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Chapter Text

 ===  ACT 1 ===

“Straighten your back,” lord Shigaraki’s deep voice rumbles above Tomura like thunder.

Tomura clenches his teeth, leading the horse to yet another steep and sharp turn. The ‘road’ they have spent the last eight hours on, is nothing but narrow line formed by light footsteps snaking through the hills in unpredictable turns. It too narrow for a horse, meaning they have been walking the horses since some kind of sharp rock these people believed marked the ‘sacred mountains’.

Yet his uncle insists they arrive on horseback.

Tomura would rather walk this gods forsaken route barefoot, than having to keep his balance on a horse that has great troubles keeping the balance itself. He pities more the horse than himself, a strong elegant beast with brown-orange hair and dark mane that has been his companion since he was fifteen and carried him through the battles of the recent coup. He pats the base of the strong neck slick with sweat, but the horse grunts in annoyance, unaccepting the comfort of Tomura’s touch.

Every muscle cries with exhaustion, hands pull at his ankles and beg him to get off that horse and stretch his legs.

His ceremonial attire is heavy with sweat, white fabric of the underlayer sticks to his skin, the black vest weighs on his shoulders like rocks.

He straightens his back, his spine cracking unpleasantly.

The black horse in front of him huffs in labour as he carries the massive figure of his uncle through the last turn that goes steeply up. Tomura leads his horse behind his uncle to his right and the rest of the party lines up behind them.

Keeping his eyes on the broad back of his uncle, Tomura has failed to notice the massive gate looming over them at the highest point of the route. To look all the way up the bright green-blue roof, Tomura must lean his head all the way back.

His uncle huffs as if the tall bright white gate with red frames and thick pillars was nothing impressive, as if it’s more of an insult.

They ride through it, passing under the watchful eyes of tall figures residing in the gate. The one close to Tomura is holding vase and pours the water to its feet, the one on the opposite side holds a golden plate with a flame.

His uncle stops behind the gate, looking down to a city growing on the narrow road as cherry blossoms blooming on a dark branch. The beaten but clean stone road is surrounded by various temples in the almost bare trees, the smell of incense is thick in the air as the gentle chilly breeze takes it to them. A group of men in dark robes are coming calmly uphill in two perfectly straight lines, not rushing.

“What a pack of delusionists,” his uncle’s voice is measured, but Tomura knows the underlaying anger bubbling underneath, “we threaten to wipe them off map and they come greet us,” he chuckles and Tomura smiles too.

This place feels… almost too calm. He has been taking history lessons, so he is aware of the meaning of this little utopia, the centre of the country’s belief, and of the threat it represents; of the potential damage the weapon veiled under innocence can deal. It’s nothing but belief – myths and made-out fairy tales people find comfort in, and let their minds be clouded with. Tomura does know that, but he can’t help feeling the breath of ancient presence looming over him, cooling touch over his shoulders that helps him relax and still his mind.

The group of bald men is taking their time, and once they reach them, they bow deeply, but do not kneel in front of their new lord.

“Have you been preoccupied lately?” His uncle asks.

The man in the front lifts his head, “We are never too preoccupied to offer a hand to those seeking healing,” he says calmly, but he’s completely off topic. Tomura sighs quietly in annoyance.

His uncle scoffs, “Many must’ve been seeking ‘healing’ since you were not able to find time to write a proper reply,”

The man bows his bald head that shines among the other bald heads.

They look like a set of drums. It’s comical.

“My lord. You’ve come a long way to grace us with your presence,” the monk bows his head a little lower and the six men behind him do so too, “Please, allow us to accommodate you,”

But his uncle has come to burn this hole down.

Lord Shigaraki gives Tomura one look, and Tomura holds the same eyes as his. Slowly, he takes in the city. The architecture sure is as impressive as described and Tomura is naturally curious.

Their brigade is exhausted, so are they. Resting before negotiations is reasonable.

His eyes come back to the lord, and he’s silently suggesting: If you’ll burn this place down, what difference does it make to spend one night in it?

His uncle’s mouth spreads in a wolf smile, replying Let them entertain us.

His uncle looks back to the men and nods.

The bald men bow deeper, and Tomura briefly closes his eyes, sensing they will request something his uncle might not like to hear the moment the first one takes a breath to speak.

“We will take your horses, my lord. Please, walk through the city by foot,”

Tomura can hear the reins in his uncle’s hands squeal, and before he says something, Tomura gets off the horse.

“You may take mine. My uncle shall ride,” he says in a tone suggesting no further negotiations and reaches the reins towards the men, happy to finally stretch his legs.

A short second, the first monk in the rows looks to Tomura, his eyes taken aback and even shocked. Eyes of the man that is not used to taking orders. Tomura watches to it the man is reminded who his lords are, obediently sending one of the men to take Tomura’s horse. The second he hands the reins to them, his stubborn horse tests their hold with wild snaps of his head, horseshoes beating the stone path and clinging like metal pipes.

Tomura lets them handle his horse, smirks when the beast pulls two monks nearly all the way back to the massive gate. Once his horse senses soft, weak touch, he will fight. It’s a proud beast that won’t let itself be handled by weaklings.

His uncle grins at his creative solution.

The rest of the brigade follows his example, and they continue on foot.

The city is very calm and charming by itself. The architecture is clean and precise yet interesting to look at as it offers varying temple structures like round white and red prayer halls, or dark wooden structures with golden lanterns lining its sides like ripe apples on a tree.

“Please, my lords, pick whichever accommodation you seem fit,”

“Tomura,” His uncle hums uninterested, passing the decision to him.

Tomura has read about the city hidden among the sacred mountains, and though there is not much publicly known, each building and its history must be registered, and Tomura has read it all. Tomura carefully glances over the magnificent temples around the area and then he catches onto the clear tell what the most important temple for this irrational idealism. He points towards the gates running around a temple with white fabric decorations. Green for earth, purple for water, yellow for air, red for fire and white for higher meaning or whatever they believe in.

It is described that the main temple has white curtains.

If the monks felt unsettled or dazed by Tomura’s decision, they don’t let it show.

“Excellent choice,” the monk leading the party says in a monotone voice. It’s a man in his fifties with thin mouth, but he speaks very quietly and softly as if he was a young girl spending her time running barefoot in woods. He leads them through the gate. All monks bow as they walk in, reminding Tomura a bunch of ducklings.

The stay is pleasant, though they are told not to touch anything.

They are given poor dinner lacking meat, and Tomura chooses to sate the hunger it left with curiosity. Once the head monk invites his uncle to the study to discuss the matters of the new leading clan in the region, Tomura wanders off through the halls of the temple. He already knows the discussion will be very one-sided and the best outcome for the believers here is complete surrender of all the things they preach.

They have too much influence on the society, and though the belief itself is peaceful, the potential it has is dangerous. There’s a thick network of these temples across the region, they have usurped important administrative functions with an ultimatum: marriages must be held in their temples, heirs must be named by the monks in their cities, the lords must discuss tax increase and campaigns must be blessed by the head monks of the temples. If broken, there is a threat of a ‘curse’. Which bears no acts, however, with so many followers, the people blindly trust their words so passionately they have, might, and will, rebel against their lords.

The leisure reign of the previous clan has allowed the monks to dig their fingers too deep in politics, and the Shigaraki clan has come in to fix things.

It's a complete comedy and it needs to be stopped.

The floor under his feet is as cold as ice, the walls from dark wood melt into the shadows, soon forcing Tomura to walk with one hand on the wall and the other reaching in front of himself. He walks around the temple, causing himself to become more frustrated instead of achieving state of fulfilment by finding anything interesting.

He takes a turn and breathes out in relief when he reaches a hall with one wall made of windows letting in the moonshine. He walks past it, gazing out to the garden with array of black rocks and white pebbles around it. It does not interest him – it’s just rocks. He ventures further and further, at some point losing his way completely. All the rooms are pitch black, aside from one that illuminates a stripe of warm orange light around the frame.

Tomura walks to it, reaching out for the sliding door, his heart beating in excitement.

“Lost your way?”

Tomura jolts up and turns. He heard not a rustle.

In front of the glass, with a thin trace of moonlight around his figure stands a man wearing the same simple black robes as the other monks. This one is slightly taller than Tomura and strangely, has softly curling hair as black as the night surrounding them. The moonlight stands bright against the pitch-black hair, illuminating the person like he’s wearing a silvery crown.

“I’m a guest here if you don’t mind,” Tomura stands up straight, the man’s head moves slightly as he looks him up and down.

“You’re not a guest here,” he says, his voice bearing more emotional pitch than the voices of the other men, “I’ll lead you back,” he says swiftly, already walking through the hall but keeping an eye on Tomura.

Tomura is so stunned by the sheer arrogance of that person that the words do not come to his mind.

He catches up.

“Why are you here?” he asks angrily.

“I live here,” the monk answers as if that was obvious. He sounds like a man his age, grown in comfort and used to order people around.

“But here? What is here? What are you doing here?” Tomura demands answers, needs to be explained the mysterious nature of here.

“I do here what I usually do,” he says, this time there’s something reminding a little chirp – him being pleased that he’s playing with Tomura, “I don’t come to your house and ask you what you do there, now do I?”

Tomura’s mouth is agape with a gasp, “Do you know who you’re talking to?” Tomura raises his voice.

“We talk to everybody equally, don’t you know where you are?” the man sighs, sliding the door in a hall open with his elegantly long fingers. The paper hanging onto the dark wooden frame is pale under tan fingers.

Tomura did not go this way before, he’s completely lost in the maze at this point, “Begger or lord, those who come searching, find the answers. Isn’t that what they say?” he adds grumpily, without giving Tomura an answer. It’s infuriating.

His steps are silent, but Tomura’s feet make the wooden planks cry out.

They come back to the entrance of the main hall, turn towards the doors. This time, Tomura finally sees his face and makes sure he remembers it well.

It’s a young man, with strangely soft features in his face that do not correspond to his sharp tone. He’s not only handsome, but youthfully pretty, with slightly sun-tanned skin. It makes Tomura wonder if he’s one of the monks that has been cut to preserve that boyish beauty he’s read in one particular book. But his voice seems too low for it.

The monk keeps his head up, his eyes always half-lidded as if he’s looking at a bug at his feet. Completely different stance than what has Tomura expected to be met with.

“It’d be wise to stay in your designated room,” he recites quietly, not disturbing the conversation in the room in front of them, “do you understand?”

Tomura frowns at being handled like a child, eyes hung on the man’s face.

“I’d appreciate if you don’t disturb me again,” he adds and immediately turns to the door behind which a light is lit, shutting down any response Tomura could’ve had.

He kneels by the door frame, looking up to Tomura like mother looks at a child who forgot the rules of people. With a frown, Tomura kneels beside him.

The man’s elegant fingers turn, and he softly knocks on the dark wood.

The black and white sleeve strolls down his wrist, and instead of revealing delicate tender wrist, it shows another dark sleeve, tighter to the skin, a V shape of the fabric with its tip pointing towards the knuckle of his middle finger.

The quiet conversation has ceased, and a soft voice calls the young man in. He opens the door slightly, then pushes it swiftly open to reveal Tomura.

“Excuse me,” suddenly, his voice is all soft and obedient, “our guest has become lost in the temple’s grounds. Perhaps assigning him a guide would be safer choice,” he bows his head, as if Tomura was a child needing to be held by hand.

“Oh, how kind of you to guide our guest here,” the old monk gestures Tomura to enter, completely ignoring the mockery of the younger monk said in order to stir chaos.

“I was about to ask for you,” his uncle says and Tomura nods.

The younger man that looks like he wanted to shut to door and return to the temple’s insides, eyes hidden under shadow of slight confusion.

“Would you please bring our guests some tea?” the older monk asks.

“Of course,” the black-haired tastes each syllable, his eyes flicking to Tomura taking a place by his uncle’s right. The young man immediately disappears, coming back unusually quick with boiling hot green tea he neatly places in front of his uncle and then in front of Tomura. He observes as his long fingers place the deep blue cup there, then halt a little.

Tomura raises his head, catching the man staring at the family crest like deer staring at the glistering arrow tip. The round sun and waves at the bottom, woven in golden thread against the dark fabric blind the black-haired monk. Tomura catches the young man’s eyes with a satisfied smirk, taking in his expression as he’s fully realizing Tomura was not a person deserving the treatment he’s given him.

The eyes lift to meet his and for a second Tomura forgets all the shallow hatered – lost in the swirl of the brightest and richest color of blue he’s ever seen. A color of thousand seas sealed in the eyes of a man caged in sacred mountains.

How poetic.

The young man moves over the floor like he’s floating, practised movements of his feet that make no noise and he is seated behind on the right of the head monk. He sits straight but keeps his eyes casted down and his mouth shut, fully drowning in his mistake.

“Allow us to enjoy,” the head monk reaches for his tea and his uncle follows. Tomura follows his uncle, “for respected ruler of the mountains, and for our future cooperation,”

Cooperation?

They drink, the tea tastes as any other tea.

“Would you be interested in a night tour of the resting place of the great Amidha?”

“Tomura will go. We do have a few scripts about your belief, but perhaps you can pass some knowledge onto him,” his uncle reacts quickly, and Tomura wishes he wouldn’t suggest that. He planned to ask him about the ‘cooperation’ the monk mentioned.

“Wonderful idea,” the monk turns slightly to his right and the younger man lifts his eyes, “Take the lord’s nephew through the cedar’s burial sites to the main prayer hall,”

“Of course,” the young man speaks as quietly as wind, bowing his head.

Tomura smirks.

“Would our delighted guest prefer bath now or in later hours?”

“Now shall do,”

The old monk leads them to the shared bathhouse and the younger one tamely collects their cups like a maid.

The bath is in behind the temple grounds, and Tomura makes a face over the state of it. A lord, and they make him use a public bath? Very disrespectful.

“I do not plan on handing them power, or letting them keep what they have,” his uncle says when they submerge their tired bodies in the pleasantly warm water. In the chilly night, steam rises from the surface.

“Good,” Tomura mutters, sleep weighing heavy.

“I plan on listening to everything they say, make them beg with their philosophic muttering for all they need,”

Tomura nods, the warm water brings sleep into his body.

“Who was that young man who escorted you back?”

“A monk?” Tomura leans his head on the warm rock, his fingers thread through the water, “He wasn’t bald though. I thought all of them have to give up that,”

“Perhaps you will find out,”

“hmm,” Tomura closes his eyes. Soaking in the water is very pleasant, the way it hugs his body softly, “Anything out of ordinary should be noted, uncle. There’s not enough reports on them,”

“Of course,” his uncle purrs, keeping his voice stern, unlike Tomura who slowly melts in the comfortableness.

---

“They won’t budge, Enji,” head monk speaks with no urgency to his father. Touya’s eyes flick between them.

“They will, once they hear of our cause,” his father’s light blue eyes wander off to Touya, not lingering a second longer it would on a lost moth. Touya looks back down to his hands, carefully pulling at the point of the thick black bandage wrapped around his arms.

“Lord Shigaraki is known for his stubbornness,” though this is fairly the most dangerous situation the heart of the belief has ever been in, the monk keeps his voice calm and steady as a surface of a pond, something Touya has yet a long way to learn, “for his ruthlessness,”

“Many lords have come; many will pass. Let us see this situation as no other,” his father takes a deep breath, his chest expanding under the robes, “What have they done to deserve such title?”

The head monk slowly turns his head to Touya, allowing him to speak up, present the fruits of his lessons, though unwillingly because his father’s as well-educated as him and his eyes are stark as if he’s testing him, “They have taken control from the previous ruler a few months ago,” he slips his hands in his sleeves, keeping his eyes down, “Lord Shigaraki has been held by the court of lord Toshinori in hiy early years as a…an insurance,” he mutters, eyes flinching to the head monk, but the man offers nothing but pleasant smile that always soothes Touya’s taunted nerves, “He has travelled across the country as a young man. Upon returning to the north, he used his knowledge to give order to the military forces. As a first in the history of his clan has dominated the unruly tribes in west border. But seeing this, lord Toshinori grew aware of the power of the newly formed army, and demanded a nobleman to replace lord Shigaraki as the envoy in southern land,” he stops to take a breath, letting his mind form clearly what he has been taught, but the history is mere action and reaction, “Lord Shigaraki has been offended with it, because it is well known he’s sired no son. He sent a letter, offering his nephew, using this as an excuse to arrive south to deliver the boy. But instead, he seized the capital and lord Toshinori has handed him power before he’d burn the city down,”

A quiet silence leaves him standing on needles.

