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The evening is unseasonably hot for autumn, the trees still flush and green while the night breeze is weighed down by heat and humidity. Heshikiri Hasebe blinks hard at his paperwork, first to ward off drowsiness, and then because of the sweat that's dripped into his eyes.
The salt stings mercilessly, and Hasebe sighs as he puts down his brush to rub with the cuff of his shirt. Perhaps he will get to reviewing the new accounting report tomorrow-- the numbers and brushstrokes are beginning to blur together, and Hakata can wait another day. Better for him to get some rest and refresh his mind for numbers rather than make a calculation error that the tantou will be on his back about for weeks.
By this late hour, Hasebe knows that it would make the most sense to call it a night and go to bed. Tsukumogami may not be entirely human, but these manifested bodies are subjected to the same pitfalls of the flesh, after all. However, Hasebe knows that sleep will not come easily to him, not on a night like this. He can already feel the sweat prickling on his nape, his shirt sticking to the damp skin of his back, and the flickering of flames in the corners of his vision--
It is autumn in the 23rd century, a fair distance in timespace from June 21st in Tenshou Era Kyoto. Hasebe kicks himself for the moment's dramatics, rising to his feet with a sigh. Perhaps sleep may not be the best option for right now, as heavy as his eyelids feel. If he goes to bed with these thoughts of treachery and temples swirling around in his head, he's liable to start having nightmares the way Samonji does, and that's the last thing he needs.
It isn't as though Hasebe begrudges his comrades for their trauma. How could he, when there are blades marred by fire, etched with scars, or even sunk to the bottom of the ocean. But it seems strange and-- truthfully-- pathetic for himself to be caught up in memories of a burning Honnouji. After all, unlike so many of his fellow Oda swords in the citadel, Hasebe had never been there to begin with.
By the time Akechi Mitsuhide turned against his own master and declared him the enemy at Honnouji, the Heshikiri Hasebe had already been gifted to the Kuroda. He remembers Lord Nagamasa's reaction to receiving the news of Nobunaga's death, of Hideyoshi's hurried retreat from Chugoku, and he'd wondered for years and decades how many swords burned at Honnouji, who was still left of Oda Nobunaga's illustrious collection. But for as close as it had felt, Hasebe had never been there; he hadn't seen the crumbling walls or felt the flames licking against his steel.
Not until this recent mission for the saniwa. Not until now.
Without the composure for numbers or the serenity for sleep, Hasebe makes his way to the citadel's kitchen. He has never approved of Nihongou or Fudou's way of coping with certain feelings by drinking them into warm numbness, and he has no intention to start now. But perhaps in that mystical cooling device that his master calls a "refrigerator", Hasebe will find something that can at least lull him out of this state of agitation.
Hasebe keeps his footfalls soft as he goes, careful not to wake those already asleep or alert anyone to the late-night kitchen pilfering. Though he would hardly reduce himself to theft-- the kitchen is a community resource, as the saniwa often says, and Hasebe has every intention to mark down whatever he takes into the citadel ledger... tomorrow. First thing tomorrow, in fact.
For now, he opens up the door of the fridge, and the faceful of cool air is already enough to blow away some of his fatigue. Reaching into the cooling compartment with a renewed gusto, Hasebe picks...
The bottle of sake is tucked in the door of the fridge, and through the dark brown tinted glass, Hasebe sees that it's already been emptied out by half. He recognizes the label-- a decent junmai daiginjo, one that's he remembers from the rare times he's indulged during the citadel's welcome celebrations. Nothing so expensive that it would hurt to use it as an ingredient, nor so foul that Shokudaikiri wouldn't take a sip while cooking. At any rate, Hasebe doesn't feel too bad about drinking some without permission, and so long as he doesn't drain the entire bottle, he doubts its loss will hurt anybody.
Hasebe makes way out of the kitchen, feeling like a bandit as he shuffles his way. Despite the utter lack of wrongdoing, he can't help but feel a little guilty, indulging in a late-night beverage without any special reason to do so. However, his guilt and caution are proven justified, when he hears someone approaching from behind. Even worse, before he even turns around to look, Hasebe knows exactly who it is...
Souza Samonji.
Of all the people who could catch Hasebe imbibing in a late night libations, it just had to be him.
Souza arches a thin pink eyebrow, scanning Hasebe and the bottle in his hand with a hooded gaze. Even without words, his judgment is palpable.
"Well," he remarks airily. "Someone must be finished with work tonight."
Honestly, it's hardly as sharp a jab as Hasebe expected, but he feels stung nonetheless. There's no way that Souza doesn't think him a hypocrite after how incessantly he nags Fudou and Nihongou for their drinking. Yet, under such mundane circumstances, here he is reaching for the same coping mechanism. How pathetic.
