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Kasen Kanesada's day was going rather well, he thought, contrary to how he thought it would go last night before bed—which was rather late, admittedly. He had been up attempting to compose a new poem, and the time had simply slipped from his grasp. Thankfully, he hadn't been assigned to kitchen duty for breakfast, so he could spend the morning relaxing (he never slept in, of course, as that was not elegant at all).
And by relaxing, he meant attempting to finish this poem.
He had been having no luck last night, yes, but this morning proved a little more fruitful. Though chouka were a little out of style, he had become briefly fascinated with writing the longest one he could, without sacrificing any sort of structure or story in return for creativity. He was up to thirty-seven lines, which was three longer than the last one he had written, and now he considered the thirty-eighth.
He could do this... Yes, no, wait. Perhaps it's better to say this...? Ah, but if he—
"Oi."
Kasen jumped, his grip on his brush slackening just enough that it slipped from his hand as he jostled his entire body out of seiza and fell flat on his back, away from the source of the call.
"... Ookurikara...!" Kasen growled, clambering onto his hands and knees. He mustered up the fiercest glare in the world, and it was quite fierce, but the 'lone dragon' didn't so much as react at all. Especially when the lost brush was remembered, and Kasen's head whipped to his left to see if it had stained anything. He sighed with relief—the brush had fallen, coincidentally, directly into the spot it would have been placed, even if upside down. He righted it carefully before climbing to his feet, brows furrowing and cheeks and chest puffed.
"What do you want?" he snapped, bunching his hakama as if trying to make himself look larger and taking a few steps forward.
Again, Ookurikara, who was even half a meter past the threshold to Kasen's room (to which Kasen wrinkled his nose), didn't make to move. He stood there with something in one of his hands at his side, though Kasen couldn't even begin to make a guess as to what. When Ookurikara didn't answer right away, Kasen continued, his tone taking on a sharper and sharper edge to it with every word.
"You could have knocked. Honestly, you've made me lose my train of thought entirely, and now I fear I may never regain it. Moreover, the ink from the brush could have—"
"Here." Ookurikara's hand shot out, revealing that the item in question had been a slip of paper, folded over twice. The creases, even from Kasen's cautious gaze a bit away, seemed to be well-worn.
Ookurikara did not say anything else. He did not move any further. He only stood there as motionless as a statue, offering the note to the other.
Kasen raised one eyebrow, and he slowly let go of his hakama with both of his hands. He reached for the paper, wary and guarded—even though Ookurikara was no Tsurumaru, Kasen couldn't fully put it past him to play a trick. Barely did he have the time to fully grasp it between his thumb and forefinger when Ookurikara released it, turning on his heels and departing as suddenly as he came.
"Hey—wait—!" Kasen fumbled with the slip of paper a few times, ended up dropping it anyway, and, agitated, bent down to pick it up. It took him a few times to do so, inwardly cursing himself for flustering this easily. "You inelegant—!"
He finally managed to pick it back up, clutching it in a fist and darting to the doorway, sliding out and onto the engawa that overlooked the inner garden. However, Ookurikara was, predictably, already completely absent from the area, and Kasen groaned. Gritting his teeth, he returned to the room, sliding the door shut perhaps a little too hard, and sat back down at his table.
With a frown, he inspected the paper. He brought it close to his face, then held it up to the light, then looked at it in total darkness.
Honestly, he had no guesses as to what it could be. Orders from their master were delivered by scroll or told by the attendant that day, and even though Kasen was not on the best of terms with everyone in the citadel, he couldn't fathom anyone choosing Ookurikara, of all people, to deliver a message. They had fought more than once with one another, and though Kasen, at least, was beginning to 'not mind' the other sword's presence, everyone else ought to have known that they both bristled at the mention of each other more often than not.
He turned the light on, then he carefully unfolded the paper. Again, with the way the creases were so worn, Kasen surmised that this paper had been folded and unfolded multiple times. This, however, only confused him more when he read the contents.