“Though you know all of this, you’d behave to that nephew the way you did.” His father scoffs and Touya gasps.

“I didn’t know it was him-”

“Are you blind!” his father cuts him off immediately. Touya closes his mouth, stiffly hiding his hands in his sleeves, his eyes casted down to his knees, “Or was the family crest not enough of a hint?!”

Touya grinds his teeth, scrunching his nose in distaste but he knows better not to argue with his father.

“I thought you’d recognize sun over sea,” he scoffs, “I ought to draw it for you as one would for a toddler,”

“Father-…” Touya sighs, cheeks blushing under the humiliating words.

It was his mistake, he knows. He has recognized the crest the second he’s laid eyes on it. But he should’ve assessed the stranger better. Sooner, faster. As he walks himself back through his encounter with the nephew, he curses himself. Being startled through his practise has clouded his judgement, and he had not focused enough.

Lately, he can’t stop thinking that it’s never enough.

“What about the nephew?” with Touya’s testing done, his father faces head monk.

“He is an heir to his title, a sole one,” the monk halts, the silence swells, “A well-read young man.”

“Young, with his mind still open,” his father muses.

“I hear he’s very close to the lord,” the head monk whispers like women do when they caught their neighbour’s wrongdoings, “The lord listens to his suggestions. Perhaps lets himself be influenced by the youth,”

Touya feels two set of eyes wander to him. First, he searches in the dark eyes of the head monk, then he gives a glance to his father, unable to recognize any meaning in neither.

“Can I talk to my son in private?” his father says softly.

Touya’s heart thuds against his ribs.

“Of course,” the head monk leaves, elegantly pushing his knees under himself to lift himself off. As the sliding door click closed, Touya relaxes his posture.

“Did he teach you all our legends? All the stories about the burial site?”

“Yes,” Touya nods once, sighing softly over this never-ending day and the tour he needs to provide for the nephew.

“Can you speak it as enchantingly as he does?”

“…I’ll do my best,” he nods again.

“Touya!” his father hisses.

Touya looks up helplessly, his father shuffles closer.

“This is important,” his eyes are wild and burning, “You must make sure he loves it here,”

“…I’ll do my best,” Touya repeats, unable to look away from the eyes that look like his own diluted by water. He does not want to promise what he can’t do.

“You must do better than that,” his father urges.

Touya nods slowly.

“I wish they’d come in winter to see the fire ceremony!” he laments, his hands falling numbly onto his knees.

Lump forms in Touya’s throat at mentioning of the fire ceremony, his skin crawling at it. Yet he swallows it down, and suggests: “If there is snow, it might be possible even now…” his voice trails off.

“Are you sure?!”

At hearing the excitement in his voice, Touya nods again. It’s unusual to hold the fire ceremony this late in spring, but they often have snow showers and that always feel fitting for the ceremony.

Anything to please his father.

“When do you think it’ll snow?!” his father pushes him.

Touya wonders, “Not tomorrow,” he says, remembering the brightness of today’s moon and the smell of today’s wind, “In two days… I cannot say,” he heaves a sigh, eyes lowering.

A big hand shoots forward, clasping Touya’s shoulder. A touch so firm in the land of abstract thoughts it stands out as stark as a stone against the sky.

“We’ll keep them here for a week, I can promise. You have to inform me once you feel the change,”

Touya nods, not able to see the complete picture of father’s plans.

A hand pats his shoulder in almost comforting matter, then slides off.

---

Tomura drags his too relaxed body to meet the black-haired man who has been standing by the main entrance, waiting.

He bows slightly to Tomura, and they head to the main road lit by lanterns hung low to the little stone bridge and massive cedar trees, like an entrance in a giant’s garden.

“There is a thin river around these grounds,” the young man describes in a soft voice, pointing his finger towards the bridge and dragging across the little stream of a color of ink, “it separates the land of living and those not,” Tomura stares up to the trees, slowly following the man to the bridge, “Please bow when you enter,”

Too worn out and too relaxed by the bath, Tomura has no energy to argue, yet surrendering is not on his mind. He gives somewhat of a nod and the young man does not hold him accountable for it.

When they enter, the trees devour them. The richness of the cedar scent is slight and gentle, soothing for the mind. There is no sound other than a soft rings of the steps over the stone path, the quietest of the rustle as wind cruise through the cedar trees like fingers sliding through fine hair.

“Is it just cedar trees?” Tomura asks when he takes a deep breath to savour the smell of the forest.

“Cedars and pines,” the man next to him echoes, “you have a good nose,” he adds softly, but Tomura gives it no weight. Many compliment him to gain his uncle’s favour, “If you look to the burial altar there-” the man stops, pointing to a stone with a barely readable name on it. In the middle of the stone sign stands a little vase and in it a fresh pine branch, “Your people might put flowers on graves,”

“Yes,” he mutters, eyes firm on the pine branch.

“Flowers-” he says, but cuts himself off, taking a little pause, “We believe, that… well,” another pause like he’s trying to remember a lyrics to a song he’s heard on a street, “Flowers wither, as well as the flesh,” he says, somewhat finding a way through it, “but death is not the… the same as you see it. We believe you still are. That’s why we put pine, matsu, for the waiting ones,”

His clumsy words in the thick silence sound like magic.

“What are they waiting for?” Tomura pokes in the matter, knowing the implied answer already, “For you to join them, don’t they?”

The young man starts walking again, “One could say, I don’t know,” he acknowledges, “Waiting for another change, waiting for ascend, waiting for someone, or waiting for something,” he speaks in a low voice, “I can’t know,” he adds.

“It’s… rather comforting,” Tomura blinks, and takes a deep breath. He doesn’t have to try to imagine what kind of comfort would that bring to a person who’s loved ones passed – to know they are somewhere, waiting for something.

“For some,” the young man shrugs, the deeper they are in the forest passing gravestones, the further he leaves that practised softness. Tomura prefers this.

Another stop is in front of a sitting statue that has red circles on its cheeks and small offerings by its feet.

“Women come here to pray for beauty,” he explains simply, and they look at the grotesque statue.

“There are women?”

“Some are allowed to enter,” he says and moves forward, “there is a women’s monastery if you continue down to road you came from to the south, if you’re interested in visiting,”

“Can men enter?”

“…probably,” it comes with his breath, the eyes flicking to the crest on his shoulder, “But I believe you could find a way,”

“Perhaps. I was asking if it’s forbidden for men to enter,”

“It is,” the young man’s steps falter, and Tomura looks around, expecting there is another stop, “Would you go, knowing this?”

“Most likely not,”

“Hm.”

They move through the dark night alone and Tomura does feel the magic of the place, deep and calm.

“The men are buried here equal,” they slow down and pass several big and small signs, “a lord between a commoner and a farmer.”

“May I ask something?” Tomura frowns upon the signs pressed tight to each other, thousands upon thousands of gravestones.

“…of course,”

“You said buried, but I can’t see how so many bodies would fit here,”

“Oh, my mistake,” the young man mutters, “I meant that… since we’re so high in the mountains, it is very difficult to transport a body all the way here. People bring a fragment of bones of the ones they wish to bury here,”

“A specific bone?” Tomura stops in front of another little bridge lit by two lanterns.

“Yes,”

A touch on his neck makes him suck in air. His skin, sensitive and warmed of the bath, and two elegant fingers pressing against his spine, cold like smooth stone.

“This one,” the young man says, lifting his fingers off Tomura’s skin. Tomura quickly covers the back of his neck with his hand, staring forward, shocked he did not hear even a rustle of his clothes when he moved to touch the vulnerable spot of his spine.

“How do you get that bone? Must be… not very ceremonial to cut it off a person’s neck, is it?”

He watches the man turn around, slip his hands in his sleeves and consider his question.

“I… I don’t know,” his brows knit tight as he ponders, “You ask unusual questions,” it sounds a little like a whine, “Relevant though. I think that… if the body… dissolves, the bones might…” he squirms, doing his best to provide Tomura with a suitable answer, but his voice dies off as they come to the second bridge.

Tomura bows before he crosses the bridge, his lips spread in a smile, his eyes set on the pondering face of the young monk, “You’ve never seen a dead man, have you?”

The young man’s eyes open wide, and he stares at Tomura striding around him.

They leave the topic float away to the night sky, continuing to the suddenly appearing temple hall lit brightly by golden lanterns in four rows lining its roof.

“Do you know the story of monk Amidha?”

“Of course,” Tomura puffs his chest, “The founder of your city, 200 years ago. He brought the beliefs, established temples, spread the worships. It is said he is still alive,”

Astonished silence falls onto them.

“We will be entering the sacred grounds where he meditates,” the young man stops before the temple hall. It is closed for the night, “Please be quiet not to disturb him,”

With a quiet sigh, Tomura follows the young man around the hall. It is very impressive at night, beautiful colours of bright gold against the dark wood.

They go around the hall and look at a statue with lotuses. The smell of incense is thick.

“We pray here,” the young man shuffles closer so Tomura can hear his whisper.

“For what?”

“For whatever you wish for,” he answers even quieter, “Would you mind me reciting a script while we do so, or do you prefer to do in quiet?”

“Go on,” Tomura sighs quietly. Since he’s here, he’ll let the monk entertain him, as his uncle suggested.

The young man steps forward, joins his hands and bows his head a little, then recites rhythmic words, their meaning slipping past Tomura’s grasp.

As it goes, Tomura mimics the way the young man stands, joining his hands and closing his eyes.

What to wish for, what to wish for…

Something he wants…

He settles on simple I want my future reign to be successful.

When they leave, he tries to glance past the thick fence, but he can’t see the legendary monk who is said to have entered a state of meditation two hundred years ago. Logically, he must be dead, but the people claim he’s still sitting there behind the fence and meditating, having entered a heightened state of being.

On the way back, the young man leads him a little off the main road.

“Are you interested in history?”

“I have read it,” Tomura nods.

“Do you know the story of the betrayal of lord’s Toshinori’s commander?” there’s a little excited pitch in his voice, the blue eyes slipping to the side to observe him

Tomura gives a smile he can’t see in the dark and says another: “Of course,” his voice raises slightly, “His dearest companion, general of his cavalry-” Tomura huffs as he walks over old uneven surface, “He has gathered the best riders among his troops and fled in the mountains during battle, leaving Toshinori’s right flank exposed to enemy. Half of his army has been wiped out and he’s lost his western lands,”

The monk is quiet, letting Tomura’s words sound out. He must be speechless at Tomura’s knowledge, Tomura smirks.

They stop in front of moss-covered altar, “This is the remains of the lord’s commander,” he points forward and Tomura steps closer and squints his eyes at the place where he points to, barely making out its shape in the dark, “Not a single stone sign in this burial site has cracked in thousands of years…. except the one of Toshinori’s commander. It is said that lord is still angry at the betrayal,”

Tomura can’t contain the surprised gasp when he sees the massive crack nearly splitting the stone in two, “Not a single one?”

“None. None but this one,” the young man confirms, sharing the excitement of the lord’s nephew.

 After they cross a second bridge on the way back, the young man stops abruptly and turns his head to the side as if he had an idea but doubted its appropriateness.

“Come this way,” he whispers in a voice of a boy about to do a mischief. Tomura follows a little off the path to the wooden structure, it’s roof reminding Tomura of a little house for squirrels. Inside the wooden cage lays a flat, big, smooth stone.

“What is that,” Tomura asks, too eager to know, even though the young man has been explaining everything on his own.

“That,” the man stands beside the cage, “is a test,” he says mischievously. “It is said that the stone weighs as much as one’s sins,” the teeth in his smile are a little flick of the light in the dark, “try for yourself if you can carry the weight of your sins,” he points to the hole in thin planks, just enough to push in hand up to an elbow.

Tomura steps closer, knowing fully well it’s the nothing more than a circus trap, but the daring tone in the young man’s voice is laced with challenge he can’t resist. He can’t quite grasp the stone; it’s surface so smooth it’s slipping.  When he does get a leverage, the stone feels much heavier than he had expected and he can’t do more than make it sway.

“Too heavy,” he gives up, playing in the young man’s cards.

“Well, well, a sinner,” he chirps, breaking out of the soft, explaining tone.

“You try,” Tomura challenges and the man hesitates a little, silence stretching. Tomura’s smile withers around a soft sigh, fully expecting that these monks would not give him any proof of their weaknesses; as the others, the young man would bow and decline in the most polite, vague way-

“…but don’t tell it to the head monk,” he whispers instead, catching Tomura completely off-guard. Waiting for Tomura’s nod, he sticks his hand through and tries to lift the stone with no success.

“Can’t handle your own sins,” Tomura taunts and the young man replies with a little chuckle.

It turned out to be a pleasant evening and Tomura feels a little regretful over the simple fact that this tour is now over. He assumes there is much more to learn, and he’d like to hear it.

“Your chambers are this way,” the young man points towards the room Tomura shares with his uncle, “please be quiet, everybody is likely sleeping,” he turns to walk the opposite direction.

“Thank you,” it comes before Tomura can even think it and both he and the young monk’s footsteps stagger in slight shock.

---

“Did he say anything?” his father asks by breakfast Touya chews slowly with heavy eyes because he went to sleep late and woke up early for morning prayers.

“He was listening,” he says carefully, taking another delicate bite.

“Did he seem interested?”

“Yes,” Touya nods.

His father looks with hope to the head monk, “Would you show him the gardens along the womens’ path?”

This is unusual; the trees have not yet entered the bloom.

Touya chews slowly, his brows knitted tight.

“Wouldn’t the gardens of the second gate temple be more suitable?” Touya asks and the head monk slowly shakes his head, slightly disappointed, which Touya doesn’t understand. The gardens are much more appropriate for this season’s viewing.

When he suggests to the lord’s nephew to show him around while the lord visits the forest and temple where they have been the night before, he’s met with quick agreement.

“Why is this called the women’s path? Aren’t men forbidden to walk it?”

“Because it’s the way through which women are allowed to come. And we can walk it,” Touya continues the climb, glancing here and there slightly behind himself to check on the lord’s nephew who is looking around curiously, but his dark eyes stay slightly lost.

“Is there something special? It seems like a plain path to me,” he catches up and Touya folds his hands into his sleeves.

He gazes up, to the bare dark branches, the same color as the lord’s nephew’s eyes. It looms over them bare and fragile, like polished bones without flesh.

It was indeed a bad idea.

“To be honest… it is impressive, but once the plums reach full bloom. I think you’re a month too soon,” he acknowledges in shame, “Month and three days,” he hums more to himself. He should’ve gone against the head monk and his father’s suggestions and taken him to the gardens instead; there was no point in walking this path when it’s this pitifully naked.

The dark eyes skip over the branches, his face serene, thoughtful. It is not difficult to guess he’s painting imaginary plum flowers over his vision, filling out the empty space and creating the infinite tunnel of wonder.

He must be imagining the how beautiful it will look next month.

They walk past the passage and Touya leads the lord’s nephew off the path since he himself has gotten fairly bored of it. There is not much he can point out, except what he’s already said, so he considers the official tour done and now wants to see how the person will react if he drags him through something less polished; to a place of no significance.

“I’m curious…” he muses when Touya goes first, taking his hands out of his sleeves to hold onto the branches of pines when the path goes unkept, leading steeply down over exposed roots. Touya prefers these types of paths, it’s more fun to walk it; he’d skip over it and often trip over his robes when he was young, but he can walk it now without even looking under his feet, his hands slipping on thick branches for support like a muscle memory.

“Yes?” Touya reminds the lord’s nephew to speak his mind.

“Why do you have hair?” the light-haired heir huffs, his feet stomping on the ground as he does his best to keep up with Touya.

“Don’t we all have hair,” Touya pushes a branch with budding leaves away and lets it swing back on the man behind him, foxy smile on his lips.

But the man behind him ducks swiftly, as if it was a sword flung on his head.

Touya’s quickly looks away, his expression changing from carefree to a stiff mask of shock. True, he has not seen a person who’d wield a sword or been in battles, he’s only read about it. But this second, the instant and nearly desperate reaction as if Touya was aiming for his life has sent him crushing down to Earth.

