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Tsurumaru Kuninaga, for all of whom whose demeanours paint a picture as vivid as the setting sun, feels of nothing, smells of nothing, and reminds no one of anything. Ichigo Hitofuri thinks, the hand in his own devoid of the warmth he would normally associate with human flesh.Skin against skin, the pale fingers wrapped around his feel neither cool nor warm; it feels as it would were he to press one cold palm on top of another heated – indistinguishable. It unsettles him, almost unnerving. Ichigo’s fingers tighten, the grip strong enough to ensure Tsurumaru is properly up and standing. His right hand is still holding onto Tsurumaru’s left, his left beneath the other’s elbow. His skin feels burnt where coolness pricks. They are close enough that a sharp inhale would be all it takes to identify the scent cranes might carry. Ichigo does not intend to, but not all actions can be predetermined, just as not all intentions can be followed. A shallow breath, is all it takes. Odourless, colourless, formless. He stills and quiets. Just inches from him, that pale nape bears no scent; no sweat, or blood, or anything that may resemble the tea on Uguisumaru’s hair or the incense lingering around Kousetsu’s robes. But of course, he should smell like neither of them. Yet it baffles Ichigo anyway. He inhales sharply, then makes to move away, just a step or two. Nothing lingers.Ichigo Hitofuri exhales; he blinks, behind his lids a shadow appears where Tsurumaru Kuninaga is. A white, hazy shadow, but shadow all the same.Ichigo could not suppress the shiver that courses through on its own volition. The thought is nowhere near as petrifying as the ludicrous consideration of the possibility of his (dead) master losing a battle, but it is startling all the same. Perhaps, because no shadow could fight like Tsurumaru does: savagely alive in his fierceness. Perhaps, because he is brightness incarnate, not less in his clothes but also in the way he carries himself; there is no room for something so dull and formless as shadows in such a man. But Ichigo Hitofuri has always been a sword too sensitive for his own good. What he does not see with his eyes, he sees with his too-scarred senses and (long ago) too-burnt skin. He sees that haze on Tsurumaru’s, that clings to him like a fine, wispy cloak.It almost upsets him, and Ichigo chides himself for being absurd. Tsurumaru is right there, with him and all their comrades. The white-clad sword is just a few steps away, clothes spattered with blood, blade as pristine as ever. Tsurumaru Kuninaga has never been further from a shadow. But Ichigo’s senses do not lie, not in the fire that had burnt his world down to the blackest bits; not when everything he has left relies solely on this body and soul to protect.“Ah, yes?” Ichigo barely registers the low timbre calling out to him, his mouth almost moving on automatic. Some distant parts of him whisper he must look especially daft, wide-eyed and staring. Ichigo blinks quickly to clear the fog that has gathered behind his eyes. And crushes the urge to face away the moment Tsurumaru’s gaze meets his.“Ha-ha, even Ichigo Hitofuri can be distracted, huh.” Tsurumaru chuckles, golden eyes and even more golden chains twinkling under the waning light. The silver of his hair glimmers softly, reflecting the pale rays of dusk. Dark teal linings, sharp and fine, stand out against snow-coloured background. The whiteness of his garbs does very poorly at hindering his colours, minimal as they are. Ichigo considers all of him, his hair, his skin, his clothes. Tsurumaru is indeed in front of him, waving a hand to catch his attention and smiling ever broadly. Relief washes over Ichigo like the waves gently tiding over sand. The edges of his mouth instinctively pull up into a smile, one that he might go so far as to call fond. Tsurumaru is as solid as the ground they are standing on. “Ah, my apologies, Tsurumaru-dono,” he says, “I, ah, think I might still be a little winded.” Tsurumaru seems a little amused, gaze sharp and gleaming. Ichigo does his best to maintain his smile. “Ah, I see. It was a tough fight,” Tsurumaru says with a grin, “Are they ready yet? The sky is getting dark.”