He had seen things written by Ookurikara a few times before. Not many things, of course, mostly just some expedition notes here and there, but Kasen had no doubt in his mind that Ookurikara had written these three, lone lines. They read as follows:
"You are like the bird
I saw yesterday morning,
With pretty purple plumage"
For a few long, torturous moments, absolutely nothing went through Kasen's head. Not a single thing. He read and reread the lines, and only on the fifth time did he come to understand it was a poem.
For some reason, he inwardly cursed. He set the paper onto his desk, next to his own, still slightly wet poem, and buried his face—which he found to be quite hot—in both of his hands. He sat like that for a few minutes, absolutely motionless, before he grabbed the paper again and reread it.
Unsurprisingly, it was still better than Izuminokami's poor attempts at poetry, though that was a rather low bar. Actually, Kasen rather liked the imagery, even if it was simple—overcomplicating things could lead to misunderstandings or muddy scenes, he knew well. But the most puzzling aspect—he was ignoring that it mentioned him, for the most part—was its supposed author.
From their very first meeting, Kasen could tell Ookurikara was not a fan of words—and that meant using them at all, let alone using them to tell a story, however fleeting. As mentioned, Kasen was growing to tolerate him and to even work with the way Ookurikara spoke, which was namely through doing things. Kasen wasn't very good at that sort of thing, but he felt he had been doing a decent job of inviting him to drink and to spar and to walk the garden, among other things. There was even one time, when Ookurikara was sparring with someone else, that Kasen had offered to patch up an accidental wound—which, to Kasen's surprise, Ookurikara had accepted. Whenever they did anything, though, Kasen was always the one talking—rambling on and on and on, just to fill the silence and to keep Ookurikara somewhat engaged. Ookurikara seemed alright with that; at the very least, he had not indicated otherwise.
Kasen's experiences with him was what was making this extremely puzzling. Ookurikara had not given a reason before he ran away after giving the poem to him. Ookurikara had nary said a word at all. But at some point since they last spoke, Ookurikara had written this poem, presumably for Kasen, and then gave it to him. He genuinely could not think of why. He knew, for certain, that Ookurikara was not a fan of poetry, not enough to write his own.
He set the paper gently back down on the desk, smoothing it out a little more. He grumbled, having lost not only his train of thought for his own poem, but also all motivation to finish it, at least for the time being. The more he stared at Ookurikara's poem, though, the more frustrated he grew. It eventually reached a point where he could not physically sit still, his chest hurting whenever he reread the words.
He got to his feet in a hurry, easily crossing the span from his desk to the door and even sliding the door open before he gave pause. With a heave of an over dramatic sigh, he went back, folded the poem, and slipped it into his breast pocket. His face burned.
He left his room, then, intending to find someone that would listen to his woes, of which this was currently the most pertinent.
* * *
He learned quickly that his beloved O-Sayo was away on a sortie, having left earlier that day. He decided just as quickly that that was probably for the best, actually, because Sayo didn't mince words when it came to complaints from Kasen. Souza had a curious look in his eye when Kasen had come by, though, and so Kasen left the Samonji's room hastily.
After all, how was he supposed to explain what was troubling him? Most sane people would simply tell him something like, 'it was an act of goodwill' and call him foolish for getting this worked up about it. Kasen wasn't stupid, though. Clearly this was an act of goodwill—but why? What did it mean?
As he meandered through the halls of the citadel, he thought of the final line of the poem. The alleged bird had pretty feathers, and Ookurikara had compared the bird to Kasen. Though Kasen obviously knew he was elegant and beautiful, why was someone like Ookurikara pointing it out? This was not even taking the fact that Ookurikara had thought of Kasen in the first place into consideration at all!
By the time he threw the door to the kitchen open—and this time, it was very much too hard, resulting in a quite loud thwack of wood on wood—his face must've been flushed bright red, all the way to his ears, and the heart in his chest pounded quicker than it ever did even in battle. He thought he was dying.
Shokudaikiri Mitsutada, in the middle of preparing some sort of dish for dinner, presumably, turned his head over his shoulder at the sound of the door. His surprise turned to elation, which in turn, immediately changed to worry.