The person who walks behind him likely has killed a man. Men. He must have a sword, steel thirsty of blood. He must’ve ridden in a horde of spears that’d glitter in the merciless sun like surface of an unrest pond, and still he’s the one left standing.

This person… is slightly scary. And overwhelmingly brave.

Touya’d like to know, but he shouldn’t ask about violence.

“You’re wearing monk’s clothes,” the lord’s nephew continues and Touya blinks as he returns from his imagination, “I’ve never seen a monk with hair,” another huff and a rustle of dry soil when the little lord’s shoes beat on the dry leaves, “Are you an apprentice?”

“You might say that,” Touya doesn’t deny nor agree.

His father plans on the fire ceremony for the lords, so it’d be uncanny to spoil the surprise by revealing his status now.

“You don’t act like an apprentice,” he keeps thinking aloud behind his back, “and…”

“Yes?” Touya looks back when the steps of the nephew of the lord quiet down. He gazes around. The path they are following has thinned to nothing, but a passage walked by deer surrounded by thick pines and oaks, already taking them deep in the woods and hiding any sight of the women’s path or the city in its embrace.

“Where are we going?” a slight spike of worry poisons his tone, his eyes carefully taking note of Touya’s stance.

“I’m not trying to kill you,” Touya turns to him, hiding his hands in his sleeves and the lord’s nephew tenses, “We’re not that far, you’d be able to go back on your own if you do want to silence me,”

The dark eyes flick up and down his figure as if he truly believes monks carry weapons.

“I’ve lived here twenty years,” he adds in a low, soft voice, though what reassures the young lord are Touya’s eyes. He nods stiffly, his shoulders drop slightly.

They proceed.

“You said ‘and’?” Touya shouldn’t encourage him to poke his nose into the city’s private business, but he is simply curious how much can this so said well-read noble reveal on his own.

“And…” his voice trails off, “I find it strange that you have so much free time,”

“What do you think somebody like me does the whole day?”

A sigh like a mourn of his unreceived answer, “Carry out rituals, ceremonies, pray…”

“Ponder,” Touya adds with a mischievous smile.

“A lot of that too,”

“And you can ponder in the forest, too,” Touya looks back this time, seeing the other dragging himself as if Touya’s unanswering has worn him out more than the trail.

“I also find strange that you’re not with the others,” the light eyebrows twitch in confusion, but his voice has already given up on any hopes of receiving answers.

“Other monks?”

“No, apprentices. Companions. Friends,” he emphasizes and Touya’s feet cease in its movement, “I haven’t seen many people of our age. How many are there?”

“More than you think,” Touya’s voice has gone cold, finding a sweet relief of the practised tone of softness he recites the prayers with, “I can share something. If you’d want to hear it,” Touya takes mercy on him.

“I’d love to,” he agrees instantly.

“Most young men are sent in the sister temples around the land to complete their rites,” Touya shares as he has promised, it’s a common knowledge.

His feet move forward and he takes a right turn, inevitably leading to a bald part of the slope behind the city where he liked to meditate when he was younger, before he was allowed to do so in the halls of many temples in the city under them.

Lord’s nephew is quick to follow him, his eyes blowing wide.

Feasting upon the unkept nature around the field, he muses: “…but you weren’t sent anywhere?”

“I stayed here,” Touya muses softly, halting at the edge of the forest that opened itself to reveal a slope with grass that is yet to fully awaken from its sleep, “Because my place was, is, and will be here, in the heart of the mountains. I am not to be handed to sister temples,” he announces with slight pride.

The lord’s nephew’s eyes stare intensely at Touya, wide opened as if he’s one of the legends Touya’s told him about, come alive and breathing.

“Why?”

“That will come when the time is right,” Touya lifts his head up to the sky.

“What time?”

“The right one,” he takes a deep breath, the ground underneath his feet tiredly withering and begging to be fed, “Come, it looks like rain,” Touya sighs, having to forgo his plans to stay on this field for a while.

The lord’s nephew looks to the sky with confusion.

---

The rain roars like an army of cicadas; the direction of the thick water drops evident.

It certainly did not look like such rain today. A shower, maybe, but not this.

The doors to the room slide open.

“How was your day?” Tomura asks as he stares out of the window, gazing at the stark rain hitting against the white pebbles in the stone garden inside the temple, his arms hugging his bent knee.

“I must acknowledge the superiority of their storytelling,” his uncle heaves a long exhale.

“I also believe this place would be better off as a sightseeing destination,”

His uncle chuckles at his suggestion.

“Have you discovered any new information?” Tomura asks, eyes focused on one black stone that stands out against the white little ones. The young monk told him that the black stones represent a back of a dragon emerging through the layers of clouds. It is infuriating that even though it’s hit by such a force of nature, the pebbles in the rock garden are not deranged by it.

“Nothing useful,” a slight pause, “I have noticed dirt on your shoes. Where have you been?”

“Outside, to the Women’s path,” Tomura’s head slips on his waiting hand, eyes flicking up and down as he traces individual raindrops.

“Have you learned anything?”

He hesitates, “I have been thinking. Doesn’t it feel like they’re hiding something, uncle?” Tomura murmurs.

“Though careful observation is beneficial, please refrain from paranoia,” his uncle’s advice does not land on a fertile land.

The lights go out and the sound of the rain thunders in the hall. Tomura’s eyes drift shut, his tired muscles going lax. Today’s stroll was pleasant, though unfruitful. It was nothing like the agonizing trek to the city, with huffing of horses and sweat of men. The nature is wild here, one could say it’s unkept. As he lays down, he imagines stretching himself on the stairs of the women’s path and adoring the sky through the thin dark branches stretching over him. He imagines the buds on the branches, how it evolves and blooms in soft, fluffy pink.

His mind is slipping, the imagery of the possible beauty turning to the lips that has described it.

---

Tomura has slept overly fondly. He wakes up to quiet rustle of the ceasing rain, nothing louder than a breath of a falling mist. Cold seeps through the poorly isolated walls.

His uncle is already gone.

Cursing himself, he clothes and hurries through the temple grounds.

The place is strangely deserted, and he wanders around with anxiety of a lost child. He crosses around the main gate and heads straight, gasping softly when he hears a quiet whisper of voices. He follows urgently, but the voices go silent, and he doubts if he mistook it for whispers of the floor under his feet.

The sliding door are thrown open and a hair of deep black hair pokes out.

“Good morning,” the young man chirps unusually merrily for this weather and hour. When Tomura comes close, he shuts the door with rushed movement, feeding onto Tomura’s doubts. His eyes slide to the thin paper hanging onto the doorframe, such a fragile yet impenetrable barrier hiding what Tomura craves to unveil.

“Are you looking for something?” the young man brings Tomura’s attention back up to his eyes, “Additional blanket?” the man suggests upon seeing Tomura’s mind is still firmly focused on the room behind his back.

“That sounds… reasonable,” Tomura’s words ring empty.

“I’ll come with you,” the young man points to the hallway in a polite gesture, but he doesn’t move until he makes sure Tomura walks away from the door first, “I see you’ve slept well,” he offers a light smile, contrasting to this melancholic weather.

He knows this person three days only, however, he can firmly say that he’s unusually chatty today.

“Have you seen my uncle?”

As the walk deeper in the temple, the lack of light source deepens the shadows.

“The lord expressed a desire to attend morning prayers,” the young man slides one of the many doors open, disappears in complete darkness and comes back bearing a thick blanket in one arm, elegantly sliding the door shut with the other, “It is held in a different temple, I think he was offered a tour of the temple grounds,” the young man carries the blanket for him, the volume of his voice lowering when they come closer to the main gate and rising again when they move further, “and given he’s not back yet, he’s probably having tea with the head monk over there,”

The young man does not enter the room and hands the blanket to Tomura, who puts it in the room. When he comes out, the young man is still waiting. He catches his eye.

“Can you tell when the rain stops?” the words spill over Tomura’s lips.

The young man hides his hands in his sleeves, taking silent steps back towards the main gate so he can look out. He tilts his head slightly to the side, his eyes staring up.

“After lunch,” he chirps, “and it’s going to get much colder,” the happy pitch of his voice does not make sense to Tomura.

Tomura slowly follows to stand by his side and watch the soft rain, “Is that your function?”

“Excuse me?”

“Telling the weather? That’s why they keep you here?”

The man stiffens, quickly looking down the hall as if suspecting they’re being listened to, “The weather in the mountains is unpredictable,” he recites, “I’ve gotten very lucky guessing it,” he emphasizes, not offering a single answer.

As the young monk predicted, it has gotten significantly colder on the last day.

Tomura has wandered around after very early breakfast and he has not seen the young man around, so he grew bored fast. They are invited for one last ceremony before they leave, and Tomura can’t wait for it to be done with. They have been through so many meaningless ceremonies that are nothing but glorified mutterings of hardly distinguishable sentences while heavy intense burns. He’s gotten weary of them.

He packs up, spends time walking through the city, but he learns nothing.

For the last ceremony that promises them luck, they sit in a lone round building that offers pleasant escape from the biting cold wind outside. They look directly at masterfully carved statues with golden emphasis on the tokens they hold. In front of them is an elevated wooden dark floor, and even though the sides are of glass windows, half of the space is drowned in shadows, making it uncomfortably hard to see the details of the sculptures.

Tomura thinks it’s a lazy design, even disrespectful towards the sculptor whose efforts now lay drowned in black shadow.

A few monks are seated behind them as their personal guards.

The dark sliding doors open up and two people come out. A head monk of the main temple they stayed at, wearing ceremonial warm orange robes and wooden necklace with wooden orbs glittering as bright as his bald head. And behind him follows a tall figure of the young black-haired monk who wears the at first sight the same robes he usually does, but looking closely, the fabric is much thicker and secured closely to his waist, the sleeves are not flowy and long but seem to be cut short above his elbows. Instead of loose sack of robes, these make it look like women’s dress. His arms are covered in the black fabric with neat edge in a V shape, the tip laying over the knuckle of his middle fingers. He looks like he’s about to perform physical labour rather than the delicate ceremony.

Both of them kneel down. Tomura is desperate to catch the eyes of the young monk, but he seems to be preoccupied with staring outside to the door as if he’s waiting for somebody to arrive.

“We are delighted by your visit, lord Shigaraki,” the monk bows his head slightly, “We hope your party has found rest of body and mind in our sanctuary, and we wish you safe journey,”

Tomura and his uncle both bow his heads, but not lower than the monk before.

“Thought the winter has passed onto the fruitful spring,” he recites softly, “we are holding the ceremony for the special occasion of your visit,”

As if waiting for this cue, the black-haired monk gets up, takes the two stairs down. The other monk keeps talking, but Tomura is focused on every movement of the young monk.

He collects a wooden tray, where lay perfectly lined pieces of wood and thin brushes. With quiet steps, he comes to the person closest to the elevated floor, bends the knee and offers him the tray.

“As a first step,”

The black-haired man offers everybody a piece of wood and a brush, getting up and kneeling by each person over and over again, as if he’s paying respect to each of them equally.

Tomura’s heartbeat quickens when he’s getting closer.

“We ask you to express your desire and wishes on the wood,”

The young monk is to the person next to Tomura, and Tomura is aware every rustle of the thick fabric.

He comes to his view, lowering himself down and with practised elegancy balancing the wooden tray on his bent knee. His long fingers extend as he points to the stack of wooden sticks. Tomura takes one, staring at his wrist turning to offer him a brush. His heart races at the sight of the wrappings around his arms revealing a stripe of the delicate thin skin on his inner wrist.

The young man lifts his eyes, lets the rich blue of it lead Tomura’s eyes to the window by his side.

Tomura’s breath stills as he gazes outside, where a flutter of snowflakes has started to descend down like delicate sugar topped on a pie.

“With your wish, write your first name and age,”

Enchanted, Tomura stares outside so long he forgets to write down their nonsense, and the young monk has walked around the room and came back to collect the brushes.

Success, Tomura scribes quickly, adding his name and age on the bottom just when the young monk reaches a wooden plate for him to put the brush on, each of his movement ceremonial.

When he comes to Tomura, his eyelashes cover his eyes as he leans closer to see the wood in Tomura’s hands.

The blue eyes lift to him and Tomura is lost, pulled right into its richeness.

“Tomura,” quietly he tastes the name on his tongue. As he says his name, he takes caution to savour each syllable. His name means no offence, no mockery. It’s his name.

Tomura can’t take his eyes off him.

None of them knows what is happening yet, and Tomura should’ve listened to what the head monk has said, but he observes the younger monk coming back to sit in front of what the centre of the room, with slightly elevated structure that reminds a sunken metal table.

“Our teachings highlight,” the monk continues, and the younger one quietly puts a few prepared logs into the place in front of him, “though we wish and desire, the manifestation of our wishes comes with impurities, that might undermine our success in the future. With fire, we cleanse your wishes of these impurities, and grant you to achieve your goals like so,” the monk ends his introduction and moves to the side to watch with calm face.

Tomura has been staring at the young monk’s back this whole time, how his shoulder blades move when he throws a branch of pine onto the stock of wood, or when he lifts his right hand with a similar necklace the head monk wears, how his hair shifts when he bows his head.

He reaches his arm forward and as his pale fingers lift, the dark statues grow alive, the shadows on the ceases of their feet and edges of their robes deepening with menacingly cold illumination.

The pale fingers drag up and up, and Tomura’s mouth pops open when a bright blue fire grows under the young man’s touch.

The people in the front row gasp, leaning forward to see better and the young man pays no attention to it, moving his hand elegantly, turning it palm up as if he’s encouraging the fire to grow stronger.

This is a trick, there must be something in the metal structure, underneath the floor, some kind of system that ignites a fire to impress the visitor.

Tomura leans his head to see better, but the only thing he witnesses is the fire leaning and following the young man’s hand as birds hopping in the direction of the man that throws them breadcrumbs.

The space heats up quickly, the fire makes the statues hidden in the dark stand out, the golden highlights shine like silver.

A thrilling experience, to gaze in the flame being watched by ancient protectors in a snowfall.

“We invite you to cleanse your wishes,” it must’ve been hours Tomura has been staring without blinking at the otherworldly blue of the flame, finding comfort in it he’s never found anywhere.

They come to the elevated floor, kneel down close to the table, bow, and feed their wish to the fire.

The heat is nearly painful when Tomura’s close. It pulls at his skin and instead of the soft magic, he hears the fire laughing evilly, feels its talons pushing into his flesh to greedily devour him.

The snowstorm grows stronger, painting everything bright white, rubbing its fur against the windows.

Once it’s over, they have no words. It took long, yet it’s not enough.

They sit in silence and watch the young monk ceremoniously cease the fire, recite prayers and bow.

When he comes to sit by the head monk in the position they’ve come in, his face is heated and sweaty, yet he doesn’t let any discomfort show.

“We wish you your wishes are achieved,” they bow in unison, foreheads nearly touching the floor.

Tomura wishes to talk to him, to ask him how, to tell him how beautiful that was, to share what he’s felt.

But both exit through the door they’ve come in, and the young monk does not exchange a single word with him.

Chapter Text

The young monk breaks the usual meditation posture and instead leans back on his arms, his fingers diving in plump wild grass with patches of clovers. He turns his seemingly carefree face towards the sun with his eyes drifting shut as if Tomura sitting next to him posed no more threat than the three leaved clovers between his long, tanned fingers. A little smile that has not left his lips since the moment Tomura has showed up by the first gate and the young monk has realized Tomura came back on his recommendation.

It has been a month since Tomura’s last visit. A month and three days. He’s counted it.

Tomura was right to suggest the visit, and lucky enough his uncle indulged him.

The plums are in full bloom; exactly as the young monk predicted. The Women’s path is as enchanting as thousands of finest women in silk dresses of hundreds shades of pink invitingly dancing in the soft breeze.

Yet all Tomura has eyes for is the man calmly sitting under the sun, with his hair floating in the wind and his clothes smelling of smoke and grass. The monk’s eyes are still wary of him, there’s always a flash of suspecting blue at the edge of Tomura’s vision when they walked. But the mysterious monk has laid himself open once they left the city, willingly melting in the greenery around.