“Yes, we have received signals. We should be able to leave in five minutes or so.”Ichigo busies himself with looking around for their comrades. Having checked in on their statuses earlier before his whole episode, Ichigo allows himself a nod of satisfaction knowing that no one has proceeded to bend or keel or something of the same connotation. He returns to the figure before him. Tsurumaru is patting himself down from head to toes. There is not a speck of dust on his white coat. That stain, the only stain, ironically looks like a bleeding heart, considering its location, Ichigo finds himself fancy the thought. Red looks as good on Tsurumaru as winter white does, perhaps even better. Red, vermillion, scarlet, you name it. As long as it resembles the life substance that flows in their veins, Ichigo has always thought the colour lends Tsurumaru a sort of vitality white seems to elude. It looks right, no matter how the thought makes Ichigo’s insides turn. Ichigo quickly dismisses it, as soon as the image of Tsurumaru cut open, all red and vibrant, enters his mind. He lowers his head, looks down at his person (or anywhere that is not Tsurumaru). There are spots of drying red on his uniform, barely visible and makes no difference on the dark fabric. He has this urge to ask, even though the answer is a well-heard line engraved in stone, why white of all colours? Wouldn’t red be better, for how much Tsurumaru adores the colour? Then no blood would be seen, and no stain would be conspicuous.“Well, pragmatically, yeah, maybe, since I wouldn’t have to fuss over laundry so much.”Hm?“But then I wouldn’t be a crane anymore, so…,” Tsurumaru says, hands still brushing over snowy fabric.Ichigo’s lips form a round ‘Oh’. He almost stutters through his words, “My apologies, I did not mean to….” His voice trails off into soundless mumbles as Ichigo hastily averts his eyes. He could feel his face warm up, while quickly covering a cough with his fist. Twice in a day, he wonders if the battle was just that difficult to render him incapable of controlling his thoughts and mouth anymore. Tsurumaru’s eyes twinkle, amusement glimmering like the chains around him. The older sword says nothing of the matter, promptly launching into one of his odd jokes.The laughter washes over Ichigo’s flush like water down a parched throat. He has always found it odd, though never unpleasant, how easily the Gojou sword could brush away discomfort like tiny specks of dust. For a sword with composure sharp as their own blades and smile as distant as the sky, Tsurumaru has no trouble showing how warm he could be. Well, Ichigo thinks, there has to be a reason why he was that one addition to Izuminokami’s unit.He thinks of his brothers and their tales of the Citadel before his arrival then. The day of their reunion had been filled with lively chattering of tales of the games and tricks Tsurumaru had played on and for them, amongst other things. Namazuo especially had been rather enthusiastic wherever one Tsurumaru Kuninaga was concerned: he is very much taken by the man’s knack for mischiefs. Ichigo remembers, when he had been trying to catch a fluttering white sleeve, just to get caught under a shower of fine powder. He had not been amused, but a dejected Namazuo had laughed himself tiredly enough that he forgot he had been miserable just minutes prior. Ichigo had been torn between reproaching the older sword and being happy for his brother; but for all it was worth, he had not missed the stilted quirk of Tsurumaru’s lips then.Ichigo does not suppress the smile threatening to widen on its own. And wonders to himself, where do you find such amorphous existence like shadows in this man? He does not think about the cool imprint on his hand, or the odourless air in his memory. And whatever his senses have been telling him must be a trick of his own exhaustion. Because Tsurumaru is standing before him, and he radiates heat with just his presence alone. After all, shadows do not exude warmth nor possess kindness or tales. So Tsurumaru Kuninaga must be anything but.Thus, Ichigo smiles and forgets.* * *Hurried footsteps echo across the halls, as their owner sprints his way to a secluded room in one of the corners of their citadel. Shokudaikiri Mitsutada has just received the news of the return of one Tsurumaru Kuninaga. Feet gliding quickly across polished floor, sweats gathering on dark brows at the pace with which he has taken, Mitsutada’s heart pounds relentlessly at the fluttering flashes of spilled blood and broken bones.“Tsuru-san!” He calls almost too loudly. Mitsutada is never one particular to tactless behaviours, but he supposes one could forgive him his less than ideal indoor volume given the situation. “I keep telling you to stop putting yourself in danger! What happened?! Do you have any idea how terrible it is to have to scrub all the blood off your uniform every single time?!”No, he is not tactless. But he is not above throwing open doors to private chambers without knocking, if it means that would save his own brothers from certain death. Because one of said brothers has this horrible habit of waiting to die of blood loss rather than telling anyone he is fatally injured. Mitsutada has walked in on him on the brink of death far too many times. He refuses to let this be another occasion.