[It's a half-hearted concern as he only lets his brow furrow for a flash, focusing on letting them in instead. He has a shopping bag in one hand, which he conveniently keeps to the other side, partially hidden away.
[he follows him in, shedding his jacket in the warmer air of the apartment -- maybe just to do something too, feeling like he's waiting on some precipice, trying to trail Hasebe in his peripherals]
[...handing it out a bit stiffly, amber eyes fixate on his face for a few long heartbeats, leaving an awkward pause between the question and its answer]
I got paid to. It's a dumb story.
[or, at least, he knows Hasebe wouldn't find it funny]
I'll let you decide if you'd ever like to tell it.
[The jacket is neatly hung up on a hook, and Hasebe sheds his own, as well. Once done, he hangs it up, then moves closer to Guanshan with a soft eagerness in his eyes. It hides the tiny touch of nerves quite well.]
[he does it before he really has time to think about it, what it means or the consequences of it, learning up to briefly peck Hasebe on the mouth, drawn in by that look in his eyes and the general closeness of him]
[neither of them have ever had anything like this; he's never wanted to just... do something like that just because, so when he pulls away, he clears his throat again]
[It feels natural to lean in and meet the movement, so he does, and he sighs quietly because if it hadn't been done to him, well, he would've done it. Just felt right.
The throat clearing makes Hasebe pause, and he reaches out to take one of the younger man's hands.]
[...this is when the color brightens its way across his cheeks, gaze lowering to look down at the hand gripping his just so he doesn't have to keep looking at his face]
[Hasebe flushes a bit at the nickname, and looks down at their hands, too, before steeling himself and pulling that hand up to his lips for a fleeting kiss to the side of his thumb.
Then he'll release it, and move into the room proper.]
I thought it only fair to give you something in return for all you've done--or tried to do--for me. I wanted to show you my true self... if you'll permit it.
[following his own hand up with his gaze again, his eyes stay locked on the mouth on him, torn between staying statuesque and considering pulling away, too hot and too embarrassed]
[he's quietly grateful when Hasebe does it himself, turning with him]
[it's not like he wanted you to see them or a-anything...]
[a familiar road by now but it feels charged with something else, settling down on Hasebe's bed with his feet cast off the edge like he doesn't quite know what to do with long, gangly limbs, but he keeps his eyes trained on the swordsman -- the blade, moreso]
[Should he have said something at the time? He thought about it, truly. Silent for a few moments, Hasebe retrieves his sword and moves to take a seat beside Guanshan. it's laid lengthwise across his lap.]
"Heshikiri" refers to the manner by which I was once used to kill someone who displeased my master. The weight of my blade alone was enough. I hate having been used for something like that, but I bear it.
[the desire to want to let a moment play out, leave it undisturbed -- he wishes he had that kind of restraint sometimes, to not need to react to everything]
[he just listens, tensing minutely with the weapon even that close to him]
[but instead of move away, he presses closer to Hasebe, arm into arm, as if he's silently requesting for him to protect him from... well, himself]
It's heavy? [it seemed like he'd be light, if anything... quick, airy]
[The discomfort is obvious, but Hasebe won't back down. Gently, he turns his head toward Guanshan. His fingers tense, then curl over the gilded sheath. It has a weight to it that Hasebe doesn't even notice, since it's a part of him, but he picks it up into his palms and tries to make eye contact.]
I know. I disavow what I prudently can. [He takes a slow breath.] The rest, I let my pride carry. I am still a weapon, and I still... live and serve as one. You don't like that about me, do you?
['disavow what he prudently can'... what does that even mean? the words are too uncommon and educated for him to understand, brow scrunching as he looks at Hasebe's face again, fingernails digging at the denim of his jeans]
[It means he ditches the part of the name he doesn't like. He forgets to speak plainly sometimes. Right now, Hasebe's pride and his nerves are clashing, and he begins to look uncomfortable.]
Nothing has made me want, even for a moment, to be anything but what I am.