He’s lowered his back to the grass as if the wind was pulling his shoulders back, until he’s laying next to Tomura.

Tomura has been replaying the ominous fire in his head so often he’s worn the vision down. He’s been analysing every possibility, trying to find a simple explanation for that magic trick, but his efforts has led him nowhere.

“I read something about you,” the young monk muses with closed eyes.

Warmth rushes to Tomura’s cheeks at the flattery. He is too young to be written or read about.

“Do the scripts describe me as charming as I am in flesh?” he moves his eyes away from the monk’s face, aware that he’d open his eyes at Tomura’s tease and Tomura does not want to be caught staring.

The monk’s eyebrows shoot up as he barely contains the sudden gawk of laugh; sharp sound, as a seagull screeching at man yearningly gazing upon vast ocean, laughing meanly at the man for not being able to graze over the mass of water.

Tomura diplomatically holds his own laugh. The sound of monk’s unusually cracking laugh keeps echoing through the halls of his mind.

“What have you learned?” Tomura speaks calmly.

“Not much. You have yet to achieve greatness,” he does not waste a second to push him off his pedestal and Tomura chuckles softly at the teasing that he would not allow had it come from any other man than him. The monk, skin of his face heated by laugh, stretches slightly, like a cat too exhausted by night’s adventure.

“Is that one of your very accurate predictions?” Tomura’s eyes slip to the side, taking in the pitch-black hair laying softly over plush green grass leaves.

Monk’s head lolls to his shoulder as he considers carefully, dragging those hair over the wild grass like raven’s wing when it’s about to take flight. It is of no surprise the monk chooses to provide no answer, nothing other than slightly furrowed eyebrows as if he was trying to catch answer that is slipping through his fingers.

“Well, how come you even found something about me?” Tomura forms his question differently.

The monk’s fingers spear through his hair as he joins his hands behind his head, “A monk who finished his rites has come back with the book,”

“Your library must be massive if all the monks bring these books,”

“It’s not that… impressive with its quality, though,” the young monk sighs.

“How come?”

“Well… it’s written by monks,” the black hair shine with menacing black in the strong sun, “Read two or three and the rest will sound the same,”

There is swelling pause after his words, safe for the sudden shuffle next to Tomura. The monk’s furrowed face shows clear determination and Tomura leans into it with interest.

“I’d like to read your book,” flashing his eyes that shine like sea under the sunlight, the monk’s voice drops as if he was whispering him a secret message through the closed door.

“What book?” the young lord barely forces words out of his throat.

“The book you read before coming to my city, of course,” Touya taunts, though is his heart thudding against his ribs nervously. He only reads prayers, mythology, signs, teachings about beliefs, family trees and geography written and collected by their temple’s heads and monks. He yearns to read something else, anything else. He is keen on what is written about the place where he’s spent his whole life, how the outsiders see them; he wants to hear how others describe with cutting honesty topics the monks keep hidden. Besides, Touya would want to see just how far he can push the young lord, though based on the scared face at his suggestion, he’d not be up to the challenge.

“Are you saying I’m supposed to get you a book?” dark eyes keep flinching away as much as he does.

Touya stares down at the young lord through his eyelashes as if he’s commanding a dog.

“Can you?” the challenge of his voice lures the lord in a trap set out accustomed so well nobody but this person fits in.

“I’d have to carry it all the way back here, make amends for it, risk to be found taking it from library…” he names all the reasons against it, but his words dissolve in the swirling blue of Touya’s eyes.

Touya’s spirits drop.

“Well, then.” He shrugs over it, trying to stay calm, but the bitter sting of betrayal rings in his voice, “Shall we come back?”

---

The route is difficult as it is, much more when one has to come up to the mountains repeatedly. Yet there he stands, the young lord, having tangled through the lush bush with face bitten of the sun rays, neck damp with sweat and white hair sticking to his skin in a pattern of spiderwebs, smelling more like the horse than himself, reaching a book in leather towards Touya.

“You can’t have it,” he says in a cracking voice, as if he has run just so he could get it for Touya as soon as possible.

Touya stares in complete disbelief. He did say he wanted to read it, but he’s given up on ever receiving anything since the obvious amount of bother and risks the young lord would’ve been put through.

He reaches out, cushioning the book in his palms as if it’s worthy of worship. Touya has never in his life been so taken aback by somebody doing something like this. Doing something for him.

“They can’t know you have it, either,” his voice is stark.

“Thank you,” half-dazed, this is all Touya can say. The frown upon young lord’s face is replaced by surprise.

The book feels heavy in his hand; the paper is much thicker than the one they use. He runs his hand over the leather cover; countless touches having rubbed the dark brown of its back into light yellow. It’s beautiful in its crudeness. Just the sight of it offers so much new information that Touya gets as excited as child seeing an array of sweets for the first time.

“I’ve never seen this,” he breathes out amazed, lowering himself to sit down and place the book onto his knee, carefully opening the first page.

“Hm,” standing behind him, the lord quietly observes his fascinations, the frustrations of the whole journey he had to take melting away under Touya’s warmth.

The first page explains the contents, a book about a sacred heart of the region’s belief. Touya points to the name of their city, eyes wide and heart jumping.

“Look, this is the name of my home,” he whispers excitedly, looking up to the young lord, who does not seem fazed by that at all. The stark look in the deep eyes softens once the young lord’s gaze falls to Touya’s smile. Tomura lets out a sigh, thudding next to Touya, his breath evening out. Stretching his legs forward, the young lord leans closer, shoulder touches onto Touya’s; Touya thinks he’s reading the book too, but his eyes stay focused on the young monk’s face.

Touya lists through the book slowly, eyes devouring every word.

The reason why Touya’s hiding the heavy book is that as an apprentice he is not allowed to have personal belongings, more so if it’s a foreign book. He only reads it in the forest once he’s sure he is completely alone, spending hours hooked on every single word.

The last pages slip through his fingers in late autumn, while he’s bent over the paper desperately as the light dies out early. That day, Touya misses dinner and comes to the temple very late.

Careful not to bring attention, he slips past the hallway, but the doors slide open so quick he jolts.

Straightening his back, Touya immediately turns towards the lit room where the headmonk and his father sit by the bright orange fire, apology on his tongue.

“Come in,” the headmonk softly gestures to his usual place, voice clear of any accusation.

This time, he feels their eyes staring daggers at him, making every movement of his body stiff. Touya softly sits down and lifts his head.

“He’s not ready,” his father’s voice rumbles through the room. One could say that after some time, a stone gets used to the flow of water, yet every word his father says in that tone hurts Touya like a knife spreading skin open.

Lowering his eyes, Touya slowly chases the teacup around the wooden plate, careful not to make any noise, and too proud to show his father has yet again stabbed at his frail heart.

The eyes of the head monk fall onto him in efforts to soothe his ache, but Touya’s not looking.

“The fire does take its toll on the boy,” the sound of the headmonk’s voice flows like river springing from the iceberg over Touya’s troubled mind.

“He’ll get used to it. I’m asking if his mind is ready,” the sharpness of his father’s voice sounds like order and Touya immediately stops pushing the cup around and instead hides his hands in his sleeves.

The weight of the head monk’s eyes becomes unbearable and Touya lifts his eyes, “I’ll get used to it,” he parrots and the head monk’s lips form a thin line.

“Once a week should be enough for now. Let’s not push him,” he says softly and Touya’s shoulders relax.

“I agree,” his father speaks hurriedly and Touya’s eyes fall down before the blue eyes come back to him like a whip.

“Given the current situation with the Shigaraki, I’d rather waited for it to calm down first before sending Touya for the final training”

Touya lifts his head in surprise. Sending off? Where? Why? He through he won’t have to complete the lengthy rites since he’s serving the temple directly. The though of leaving and having to wander through the country weights on his shoulders and sends his pulse rocketing.

 “The young lord does seem to get well with Touya after all,”

“Does he?” his father roars happily.

“He does, father,” Touya mimics the softness in the headmonk’s voice, “He likes it here,”

A massive hand devours Touya’s shoulder, “That’s great news!”

Under the grip, Touya’s skin burns. A wave of cold, heavy nausea runs through his body, his mouth fills with too thin saliva.

He gives a little nod.

---

“Interesting book you gave me,” the monk muses, once again rolling in the grass, holding book Tomura snatched for him in his outstretched arms, pretending as if he hadn’t read through it already.

“Really? You? Interested in warfare?”

“Not like that,” he muses, not giving in Tomura’s poking, “It’s… new. I’ve read facts, never strategies,” he chirps and Tomura nothing but hums as he gazes upon his face.

“How do you find it?”

His fingertips swift over two pages gently, “…makes me think. It’s interesting.” He whispers, then suddenly his body locks and he blinks a few times as if he has just heard the echo of his words. Tomura does not need to tease him about it, as he can clearly see in his face that the monk has done that himself as he slowly realizes he’s just admitted he enjoys a warfare book. Slight blush of shame creeps in his cheeks, but Tomura finds his interest cunning. A lovely thing to look at. He’s never seen awakening of such a desire for knowledge and he is too stunned to speak.

Touya’s fingers loosen, letting few pages flip, his eyes are pointed up to the sky, gazing far away. He takes a measured breath, “It’s just a new topic, you see,” Defending himself, he lowers the book to rest on the top of his chest as if he was putting on an armour. His jaw tenses though, as if he was crushing the words of curiosity between his teeth and Tomura waits amused, knowing that time will solve his reluctance, that there will be point of those words swelling in his mind and begging him to speak them.

Tomura leans on his arm, fingers spread between the soft stables of grass. He watches his face, so serenely calm, with a storm ringing through his mind so loud Tomura nearly hears the echoes of the thunder.

“Does it work in practise though?” the dam breaks, the impossibly blue eyes find his with a question, his long fingers tighten over the book. Even though the monk does all in his powers to pretend he does not care much about the book, his fingers can’t lie – the careful way they hold the spine, how reverent even in casualness.

“Some things…” Tomura shifts his weight, the word trailing as he tries to read the meaning behind that question, but he can’t find any other than genuine interest and his chest warms at such an innocent display of it, “I find the advice about terrain most useful,”

“Oh, using the hills and rivers to your advantage,” the monk recites, his eyes sparkling when Tomura’s eyes go wide in acknowledgement.

Tomura nods, his cheeks blushing hot and his words stuck.

The monk tilts his head instead, a half-smile playing on his lips like a secret. He waits longer than needed, letting Tomura taste the silence stripped of his own voice, letting him drown in this strangely warm feeling.

“It seems very… obvious to me,” the monk’s voice drags Tomura back to the firm ground.

“Hmm. The simplest answers are often overlooked,” Tomura nods absentmindedly, still slightly hovering in the softest cotton. He clears his throat, adding: “You’d be surprised,”

Tomura forces his eyes from the monk’s face and instead begins to tear grass as the monk usually does until it stains his fingertips green.

“I made a copy,” the monk finally finds his voice, fingers elegantly slipping to his sleeve and taking out the book Tomua got him, “I had very strong need to correct it, lot of these things is not right and some words lack the proper spelling,” he bows slightly when his hands deliver the book safely in Tomura’s waiting palms.

Tomura is smiling softly, nodding and being genuinely relieved somebody else is frustrated with the poor writing as much as he was. But then it hits him.

“You corrected it?!” a wave of nausea lifts in Tomura, as he thinks the young monk in his sweet innocence crossed out parts of the book and wrote his own in it, he erratically opens the book and lists through it quickly.

“I made a copy,” the monk emphasizes again, his fingers softly put over the pages Tomura flips to stop his panic, “And the copy itself is corrected,”

The hand placement fascinates Tomura, so soft over the pages, so full of meaning. Reaching so deep into Tomura’s world.

“Where’s the copy? Can I have that instead?” suddenly uninterested in the book in his hands, Tomura looks up to his friend. He must read the copy instead now that he knows it exist.

This one is written by a person who claims to have visited and lived in this place and is not afraid to share with brutal honesty all aspects of the heavily guarded lives of monks, bringing out controversies which does make it very attractive to read, but it does leave the reader wondering if the stories are not dolled up for the viewing pleasure.

Having a book on the same topic written by actual monk who lives here would be like receiving pure gold.

The way the young lord’s eyes shone when Touya brought up the practise copy he’s made is draped over his vision when they walk side by side to the main gate. There are two reasons why young lord leaves before his uncle: first, Touya had told him it might rain heavily today, second, to ensure the route is clear.

They walk in silence, passing the turn to the slope where they usually go. The brown horse walks calmly on the loose rein resting in young lord’s fist.

The closer to the main gate they are, the lazier young lord’s steps are. There’s a slight hiccup in Touya’s footsteps as he’s constantly matching his pace, until it’s painfully slow. The red gate towers over them and Touya stops right before the pillar on the ground that marks the entrance to their city. Young lord’s shoulders drop, his back arches like a withering flower. Light hair bounce from behind his ear. It must’ve been very used to stay tucked behind his ear, because it keeps poking from his head in a funny curl.

The rough hand rests on the young lord’s side, fingers covering the shape of Touya’s book as if the young lord was protecting a deity. “

“Did you make it?” the young lord whispers, eyes pointed towards the forest, the sky threateningly low and grey and the tops of the trees move in silent wind.

The monk shoves his hands in his sleeves, jaw tight, but his eyes stay firm on that curl of light hair.

“You must’ve lot of time,” his voice is dripping with childish pout at Touya’s silence. He pushes the layers of his robe away to once again look at the book, letting go of the reins as making the way lost its importance in comparison to that book. Opening the book like he can’t wait a second longer, the young lord bows his head over the first page. It’s stated that this is a practise copy of the book, then follows the example of the original.

Tomura lifts an eyebrow as he takes the thin, almost fragile page between his rough fingertips. It looks like it’s about to break and scatter to dust, yet it stays firm.

He reads thought he first page, turning the pages and scanning it, almost unable to contain his urge to devour the book in this precious moment he and the young monk have to carve for each other.

It’s written in a way that pleases the eye, the words precisely paced and written in very thin brush.

“Even your handwriting is beautiful,” a soft breath escapes Tomura’s parted lips. Astonishment and jealousy that he’d never have such a pretty and light handwriting. He does look back to the monk this time, with sure intent to see the usually cold boy flushed from praise.

He is correct and that makes his eyes widen and focus on every little hint the young monk gives. The adorable blush high on his cheeks shining even through the almost golden tanned skin. How his usually threateningly still eyes seem to shiver and flick. The shape of his hands in his sleeves that he’s holding onto his own wrist tightly.

The undeniable force it takes for the monk to hide his smile.

With great care, Tomura softly closes the book, his eyes stay on the young monk’s face, “You missed something though,”

“What?!” the young monk’s eyes narrow in suspicion, his confident stance hiding the flood of insecurity that made his shoulders stiffen.

“Your name,” the way Tomura says this shocks him; the echo of his own words carry unusual softness. He hands the book back, but the monk does not accept it, instead steps back and his eyes harden as if water turned to ice.

The blue of it always puts Tomura to a state close to trance, those eyes offer a complete silence and promise burning storm.

“I’ll put it in if you deem it worthy to be known,” the young monk says instead, and Tomura smiles, expecting nothing less and knowing that no matter what he says he won’t change the stubborn monk’s opinion.

With care he’d clothed his beloved, he wraps the book in a fabric cover and secures it under his clothes.

The monk observes, his eyes every so often coming back to rest on his face with a slight frown.

“Since you’d have to bring it back,” the young monk’s hand slips out of his sleeve and reaches towards Tomura, who is fastening his belt over the book. He does not register the gesture; he does not hear a shuffle. It is until the warm fingertips accidentally brush his ear, that Tomura completely stiffens. His first thoughts are that the monk is about to pinch him with poisonous needle, touch his nerve, cut a small gush in the sensitive, soft spot behind his ear and that Tomura is about to drop dead right there and it’s too late to do anything about it.

There’s a slight tug at his hair, no more harm then what a warm gust of wind would cause.

“It was bothering me,” the young monk pulls his hand back, slips it in his sleeves and waits patiently until Tomura swallows down the heavy, threatening feeling in his throat and lifts his eyes to him. He does not understand. The man has always managed to surprise him in a way a trained assassin would. Had he had a single blade in his possession he’d be feared by many.