Hasebe curls in on himself instinctively, clutching the bottle to his chest. "The citadel kitchen is a shared resource and I am entitled to a drink, so long as it is in moderation. What is it to you, Souza Samonji?" His words come out more hostile than intended. Even in better circumstances, talking with Souza has a way of making him feel defensive and on edge.
As if mirroring Hasebe's own closed off body language, Souza folds his arms in front of his chest as well. "Nothing at all." Then, continuing lightly, as though it were complete non-sequitur. "Yagen's told me that you're having trouble sleeping lately."
Despite the cold exchange, Souza advances a step closer, as though chasing Hasebe into a corner. There's a moment where he opens his mouth and nothing comes out, the silence hanging tensely between them, before he finds the voice to speak.
"... It's the nightmares, isn't it? About Honnouji."
Of all the swords in the citadel, if any one could guess, if any one could know, it would be Souza Samonji. But to hear it said out loud, a fact that Hasebe has yet to admit even to himself, and with such sympathy, shakes Hasebe to his core. Unbidden and immediate, the thought of Souza's pity, makes something terrified and bitter in the pit of his stomach lash out before he even has a chance to think.
"You must find it amusing. That I'm finally suffering the same as you, all these centuries later," he spits, tearing his gaze away.
"As a matter of fact, I do not." Souza's reply is no less sharp, and without hesitation. Then, softer. "I know how it feels."
Silence fills the distance between them again, the space of a few steps gaping like so many miles for how far Hasebe feels from Souza. But in that void, with the sounds of the wind rustling the leaves and the quiet sound of one another's breathing, Hasebe cannot help but think that this exchange feels so... human. One that he would have seen played out between previous masters centuries ago, rather than the meeting of steel against steel that usually constitutes interactions between two blades. It's been some time since Hasebe was manifested, but it still surprises him again from time to time: how a human form, even one spiritually manifested, so naturally comes with a human heart.
It's this thought that prompts Hasebe to turn his face to look at Souza again, meeting that green-blue gaze that has watched and judged him for centuries, since their time with Oda. But in the end, it is Souza who bridges the gap between them.
"Despite what you may think, Heshikiri Hasebe." Souza's voice balances on the blade's edge of cold and tender. "I do not delight in your suffering.” And then, there appears the thin, bitter smile that Hasebe has come to know so well. “Despite how much you would like to forget, you and I have known each other for a very long time.”
This open moment of honesty from Souza throws Hasebe for another loop, more than the admission of sympathy from before. Hasebe is used to feeling defensive around Souza, as though his very presence might cause their shared past under the Demon King to spark back to life and consume them both at any moment. But Souza Samonji is more than a symbol of his past masters, and more than something from a past that Hasebe would rather forget.
Souza’s sardonic smile is something that Hasebe is used to seeing, whether it’s from snide remarks about being a caged bird, the annoyance of Hasebe’s (well-justified) nagging, or the “uniquely charred” taste of Yagen’s grilled fish. But right now, it reminds him of a certain yari’s anger, and pain, at being left behind as a relic of Hasebe’s past.
It’s hard to muster up the words after centuries of pride, but it couldn’t have been any easier for Souza after punching Hasebe in the face. The least Hasebe can do is return the favor.
“... I’m sorry.”
Souza seems as surprised by this turn of events as Hasebe is, but before he has the opportunity to reply, Hasebe raises the bottle of sake in his hand as an invitation.
“We have known each other for a long time. And what old acquaintances do to catch up is… Drink together.” It’s a clumsy ploy, straight out of the old yari’s playbook, but it’s worth the way Souza’s eyes light up. “So, Souza Samonji. Will you join me for a drink?”
For the third time, silence stretches on between them, more tense than ever. Hasebe can feel his face growing warm, but blames the unseasonable heat, or the alcohol. Nevermind that he’s yet to take a single sip of it. But unlike before, the longer the silence persists, the less uncomfortable it feels, less like the stillness before a clash of blades, and more like a cat laying in wait to toy with its prey.
In fact, that’s exactly what it is, Hasebe realizes, as he recognizes the flash of mirth in Souza’s eyes before he raises his sleeve to his mouth to hide a laugh. And in that moment, all nerves and defenses fall in favor of relieved, righteous indignation.
“Oi! Samonji!” Hasebe blusters, before remembering to keep his voice down. “What are you laughing at? Is that a yes or a no? Answer properly!”
This only escalates Souza’s silent laughter to undignified snorting that the sleeve does nothing to hide. “Oh, you awkward oaf.”
“What?”
“That’s a yes, if you couldn’t tell” Souza replies, slowly as if explaining music theory to a particularly stupid cow. “But don’t you dare complain if I end up drinking you under the table.”
The two of them fall into the rhythm of bickering as they make their way to Hasebe’s room to drink, but despite the argument, Hasebe finds it hard to keep the corners of his lips from turning upwards. Drinking alone is one thing, but drinking with an old friend...
Perhaps tonight, it will not be difficult to find sleep after all.