“Ha-ha, Sada-bou managed to talk to you already, huh,” Tsurumaru Kuninaga says with an infuriating grin that Mitsutada would have tried to wipe off if not for the fact he does not particularly want a bloodbath. His eyes wildly scan over the other man’s form, registering that he has shrugged out of his battle gear and donned his casual attire. He looks healthy enough; pale limbs are scratch-free, neck intact, organs still stashed behind abdomen. Mitsutada exhales breathlessly, air finally flowing through and loosening his tight lungs. A bundle of white catches his attention then, red peeking out from underneath layers of fabric. Sada-chan has told him Tsurumaru had gotten himself all smeared in blood. That was all it took for Mitsutada to take off running to Tsurumaru’s room; to drag the man to the infirmary even if he has to fight tooth and nail for it. And here they are: the stains are wide as a heart’s width, somewhere just as close, red and bright like the camellias Tsurumaru seems to have developed a fondness for.“Either Sada-chan has to be more aware of his exaggeration, or I need to be less hasty,” Mitsutada laments tiredly, “How did you even get blood there anyway?”“I stabbed one of them upfront,” Tsurumaru shrugs. Then, almost careless, “You know, I’ve just realised. They’re quite human, don’t you think.” Mitsutada’s hand stills where it is reaching for the other’s dirtied robes. He straightens, attention all on Tsurumaru himself. The shorter man faces away from him, hands fiddling with the gold chain adorning his neck. “They bleed like we do, don’t they? Warm, wet, like our blood. They certainly have a mind. Changing history requires a functioning brain, at the very least.” The tone of his voice has the kind of amusement that Mitsutada does not understand. Mitsutada breathes shallow as Tsurumaru chuckles – low, fascinated, “And…they live for a cause. Dangerous, maybe, but a cause still. While some of us can barely understand why we’re still here.”Mitsutada drops the clothes he has been holding, eyes boring into the back of Tsurumaru’s skull. The questions ring in his head like fire alarms – too loud, too disconcerting. The Tsurumaru Kuninaga Mitsutada knows is not someone who would say things like that. He is someone who has always been certain of his life purpose, has always been the one to teach them the truth behind their existence. Why? Why is he talking that way? Mitsutada balls his fists, purses his lips, intent on the pale fingers working their way out of the mess of white hair and gold chain. His head begins to throb.“Tsuru-san, do you need help with that?” He says instead. “Ah, yes, if you don’t mind.” Tsurumaru smiles at him, sheepish, lowering his hands as Mitsutada approaches, “Ehh, what a surprise. It doesn’t get so tangled usually.” Tsurumaru chuckles placidly, calmly in that usual way of his. He sounds as he normally does, but Mitsutada does not find it in himself to play along.“You’re probably tired right now, Tsuru-san.” He tries and receives a lilting murmur in reply. Mitsutada says nothing else and settles to work without another word. The sweats on his brows have already cooled off. The small space they are sharing is calm and quiet, as things around Tsurumaru tend to be when the man has no needs for surprises. The occasional fluttering voices of the swords in the backyard are the only sounds drifting in and out of the comfort of Tsurumaru’s room. The menial task of looping and unlooping helps Mitsutada unwind his tightly clamped muscles from the mini panic following the news of his brother’s return.There is this buzz in his head. It bounces from one side of his brain to another. Tsurumaru’s murmuring voice and soft lilts are twisted around in Mitsutada’s mind in much the same way his hair is looped around Mitsutada’s fingers. Mitsutada does not often engage in games of trivia with his own thoughts; yet, here he is, deciphering one sentence to the next.His heart, and mind, feel restless.The unease winds itself into Mitsutada’s nerves like their master’s threads on torn skin, barely noticeable yet pulling at his conscious like no other. One question turns into two, then three. They all have no answers.Dexterous