"Kasen-kun? What's wrong?"
Kasen hesitated for only a split second before he marched right in as if he were on a warpath, sliding up to Mitsutada and yelling.
"What's wrong?! I'll have you know—"
"Oh, my, Mitsu-bou, whatever did you do to get our Kasen so worked up?" came the call of a crane—directly behind him.
Kasen startled, lurching forward and rather inelegantly clinging to Mitsutada's arm. Mitsutada, in response, dropped the vegetables he had been holding, turning to hold Kasen, instead.
"Tsurumaru." Though his tone was obviously fond, Mitsutada sounded a little exasperated all the same.
Tsurumaru took a few steps back, hands on his hips in triumph. Kasen took a little while to gather his wits about him, and upon realizing he was attached to Mitsutada's arm, pulled away quickly, clearing his throat and turning his nose up. His face still burned, perhaps even more so now.
"Did I surprise both of you? You're losing your touch, Mitsu-bou." Tsurumaru laughed, looking to Kasen. "Though, I feel as if whatever Kasen was about to say would be even more surprising. Am I wrong?"
This was bad. Though Mitsutada was patient and ever-willing to listen to Kasen's endless rants, Tsurumaru was not the same. If Tsurumaru found out about Kasen's current plight, the whole citadel would know in two days, including Ookurikara.
He really couldn't stand these Date swords, in the end.
"... It has nothing to do with you," Kasen spat.
"But it does with Mitsu-bou?"
"No, that's... It..." For the first time in awhile, Kasen Kanesada grappled to find the right words.
"Kasen-kun... Are you feverish?"
He looked at Mitsutada and nodded. "Yes, I'm fine. I've never been better." A beat. "Have you seen—no, never mind."
With that, he brushed past a concerned Mitsutada and an amused Tsurumaru. He heard the former call out for him, but he ignored him, only feeling a twinge of guilt for doing so. By the sound of Tsurumaru's laughter, echoing down the hall, he was reassured that not bringing up the situation, and also catching himself before asking for Ookurikara, was the right decision after all.
As Kasen meandered again, only somewhat aimlessly, his thoughts drifted once more to the poem from Ookurikara. What was the sense in comparing Kasen to a bird, anyway? Despite the honeyed final line, was it meant to be an attack on his person—calling him listless or cagey? That line of thought didn't seem very much in character for the other, but by the time he arrived at his next destination (and quite frankly, his last resort, but also the most straightforward), his chest was aflutter with an odd anxiety, pooling deeply through his veins and settling in his stomach.
His steps had slowed, fingers on the edge of the door but not yet pulling. Had this, after all, been a roundabout way for Ookurikara to say he didn't want to associate with him any longer?
Kasen jumped when the door slid open, and he came face to face with Yuusai-sama's sword.
"What a surprise," Kokindenjunotachi said after blinking. "Have pigs begun to fly, Kasen Kanesada?"
Kasen almost turned on his heels and left to go throw himself off a cliff. Instead, he forced the other and himself back into Kokindenjunotachi's room, shutting the door behind him. Kokin stumbled a bit before righting himself, raising an elegant brow and asking an unvoiced question.
"That metaphor is unlike you." Kasen retrieved the folded poem from his breast pocket, holding it out. "Read this."
Now both of Kokin's brows were raised. He cautiously took the paper and unfolded it, taking a few moments to read it over. Once he did so, he folded it back up and held it out for Kasen to take back.
Kasen didn't, shoving it back at him. "Did, did you even read it?"
"Of course."
"... Well?! Don't you have anything to say?!"
Kokin hummed, amused. "What is there to say, Kasen? I know better than to offer you critique unless you specifically ask."
"You're misunderstanding." Kasen ignored the implications of that statement, filing that away for later. "I didn't write it. I was... given it."
"Oh?" Kokin looked more amused than before, if that was even possible. "By whom?"
