Pet Names - Kyougoku/Douyo
Even through the glimmer of sake, Douyo can’t help but feel that this is all too much for a swordlike him.
His flock-leader - no, that was the master now, wasn't it? Sanchoumou had called her that, ‘flock-mother.’ Then - the head of his family, Sanchoumou, had said this is normal. When a new sword joins them, they have a feast to celebrate, to welcome their new comrade and renew their bonds with each other over a meal.
The night has been raucous and bright, and so long that only a few swords remain. Not that Douyo feels lonely - his belly is full, the sake is excellent, and the moon through the frosted window is beautiful. The only thing that could be improved, he thinks, is that his pitcher of sake is down to its last drops.
As if on cue, a tantou appears at his side, a pitcher of sake in her hands.
“Excuse me, Douyo-sama,” she says in a soft, cultured voice.
She bows her head as she speaks, but when she looks up, it takes Douyo only a moment to place her.
“You’re Kyougoku Masamune!” he says, aware he’s suddenly speaking in too-big a voice.
But she doesn’t correct him. Instead she bows her head again, her cheeks colouring.
“Yes,” she says. “Forgive me for not coming to greet you earlier. It’s wonderful to have another sword of the Kyougoku Clan here in the Citadel, especially one as illustrious as you, Douyo-sama.”
She speaks quickly, so much so that Douyo doesn’t quite know where to start. So he goes with the most basic - but true.
“It’s an honour to meet you too,” he says. This time, his voice is at a more reasonable volume - just for her. “To think that a sword could take on a form of such beauty - well, that’s a Masamune for you.”
Kyougoku dips her head again.
“You are far too kind, Douyo-sama,” she says. “May I pour you another drink?”
“If - you don’t mind.”
The pitcher is made of white porcelain, but even next to it her hands are smooth and pale. Douyo catches himself staring, his cheeks heating up. Nikkou, his co-worker, had told him that their bodies, though human in form, couldn’t get drunk like humans could. He wouldn’t usually doubt his co-worker, especially on something he is clearly better informed about, but Douyo doesn’t have a better explanation for this feeling.
He takes a sip from the cup Kyougoku has filled to hide his embarrassment.
“Squisita,” he says.
Kyougoku lowers her head again, and for a moment she looks almost uncomfortable. Douyo wonders if it’s because of him.
“Kyougoku -“ How should he address her? Every possible way seems wrong. The wrong way to talk to such a beautiful flower. “- Masamune - ahem. Please don’t force yourself to be here on my account. If you’re tired -“
“Oh, please don’t worry, Douyo-sama,” she says. “I am very happy to be here with you.”
Be that as it may, he can’t help but notice the way that she isn’t quite still, her fingers a little nervous, her gaze never quite settling.
She’s fidgeting, in other words. And even though they’ve just met, she doesn’t seem like the kind to fidget.
“Then,” he says. “Can I do something for you - in return for your company?”
She looks up at him, crimson eyes rimmed with eyelashes black like the night.
“Ah, if it isn’t too much…” she says.
“Nonsense. I can’t imagine what would be too much to give a pretty thing like you.”
The flirtations come easily to him, but he’s not sure it helps with the redness in his cheeks.
“Then,” Kyougoku says, looking away as if to gather her strength. “May I sit next to you, Douyo-sama?”
“Of course,” he says, before he realises that she’s already sitting next to him, and therefore must mean something el-
Kyougoku is next to him - right next to him - and she presses her body against Douyo’s arm.
For a moment, Douyo doesn’t fully trust reality. This can’t be happening to him, can it? It must be the alcohol, affecting him exactly how Nikkou said it wouldn’t. How else could he explain this? This beautiful tantou, this child of Masamune, touching him? Leaning her head against his arm, reaching for his unoccupied hand, pressing her palm against his? He would have dropped his sake cup, except that she had poured it for him.
“Our master tells us to do such things.”
Her words cut through his confusion like a blade in the dark.
“Eh?” he says, unable to think of anything more elaborate.
Kyougoku nuzzles closer.
“To greet our new comrades this way. It’s important to touch each other to maintain our bonds, but it is equally important to touch new sword warriors so their bodies may adjust,” she explains. “Although, we are to ensure that a new comrade is comfortable with our presence first.”
So that’s that it is. Just a way for their master to ensure their bodies are up to snuff. Douyo can understand that - even if he can’t quite understand the way Kyougoku’s fingers brush against his, as though tracing every line and contour of his hand.
But it does feel beautiful.
“Douyo-sama,” she says. “You’ve tensed up. Am I making you uncomfortable?”
She shifts as though to move away.
“No!” he says quickly - perhaps too quickly, damn this alcohol. “I was - simply thinking that there’s no need to call me ‘Douyo-sama.’ We’re comrades, aren’t we, Kyougoku Masamune? Surely there’s no need to be so formal!”
Especially not if she’s going to keep touching his hand like this.
She bats her eyes, as though thinking over his words.
“Then, you wish for me to address you more familiarly?” she says.
“Well - yes. We are family, after a fashion. If you don’t mind, of course.”
“I see,” she replies. “Then, perhaps… Oji-sama?”
Douyo hadn’t realised it until just then, but human hearts really do try to slam out of their chests.
“Y-yes,” he manages. “If it pleases you, Kyougoku Masamune.”
He barely manages to get her name out, stuck as it is somewhere in his throat along with his heart.
“Oji-sama,” she says, sounding almost cross. “We are family, are we not? Then I insist you address me less formally as well.”
He swallows.
“I can manage that,” he says, though he isn’t sure he can. Not when something as beautiful as her touch seems to hang on the decision.
He almost wishes this were combat instead. At least then he would know what to do.
He forces himself to pause for a moment, to calm down. He leans into her, almost unconsciously. She smells like flowers - roses. Not overpoweringly so, which wouldn’t be her style, he can already tell. But a dainty, demure scent that seems to rise from her hair, her skin. And those eyes of hers, the colour of blood, the colour of flowers…
“Rosellìna,” he says. “Little crimson rose.”
She looks up at him with an expression he can only describe as pure joy.
“Rosellìna,” she says, trying the nickname on for size. “Yes, that is lovely. Thank you, Oji-sama.”
She leans her cheek against his arm, and Douyo’s heart skips a beat. She sighs happily, and even that is a musical sound.
“I’m so glad you have joined us, Oji-sama,” she says. “I’m so glad we can be friends.”
His chest tightens at her words, and he looks out the window, or else he’ll start to cry.
“I am too,” he says. “I am so happy I’ve come here, too, Rosellìna. Thank you.”
He couldn’t imagine a better future than here at this Citadel, where he knew he could love, and was loved, and would be loved, for as long as his blade would last.