#I THINK....that even though sakon + ukon are yoshimitsus trusted confidantes...his chieftaincy takes precedence.. n so he has trouble showin | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

goldenshrine · 2 years

Text

nimbus

yoshimitsu is hurt during a mission. he has a hard time seeking comfort.

content warning: minor depiction of blood/injuries !

word count: 1.6k

Autumn washed the sky kettle-gray. The air was fresh and earthy. And cold. Yari pressed their lips together to keep the chill from coating their teeth. They went about their chores, setting moments aside to note how rain had collected in leaves that studded the porch—if fortune spoke with fingers uncrossed, she’d promise another storm that night.

River-dark cloth entangled in their basket before draping one-by-one over bare hedges. Once the laundry was treated, they’d recover the tatami mats to wipe clean, sweep the ranma, and prepare the chabudai for Yoshimitsu’s arrival. They rocked softly, proudly, back and forth in a small breeze carried from the garden. It’d claimed eight and a half months of their sojourn-turned-domicile, but now scarcely did his native language wring their tongue. Writing was—to their frustration—much more elusive, but Ukon was a stubborn man. Another season, he’d promise, one more and they’d be fluent. If only it were that easy.

Floorboards whispered under their sandals, the scrape of teeth on wood gossiping idly of its master’s whereabouts. Yari adopted his tune. His halcyon-gold tilde was difficult to replicate, so they swelled bronze instead, a meek ebb and flow that followed them through the house. Half an hour, a quarter until, an hour swept harmoniously beside them. By the time they finished their chores, the walls and floors winked tremulously with that metallic shine.

Their song was smudged by a sudden rhythm—quiet at first but stirring. A steady trod in beats of four. A horse! Rather… three of them. Yoshimitsu and his subordinates had returned, helmets shimmering in the distant sky. The innkeeper’s hand bloomed outward to meet them. It snapped just as quickly as it had flourished, as though someone had cleared their stem with file-honed shears, and their eyes flexed wide, moon-bright and filled with panic. Sakon was yelling. His voice was too heavy for the wind to shoulder, too fast for the nattering wood. But it was loud enough for the nearby houses, whose lips parted to free a handful of armored soldiers. They’d all gathered in a crescent-shape to seize his frenzy.

“Move,” he hissed, dismounting and shoving the leather of his horse’s reins into whoever’s reach connected first. “Get out of the damn way. Move!”

Ukon was less than a footstep behind him, his own commands lessened in frigidity but ever urgent. One hand relinquished hold of his steed while the other caught onto the damp sleeves of his superior. They paled. Then he was gone, Sakon’s arm around him.

The moment pulled back into focus around Ukon’s outstretched palm. It enveloped their arm and squeezed it tightly, tighter still. Yari blinked. Slowly, slower still. They felt their eyelashes sweeping color back into their cheekbones.

“Wh-What—is he—what happened?” They asked, wavering despite themself.

“An ambush. We’d only meant to gather intel on a fragment from one of our patrols: a smaller group, less than half a dozen soldiers but there wasn’t… not a person in sight. We were flanked. Red eyes, blades curled and bloodied with malfestation. Servants of Soul Edge. Never thought they’d come out this far east,” he laughed. “We rid the area of those disgraceful beasts of course, but the chief… bastards got a few slashes in, that’s for certain.

He’ll recover, but… we should’ve been more vigilant. I should’ve been. I’m sorry.”

Yari paused. They shook their head. “You—couldn’t have known something like that would happen. Any of you. And I pray for your people’s safe return. Ah, but, how to say…” Their hands flitted together, flexing, rubbing each other raw. “Why are you apologizing to me? I bear no authority in this situation.”

“Come now,” said Ukon with another titter, “do not mistake me for a fool, gaijin.”

A fool, he’d said. Yari didn’t quite understand, but their gaze dropped to the hand that had moments ago knotted desperately in Yoshimitsu’s haori and shelved it for another time. They clenched their jaw, tried to swallow around the fever of words they didn’t know how to say.

Ukon’s palm weeped a thin stripe of red along his pants, pomegranate snagging on the rugged fabric, and flinched. When they’d first arrived in Japan, Sakon likened him to a child who’d been caught trying to hide something already present in their parents’ field of vision. He still hadn’t learned.

“Sakon brought him to a clinic at the end of the clearing. Right-hand side. Wait for him to leave before you check in, though. He’s even more of an asshole when he’s stressed, if you’d believe it.”

They rolled their eyes, half-hoping it’d spin away the fire that was two blinks away from pouring over.

What little sunlight day beckoned had long since fallen when Yari slid up the wind-whipped stones to the clinic. Plumed clouds were snaking along the darkened sky, thick and bruised gray and purple, crooning. Yari inhaled sickly-sweet freshness, some wry joke about a silver lining tousling the back of their head as a small gem of water shattered behind them. They poised motionless on their toes. They entered the clinic.