fingers knot and unknot, amber eyes zoning in on the too-pale and too-thin nape. Frail. Delicate. Unscented. Absently, Mitsutada begins to count the knobs of Tsurumaru’s spine, the bumps all too sharp, too distinct, jutting out like flesh-bare bones, protruding sharply under skin stretched taut. Not for the first time, Mitsutada thinks Tsurumaru too thin, brittle as a crane’s bones, half-swallowed by loose robes and even looser coat. From his body to his clothes, everything about Tsurumaru seems so white that Mitsutada has to wonder if his blood is even of the same colour. Dazedly, vaguely, Mitsutada thinks, stripped off of his snowy, billowy robes and cloaks, would Tsurumaru appear any different from the bodies dug up upon damp, unforgiving stones? Whose flesh a white-wash wax and skin-thin silk?“Ow. Mitsu-bou, was that necessary?” Tsurumaru is peering at him from the corner of his eyes, mouth lopsided in a half-smile, brows slightly scrunched up. Belatedly, Mitsutada realises he has yanked on the strands too harshly. The tangles have become messes of spiderwebs, whose every thread and curl seem connected with no ends or beginnings. The knots make no sense, neither do the thoughts he remembers conjuring.The words echo loudly in his skull: ‘Some of us barely understand why we’re still here…’“Mitsu-bou?”Mitsutada remembers Tsurumaru is still watching him, golden eyes imploring and curious. Mitsutada spits out the first thing that comes to mind, “Oh…Sorry, Tsuru-san.” Distantly, he feels the muscles of his mouth pull into what is supposed to be an embarrassed smile. “I didn’t mean to...does it hurt?” “It’s fine. No big deal.” Tsurumaru stares for another second, before turning away. “Tell me if you need me for something. Anything.” Mitsutada could hear the smile in Tsurumaru’s voice. There is a weight in the way he says the words, like he does not just mean this hair-business. Mitsutada’s throat tightens unpleasantly. His lungs feel too small for the breath he needs. He forces himself to breathe, wills down the stinging hotness behind his eyes, and swallows through the cloying, sticky bitterness on his tongue. His lips quirk sourly. What good is he when he made the object of concern become concerned himself?“Tsuru-san, have you been eating enough?” He asks. If Tsurumaru hears the tremble in his voice, he does not mention it.“I don’t leave food behind, you know.” Mitsutada swallows again, purses his lips in silent frustration. No, that’s not it! “Why?”Mitsutada tries his best, he really does, to remain coherent through the frenzied desire to burst out crying at the thinness of Tsurumaru’s limbs to the caverns of his shoulders. A part of him, the still cool-headed part, distant as it may be, quietly questions how did they get here. When Mitsutada finally speaks, he does not choke through the words as he thought he would. It’s though his mouth has a filter of its own, his ‘fear’ become mere ‘anxiousness’, ‘terrified’ turns into ‘worried’. He tries not to cry, as he recounts the panic at the sight of Tsurumaru’s bones beneath his skin, tries not to wail at the thought of Tsurumaru breaking and none of them could do anything. Tsurumaru does not interrupt, does not ask why what or how, simply listens. Mitsutada wishes, for once, he was not the calm, level-headed Tsurumaru they all know. Would he be easier to read?“Mitsu-bou, I won’t break just because I seem skinny. I’m stronger than I look, you know? Master wouldn’t put me in any squad otherwise. You don’t have to worry about my eating either. I’m old enough to look after myself.” Tsurumaru’s voice is gentle as a spring breeze when he replies. Mitsutada imagines the smile he must be carrying. It prickles at Mitsutada’s skin at all the wrong places. “I think I’ll probably be around for another long while.”He suppresses the urge to rebut Tsurumaru, trusting none but the lingering fear in his heart. Mitsutada’s palms feel cold and clammy, his lips feel raw from all the biting. Thoughts of bodies bring a chill that steals away whatever heat left under Mitsutada’s skin. He screws his eyes shut and grits his teeth tight. He does not hear Tsurumaru calling for him.When Mitsutada opens his eyes again, all he sees is white.The white of a motionless figure under the winter sky. He sits alone, striking white on the bridge colour of blood, back against wood, head towards grey skies, thousand-yard gaze under half-mast lashes. It sits, and waits. For someone. For something.