“I was thinking you could bring me another book,” the young monk, completely oblivious to his masterful skills continues and Tomura can nothing but stare, “since you have to come back here, am I right?” he gives a foxy, innocent smile and Tomura’s face heats up.

“I want to see yours,” the young lord blurts out so unexpectedly, and the sound of that naturally, unfiltered excitement sends short shiver through Touya’s spine.

“Ours?” Touya wonders, looking away, “I can’t just take a book out of our archives,” he chuckles nervously.

The lord’s eyes drip down to the book Touya’s holding, “Do you think I could have?”

He does not threaten, he does not mock; he simply proposes a challenge mirroring the one Touya has started.

Heat of excitement rises in Touya’s chest, like during a game two boys play in secret.

“What do you want?” he whispers in mischief, relieved that the young lord does not threaten him at all.

“That, I leave up to you,” the young lord muses.

---

Travelling in the summer is the most inconvenient thing. The heat is dizzying; the sun is merciless. The earth radiates heat, begging for a drop of moisture with every step. The trees provide little relief, any anybody walking the path to their city marks their path with sweat.

Tomura scolds himself and patiently follows his uncle though the welcomes and introductions. The young monk is nowhere to be seen.

“I’d gladly recommend places to stay in this weather,” the headmonk who usually welcomes them offers a whole list of places that provide good shade in the merciless sun and promises that it’s soon about to get cloudy and all might get some relief from this hot weather. Tomura has been listening with one ear, the other has been overly focused on catching any kind of footsteps around there, but it is all drowned in never-ending screeching of cicadas.

They are served a cold tea, for which he is eternally grateful, and three pieces of soft bite-sized treats. One is in green color, soft with very light filling, the other is light pink with similar filling, tastes like dried cherry leaves. The last one is a pickled plum, which Tomura leaves untouched.

After a short diplomatic conversation, he lets his uncle leave first and then gives a look to the headmonk.

The short man’s lips curl in a soft, knowing smile.

“You must know better than me where he went,” he says discreetly so his uncle does not hear and bows his head in apology for not being able to assist Tomura further.

Yet again, he has been met with question disguised as a reply.

Touya has been given a responsibility of ceremonial burning of used items, prays, or the bad lucks people received.

He handles the simplest ceremony, but he still has to perform under strict rules, every step must be placed right, and he’s been repeating it under watchful eye of the head monk every day and it has left him rather tired.

He’s chosen to spend his free time away.

He’d get used to it sooner or later, he knows that the pain in his left arm is temporary. But it does take its toll on him. Heat crawls up his spine and Touya curls in the grass, pressing his eyes shut.

It’s the summer. He can do nothing more than escape to the forest’s shade, lay at the edge of the meadow in the wind. But even the ground is heated, and the wind is thick like it’s coming from fire.

A small, silent voice in the corner of his mind whispers it hurts, it hurts, it hurts-

It’ll pass. As all things.

Though knowing this, Touya lets that little voice grow, his weary body drowning in his own weakness. The louder that voice whines, the more it feeds the pain in his body. It has been the same, but once Touya lets the weakness feed off it, the more noticeable it becomes. The uncomfortable snap between heat waves ravaging through his body and cold sweat making him shiver. The constant nausea low in his stomach.

That throb pulsing through his arm, the venom rushing through his veins.

Gritting his teeth, he blindly reaches forward and grabs a fistful of the meadow’s wildflowers.

The grass around him is comforting. It’s tall in summer, devouring his body, hugging him so softly it doesn’t hurt.

He thought it impossible to be able to fall asleep in this state, but to his surprise cracking footsteps stir him awake.

His body is much heavier than before, his eyes are heavy, and his eyelashes stick to itself. The grass has crawled over his body and with an exhale he relaxes in the ground as if he didn’t mind getting devoured.

However, the heavy steps cutting through grass belong to nobody else but the young lord. Not many people know about this place, and nobody knows Touya can be found here. Nobody but him.

His heart flashes awake with excitement, and at the second thought Touya wishes to be alone in this state. He swallows dryly.

The steps stop behind his back, the prolonged shadow of young lord stretches over Touya and where it touches him, it leaves Touya slightly cooler. There is a moment of silence as the young lord considers what to do of this situation.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” the rumble of his voice is deeper each time they see each other. He thuds next to Touya.

“Good to see you-” Touya croaks and his voice breaks. What was supposed to be a teasing retort has turned in cracking of dry branches.

The young lord does not comment, but his worry is tangible. Touya curls into himself, his face heating in shame as he’s let a weakness show.

A soft weight rests on his shoulder and Touya instinctively tenses. Different warmth explodes in his chest, the one similar to the devouring fire. His face pulls in pain and he turns towards the ground, gritting his teeth and holding his breath.

The hand over his shoulder is firmer now, pulling him on his back and Touya’s too breathless to snap at it.

“You’re burning,”

Touya’s lips snap open to tell him off, to push his hands away but instead of throwing him around, Touya’s head is cushioned by the young lord’s thigh. The sudden softness kicks breath out of Touya’s chest and his eyes fly open.

The sight of him.

That care.

The care, the care. Like soothing lotion poured in cracked vase.

Touya’s never…

His face heats up with different kind of heat and he quickly turns to his side, facing the young lord’s abdomen. His eyes shut just in time before it could fill with tears.

“…are you okay?” the young lord nervously swallows.

“Yes.” Touya whispers sharply as if there’s no other answer, pressing his cheek over his leg, finding an incredibly comfortable spot to put his cheek on. The young lord smells more like a horse, a sharp smell that soothes all that throbbing ache in Touya’s chest, something else to focus on. The warmth of his body is apparent through the fabric of his riding pants. “What are you doing here?” he mutters with barely any energy.

“Visiting,” the young lord is tense under Touya, the grass crunches softly as he puts his hands behind himself to support his weight, “I was looking for you,”

Touya’s fights to open his eyes through the weariness.

“To return the book,” the young lord’s voice dips lower, to their shared little secret. Touya’s lips turn in a soft smile in response, his heavy eyelids fluttering.

The tiredness falls at him all at once and there’s no time to consider why he’s gone completely plaint at that moment.

“I am… just tired…” his muscles relax completely, his cheek comfortable overt the lord’s thigh.

Not needing more words to communicate, Touya falls asleep with fingers carefully threading through his hair.

“What do you have for me?” Touya can’t contain his excitement, buzzing around the young lord like a tamed mountain cat, not a speck of shame or embarrassment over falling asleep over the lord like a child just yesterday.

The young lord does not disappoint yet again, eyes lively and wide, “Here you go,”

“Well, well,” Touya, driven by the sheer force of interest steps so close the tips of their shoes touch.

He hands Touya a newer book, this time thicker as if the first one was only a test to see if Touya can read it.

Touya curiously peeks over the first humble pages. His eyes flick back to the young lord, who is hanging onto him as if he’s staring at a butterfly about to emerge from its cocoon and can’t afford to blink to miss it.

“The history of Shigaraki’s clan…” Touya breathes, the book flipped in his hands and its last page exposed. A few pages are quickly turned over until Touya finds words.

Both know what he’s looking for.

Touya’s finger stabs on a page filled with heavy ink, “Fourth April,” he whispers, tasting it on his tongue, brows knitting in a soft frown.

“What are you thinking?”

Touya’s head lolls back to the book, a heavy feeling settling in his gut is flooded with warm excitement of learning the young lord’s birth date.

“What a date.” He muses, turning pages, “Dreadful,” his voice drops as if he did not want to acknowledge the way hearing the date has made him feel, “But lucky.” He gives the young lord a wink and the laugh of Shigaraki Tomura rings as clear as call of mountain birds of prey.

“And what about yours?” the young lord’s voice is suddenly much lower, as if he was overly aware of Touya’s closeness and wouldn’t want to disturb him by speaking too loud.

Touya’s eyes move past the edge of the book to see their feet nearly locked in. He takes a measured step back, realizing his closeness.

“May be too difficult of a read for you,” he hands the lord a book about practises and the reasons for it, but it is very likely the young lord might not understand the meaning if he does not know the history and can’t put a name to specific religious objects used.

But Touya does find this book very well written among all they have. He could’ve easily gotten something different, something easier or basic, but he thought that it is suitable to give the lord a book he acknowledges as a good one…

“Practises…” the young’s lord musing voice drags him back from confused wandering through the fog of his mind that covers the reason why he had chosen this book specifically.

Sudden touch of firm, rough fingertips latch onto Touya’s fingers gripping the book. He holds.

Touya lays in the grass on his stomach, frowning upon an arrangement of sticks and stones.

“But as I understand,” Touya dips his head back to the opened book, circling his finger until he finds a count of the two armies, “This one was far larger,” he points to the sticks arranged to the north, pressed tight between rocks on the right and leaves symbolizing river by left. Tomura rolls his eyes, gathers more sticks and makes the pile the monk is pointing out bigger.

“So what if they… pushed forward, wouldn’t they simply override this one?” his other finger points to the humble four sticks representing the smaller army that came out victorious.

Above him sounds a doused chuckle, “I’d certainly avoid joining a regimen in your command,” he can clearly smell the air heavy with iron with bloodshed, “But you must not forget what a sacrifice would that be,” his throat dries at the suggestion, at the coldness with which this innocent monk has just suggested driving an army head on towards the foe.

Tomura leans over him, pushing the bigger pile of the sticks through the narrow battlefield, “See?” he presses the sticks close so they can fit between the rocks and the river, “The battlefield was chosen intently. Imagine being here, among the large group and packed tightly. Any movement becomes clumsy and panic spreads like wildfire,”

Touya nods slowly. The arts of the warfare are completely new subject to him and he had thought he had understood enough, but as the young lord explains, he finds more questions than answers.

It is written that the smaller forces divided, cavalry facing the enemy’s cavalry by the river, and being nearly wiped. That is simply because the cavalry of the enemy forces have been superior in size and quality, that much Touya understands. At the same time, the left flank of the smaller army attacked the right side of the large army in order to capture to the lord and finish the battle. The fearless charge is said to throw the larger army in panic, and despite the obvious advantage in numbers, the small army was victorious and with the surprising move made the large army fled.

That’s what Touya does not understand.

“But-” Touya frowns over the sticks, eyes falling to the riverbed, “this must’ve been very dangerous. The people of the west are said to ride like no one else, and they had numbers. What would happen if the army lost its cavalry? It’s so reckless,”

“High stakes and high reward,” the young lord muses flicking a stick of the riverbed in Touya’s direction, who barely notices as he keeps skipping over the pages.

“It’s complicated,” he grinds the whine through his teeth, “Can you explain this one?” despite headache already settling in, Touya finds a particularly difficult passage and moves the open pages to the lord, who pushes his hair by his ear as he takes the book to sit it on his thigh and scurries through the text.

“Hmm, I see. Why won’t you try explaining and I answer questions,”

Touya does provide brief summary of how he envisions the battle and the young lord does not stop him once.

“You understood correctly,” despite his nature, the young lord acknowledges with slight pride, “You left nothing for me to explain,”

Touya lifts off to his knees, tapping on the pages. The book’s cover presses in Tomura’s thigh.

“The army is said to contain force of eastern mercenaries,” the monk points out and Tomura hardly sees the words on the pages as the rich smell of crushed grass fills the space around him. He nods dumbly; his mind focused more on the way the book is pushing down onto his thigh under the pressure of the monk’s finger. “Why did he kill them? I though these were by origin his own people, no?”

It is the same spot where he’s laid his head. When Tomura had come to the meadow, plucked the plaint body out of the grass and carded through hair softest than silk as he had fallen asleep as if Tomura was his sanctuary. The monk’s breath was soft and warm, soaking through Tomura’s clothes and caressing his skin, while the cicadas screamed behind his back in constant bzzzzz-

“What…?” Tomura snaps out and blinks as he returns to this moment, and is met with those sparkling ocean eyes, with specks of sunshine that fires up the blue in one eye while keeping the other mysteriously dark.

“Have you gone deaf? Why did the general order to kill the mercenary forces? It makes no sense to me to kill your own people,”

Wicked smile slowly spreads over Tomura’s lips, “I thought killing any people would not make sense to such a well-established monk,” his eyes involuntarily dip to monk’s lips.

The blue eyes flick to him without taking any defence in the accusation, overly focused on the matter at hand that the monk does not even acknowledge the implications of his previous statement. He holds his gaze, stubbornly waiting for an answer.

“That’s the common issue with mercenary forces. They serve the coin, not a nation. Usually lords leave them be, but this one wanted to make an example of them, even if it hurt his own army,” Tomura explains.

“So… for pride?” the monk’s head grotesquely falls between his shoulders as if he was disappointed in the reason and expected something more elaborate.

“You’d be surprised what people do for it,”

Tomura’s words hang in the air, and the monk stills with his head bowed down. He knows better than to disturb him, as it is very clear the monk is evaluating his words.

It is of no surprise that the monk only hums in response, his fingers begin to playfully tug at the grass in front of him.

Chapter Text

“Steady, Touya!”

The voice of his father barrels into him, throwing him off the delicate balance he has acquired. Sweat trails down his temples mercilessly, torturing him with it’s casual slowness, with the promise of coolness it drags itself over Touya’s skin like a knife’s edge.

His hand shivers, fingers unnaturally tense. In contrast to the rest of his body, is hand is completely dry due to the heat whispering right under his skin.

A stick falls on his shoulder and he jolts as if that supposedly helpful touch was as painful as a well-aimed hit of a blade.

“Focus,” his father hisses behind him, only making him worse.

The tap of the stick on shoulder is used to help the apprentices focus, though it does take some time to master keeping one’s mind clear off the outside’s disturbances.

It shouldn’t hurt.

It’s…

He shouldn’t even think about that but-

But… sometimes he feels that his own father has been tainting his training, almost as if his father did not understand the core of their teachings, as if he was being too violent and excusing it as-

“Discipline,”

The stick lands on his other shoulder, a loud screech of pain exploding through his outstretched arm. The white thin fabric of his apprentice robes is drenched and sticking to his skin, making the hit of the bamboo stick sting like fire.

Touya’s eyes fly open, stinging of the salt from the sweat pouring down his face.

The fire dances in the iron bowl, cold blue and vicious, oblivious to Touya’s struggles.

Demonic.

His eyes are forced shut again and he heaves for breath. This high in the forest, the air is fresh and crisp, but having been overheating, the second the fresh air passes Touya’s lips it tastes dry and thick. It’s the worst aspect of firewielding, and yet a core of the skill. Simple breathing.

The inhale does not provide enough oxygen, so thick it evokes a feeling of drowning that forces Touya’s body to fight. He gasps for air in panic, the heat that has been channelled to his fingertips takes advantage of his inattentiveness and spreads through his chest like flood. The air wheezes in his throat, he chokes on it.

Sigh sounds above him as he’s drowning in the heat, shoulders shaking and throat burning.

“I knew it’s too soon,” rhythmic heavy steps vibrate through the floor. Touya’s hand stubbornly hangs in the air, holding onto the fire through all this misery, just to spite his father, to show he can do this. “I had thought you’d be able to calm your mind by now, but look at you,”

As if that was a command, Touya’s eyes slowly open. His vision shivers as he’s struggling to breathe, and all he sees is the dark wooden floor in front of him and little droplets of sweat dripping from his nose leaving darker circles on it.

“You can’t breathe properly, you can’t hold the fire steady, you can barely sit straight!” his voice rumbles in the open space, and a line of pain suddenly cuts into Touya’s back, forcing him to jerk upright, “Straighten up.”

He does his best.

But it’s not enough.

His father commands him to stop soon after and to recite the sutra while he checks if the offerings were burned properly. Touya’s swaying when he connects his hands, voice abused and cracking. His whole body has been worn out, heated to the point of exhaustion.

When he finishes and bows, his father’s feet are in front of him, as if he is the one to worship. Touya looks up, his father’s figure drowned in shadow.

He stares down at Touya as if he’s nothing but a bug at his feet, his chest expanding as he takes a deep breath to visibly calm himself.

“Breathing, stability, discipline, focus,” he clicks his tongue, “all that was wrong,”

Touya lowers his head, each of those words squeezing the life out of his chest.