[His thumbs run over the sheath. He'll expend all this energy after Guanshan leaves. Polishing things will help.]
Selfishly, I want you to hold it--me--with your own hands.
[and Mo Guanshan wouldn't think for a moment he could break that streak]
[that he could make him want to be something more than a tool, a thing with his own autonomy, his own to command and not be commanded -- to fall heavy and true where it wants and nowhere else]
[accepting Hasebe means, simply, he accepts Heshikiri]
[he doesn't entirely, not with how much blood that blade has drank, but...]
...Okay.
[but it's not like that blood can crawl onto his own hands]
[right?]
[his hands turn up, all the lines of his palms red and white with the pressure his clenched fists had built up, slowly fading as they wait for the weapon to find its place in them rather than reach for it]
[Dangerously, he makes Hasebe question things. What, he wonders, would it be like to want more than just being a tool? He doesn't reach the point of wanting, but the fact that this young man has created a curiosity within him, an exploration of his own thought process, is kind of astounding.
His life has been so very short. Only a couple of years...]
I wondered what it would be like to be in the hands of someone I would never have to consider my master. Who would never see me as a tool.
[With a soft smile, he shifts the sword, sheath and all, into waiting hands. He'll lower the weight carefully, keeping his own hands close in case there's some kind of unfavorable reaction.]
You honor me, Mo Guanshan.
[Hasebe is truly, absolutely, rather uselessly happy. Though sensation is dulled through the sheath, he feels a strange lightness that makes him positively giddy.]
[...he never thought that could sound like a compliment]
[that 'i could never consider you my most important person' wouldn't sound like a rejection but a different form of acceptance, of trust and longing that he didn't expect to be possible when there's a layer of distance there still; pale fingers tighten around the dark sheath, looking more like bones than flesh standing eggshell against the night of it]
[he swallows, grunting in response to his name, his attention transfixing to the weapon itself, shivering when a droplet of sweat runs between his shoulderblades]
[not knowing what to do with it now, he just sort of... bounces it in his grip a few times, feeling how indeed heavy it is, precariously working his way around it like the whole thing is a trigger that could fire at any moment]
Um. What am I supposed to...
[trailing off, he twists it some, fingers smoothing over the edges of the bloodguard and on up the hilt]
[how many hands have gripped him, far surer and stronger than his delicate touch is now?]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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should i bring anything ?
[he's so... nervous....]
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Just bring yourself. Do you want food, or a drink?
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no im awright
[he'll absolutely beat him there, and probably be pacing in front of his door]
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[He smiles to himself as he gathers his things and heads back, and he'll be pleasantly surprised to find his guest already there.]
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[he clears his throat for a beat, stuffing his hands in his pockets to keep them occupied]
Hey.
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[It's a half-hearted concern as he only lets his brow furrow for a flash, focusing on letting them in instead. He has a shopping bag in one hand, which he conveniently keeps to the other side, partially hidden away.
In they go.]
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[to try and get rid of these jitters, maybe]
[he follows him in, shedding his jacket in the warmer air of the apartment -- maybe just to do something too, feeling like he's waiting on some precipice, trying to trail Hasebe in his peripherals]
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[A tiny shred of visible relief, and Hasebe puts the bag on his table. Holding a hand out for the jacket, he smiles.]
You decided to get a tattoo?
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I got paid to. It's a dumb story.
[or, at least, he knows Hasebe wouldn't find it funny]
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[The jacket is neatly hung up on a hook, and Hasebe sheds his own, as well. Once done, he hangs it up, then moves closer to Guanshan with a soft eagerness in his eyes. It hides the tiny touch of nerves quite well.]
Thank you for coming.
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[neither of them have ever had anything like this; he's never wanted to just... do something like that just because, so when he pulls away, he clears his throat again]
Yeah, sure. Seemed important.
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The throat clearing makes Hasebe pause, and he reaches out to take one of the younger man's hands.]
It's selfish. So I thank you even more.
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[it's... a little too much, probably]
It's okay, Sebs. I said I don't mind.