(All the while whispering, whispering, maybe, just maybe, I could leave today.)Mitsutada would reach out, a name already poised on his tongue. But always, before his voice could escape, the figure would leap up and gone from chasing eyes, leaving behind no mark nor trace. The sound of falling snow grows louder, louder. Mitsutada trembles at the cold that seeps into his bones. It calls for the fears he had always tried to hide away from: that one day, he would lose another of his kin. That one day, he would lose Tsurumaru Kuninaga again to cold hard earth, and ghostly white snow.This, this is the Tsurumaru he has always refused to know, to understand: the one always longing for death. Reality crashes into him crudely and cruelly. The truth behind the man who likes pristine clothes and hates earthly soil, who smiles and grins and spurs one surprise after another. The brother who teases them in one breath, then promises to protect them in the next. The brother who would tell Mitsutada they would all stay together.Mitsutada’s breaths at the back of his throat feel more dry oil on sandpaper. Finally, he sees past the veils, open over doors, hiding no treasures nor memories, no present nor future. Tsuru-san, will we ever get to see you…?(Maybe he never will. Because Tsurumaru has locked the truths with him, maybe until his dying days, maybe until his final grave.)The world around Mitsutada feels like it has come to a standstill. Even the thudding of his heart sounds foreign to his own ears. His tight grip at his own shirt goes unnoticed, just as the look in his eyes at Tsurumaru, who is shaking him by the arms and calling out Mitsutada’s name as the rare times where his emotions are less his to control. His reflection in gold eyes seems hollow and soulless. A spectre of a man.He wonders, if he looks like Tsurumaru Kuninaga now. “SHOKUDAIKIRI MITSUTADA!!”The force of his consciousness being slammed back into him is nothing short of a slap to the face, unrelenting, almost unkind. Tsurumaru is staring at him, all narrowed eyes and twisted lips. Mitsutada remembers laughter. No, not from this man. It is himself, whose laughter rang like warning bells.“Oh, sorry, Tsuru-san,” He hears himself laugh, breathily, breathlessly. He is rambling, but he could not bring himself to care. “Did I scare you? This,” He glances down at the chain twisted into white hair, “I could not get it off for some reason. I swear I did try.” Tsurumaru’s eyes glinted sharply, staring at him, through him, as if looking for some unidentified, inexplicable source behind his little outburst.“Mitsu-bou—”“Ne, Tsuru-san,” Mitsutada smiles, “You would never lie to me, right? After all, we are brothers in arm. You wouldn’t lie if you were dying right?”He recalls the weightlessness in Tsurumaru’s steps, the lightness in his being. Serenity, he had thought. Distantly, he realises: emptiness bears no weight.“What—?” Tsurumaru’s brows crease at him.“Sometimes,” Mitsutada murmurs, almost indistinct, “I think you’re wasting away. You don’t look like someone living, you know, at times. Especially at night. When your skin is too pale a white, yet I couldn’t even see the veins beneath them.” He pauses, eyes glazing over, as though staring into some unknown void, some unknown present that only he has access to, “I’m afraid, too, whenever you sleep, when you close your eyes, and I could no longer distinguish between you yourself and the dead corpses of my masters…but in the morning you would jump around, and I could not help but wonder, if the you at night, is just a replacement doll you put there to scare me. Just another childish prank… But then, I thought—” I have only been seeing your ghost…Nails digging into his skin pulls Mitsutada out of the trance he has put himself into. Tsurumaru is staring at him – very much solid, very much vivid, in his eyes, in his mouth, in the grip he has on Mitsutada’s arms. Golden eyes shine with an intensity Mitsutada sees only rarely. He exhales, the force of it dispersing what thought left on his mind. Whatever it was, Mitsutada cannot seem to remember anymore. He is only seeing the pale face of one Tsurumaru Kuninaga, who looks as though he would fight the world just to make Mitsutada whole and happy. Mitsutada remembers the nights where nightmares of fire would devour his entire being, and there is this gentle, warm voice whispering words of assurance and safety in his ears, all the while he would feel a glowing presence sitting by his bedside, the sensation of fingers curling around his wrist calming down his haywired nerves. He remembers opening his eyes, bleary and exhausted, and seeing a head of white, before falling again into deep slumber, finally feeling as if he is no longer drowning.That is the Tsurumaru Kuninaga he has always known. Beautiful and kind and would deprive himself of anything if it means his kin would be safe and sound. But Mitsutada didn’t know…inside lies a void such that whatever they have been seeing, is nothing but a shell, a doll moved only by the intentions and feelings of others.The ache in Mitsutada’s heart dulls and retreats further into the farthest recesses of his conscious. He stares, Tsurumaru stares right back. Mitsutada only sees his reflection.