“Follow with the purification. I don’t want you in my sight until dinnertime,”

With gritted teeth, Touya places his hands coated in sweat neatly on the ground, bowing his forehead low, but not lower than he would in a prayer, “Yes, father,”

The burning anger of his father is slightly doused by Touya’s politeness and obedience. It always works.

After more than appropriate time to bow, Touya lifts up, following precisely every polite gesture, placing his hands perfectly as they are meant to be.

“Good lord… wipe the floor before you leave,” his father points to the wet imprints of Touya’s hands on the floor, and Touya’s face heats up with shame.

It’s been like this as long as he can remember, so he’s fairly used to it. Once his father leaves, he is rather calm. He cleans the ceremonial hall, stealing a few glances outside, to the thick branches covered with leaves that shine like smaragds all around the dark pillars of the hall.

Once he’s done, he cleans up the ashes and heads behind the temple at the forest’s slope through a thin trail up to a waterfall.

The fabric of the robes heavy with sweat pierces its claws into him, slowing every move and dragging him back. The fire keeps burning in his chest, and his breathing picks up as he walks up to the slope. This time though as he’s alone and embraced by the greenery, it’s much easier to control his breathing.

The thin river joins his side in a moment and soon he hears the small but powerful waterfall with a pond at its feet.

Behind the white falling water sit carved images of monks and Touya effortlessly skips the smooth black stones to get close to the water. Just being close, feeling the cool air and droplets of water near him, make him at ease.

---

He is visiting in after the peak of the summer, when the trees are still thick with green and sun heats up most days. Upon entering, the young monk’s eyes, brighter each time Tomura sees it, have been coming to meet his with slight mischief. He had disappeared promptly, and then emerged like a shadow, grabbing at Tomura’s elbow with unlikely desperation and dragged him up to the gate.

"How'd you do it?" Tomura speaks what has been plaguing his mind ever since he saw the monk's hand guide the flames.

“What?” the monk adjusts pleaded basket slung over his shoulder, the soft black robes shuffling as they rise up the stairs of women’s path. Tomura stares down, patiently following the tanned skin showing on his ankles.

“You know what I ask about. The fire trick,”

A slight amused chuckle is taken by the heated wind, “A trick?” the monk pretends he does not care about Tomura’s question, but his elegant fingers tighten around the sling of the basket.

“Are you telling me you can create fire? That’s not possible,” Tomura’s voice flattens, hypnotized by sun dragging through his black hair as if it was the monk’s lover.

“Some are born blessed,” his voice is low and dreadful, as if the blessing he was referring to was a curse instead.

“How did you do it?” Tomur demands the explanation.

The monk stops by a tree with branches hanging low and heavy with swollen fruit.

“I've just told you,” he repeats in a quiet voice, wedging the basket against the stairs so it holds up, with practised accuracy.

“You told me fairy tale,” Tomura sighs, walking around the monk and taking a place one stair higher than him.

“I see you’ve been thinking about it a lot,” the young monk smirks, plucking the swollen plum softly off the branch. It gives into his hand willingly. He turns it between his fingers, a precise movement that has Tomura hypnotized, “How do you think I did it?”

It’s not difficult to remember every single detail of the ritual Tomura has taken; it has been replaying behind his closed eyes ever since.

Swallowing thickly, Tomura reaches for ripe plums. The branch shivers and groans as he plucks them.

“Well… there must be a flint in the table,” his eyes swish to the V of the black fabric peeking from monk’s sleeves resting atop of his knuckle when the monk reaches for another plum, “and a steel in your hand,”

“Then how come it’s blue?” the monk smothers Tomura’s theory. When he lets the plum slide to the basket from his hand, his fingerprints are deep violet against the matted surface of the plum.

“I read that some substances burn blue,” Tomura explains with logic, earning one look of burning blue eyes over monk’s shoulder, as if he was offended that Tomura can explain the color of that unique flame so easily.

“If you want to think that,” the monk shrugs, working rhythmically to fill the basket.

It’s the way the young monk is so relaxed about it, casual even. It’s that he doesn’t desperately defend himself, that makes Tomura believe it has something to do with the magic. The confidence in his abilities is solid.

Closing his eyes and bracing himself for a reply, Tomura gathers courage to ask the following:

“…would you show me again?”

His inhumanly rich eyes suddenly flick to meet his, searching for Tomura’s deepest desires and true intention behind his words. The young monk's breath shudders, his lips spread in a wicked smile, the edge of his robes is deshelled in the lousy posture. The eyes that pierce through his soul like flickering blue ambers see through the dark veil has been laid over the real core of this conversation: To see that fire one more time.

“I shouldn’t show you,” he whispers as an apology, as if his hands are tied, precisely pinpointing what Tomura wants, needs.

“Then you should’ve said you can’t,” Tomura picks up on the suggestions between the lines, turning towards him, expecting. “If it’s your power, why shouldn’t you be able to use it as you will?”

“I won’t.” the young monk jolts, quickly bringing his intention to picking the plums.

The rejection hits him like a blunt blade, one that won’t cut visibly but leave bruises deep under his skin. The wave of dull embarassement that washes over Tomura cannot control him.

“Suit yourself then,” muttering stiffly, Tomura throws the handful of plums in the basket and turns to leave the monk in the solitary he craves so obviously.

“Wait!” to his surprise, the fabric of his overshirt taunts, forcing him to stop. Elegant fingers shining like they’re coated in gold are grasping his clothes, “I meant… I can’t show you. I can’t use it anywhere else than during the ceremonies. You’d see it soon enough, though,” the monk’s voice levels out, slight tug on Tomura’s clothes urging him to come back. Seeing that his words don’t interest Tomura enough to stay, he dares to tug harder. It’s not enough force to yank Tomura to the stair bellow him. But Tomura goes willingly, sighing in defeat, hands reaching up to pick more plums. The monk’s hand, keeping a hold onto the edge of his vest a moment too long, releases the dark fabric.

“I shouldn’t speak about it. Outsiders shouldn’t know who has these... abilities,” the monk whispers, feeding Tomura’s interest a little more while expertedly pretending he’s conflicted with his lowered eyes.

Tomura follows the pull like a calling of siren.

“Why?”

 “You get the idea…” his voice fades away.

Wielding fire is a fairy tale. But given this person somehow might be able to, it makes him a living weapon, something Tomura would very much like to get his hands on if he was a lord. Tomura’s shoulders drop at the worried face the young mischievous monk makes, and in an honest gesture Tomura covers the tanned hand reaching for a tree branch, patting his skin softly only enough to soothe that worrisome look in his eyes before promptly bringing his hand to snatch the fruit he has been reaching for.

The monk’s eyes are searching in his like nobody has ever done before, with vulnerability and baring his teeth at the same time.

Tomura offers a soft nod of understanding.

“Let me carry those,” after the basket is full, Tomura leans for the sling at the same time the monk does.

“Why?” he snorts a laugh, lifting the heavy basket and slinging it onto his shoulder.

Tomura is left staring. Both his sources and the overall experience have given him an impression the monks are resting creatures, fragile and of a weak body.

Does not look like it.

“What-...” it slips past his lips when the monk casually walks around him. Tomura follows him like a trained dog, staring at the way his back muscles strain under the robes.

“Yes…?” the monk muses and Tomura snaps his mouth closed, straightens his back and clears his throat, looking around the trees. Most of them are bare, and probably by merit of this young monk.

“What are you going to do with all these plums?” he clears his throat.

“Would you like to watch? It’s a city’s speciality and I’ve gotten good at making it!” the monk’s voice sounds like sunshine; how could Tomura have refused.

Though, after spending too much time in the belly of the temple which is a grand hall with pillars so thick it looks like giant’s feet, his back screams in regert. They sit by the pillar with the basket between them, having been cutting plums open for about two hours. The only sounds in the hall is a bubbling of the water in two giant pots under the floor, rhythmic plop, plop, plop, of the plum stones hitting the nearby bowl and Tomura’s laboured breathing.

Tomura has decided not to tell the monk he dislikes plums in any form – dried, sweetened, crushed -  for he was afraid the monk would’ve gone without him. Having been sitting here with hands covered in the plum’s juices is making him agitated, and only the subtle pressure of the monk’s knee against his seems to douse it.

After finishing the batch, the young monk shows him a process where he sets them evenly in a large wooden box on a bed of even layer of salt, then covers them in salt and repeats until the basket is empty. He seems strangely excited over the process, though it comes with some sort of melancholy. As if he was so happy to be active and create something that he held onto any opportunity he can afford. Tomura smiles and listens to him explaining the process.

During dinner, he is served yet another meal free of any meat. It has become usual that the monk sits by his side, the head monk and the lord flanking their sides.

The monk leans in close, so close it would’ve disturbed Tomura, but he has gotten used to it.

“I made these last summer,” he whispers, pointing to a little dark piece of salt-dried plum placed with religionous precision in the right rectangle of Tomura’s dining plate.

He swallows the thick saliva building in his mouth, his body already rejecting the fruit.

But the monk has been so enthusiastic about it, and Tomura wants to taste it just to make him happy.

He goes for the plum, dried yet moist as he squeezes it between his chopsticks.

It’s terrible.

The flavour of the plum is multiplied by infinity with the punch of saltiness.

“You’re supposed to put it on rice,” the monk next to him whispers politely while Tomura chokes on it, quickly shovelling rice in his mouth to silence that storm raging in his mouth.

The quiet murmur of the conversation between the head monk and the lord is held off by Tomura’s choking and munching.

His uncle gives him a questioning glance, a look saying his uncle is already getting angry because he can’t tell what Tomura thinks. His steel eyes drop to his plate, and that cold look is replaced by softness, one seen in a face of a parent accepting he knows nothing about his growing child.

Tomura clears his throat and sits up straight.

The city stretches itself like a lazy snake through the trees, the dark black roofs peek out the pine branches like black diamonds. On the other side, far, far, in the distance, behind the light green sea of tall forest, Tomura’s city lays hidden. The rush and noise of the capital seems irrelevant in here, but as they approach the first majestic gate, the buzz of the city crawls back under Tomura’s skin.

After a few days of attending business with his uncle, it is time for them to leave.

He gestures for his horse to stop after passing the gate.

“I noticed you ride well,” the monk mutters, eyes on the beast’s short hair thick to withstand upcoming winter, shining like fine copper in the sun.

“Do you ride?” Tomura pats the shoulder of the horse he’s rode since he came under the guidance of his uncle.

They don’t have horses here, for the terrain is too steep and dangerous, forests offering little grasslands to keep them.

The monk, standing behind his shoulder as if afraid of the animal, shakes his head like a boy, his hands slipping to hide in his sleeves. His eyes flick over the strong neck, the shake of its head, to the black eye. His whole body is hesitant and withdrawn, but his eyes scream of curiosity.

He’s fascinated by the monk’s fascination.

Tomura almost blindly reaches behind himself, his fingers finding the monk’s wrist and pulling it out of its den in the monk’s robes. For a quick second, monk’s expression comes to something sharp at the touch, surprise makes his lips open as he sucks in a gasp when Tomura leads his hand to the beast’s neck.

The monk’s fingers bent as if he wants to pull back when he senses the warmth of the animal on his fingertips, but the interest takes over and he spreads his fingers fully, his teeth gritted as he’s preparing for impact.

His palm connects to the animal who gives a soft grunt at first, making the monk nearly flinch away hadn’t Tomura placed his hand flat on top of his, the thick fabric covering the back of monk’s hand to his knuckle dividing their skin.

The young monk sucks in a breath, completely focused on the animal in front of him. His eyes flick to the horse’s black eye as if he’s asking the horse if it accepts his touch.

Tomura observes his face as he explores unknown, slowly lifting his hand off his, watching as the stiffness drains and his fingers caress over the short hair.

It’s sight.

The monk puffs a laugh, his shoulders relaxing and he shyly lifts his eyes up to the horse, “I always thought they’d be smaller,” comes with a breath of wonder.

Tomura smiles.

“I’d show you how to ride,” he whispers, fascinated by the monk’s first encounter with the animal, “but he’s… difficult to inexperienced riders,” he sighs and as if the horse knew he spoke ill of him, it throws his head.

The monk startles for a second, his head tilting to the side as if he understands what this stubborn horse says. Come to think of it, the horse has grown unfond of the monks ever since Tomura’s first visit, always tugging and dragging them around, and Tomura stands by and watches the show every time. Since then, the horse grows more and more impolite towards men wearing black, knowing they are too weak for his fiery temperament.

But as he stares at this young monk, he wonders how come the horse won’t even try to bite him and holds still under his touch.

“How…” the monk breathes, carefully moving his hand up to touch on the black mane. His other hand comes up to scratch at his neck, “When did you learn to ride horses?” he whispers as if not to startle the horse, but the mount is used to loud noises.

Tomura walks around the monk and tightens the leather round the horse’s head.

“When I was ten,”

The monk gives a confident, long stroke from its neck to the shoulder, “How would you climb such a horse at ten?”

“It’s not my first horse,” Tomura’s voice grows soft, his fingers wet of the mount’s saliva when he places the metal piece between his teeth, “Children learn to ride on ponies, little horses,” he explains, the horse offering  his head so Tomura can put the reins over his neck, “These horses are bold, fast, powerful, fearless,” he sighs, watching the horse throw his head around in sensing upcoming ride, and the monk takes a step away, understanding the horse has no reason to tolerate his touch anymore.

“You ride to battle on this one,”

Tomura nods, watching the monk over the saddle.

The monk slips his hands in his sleeves again, “Are… do you- is the lord planning another visit?”

“In winter, if the road’s not completely closed off,” Tomura lowers his eyes, fiddling with the stirrup.

“Oh… yes, that’s, reasonable. You should walk in winter, not ride. And be careful,”

Tomura smiles over that, grabbing the horn, stepping in the stirrup and hoisting himself up. The blue eyes open wide at that smooth movement.

“I will,”

---

The envoy came to the gate and Tomura stiffly slipped off the saddle, held the reins out for the monks to take it, as has became a habit. Every time, his horse provides a performance welcomed after the gruelling journey by pulling the monks around as if the horse was the one walking them.

This time though, when the head monk sent a bald man for the reins, the black-haired monk pushed past that man excitedly, unaware of his disobedience. He stared in the horse’s black eyes with a tint of well-hidden fear as Tomura handed him the reins.

“Are you sure?” Tomura talked lowly, still holding onto the reins.

“Yes.”

His fingers loosened and he stepped away. Once the horse realized the reins are not resting in the hands of his master, he gave a low unapproving grunt. His mighty body swayed as he shifted his weight, stomping with his front leg, the hoof making a clear ringing sound. Tomura stood tense at the sight of the beast’s obvious preparation for launch, and the monk also held the reins stiffly, face tight as if he was not daring to breathe. The horse, unrest, threw his head, nearly yanking the reins from the monk’s hand. He has smelled a weakness in his unexperienced grip, and Tomura has already taken a step towards them to give a hand in case, but the monk quickly raised his left hand and awkwardly rubbed the horse’s head.

Countless moments of the horse biting wrists of people who tried doing so flashed in front of Tomura’s eyes and he had already reached for the reins.

But for some reason, the horse has gone calm. The black orbs of his eyes opened wide, his ears perked towards the monk, his nose curious. The monk pats the horse again, the fabric of his sleeve right by the horse’s nose.

“Come,” the monk says softly, bringing his hand to point down to the city.

All stare as the horse eagerly follows.

The monk manages to walk the horse all the way through the city without as much as a stagger, and the whole party is completely silent, eyes piercing the unlikely pair and waiting for the horse to go rogue. But he’s as calm as child given sweets.

“How?” Tomura stands completely shocked, questioning if the animal tamely following the monk to the makeshift stable is really his own horse.

“Oh, you know,” the monk’s eye has a mischievous glint, “Magic.”

“He’s always rude to strangers,” Tomura’s eyes go wide, dreamy. He knew there’s something special about this monk, the way he seems to fit in with the nature, and it makes his heart inflate with excitement that this one person was chosen by his unruly horse.

“I know,” the monk pats the horse’s head again and immediately, the horse brings all attention to his hand, nudging his nose in monk’s sleeve. The monk lets a smile he has been fighting spread on his lips. With a heavy sigh, his hand down falls down and he reaches into his left sleeve, “I admit I was very afraid he’d bite my hand off, but in the end, I managed to trick all your party,” blue eyes flick to Tomura as he pulls a bright orange carrot from his sleeve, “Including you,” he gives a low chuckle, waving the carrot by Tomura’s face.