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Then he'll release it, and move into the room proper.]
I thought it only fair to give you something in return for all you've done--or tried to do--for me. I wanted to show you my true self... if you'll permit it.
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[he's quietly grateful when Hasebe does it himself, turning with him]
["tried to do"?]
...Uh-huh?
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As the blade came before the... man, so to speak...
[He'll motion for him to follow into the bedroom.]
You can have a seat, if you'd like.
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[a familiar road by now but it feels charged with something else, settling down on Hasebe's bed with his feet cast off the edge like he doesn't quite know what to do with long, gangly limbs, but he keeps his eyes trained on the swordsman -- the blade, moreso]
...This's 'cuz'a what I said to Souza, ain't it.
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[He hesitates, caught.]
...I didn't want to intrude.
[Should he have said something at the time? He thought about it, truly. Silent for a few moments, Hasebe retrieves his sword and moves to take a seat beside Guanshan. it's laid lengthwise across his lap.]
"Heshikiri" refers to the manner by which I was once used to kill someone who displeased my master. The weight of my blade alone was enough. I hate having been used for something like that, but I bear it.
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[the desire to want to let a moment play out, leave it undisturbed -- he wishes he had that kind of restraint sometimes, to not need to react to everything]
[he just listens, tensing minutely with the weapon even that close to him]
[but instead of move away, he presses closer to Hasebe, arm into arm, as if he's silently requesting for him to protect him from... well, himself]
It's heavy? [it seemed like he'd be light, if anything... quick, airy]
He did it, not you...
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I know. I disavow what I prudently can. [He takes a slow breath.] The rest, I let my pride carry. I am still a weapon, and I still... live and serve as one. You don't like that about me, do you?
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...I mean. I dunno. It ain't like I got a choice.
[he is who he is; there's no getting around it]
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Nothing has made me want, even for a moment, to be anything but what I am.
[His thumbs run over the sheath. He'll expend all this energy after Guanshan leaves. Polishing things will help.]
Selfishly, I want you to hold it--me--with your own hands.
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[that he could make him want to be something more than a tool, a thing with his own autonomy, his own to command and not be commanded -- to fall heavy and true where it wants and nowhere else]
[accepting Hasebe means, simply, he accepts Heshikiri]
[he doesn't entirely, not with how much blood that blade has drank, but...]
...Okay.
[but it's not like that blood can crawl onto his own hands]
[right?]
[his hands turn up, all the lines of his palms red and white with the pressure his clenched fists had built up, slowly fading as they wait for the weapon to find its place in them rather than reach for it]
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His life has been so very short. Only a couple of years...]
I wondered what it would be like to be in the hands of someone I would never have to consider my master. Who would never see me as a tool.
[With a soft smile, he shifts the sword, sheath and all, into waiting hands. He'll lower the weight carefully, keeping his own hands close in case there's some kind of unfavorable reaction.]
You honor me, Mo Guanshan.
[Hasebe is truly, absolutely, rather uselessly happy. Though sensation is dulled through the sheath, he feels a strange lightness that makes him positively giddy.]
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[that 'i could never consider you my most important person' wouldn't sound like a rejection but a different form of acceptance, of trust and longing that he didn't expect to be possible when there's a layer of distance there still; pale fingers tighten around the dark sheath, looking more like bones than flesh standing eggshell against the night of it]
[he swallows, grunting in response to his name, his attention transfixing to the weapon itself, shivering when a droplet of sweat runs between his shoulderblades]
[not knowing what to do with it now, he just sort of... bounces it in his grip a few times, feeling how indeed heavy it is, precariously working his way around it like the whole thing is a trigger that could fire at any moment]
Um. What am I supposed to...
[trailing off, he twists it some, fingers smoothing over the edges of the bloodguard and on up the hilt]
[how many hands have gripped him, far surer and stronger than his delicate touch is now?]
Can I open it?
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1/2
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wrong journal A+
I WAS SO CONFUSED
SORRY
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