes: Yamato’s hands touch him like he was fragile and could break anytime because of him, and Kashuu feels in those hands and in those light, embarrassing kisses they exchange that love he’s always spasmodically looking for since he can remember.
He doesn’t undress Yasusada completely, nor the other undresses him: maybe it’s the fear that somebody could find them, or that Okita could suddenly need them, maybe it’s just the embarrassment of touching something you treasure more than anything else, so much you’ve never thought about brushing against it. In Kashuu eyes, Yasusada is like this, and even though he knows better than anybody else how strong Yamato is on the battlefield it can’t even accept the idea of treating him less gently than this.
So Kashuu’s fingers insinuate under the clothes and touch warm, soft skin; they caress Yamato’s hip and he can feel a beauty mark under his fingertip, smiles – he’s always found ironic that they both have beauty marks on their faces, but in different parts of it. He wondered if it’s true that those who are born with one of them near their eye, like Yasusada, are doomed to a life full of sorrow, and then he’s felt a grasp at his stomach thinking he would spare him that if he could. Later he realized his wish to protect Yasusada, just when he never protected himself from anything he has seen and those were things that would have probably crushed the strongest of the men.
«Kashuu…» he doesn’t expect that call or that needy voice, nor he expects one of Yasusada’s hands sneaking in between his legs reaching his erection. Kashuu startles and gasps slightly, letting out a surprised cry while his hands stop Yamato’s one instinctively, almost in panic.
Now it’s unavoidable to meet the other confused look, like Yasusada is afraid of having misunderstood their situation – Kashuu mentally curses himself, because there really is nothing to misunderstand – and inhales noisily, loosening his hold on the other’s wrist as he rests his forehead against Yasusada’s. He didn’t expect a lot of things, that’s why he moves slowly his face trying to calm himself, to calm both of them: he gently touches Yamato’s nose with his own, then Kashuu’s lips kisses him again, his hand once again on Yamato’s hip and the other sneaking in the other’s clothes.
It’s Yasusada who distances himself a little to be able to kiss the beauty mark near Kashuu’s mouth, it’s Yasusada who puts his arms around his neck to run his fingers through Kiyomitsu’s hair, lightly touching his nape and making him shiver. Then it’s a succession of wetter kisses, light bites, caresses that cause long sighs and low moans they are afraid that someone could hear beyond the door.
There’s a moment in which Kashuu can hear two sounds: Yasusada’s voice moaning near his ear and the rain outside, so thick it’s like Kashuu has to be distracted by his noise – he ignores it, and chooses to focus only on Yasusada’s hand that’s holding his while he kisses him once again.
Hours later, still forced inside that room by the heavy rain that doesn’t intend to stop, Kashuu looks lazily at that horrible weather; just until Yamato calls for him with a soft voice and a kind smile on his lips: «Hydrangeas are blooming.» he says quietly like it’s their secret, pointing at some flower outside in the garden.
Kashuu doesn’t know what’s so beautiful about flowers that live most of their life – nothing more than few months – under constant rain; but he doesn’t ask, he doesn’t ruin the look in Yasusada’s eyes he loves so much. He holds his hand a bit stronger, entwine their fingers together, and half-closes his eyes pretending to feel sleepy.
Yamato’s lips brushes against his forehead, and the sound of the rain is not so annoying now.
Summer has strayed towards autumn once again, bringing leaves, warm colors and everything Yasusada has always considered “home”.
The room has a slight smell of flowers, and his eyes brushes the hydrangeas he himself bothered to bring with him: he still holds them in his hands, kneeled near the futon, Okita’s body covered meticulously. There’s no face to look at, and even if there was there wouldn’t be a lively gaze looking back at him: just empty green eyes, in a lifeless body.
Yasusada tightens up his hold on the flowers, and a small part of him knows he’s ruining them without reason. It’s raining outside, even if it’s not the rain season anymore, and he notice his hands are shaking.
He doesn’t turn, because it’s true there’s nothing in front of him – because that body is not Okita, it’s not his master, it’s not the man who can lead him on the battlefield – but he doesn’t have anything back anymore; he knows that, even turning back, there wouldn’t be Kashuu and maybe he wishes he could find him here, grieving over a death that tears him apart as much as it does to Yamato. Maybe he’s happy Kashuu can’t see him, maybe he’s happy Kashuu doesn’t have to suffer like this.
Yasusada knows it, there’s nothing different he could have done to save Okita, and the screams he still hears in his head are nothing more than the twisted mockery of a fate that makes fun of him, letting him remember that while Kashuu was breaking he couldn’t do anything but looking at him.
He senses it, while the hydrangeas dry between his fingertips and he feels another life drifting between his hands: sometimes there’s still a gust of warm wind that reminds him of summer and he hates it, because summer has taken everything away from him – fate it the only things that belong to everyone, maybe, yet every moment of happiness that fate has given to him seems to have been granted to him just to cause more pain.