The horse grunts impatiently, head leaning sneakily for the carrot.

Does the monk have a Deathwish?

Tomura rolls his eyes, cheeks flushing as he regrets believing that this thickhead of a horse somehow sensed the monk’s nature and followed him that easily. The monk laughs at him, excited by his conquest, offering the horse his reward. The horse devours the carrot, nearly biting the monk’s fingers off.

“You idiot,” Tomura smiles and shakes his head. Mischievous idea. A clever one.

“Come on, he's such a good boy!” The monk’s cracking laugh startles the horse when he first hears it, distracting the horse enough that he lets the monk pat his neck.

After that, they both sneaked out of the city to the meadow. His friend has got lively as the spring has finally emerged from the cover of snow, and the earth started to breathe and live again.

They talk about usual business; Tomura keeps poking into the monk when he jokes about his responsibilities.

And yet, their discussion was destined to divert into certain topics sooner or later.

“What do you like?” they sit beside each other under the soft sun; Tomura’s friend whispers the sentence like he’s afraid to be caught asking it.

During winter, the monk’s skin has gotten pale, and now right after the end of it, it remains snowy white, as if he had breathed in the rhythm of the seasons.

“What do you mean?” the young lord teases.

Blue eyes peel open, little frown forming between his brows when he has to adjusts to the light of the day. His fingers roll through the grass stems like it’d spear through hair, crushing a fistful of plush grass. “Oh, you know,”

“Really? You, wanting to hear brothel gossip?” Tomura lets his head lol lazily to the side, very fond of seeing the monk’s face being so brightened by something so innocent as boyish excitement. Red flush gathers under the pale skin, something that is not visible when he’s tanned, “And are you sure you won’t be distracted by my answer?”

“Yes.” He pouts.

“It’s an… intimate act. Very explicit. Can you handle it?” he teases the monk further, earning a scolding push on his shoulder.

“Yes!” the monk hisses, shuffling closer so he can hear the forbidden words.

Tomura gives a sigh, constantly scolding himself by letting his guard down and letting himself be pulled along the innocent excitement of the other, feeling like a boy himself again.

“When you’re with a woman,” he explains and the monk eagerly nods as if he completely understands, and it makes Tomura smile, “She might touch you with her hands,” the monk blinks, his lips in a tight line, “or,…she can take you with her mouth,” he whispers.

“…I heard about that,” though his face has gone completely red, he gives a measured nod, “Does it really feel that good?”

“I love it the most,” Tomura sighs, dreaming, longing.

“Hm,” judging the situation as objectively as he said he would, the monk lets his eyes fall down to the grass, “but it’s a mouth. You’re eating with it. How are you-…” the young monk stops talking when the young lord takes a hold of his hand and softly lifts it up, gently spreading Touya’s fingers. Blood rushes through his body, his throat dry, his fingers compliant.

“Don’t be afraid,” the lord whispers an assurance, soothing the stiffness in Touya’s posture, slowly pulling Touya’s hand forward.

Touya complies, following the pull with his body.

Two fingers slip in his mouth.

Touya mouth snaps open.

The lord’s lips wrap around Touya’s fingers, and he shivers at the foreign feeling squeezing pleasantly at him. He keeps his fingers relaxed, lets the lord hold onto his palm.

It’s warm and wet, the saliva of another person that he thought would disgust him, now wraps around his skin like the finest satin.

Gently, his hand is led back, the fingers slipping out sticky, the lord’s lips drag over his fingers until he reaches the very tip.

Another sensation is added, right under Touya’s fingertips is pressed the softest and warmest flesh, so interesting by its texture.

Each breath comes to Touya’s lungs heavy.

Slowly, inch by inch, the lord guides Touya’s fingers back inside, wrapping his tongue around it, as if for some reason he worships Touya’s skin so much he wants to lick it off. Slight tremor goes through Touya’s hand at it, at the clear and confusingly high amount of effort the young lord puts into every slight movement he performs. It compliments Touya in the sweetest way, makes the dormant fire in his chest come alive with a roar.

His lips are shiny with saliva and make a distinct pop when he pulls off Touya’s fingers. He is slightly breathless, his eyes a little hazy as he blinks it away.

The wind makes Touya’s wet fingers ache to be put back inside.

“Imagine that on your…” the lord gives a smile, his words trailing off; like he doesn’t even realize he’s set Touya on fire.

Touya won’t. He doesn’t want imaginary. He wants to keep memory of this, he wants to feel the solidity of this moment fully.

---

During the lord’s visits, his father moves to the sister temple under the wing of the woman who gave birth to Touya.

It is therefore a relief to hear a headmonk will lead his training.

“I thought we’d not do it since the lords are present,” Touya asks cautiously, but the head monk replies in a soft smile.

“They have their own schedule for today,” he gestures and Touya happily follows him to the temple hidden behind the city, “I wish to see the progress you’ve made. Last time I watched offerings’ burning up there was when you were fourteen,” the head monk laughs whole-heartedly, which only makes every step Touya takes heavier.

They reach the prayer hall and the head monk helps him set everything up – offerings, pine branches, a thin pillow seat, prayer book and a metallic bowl.

Touya undoes the black upper layer of his robes, taking his time to perfectly fold it, remembering every scold he’d gotten from his father if he had folded it wrong.

His hands straighten the thin fabric in a neat rectangle, but Touya keeps kneeling with his back to the head monk.

“I…” he rubs the wrappings tight along his wrist.

“Yes, my boy?”

“…I...am sorry to disappoint,” the words come past his lips with difficulty, but once they break out, the whole dam breaks, “I don’t think I made a lot of progress, master, I’m still having the same probl-”

“Touya.”

At the sound of his name sung so softly as if in prayer, he turns towards the head monk.

“We have time,” the head monk elegantly kneels by the pillow and gestures for Touya to sit down, “I may not help you like your father would, but if there is anything in my competence, I will gladly assist you, and if not, I will hear you,”

The head monk is the only one who can reach right into Touya’s chest and caress his heart like that. Taken aback almost to tears, Touya sits cross-legged on his place and takes a deep breath.

Most people come here at certain age, decide to dedicate their lives to their teachings after failing in the outside world, or come here to seek a way out of their suffering. Touya has been born into this. He has grown up here, with the monks and his father, and all the memories he has are of this place and monks being kind, or a head monk shushing him and clearing his bruises when he’d got a silly idea and fell off a tree. The headmonk who got him a warm milk when he couldn't sleep or stayed awake with him when he had gotten so sick he spent a night by the toilets. He was there, rubbing his back and offering warm words even though his father left for the sight of it made him too sick.

Touya does not know if the monk has taken him here because he knows about the struggles Touya’s going through and does this through kindness, or if he is taking him to this lesson only as a substitute for his father.

“I, uh,” Touya takes a deep breath, eyes pointing forward, “the… there’s…when I pull the fire to the surface,” he gestures with his hands, describing indescribable, “The temperature keeps rising and rising and it…the more it hurts, the less control I have over it,” he sighs, the words offering comfort as he lets them free.

The head monk nods through it, slowly getting up and walking a good distance behind Touya.

“Well,” he says, voice smooth as honey, “perhaps we can try focusing on getting complete control over your breathing first. Let’s calm down before you even reach for the flames. We have time, Touya,”

His shoulders relax at it, as if the head monk knew exactly what to say to calm Touya down.

It feels immensely different than with his father. The space he enters is much deeper and Touya keeps slipping in until his mind is as clear as fresh sheet of paper.

Though the head monk is not a firewielder, he has vast experience and is able to guide Touya through it, giving him the responsibility over the flames.

“You’re doing great so far,” the soft voice whispers from a place far away and Touya absentmindedly nods, his left spread forward firmly, the energy of the fire apparent to his fingertips.

It feels good to hear a nice word or two. It makes his chest warm with different type of warmth, something soft and comforting.

He breathes out deeply, the air fresh and crisp.

His forest. His home.

He breathes in.

All the beauty in the unkept forest, filling his entire being with clarity, fuelling the fire to purify all the offerings.

“Very good. So far it’s steady,” the soft voice comes from different direction, but Touya’s floating in a different dimension.

“We’ll soon be done,” it might’ve been a minute, what feels like ages with his father, “Do not rush to finish. Take things slow, controlled,”

He does.

It feels amazing.

Not having to open his eyes, he feels the fire responding to his commands, slowly lowering itself until it fades. Touya sees the ceremony to the end in the calm manner, and once he rings the bowl and closes the book, only then he turns to the head monk.

The hall around them is awfully dark, they have spend a whole afternoon here and it was with ease Touya has never felt.

All of this he could not master for years and it came so easily.

All of this trying to hear that one thing that the head monk places right into his opened hands:

“You did well,”

---

On the fourth day, the last full day before the lord’s envoy leaves, Tomura is sure to catch the young monk before he slips through his fingers again.

Has been continuously running out of controversial topics with which he could test the young man’s dedications. Yet he does have some more, though these are not very intellectual, but he’s yielded to any topics including his fire and he has grown tired discussing politics with him because he never says that a person made a bad decision, but instead provides a context to the events Tomura mentions, making Tomura feel like a fool for seeing things black and white only.

This does feel like a game to which he doesn’t know the rules, yet he plays well.

The spark of interest the young monk right in front of him has lightened in his chest is fed with each story the young man gives him until it burns like pyre, and Tomura can’t seem to come up with a single thing that’d interest the young man like so.

He feels burning urge to make him experience the wonders of adventure he has given.

“You don’t have women here,” Tomura states foxily, the young monk stretched in the grass, always rolling on the ground like a lazy cat, very unlikely for somebody of such status.

“Yes? Continue,” the monk gives a deep exhale, his chest lowering in an exhale. He’s smiling as if he had discovered a gold mine right under his bed.

“I was wondering what you usually do with your free time,” Tomura’s eyes wander to the loose fabric pooling by his sides and creating the shape of his waist that has been haunting Tomura since he’s seen him in the ceremonial robes.

“Dedicate it to our teachings,” the monk is swift to lead him in the correct direction, smiling wider.

“Are you allowed a women’s visits?” Tomura won’t let him.

“Some are,”

“Some have higher status then,”

The grass under his head rustles when he looks to Tomura, “Oh, please, do not discuss politics with me,” he laughs it off in a mocking tone.

Tomura startles at the obvious disrespect, unused to anybody daring to command him, but he does respect his wishes.

“I was simply wondering,” he pouts momentarily, the tameness of his voice soothing the flare of anger that burned as malicious as the blue fire, “is being with a woman forbidden? For you?”

“Being in a possessive relationship is forbidden,” his voice is nearly bored, his eyes close again, and Tomura’s shoulders drop in disappointment when he so obviously loses monk’s interest.

“I don’t see how these are different,” Tomura mutters defeated, but the young man does not explain it further, as if he’d not waste his breath on it.

Is there anything that interests him?

The young man does not ride horses, nor does he indulge himself with women. Tomura’s nearing to his wit’s end.

“I heard something though,” Tomura thinks hard, listing in his mind through pages of an old book rewritten by scholars with messy handwriting and misspellings in the old book the monk has fixed, “about men in here,” he asks genuinely, curious not for gaining information, curious for the very essence of curiosity.

“Entertain me!” the monk muses, throwing him a bone.

“You’re… unusually chatty today,” Tomura hesitates, considering the topic perhaps too controversial for him. But the monk only gives him a wide smile daring him to continue.

“I read about beautiful men,” his voice drops, taking in the soft features of the young monk’s face, “That there is procedure done, one that would rid you of your desires,” he recites, choosing his words diplomatically.

“Yes?”

“A procedure leaving the man… youthful, preserving their beauty, softening their voices,” blood rushes to his face.

“Oh, and have you seen such men?” he asks simply, knowing exactly what Tomura wants to know and not letting him have any hint unless he says it himself. His thin lashes flutter, revealing a little of the blue made divine by the touch of sunshine.

Tomura swallows down the answer that he might be looking at one. The monk reads him like an open book, offering light smile in response.

“Do you have such men where you came from that you’re so confident to tell them apart?” the inhumanly blue eyes slide off Tomura’s face as the monk rolls in the grass, buzzing with excitement.

“It’s not common,” Tomura sighs softly, yet again not receiving a single solid answer.

“Ah,” the young monk’s eyes close softly as he nods, dark eyelashes laying on his skin, “If you are interested in such men, I must disappoint you – there’s not a single whorehouse in here,”

Tomura whips his head towards the young monk, frustrated with the effortless mockery, as the monk is playing with him with ease and leaving Tomura completely helpless.

Tomura’s eyes trail back to his face, his jaw caressed by the tips of the grass, “Have you ever been touched?” he asks sharply in order to gain upper hand.

The bright blue eyes shot open at the straightforward question. He measures his answer, his throat moving as he swallows, taking a breath and sitting up, eyes lowered, fingers drifting through grass.

“I heard some people keep… close friendships. It’s not common, neither rare,” he muses, eyes avoiding Tomura now.

Thin long pale fingers wrap grass around it and pluck green straws. In an elegant, smooth movement, the same one with which he leads the fire to submission, he throws the grass at Tomura’s chest.

Green leaves float down Tomura’s torso.

“I doubt my right to speak it to you,” the young monk adds innocently, as if he never heard the question directed to him.

“I’m asking about you specifically.” He emphasizes again.

“Why would you want to know that,” the young man pouts, leaning forward over his folded legs and picks at the grass in front of himself.

Tomura’s lips slowly spread in a smirk.

“That is an answer enough,”

The young monk startles, fingers freezing. Knowing he’s got him with his words and nothing else is much more enthralling than driving his sword precisely through a man’s vitals.

The eyes of the color of the ocean ever so slightly crawl over to Tomura’s knees, a look of determination mirroring in it and Tomura awaits the surrender.

“Well… what is it like?” he whispers curiously, his cheeks heated in a pinkish blush.

Tomura’s throat goes dry at the sight, like the plum blossoming over his skin, the wind spearing its fingers through the pitch-black hair, the sky behind him not as nearly beautiful as the blue in his eyes.

He tears his eyes away to feast at the beauty of the nature instead, but none of it sates him as much as the sight of the young monk.

Smile has spread over Tomura’s lips the moment he started gaining his interest, “I should not tell you,”

“Why not,” the monk too, looks away, his tone uncharacteristically pouty.

“I wouldn’t want to corrupt you with these sinful thoughts,” he taunts.

The surprised chuckle the young monk lets out is one of the most real sounds he’s heard pass those lips, “My dear lord, your words can barely cause any damage,”

Tomura frows, towering over the monk’s face like an eagle over a clueless sparrow, “Even if I tell you of the softness of the woman’s breasts cushioning your face?” he whispers the words belonging to filthy brothels, so explicitly vulgar it makes the monk’s eyes shoot wide open. Something he’s never heard, something of different world.

Something interesting.

Tomura’s smirk grows wider.

“…I,” at loss for words, the monk searches answer in the sky, “The desire is human,” his voice is a soft caress of the spring breeze in comparison to the sharpness of Tomura’s words, “What we do is…,” he blinks a few times, as if he was cleansing his vision of the imagery Tomura painted, “What we do with the flesh is not nearly important as our minds,” he steadies himself enough to bear to look in Tomura’s face, “So do entertain me with your obscure stories,” sun touching his eyes makes them glitter like ocean waves reflecting the sunlight.

“Are you saying you are able to withstand it, to see my experience with objectiveness you’d watch the stone garden at your temple?”

It’s a statement bonding the intimate experiences of both their worlds together – Tomura’s sins and his sanctuary.

The dark eyebrow cocks up and his back is straight when he leans back on his arms again, exposing himself like he’s offering his chest to an arrow. The monk’s guard is lowered always around him; a new feeling Tomura is not entirely sure how to approach without crushing it.

“Tell me,” leaving the bickering away, the young monk speaks with genuine interest now.

“It’s the best feeling,” Tomura’s words are taken away by the wind.

“That’s it?!”

“What would you like to know?” realizing how difficult it is to continue where he’s left off, he asks the monk for advice, intending on poisoning the pure mind, to be led through the very dark corners of it and find what hides in there.

“How does it feel when you’re…” the monk takes a breath, his chest moving, “…inside?” he whispers.