A masked man dressed in a sparsely patterned kimono led them through several rooms, each of which were bare and intimately-sized. He was peculiarly tall in proportion, the horns of his helmet barely scraping the ceiling, and they held their breath every time the two passed a door frame, waiting for it to scratch.

When he opened the panel to the last room, their eyes caught fire again. There lie Yoshimitsu, cradled in a wiry futon, chest strung together by linen dressings that were already freckling blood. They lingered on his missing arm. His prosthetic had been propped against a corner of the room. He looked so… vulnerable, so unnaturally small that they felt a certain discomfort creep over their frame. To see him like this suddenly felt more like an intrusion than a privilege, and they resumed choking their fingers digit by digit, joint by joint.

Yari perched beside the foot of his bedding. They leaned in closer, overcome with some clumsy desire—to do what, they hadn’t the slightest articulation—before remembering themself and more saliently, Yoshimitsu’s reputation, and erecting.

“I’ll be outside should you need anything, chief,” said the tall man. Yari’s breath hitched as he crossed the threshold.

“I assure thee that it shall take more than a few scoundrels to expel the great Yoshimitsu,” the ninja said: calliope voice laced with utmost sincerity despite his theatrics, because he was the great Yoshimitsu, the soul of the Manji clan, a demon running wild, and they shouldn’t have—couldn’t have expected any different.

They laughed.

He tilted his head, humming. “Laughter suits thine face far more than tears, my friend.”

Half cupped in his hand lay a string of prayer beads. They jostled one another gently, singing: ch-ch, ta-click. Yari reached out to roll one between their thumb and forefinger, marveling at its cooled smoothness against their calloused skin. Ta-click. One swipe, two, three, and their fingertips hooking over his knuckles. His weary squeeze in turn.

“I was,” they murmured, “so worried about you.”

Outside the translucent paneling, Yari could hear tidal waves husking the porch. Whistling threads of pampas grasses and white light. Even the silhouettes of pheasants busied themselves in their nest, seeking refuge from the storm with their feather-song.

But inside the clinic it was completely silent. The chatter of the rain down below and the faraway hiss of malfested stayed partitioned on the other side of the frame. No sound, no movements, besides the rise and fall of Yoshimitsu’s chest with each breath. It felt separate from the rest of the world, two lives momentarily set apart from 400 million others.

Yoshimitsu traced his thumb over the back of their tattooed hand. A circular motion, mimicking the wheel that’d delicately faded after years in the coastal sun. “Tsk, ‘tis hardly necessary. But for causing thee grief, I apologize—truly. Remind me once more of this symbol’s meaning?”

“Yoshi…”

“Surely thou can spare me this one indulgence, treasure.”

“Kolo,” said Yari, indulging. “Dance. It represents, ah, unity in the community.”

“And you received it as a child, yes? How enchanting!”

“Yoshimitsu.”

He studied them curiously. “Suffering of the ages cometh in infinite forms,” he recited, then fell quiet; his mouth worked itself into a circle behind his helmet. A long silence. “The heavens bear witness to the suffering I’ve endured and endured have I far worse than this morning.” He tightened his hearth-warmed hand in theirs. “But, I…” Their hand was like hoarfrost, even now. How could that be? “I think of my missing officers, of Soul Edge’s presence corrupting my land, and I…”

“Are you frightened?” asked Yari.

“I am consumed.” By the shadows of his rage. He knew every centimeter of them, could have cut one out of mulberry paper, furled it, and run it up a sashimono’s pole—his banner. Perhaps that frightened him. Fear was protective; it was what kept one from wandering into the hungry bear’s den. But rage… pulsing rage, dizzying rage, requital, self-cannibalizing rage, rage rage rage—

Yari’s free hand brushed over the lining of his bandages, guiding him back onto the floor. He’d forgotten how solid it could feel beneath him. “I’m with you, Yoshi. I can’t imagine the burden you carry, and for circumstances to treat you so unkindly... it’s terrible. But I’m here. What can I do for you?”

“Stay. At least... until the storm passes?”

They smiled as though the thought of leaving hadn’t once flashed across their mind. “I’d hate to catch a cold, walking home through such heavy rainfall.”

“My,” said Yoshimitsu, sighing. “Fortune favors me then.”

And the two settled together, soft, in spite of the downpour having calmed shortly after.

#my writing #🪶👹 heaven knows your name #I THINK....that even though sakon + ukon are yoshimitsus trusted confidantes...his chieftaincy takes precedence.. n so he has trouble showin #vulnerability around them. so when yari settles within the clan long enough for the two to really bond they nurture a space where he can #finally unpack some of that grief..... and once u get past all of his riddles + flamboyant projection ur faced with a person who just.#has lost SO much. he pours all of that anguish into something fruitful: rebuilding his clan and helping those less fortunate.. and that #anger / need to act / need to pushpushpush keeps him steady.....but the heartache remains. + no amnt of meditation can will it away.#and i think that sometimes he just needs to talk it out... n be held.. nd sometimes...... thats enough. uknow ;_;

3 notes · View notes