“No,” Mitsutada finds himself saying, “That’s not it. You’re alive. That’s what you are, you can’t be dead. Not before, not now.”Shells and dolls are cold and dull, devoid of life and purpose, a thing simply waiting to be disposed of, whose souls never exist in the first place. But Tsurumaru shines like warmth and kindness, lives as though everyday is his last.Tsurumaru Kuninaga cannot be a doll.Thus, Mitsutada smiles and ignores.* * *“How was your expedition?”A hand pours fragrant sake into a shallow dish of the finest porcelain. The early spring breeze is still brisk as winter as it sweeps through the quiet garden, onto the nearly empty veranda. Cold enough for warm food and hot drinks, warm enough for company and small talks.“Good, not bad at all,” Tsurumaru Kuninaga says with a sharp grin, all teeth and canines, “They were surprisingly strong this time. I think you would have enjoyed it, Mikazuki.”Mikazuki Munechika brings the full dish to his lips. He sips at the liquid delicately, tasting the alcohol on his tongue with appreciation. They say alcohol only gets better with good company.“Ha-ha, perhaps I would have. A few hundred years ago, truly. I am quite an old man, now, unfortunately.” Mikazuki smiles, gestures towards slim fingers. “I see you did enjoy it thoroughly though.” His white-clad companion looks down at his digits. The tips are slightly red, seemingly from the force with which he had gripped his sword. Tsurumaru waves at the Tenka Goken sword’s observation.“I did. It wasn’t often surprise presented itself so readily after all.” Mikazuki watches the stretch of Tsurumaru’s lips with mild interest. His old friend has always been a little battle-manic, as far as Mikazuki’s understanding of his character goes. While he is not terribly concerned at the fact, most swords do not survive so long looking for ways to challenge Death. Then again, this is only as good as most swords do not carry the name Tsurumaru Kuninaga, and most swords do not seek meanings in destruction and blood. Mikazuki does not make it a habit to worry himself over the life choices of his fellow blades, but he does feel Tsurumaru might need better hobbies. And maybe even a better life.He has not forgotten the look on Yagen’s face when the unit returned and Tsurumaru walked past the gate with a bloody mess right above where his heart should be. He was not draped over someone’s shoulder, or limping, and the man had laughed cheerily that he was fine. However, they are all quite familiar with Tsurumaru’s infamous antics, so Yagen demanded with all the authority of the resident medic that he stop at the infirmary for a thorough pat-down. Mikazuki had observed the events with his usual smile, sipping on hot tea with Kogitsunemaru as per typical. He did not fail to note how the stained stretch on Tsurumaru’s coat looked as attractive a red as the plums they were enjoying. He had thought, has always really, that blood never looks out of place on Tsurumaru; he wears it like a lady would rouge, and he wears it well. Mikazuki wonders if anyone realises Tsurumaru Kuninaga has never stopped bleeding; from a wound as old as a millennium.“I imagine they must have put up an excellent fight, hm?” Mikazuki says, reaches over to pour more sake into Tsurumaru’s dish and then some for himself. He sits back on his cushion, picks up a dango stick and offers it out to the other. Tsurumaru murmurs a thank and moves to take the stick, fingers brushing over Mikazuki’s own. He does not flinch from the coolness, disturbed not by the warmth of the sake nor the crispness of the air, that seeps as far as his bones from the contact. He has long been accustomed to the soft chill of Tsurumaru’s skin, from that of cold hard earth underneath layers of snow and ice. And each time they brush, Mikazuki does not – cannot – forget that he, too, had had to learn to acquaint himself with questions and non-answers. That there was a time he, too, had hoped that one day Tsurumaru’s warmth would be of his flesh and bones, not of vacant smiles and