"That—It—He..." Kasen groaned again, shaking his head. Why was he hesitating to mention Ookurikara? "... It doesn't matter who. What do you make of it?"
Kokin unfolded the paper to read it again, then he nodded. "... I'd say you better write a reply."
"What?"
"Have you counted? Its pattern is 5-7-7," Kokin explained, pointing at each line. "How old fashioned. A katauta does not typically stand on its own, correct?"
Stunned silent, Kasen took the paper with a trembling hand, counting the pattern himself, even though he knew Kokin wouldn't lie about that. When Kasen did not speak, the other continued on.
"Even if it's just, say, a mistake, due to the author's inexperience, shouldn't you, as a sword of the arts, use this moment to teach and complete the poem?"
"You're..." right, Kasen knew but didn't say aloud. He frowned, folding the paper back up and tucking it away once more.
"I suppose the question, then, is what form your reply will take," Kokin mused. "Will you complete it as a tanka? Or, may I suggest, writing a matching katauta and making the poem overall a soumonka?"
Kasen sputtered. "You—! You're misunderstanding again! This isn't... This isn't a love poem, it can't be! There's no way! So why would I write the latter?!"
"I wonder." The devilish look in Kokin's eyes had Kasen's stomach in knots again, the anxiety from right before entering the room having dissipated completely. "Why can't it be, Kasen, a declaration of love fit for a soumonka?"
"Because... Because... Agh!" Kasen spun where he stood, slipping out of the room. "I should've known better than to ask you!" He grasped at his hakama again in order to dart across the garden for a shortcut. He didn't care about getting his feet dirty—at least, not more than wanting to just get back to his own room.
The way over was not that strenuous or long, but when he closed the door behind him, he was huffing and puffing. Kasen slapped both of his cheeks suddenly, eyes scrunching closed at the impact, and he sighed. He slid back down to the floor where he stood, crawling over to his desk. His discarded poem still sat there, mocking him. Grumbling, he moved it to the side, unfolded Ookurikara's poem, and picked up his brush.
Kokindenjunotachi was correct about one thing: Kasen ought to complete the poem.
* * *
Kasen did not get to bed until late again. In fact, he didn't even remember falling asleep. He stirred some time in the morning, picking his head up from his desk, a paper stuck to his cheek and brush still in his hand. Dozens and dozens of crumpled balls of discarded paper lay behind him, and a few dotted his desk. Blinking away the sleepiness and confusion, he peeled the paper from his face—it was blank. Blinking again, he noticed there was one with words written on it, that was neither his previous work in progress nor Ookurikara's. He squinted, reading it over.
His cheeks heated once he finished, and he considered going to the infirmary.
A quick glance at the clock told him that it was just after ten. Kasen frowned, cursing himself for having slept in, but he folded his completed reply, and Ookurikara's, tucking both into his pocket. At any rate, Ookurikara should be awake, and if Kasen's memory served him correctly, on horse duty. Kasen smoothed his clothes and his hair so he looked a little more presentable (like he hadn't just woken up after falling asleep at his desk), and he departed.
For some reason, it took him longer than usual to arrive at the stables. It wasn't as if he ran into anyone, either. No one stopped him on his way, only waved good morning. But Kasen moved slower, as if he was reluctant to meet with Ookurikara face to face.
What would he say? How would he react? Would he appreciate the poem Kasen had written, or would he find it dull or uninteresting? If Kasen misunderstood any of Ookurikara's intentions, would he shun Kasen and find him foolish after all?
The sounds of angry shouting were enough to clear his head. He was just within earshot of the stables, and sure enough, Ookurikara (Kasen's heart skipped a beat...?!) was attempting to tend to the horses in the field close by, though he was currently shouting with his duty-mate, Yamanbagiri Chougi.
"I don't think you're being fair in your assessment of the workload and distribution thereof!"
Ookurikara glared at Chougi. He opened his mouth, then closed it. "... It's even. Get it over with it."
"It's most certainly not—oh, hello, Kasen." Chougi's disposition changed completely as Kasen approached, though he glared back at Ookurikara every so often. "What brings you out here?"