Tomura’s lips spread in a deranged smile, “If you’re asking this, does it mean you desire it?”

“What is in my mind, you can’t see,” he retorts immediately, stretching his legs and lowering to lean on his elbows, “Now tell me,” he begs quietly, swallowing drily.

With an excitement Tomura can barely hold back, he grows emphatic towards the poor young man, who has not known a touch of a woman, and he shows him mercy.

“Well,” he turns his face away while discussing the delicate matter, facing the slope and the city of temples hidden in the valley, “It feels warm, wet, soft,”

“hmmm…” the young man nods as if they’re discussing their supper, but his fingers stop stroking the grass as if the gesture might be too closely linked to what Tomura describes.

“And you feel it around you, squeezing, tightening,”

The young man makes a face at it.

“It feels good,” Tomura assures him, “using your hand comes no close to that,”

The silence stretches.

Blue eyes flick to him, his cheeks slightly flushed.

“Have you been with many women?”

“Not that many,” he mutters honestly – in a complete opposite of the monk’s denying of everything personal, Tomura bares his core to him.

His uncle has taken good care of him in each aspect, supplying him with willing and experienced women that have been kind to him, and were keen to teach a young handsome man like him.

“What do you like? What draws you to them?” the young man grows very interested in the desire that is forbidden to him; encouraged by Tomura’s openness to ask more.

Tomura gives him a questioning look, losing words as he stares at the man casually resting in the grass, his side profile as fine as if it was meant to be on coins.

“Faces,” Tomura muses absentmindedly.

“Faces…” the young man repeats, evaluating the word with closed eyes.

“Beautiful noses,” Tomura’s lips twitch in a smile as his eyes graze from the crook of his brows over to the tip of his nose. His mouth dries when he drags his eyes over his thin lips down to his neck, “Pretty figures,” he whispers, slipping over the fabric pooling by the monk’s sides, haunted by the way the ceremonial robes clung tight to his waist.

“How…” his words are cut.

Tomura’s eyes flick back up to his face. He furrows softly, the sentence struggling to crawl out of monk’s throat.

“How does... kissing feel?” his voice is a voice easily mistaken for any kind of boy his age, full of curiosity.

“It depends on the person,”

Blue eyes shot wide open, staring up at him completely engaged.

“With some it feels tingling, urgent,” Tomura drags his fingers over the grass, rubbing a stem of a clover flower blooming in white little furball, “With some it’s… uneasy, uncomfortable, rushed,” his fingers slide down to the very shaft of the clover flower, “With some it comes naturally. It’s soft, exciting. Right.” He picks up the clover flower, turning it between his fingers, rather than facing the face completely taken aback by his descriptions.

“How do you know which one would be uneasy and which will be good?” the eyes move away from him, closing softly.

“You can’t,” Tomura gazes onto his face, the slightly tan skin enveloped by the sunrays, the thin eyelashes barely casting shadows under his closed eyes.

“I wouldn’t risk that,” the young man says quietly, losing interest.

Tomura reaches the clover flower out, softly tapping it against the other’s lips.

His breath catches, his eyebrows lift in shock, his eyes stay closed – not sensing enough danger from Tomura to be startled too much.

Tomura focuses intensely on dragging the ball of the flower over his lower lip, watches in utmost caution as his lips part slightly and his warm breath makes the flower shiver.

When Tomura very slowly lifts the flower off his lips, and the monk’s head moves slightly, as if he was following the soft touch, craving more.

Tomura watches him undone, hiding the flower in his palm, feeling the slightest warmth of it against his skin with his eyes firm on the young man’s opened lips.

“Sometimes it’s worth the risk,”

Chapter Text

This desire. It’s eating him out alive.

This unsnapped tension.

Like a string toned perfectly ready to be played, and all Touya wants is to pluck that string and hear it sing at last.

The young lord is kind to him. Touya usually keeps distance, but he reaches for the young lord when he needs, so naturally and smoothly. And those moments Touya can’t forget – when the young lord had touched his hand confidently; when he led his palm to his horse; when he rubs his shoulder; when he let Touya fall asleep in his lap.

He admires that look in his dark eyes.

That mischief the young lord brings out in Touya.

The novelty of him.

He had not known this longing comes with pain in his chest, and that sour sting of knowing he does not possess the ability to touch him back with the same ease and confidence.

He wants to stay a little longer in the time they carve out for each other.

He stares up to him pondering and unable to stop thinking about the implications shifting this situation from the innocent friendship. About that clover. About that challenge hanging over his head, tightening around his neck, rolling between the blooming flowers.

Touya sits in his most favourite place in the world, hunched forward and hypnotized the white clover flowers peeking between thick bush of its three leaved leaves, his lips tickling whenever he sees the wild flowers.

It’s full bloom for them. They’re everywhere. They whisper to him, flood the space around him and the pulsation on his skin becomes unbearable. The young lord has cursed his lips; he can not be alive until he receives what has been intentionally held away from him.

He brings his arms over his bent knees, hiding his face when he presses the tips of his fingers over his lower lip to smother the painful throb. It’s just his body’s reaction, he says to himself.

It’ll pass.

Though it certainly does not feel like it at the moment.

“Will it rain?” the lord’s nephew by his side asks, his voice slightly concerned.

Touya swallows drily, pressing his lips against his fingertips with a deep frown. Taking a steadying breath, he leans his head on his arm instead, unable to rid himself of the tightness in his chest. His lips have betrayed him and he does not trust it to carry out words anymore.

He shakes his head in answer.

“I apologize,” the young lord blurts out and Touya comes awake, turning his head to him.

“…why,” he knows exactly what he’s talking about – about the ghost of the touch lingering on Touya’s lips, the frustrations that it should’ve been something else than the soft flower, the image poisoning Touya’s mind.

He must know exactly what he’s done to Touya, otherwise he wouldn’t apologize for it, and knowing he knows what hangs between them is making the heat rushing through Touya’s crackle.

The lord keeps quiet, his stare tangible on Touya’s skin.

Touya shifts uncomfortably, pulling at his robes as they stick to his skin, the warmth seeping through him making him unrest.

“Let’s head back,” he swings up so fast his head sways.

He can’t bear this any longer. It’ll mean the end of him, it’ll devour his soul. The distance between them will drive him mad.

The lord lifts his head, tilting it like a bird studying ripe fruit. His brown eyes catch the rich light just so, shining bright red along the edges.

-

They walk in complete silence to the main temple and the young monk is instantly swept away from him by the senior monks who request assistance.

Tomura stares at his back, wishing he’d turn back and say goodbye, give him a look with a slight roll of those divine eyes, show any sigh of regret that he’s plucked from the time they could’ve spent together.

The monk doesn’t spare him a glance, hurrying away as if relieved he’s called away from Tomura.

After spending some time aimlessly listing through the book the monk gave him at his last visit, Tomura joins his uncle.

Lord Shigaraki’s steps drag one after another, his brows always frowned, his eyes uninterested as they walk through the city to the grave site where they can have private conversation.

Tomura walks a step behind the massive figure of his uncle, offering a quick bow before he passes the river dividing the graveyard from the city.

In the shade of trees that reach for heaven, the sit on a stone bench carved with simplicity and precision overlooking the main path. The cicadas are yet silent here, whilst in the capital city, the never-ending screech of the bugs has already begun.

Heavy rings clack softly against each other as his uncle’s thick fingers run along the smooth surface of the bench. He thoughtfully looks towards the closest stone tower, roof atop of ball, box and tear shape.

Tomura awaits his comment patiently.

“Would you believe that these…” his uncle sighs softly, “men,” he says with a sneer, as if the monks were lesser. It makes something rise in Tomura’s chest, a need to defend them – him – which he swallows and keeps his mouth shut, “are able to build from stone such impressive things.”

“They are quite skilful,” Tomura nods along, “It looks like it,” he masks his obvious bias under thin layer of cold.

His uncle is quiet, either waiting for Tomura to continue or to break. Tomura sits straight.

“Are you suggesting something, uncle?” he asks carefully.

“No, no,” His uncle’s fingers swing off the smooth surface of the bench, “I was wondering if we shall discuss the restrictions upon their practices already, or if we’d not warn them,”

Yes… the sole purpose they’ve come here. They have debated heavily in the capital city, but it was unsure when the restrictions come to place.

Tomura had thought he had more time.

“The conversation would make things awkward. Who knows, they might poison our dinner…” his uncle muses with a smile as if he dared them to, “What do you think?”

He’s been advocating against his uncle’s plans to wipe this place off the surface, having succeeded as much as his uncle is willing to step back. Perhaps his uncle needs to see that Tomura’s still on his side, not letting his judgement be clouded by…

Face of the monk comes over his vision.

It does feel like a test. He scolds his expression when he realizes what is the real purpose of his uncle’s question. Though Tomura has convinced them to settle for restricting their religious practices and later making these practices a lord’s responsibility; objectively, since they are about to back off, they should make it clear that they do hold more power in this situation. Tomura chooses his answer strategically.

 “I wouldn’t tell them either. It’s supposed to be our concern from now on. You will keep them alive and let this place exist, right, uncle? If so, there is need to assert dominance from the start,”

A heavy hand pats his shoulder proudly.

-

They’re at the fields, with a book Touya has lend him at his last visit. The decision still weighs heavy on Tomura’s soul, much more that the monk doesn’t know anything he’s doing behind his back.

But Tomura has been doing everything to save him.

The lord plops down with a sigh of an old man, placing the book in Touya’s lap.

“Will you read it out for me?”

“Why,” Touya muses as an afterthought, flipping the page without lifting his eyes up. A little brighter this time, little more lively. A little warmer.

The lord, sprawled on the grass shifts, putting his head on Touya’s thigh like a cat. Not moving away, Touya’s eyes widen in shock.

Tomura curls by his side, breathing in the earthy smell of fire and grass.

It’s all for you.

“I like the way words sound when you say them,”

-

The promise of the rain is thick in the air, the swell is making the young lord’s light hair curl more than usual, thick dark clouds gather against the young lord’s profile, making the lightness of his hair stand out even brighter. On Touya’s side, sunrays touch onto his robes, heating his skin and calling out for the flame in his veins.

Touya rises softly, his throat clenched. Swirling through his mind are simple threats of rejection.

He reaches forward; eyes locked onto the naturally puffed strand of the curl hanging by his ear. Is it because of the thickness of today’s air that his hair curl so perfectly?

He slips his fingers under it to admire its shape.

It surprises him with something else, and he lets a deep exhale on it, letting his breath carry out his words.

“It’s so soft…”

The young lord does not turn, he holds patiently. Touya runs his thumb over the strand of hair, lightly pulling at it to straighten it to its full length and letting go, watching it bounce back to the curled state. It makes him smile.

And he shouldn’t.

Yet his fingertips reach forward, until they find the warm pulsing skin of his neck under his hair, his thumb rubbing along his jaw, demanding he turns his head to him.

Touya has many flaws, but he didn’t know possessiveness was one of them until he got his hands on something his heart truly wanted.

His heartbeat is carried through Touya’s veins until it floods his own body.

He leans closer, eyes intently pointed to those lips, wondering about its taste, its warmth-

He crashes against the hand pushing in the middle of his chest.

Gasping, he searches in the dark eyes that look at him with firmness. The hand strictly prohibiting him to move further softens, its fingers softly rubbing over his chest before they lift off, the shadow of the touch firm and solid reminder of the crash against the reality of the moment.

“You said,” the young lord’s voice is so close Touya can taste it. He doesn’t move away and leaves Touya exposed and raw, “that the only thing forbidden are possessive relationships,” his breath whispers over his lips and Touya closes his eyes to savour it, a soft feeling as if he’s gently lowered underwater.

“So what are you doing?”

It comes as harsh as slap across his face. The reality calling out to him, to the one that does not have it under control, to him.

Touya’s breath shudders, his whole body shaking under the precise accusation. His fingers undo from the young lord’s neck unwillingly and stiffly, his head hanging limp between his shoulder as he gasps for air, as if he’s been hit with something more intense than he had expected.

He lets go, even though his whole being screams to hold on.

But the lord grabs onto his face, a gesture so straightforwardly meant that it leaves Touya confused as he is forced to look back in the determined eyes.

“Touya,”

Touya whines at it, the sound as pathetic as a sob. The way he says his name would send him fainting to the ground. So clear and beautiful, resonating through his soul like a powerful beat of drum. His name on his tongue; it means nothing else but his name.

“You are my dearest friend,”

Tears gather in Touya’s eyes.

The brutal honesty cracks his very being, and as he’s breaking, the rough palms hold him together and the thumb running over his cheek mends his wounds. His heart warms so suddenly it makes him tremble with its intensity, the kind words echoing through his mind.

“But you can’t let me be what leads you astray,” his gentle words fall on his face like cold snowflakes, his hot lone tears absorbed into young lord’s fingertips, “I cannot be the reason.”

Gathering his racing feelings, Touya nods quickly, acknowledging the pain and worry in young lord’s voice. Taking a steadying inhale, Touya straightens his back, and the young lord still holds him, holds him as long as he needs to be held. After Touya’s mind calms enough, he covers the hand resting on his cheek with his own, without the poisoning heaviness the desire brought. He breathes freely, rubbing the back of the hand.

“You won’t,” he assures him in a quiet voice, eyes pointed down, lips in a tight line. He leans back to the safe distance, “You’re my friend too,” he adds in a quietest of whispers, his hand reaches out to hang onto his wrist, “I promise-”

With a tortured sigh from the other, his face is pulled forward. He knows him the best and that’s why he doesn’t allow Touya what he reaches for.

His warm cheek presses against Touya’s face. The fingers rough from holding a heavy sword or pulling arrow’s string are placed on his neck, a thumb pressing onto his jaw too harsh, in desperate need to keep Touya still and not allow him to take what he so selfishly desires. The touch is threat, danger, and promise of violence he knew the young lord is capable of but has never taken it seriously.

With a dry swallow the young lord must feel against his palm, Touya relaxes into the touch, eyes drifting shut, head leaning softly against his offered cheek.

The young lord’s precisely placed fingers twitch, surprised by the complete and willing submission of the monk. His thumb loosens, instead of holding him away, he caresses his jaw softly.

He gifts the monk nothing but a chaste kiss onto his damp skin, just under his eye. He tastes like salt, his hair smells like grass. Right in his ear, the monk makes a soft noise, half tortured half relieved at his touch.

Tomura presses forward, his lips lingering longer than needed.

-

A storm breaks. The thunder roars, and the young monk’s eyes are still glassy as he’s chewing on the dinner.

Sleeping comes nowhere close to Tomura’s mind.

He’s tossing, torn between surrendering to the peaceful, sweet sleep and staying awake to listen to the thunder making the thin sliding doors shiver in fear.

Choosing the later, Tomura gets up, walking the corridors like a ghost of himself. Thunder flashes, illuminating sharply the white pebbles and dark stones in it – truly a dragon’s back emerging like a bad omen from clouds.

He walks and walks, sure he’d find him sooner or later.

He does.

He knew he’d be looking out at the nature’s wonder, the monk’s mischievous character has revealed as much.

He’s sitting at the very edge of the temple grounds, the place where Tomura vaguely remembers stumbling upon in his first night. He’s facing away from the stone garden, facing the slope and the accommodation for monks. Tomura’s steps took him right there as a destiny.

Thunder reveals his sight, the darkness of the forest behind the building.

Making his steps known, Tomura reaches the spot next to the monk. The monk does not startle at all. He sits beside him, the usually blue eyes are now as black as the night, firm on the sight in front of him.

Slowly easing his arm round his back, Tomura’s fingers encase his shoulder, his thumb softly rubbing across the fabric of his robes. The heat of his body is apparent. The monk’s eyes close for a short second, his shoulders relaxing into the touch, his head tilting and tilting until it fits over Tomura’s shoulder. His warmth seeps into Tomura’s side.

He smells like fresh spring grass and burnt coal.

Burying his nose in his hair, Tomura breathes in, obnoxiously deeply until the very smell of fills his lungs and seeps into his very core like Touya’s heat. Clasping his shoulder tight, as if afraid the monk would move away, Tomura too lets his eyes fall shut.

Touya instead eases into his touch.

Like this, they watch the storm with eyes closed.