aimless surprise.He was reminded of just as much, when Ichigo Hitofuri came to him later that return with puzzled brows and pursed lips. The other murmured and asked, if Mikazuki had ever thought Tsurumaru was always wearing a cloak of fine void and dainty absence, shadowed by a hazy whiteness that could not be touched. Mikazuki merely tilted his head, as Ichigo Hitofuri tumbled through jumbled words and sentiments. Their conversation had been hushed amongst the rustles of feet on wooden floors and the shuffles of leaves over their heads. Ichigo’s voice had carried distance then, as he breathed out words of skin cool and unscented. Of white clothes and red stains. Of what, why, and how. Mikazuki smiled, serene, and said some swords preferred to be detached from this world; perhaps Tsurumaru Kuninaga was one of such. He found no reason nor aim, in telling Ichigo Hitofuri – sometimes, acquaintances should only come so far – that the dead only ever wears white, and life bonds only ever bleed red.“Mikazuki?”Tsurumaru looks at him, gold eyes half-lidded and gleaming under the mellow glow of the lanterns. White lashes brush against Mikazuki’s fingers every time the Crane closes and opens his eyes. This whiteness, on anyone would be a shade of purity and innocence; on the Gojou sword, Mikazuki thinks a mourning robe might be better an allegory, a wordless reminder of a certain life and a certain month. Tsurumaru likes to liken himself to cranes, all grace and fortune, but the Tenka sword deems him a poltergeist whose grief runs so pure he refuses to make offerings with nothing but warm, red blood. When Mikazuki glances down, he thinks those golden sparks of colour are but lavish shackles that chain them all together.Mikazuki sips his sake, and reaches for Tsurumaru’s pale neck. The man tilts his head to regard Mikazuki curiously, yet says nothing and simply picks up another stick of dango. Mikazuki’s fingers travel lower, circle around a thin wrist, tips of slim digits touching each other without so much a strain. The pad of his thumb runs fleetingly over veins barely visible even underneath such pale skin. Tsurumaru does not retract his arm, and if he thinks anything is strange, he speaks nothing of it. Mikazuki exhales then, a breath warm and sakura-scented, and thinks: too delicate, too fragile, he could break these bones as easily as a long-dried twig. And when halved into clean pieces, he is certain they might be just as well hollow.A hollowness so dull, yet so sharp that anything straying too far, too close could get their hearts and souls ripped out, leaving behind bloody wakes and fraying hems. Mikazuki would have been more than happy to sit back and be the only one nursing such wounds; and yet, here it is, another stray wandering too near, too carelessly. It had been surprising enough, to borrow Tsurumaru’s most favourite word, to find Shokudaikiri Mitsutada at his threshold just before dinner. Even more so, when the man trains his gaze on Mikazuki, gems of amber haunted and splintered. Quietly, Mikazuki showed him in. He is no Uguisumaru nor Kogitsunemaru, so he did not make tea nor prepare sweets, though he had a feeling the sword before him would touch neither. Shokudaikiri Mitsutada had whispered then, in the most despairing of voice Mikazuki had heard since becoming a tsukkumogami: that without any of them noticing, Tsurumaru had somehow became only as good a doll of himself, all light and fine silk, yet devoid of everything but the blankness of a lifetime. And why were they not enough to fill that hole. Mikazuki had watched Mitsutada. He knew, knows, the man, and his brothers, and their loyalties tangled with love. But he also knows Tsurumaru. Mikazuki settled for truth – an omission is still a truth, Mikazuki would say. He had only one reason to merely disclose of what the Date sword had already discovered: that Tsurumaru has long been full insofar as a quarried vault could be; and he had just as many to say none of what not yet exposed: that no amount of hope and lie would give him back the life once lost. Mikazuki has no desire to make broken that which merely broke.Mikazuki now gazes at the sword before him, and searches the corners of his eyes. He finds it there, on that face smooth as marble: the wrinkles of lingering concern for a friend, a brother, woven all too tightly with rigid, jaded determination to remain detached. Thus, the Crane stays quiet; what only he knows does not exist after all.Mikazuki sighs. Most people would think Tsurumaru would hide the least from him. But Mikazuki knows better: Tsurumaru