"Good morning, Yamanbagiri Chougi." Kasen's gaze flitted to Ookurikara, who had actually turned away, fussing with the lead on the horse he was taking into the stable. Kasen frowned, trying not to seem too disheartened. "Ookurikara, I'd like to speak with you."
"Okay."
Kasen grit his teeth and set his jaw. Chougi raised a brow curiously. "... Alone, if possible."
Chougi opened his mouth to say... well, Kasen couldn't guess. But Ookurikara did, surprisingly, turn back around and began walking towards Kasen. He handed the horse's reins to Chougi, who began to yell about the division of work again, but Ookurikara ignored him to brush past Kasen and walk further away from the horse field. Delayed, Kasen bowed to Chougi, then made to run after Ookurikara.
"Come now—wait—here is fine!"
They both stopped underneath the protective canopy of a few trees. Ookurikara turned to Kasen, crossing his arms over his chest. Kasen had had a lot of words to say to him, but they all died on the tip of his tongue under Ookurikara's piercing eyes.
"... What is it."
Kasen remembered what he came here for. Clearing his throat, he pulled both papers out. He handed his own poem to Ookurikara, then unfolded the one Ookurikara had given him yesterday.
"I've written an accompanying reply," Kasen explained. "I'll read yours, and then you read mine. Alright?" He did not wait for Ookurikara to respond, eyes glued to the poem he had already memorized, and began to read.
"You are like the bird / I saw yesterday morning, / with pretty purple plumage."
Kasen did not look up. It felt, somehow, painstakingly embarrassing to look at Ookurikara as he read Kasen's half aloud. A few moments passed in silence. Kasen was just about to look and ask him what was wrong, to say this was stupid and grab the paper and leave, when Ookurikara spoke.
"But you, a dragon, / whose striking visage comes forth," Ookurikara stumbled over the words, and Kasen finally looked at him as he read, noting that the other's face was just as flushed as Kasen's felt, "to dazzle anyone near."
Kasen swallowed. Once Ookurikara finished reading aloud, he seemed to reread it, though the expression he made was one that Kasen had never seen him wear before—and completely unreadable. Kasen swallowed again, and he reached out to take the poem from Ookurikara.
"... Sorry, this was... It's not my best work... Sorry for—"
Ookurikara pulled his hand back to keep the poem out of Kasen's reach, and Kasen fell forward slightly, stumbling. Dazed, Kasen stared at him, straightening himself.
"Your handwriting is bad," Ookurikara replied, straight faced.
Kasen blinked, then he laughed, shaking his head. "... I could rewrite it in calligraphy, if you'd like. What do you think of the poem itself? Why did you write me one, too?"
"I..." The man of very few words was, once again, at a loss. He sighed, averting his gaze. "... Don't think too hard about it. ... Yours is nice."
Kasen laughed again, light and airy and about to pass out. "... Very well. Say, you could be rather good. You seem to have a natural talent for it, even. If you want... And really, only if you want, I could show—"
"Okay." Ookurikara's golden eyes were back on Kasen, and again, he lost everything he was about to say. What was happening to him, truly?! When did Ookurikara begin to look like that?! "Sure."
Kasen replied, rather stupidly, "Excuse me?"
"Oi!" Chougi called from the edge of the horse field. "If you two have finished your date, I'd love a bit of help!"
Both of them blinked, and Ookurikara sighed. "He will throw another fit if I don't go now. Let's talk again at dinner."
Kasen, still rather stupidly, nodded. "Have a good day..."
Ookurikara, however, was already jogging back to Chougi's side and starting to bicker again. Kasen sighed, watching them both disappear into the stables, then began to make his way back to the citadel. He had to ask Kokindenjunotachi what he meant by not offering critique.
Chougi's choice of words would finally register to Kasen an hour later, mid-sentence when speaking with Kokin about the critique thing. Kokin would swear to take Kasen's reaction to his grave, though he would later tell Jizou just how amusing this beloved sword of Hosokawa Tadaoki was.