does not hide from him, but he is scarcely open, preferring to let Mikazuki explore his carefully concealed thoughts from the lines of his body to the tone of his voice. Sometimes, it is as effortless as brewing tea, other times much less so, or simply because Mikazuki prefers not to. It seems almost a game between them. Mikazuki thinks of Mitsutada’s sorrow over the things Tsurumaru lets slip, and finds himself the least bit envious. He knows Tsurumaru would not even muse a single thought around him, knowing Mikazuki’s knack for picking up even the smallest clue the way Tsurumaru does. Occasionally, he wishes he were not Mikazuki Munechika; perhaps then Tsurumaru would tell him more. How people suffer because of you, my disgraced Crane.(But if you ask Tsurumaru why he never tells Mikazuki, he would tell you he does not need to. Because Mikazuki knows anyway.A broken heart would know its own kind.)Mikazuki breathes then; deep blue eyes wander down the length of his arm to the fingers still circling around one thin wrist, then peer up at glowing gold. Mikazuki not for the first time wonders whether heat would travel from his own hand to this lifeless body if he holds on long enough. Or if he could take away even a fragment of the chill. Or, he thinks, if Tsurumaru would ever share with him a moment of his all-too-private emptiness.“Tsurumaru, are you still alive?” He murmurs, each breath from his lips disappear into the pair grazed on his own. Fingers lax and loose around the other’s easy and laid-back. Tsurumaru does not move away, nor does he move closer.“Ha-ha, I wonder, old man. I’m here and breathing. So, aren’t I?” The question is exhaled weightlessly into a huff of laughter. Mikazuki’s lashes flutter and he leans forward, drinks it like prized sake.“You feel like air in a coffin, and smell like the inside of a tomb,” Mikazuki says, “So, are you?” Tsurumaru no longer lives, as far as Mikazuki is concerned. He breathes, and eats, and bathes, and drinks. But he does not live. Sometimes, Mikazuki cannot help but think, would you consider a Death God dead or alive? Because is that not what Tsurumaru is? A sword bestowing death to those who had owned him, all the while possessing eternity the way few ever could. Mikazuki often wonders if Tsurumaru’s soul has not been traded for an everlasting shell.The breaths out of his mouth make Mikazuki think of corpses, beautiful corpses wrapped in nothing but the finest of silk and the whitest of flowers and the purest of gold. Ah, but Tsurumaru is a little more special than just a beautifully decorated corpse, is he not. Tsurumaru Kuninaga is a corpse carrying two souls: one empty and the other long, long dead. Mikazuki muses and he ponders, whether Tsurumaru has always carried the ghost of his young master with him every day for a thousand years. (Mikazuki does not mourn every day for his Lady Nene, but he supposes his story is not quite the same.) The wisps of winter chills surround Tsurumaru like thin fingers of fine bones, cradling his face in their embrace and curling around him like a scarf to keep warmth at bay. Mikazuki sometimes thinks he sees grey, fading prints of hands that would bruise red and purple if they were flesh and bones as Mikazuki’s own. He closes his eyes and they disappear, a smiling Tsurumaru sitting before him instead, gold eyes reflecting nothing but winter skies and digging hands. He opens his eyes and there he is, a smiling Tsurumaru sitting before him, gold eyes reflecting nothing.Mikazuki remembers Mitsutada’s desperation and Ichigo’s confusion, and wonders, how does one force life into an immortal corpse yearning for death.“Well, you know where I came from.” Tsurumaru says finally. His fingers curl into Mikazuki’s hair. His back curves a delicate arch under the bridge that is Mikazuki’s own body. There is humour in his voice, resounding as Mikazuki blows air back into his moving lips.“Ah, I suppose that is so.” The Crescent Moon chuckles, hovering and letting his heat cascade gently onto the Crane’s nothingness. Tsurumaru draws the words from his mouth, Mikazuki closes his eyes, and smiles.Ichigo Hitofuri sees Tsurumaru Kuninaga and thinks of a Crane suddenly swathed in shadow and emptiness. Shokudaikiri Mitsutada sees Tsurumaru Kuninaga and is presented a doll in disguise of a Crane. Mikazuki Munechika sees Tsurumaru Kuninaga, and knows the Crane is already dead. The sword Tsurumaru Kuninaga died the day he was buried; the dead bears no scent, nor warmth, and carries no memories.Mikazuki Munechika cannot change that.So he smiles and agrees.