The boy comes up often. Only in passing, really, but it's frequent enough that he knows his name, his grade, his aspirations, his almond eyes, his chestnut hair, his soft, gentle, kind hands, how they close tight around a bandage, smoothly sift through herbs, have yet to develop callouses— naive and innocent, just like a child.
It isn't the first time he's developed a… fascination like this. A round-faced, doe-eyed boy would occasionally come into his life, and it would pass, like it always did, whether Zatto had his fill until he was too old for his tastes, or the boy would fall victim to a blade or illness, all too common with what was expected of children in their castle. Wanted young, died young. This would be no different. Should be no different. Yet Zenpouji Isaku — despite his clumsy footwork, his reluctance to draw blood, his chronic case of bad luck that should lead him to a swift grave — would always find his way onto Zatto's lips, spoken so fondly it made his stomach tie itself into sickly knots.
Tonight is no different, Zatto idly recounting his last visit to Ninjutsu Academy— to see him, regardless if he insisted it was purely for business. He can tell the difference in how their leader's bandages are applied; Isaku's handiwork was excessive, more cloth than flesh along Zatto's chest.
Tuning back in once he hears a repulsive, loving Isaku-kun again, and he, regretfully, listens to the rest, and he speaks, once Zatto's praises come to a natural end. "You sound smitten, captain."
"Smitten?" Like it isn't obvious, a pause as he takes the word in, head tilting, pupil toward the ceiling. His eye crinkles, mask shifts, a hint of a smile lies underneath, one that he hasn't seen in a long time. "…I suppose so."
The conversation naturally moves onto their upcoming missions, strategies to Yamamoto, scoldings to Sonnamon, and, for once in his life, Kousaka can't find it in him to say more to their leader.
He remembers it like it was yesterday. It brings little comfort to his heart, but it soothes the heat in his belly, makes his strokes quicken with added pre dripping down his shaft.
Zatto's rugged hands enveloping his wrists. Crushed underneath his bulk. Surrounded by warmth, the smell of sweat and blood— unfamiliar blood, never Zatto's own. Legs too short to fully curl around his hips, though he'd try, because that stretch was nowhere near the ache of the one further down. Regardless of how much he prepared, Zatto's size was too much for his body to bear, too thin, not enough give in his nerves to fit all of him, though he begged for it nonetheless, was met with a charmed chuckle and a kiss to his brow as Zatto eased in and out, the movement showing through his slim stomach, again and again, gritted teeth and hisses, chest heaving, trembling around his width, carving a permanent shape into his insides, nothing else would ever satisfy, and—
His teeth clamped down onto the plump of his bottom lip to quiet his groan, spilling into his hand. The warm, comforting relief cruelly short, reality sinking into his bones, that there's no one to stroke his hair through the afterglow, capture his mouth and stir his small tongue, pull him into a warm, safe torso. He's only getting older, the memories of his touch growing fainter every year. It's only a matter of time before he forgets.
"You ought to think about settling down soon."
This again. He should've expected this talk when he was called to meet with him in private, the empty barracks while everyone else was out training. It was about that time, something about spring made Yamamoto grossly sentimental.
"Don't give me that look." He hadn't realized he was giving one until he noticed the deep furrow of his brows, his jaw clenched until it weighed heavy on his teeth. He didn't correct it, just subdued it. "I mean it. Sonnamon's already getting there."
"…With a man, no?" That teacher from Ninjutsu Academy, somehow. It shouldn't count, not when they couldn't bear children, and knowing Sonnamon, he'd end up screwing it up. Worse is that they were spoiling that brat again, letting him get away with indulgences he would be scolded— shamed for. His scowl tightens.
"He doesn't seem to think so," Yamamoto explains, as that makes a difference. "And regardless, he's happier for it."
So now he's concerned for his happiness. All it took was Sonnamon beating him to it. Where was it when he wept at their contract ending— all he was given was a reprimand at his immaturity while his world fell apart. It was temporary from the start, Yamamoto said, you know better than to throw a fit. Captain gave you his guidance. You should be thankful for it. Get a grip before it gets you killed.
"…You really think that being with someone will make me happy?"
"It would be a start." Yamamoto crosses his arms, has to look up to meet his eyes since Kousaka's overtaken him in height, and the irritation practically burns under his skin, all too easy for him to act like a father. "Better than what you're doing now."
It's bold of him to go there. "…And that would be?" And he wants to hear him say it.
"Wallowing in the past," he doesn't miss a beat to answer, like it's more than obvious.
"Oh," Kousaka's lips pull high and tight, a cruel, knowing grin. "You'd know plenty about that, wouldn't you?"
He's a hypocrite. It's hardly a secret. Six kids to further the family line, and he speaks of them often, though with hardly a mention of his own wife, and there's no mistaking how Yamamoto's eyes grow wistful when he brings up their captain's father after a few too many drinks, like a widow. His loyalty is painted with blood, forever stained with scarlet regret. Still, there's dignity in the way Yamamoto's heart died back then— while his own shatters with each passing day.
It wounds him, just the way Kousaka wants, his eyes scrunch with hurt rarely seen, and Kousaka doesn't get the catharsis he thinks it will bring as he watches Yamamoto take in a deep, shuddering breath, shaking his head, swallowing his shame.
"…Did that make you feel better?" It didn't, and Yamamoto knows it, because he walks past him, fists clenched at his side. His eyes follow, body turns to watch Yamamoto carry his guilt. It weighs him down, shoulders slumped, and Kousaka remembers when he used to climb onto Yamamoto's back, cling to him without worry because he could carry the world on his shoulders, but it's hard to imagine it now when he looks so broken. Yamamoto stops right before the door, though he keeps his back to him. "Do what you like, then. You'll have no one but yourself to blame for it."
Left alone, Kousaka considers it— though all the women in their territory must know his reputation by now, that a life with him would doom them both.
It's unbearable. Zatto has greatly overextended his trips to Ninjutsu Academy, and he neglects to bring him along, has to be purposeful, to spare Kousaka's feelings. It isn't as if Zatto needs protection, but at least he could know what he was doing there— though he already knows, he's with that boy again, can see it clear as day. It doesn't make sense, pattern broken— he's older than when Zatto left him, has to have marks of budding adulthood, hair and muscle and voice cracking. At this rate, he's already taken his virginity, what else could there be? Was he so special? Was Kousaka so worthless?
Sonnamon won't stop talking.
"…and Hanko-san was wearing the hairpin I bought for her. I knew it was perfect, it matched the color of her eyes, and she-"
"Respectfully, Sonnamon," though his tone is anything but, "I don't think there's anyone at this table that cares." Oshitsu's men certainly don't, though they're on thin ice for getting involved with a boy from that dreaded committee, though their descriptions of him don't ring any bells.
"Come on!" Sonnamon slaps down his chopsticks, exasperated. "If you're jealous, I get it, but it's not fair that I have to shut up about my girlfriend when everyone else gets to talk about their… experiences." He was like a little kid, his cheeks tinted, like the squad's most recent fucks weren't regular dinner conversation. Though he can't linger on that when Sonnamon unknowingly strikes a nerve, a wound fresh from Yamamoto's advice—
"Jealous?" A brow raises, and he fully turns his head, a bite to his words. "And what do I have to be jealous of?"
"I don't mean to brag," but he puffs out his chest anyway, looks obnoxiously proud, completely immune to Kousaka's venom. "Buuuut… Hanko-san is most beautiful woman in Japan— no, probably— definitely in the whole world."
"Right," he interrupts before Sonnamon starts rambling again, he'll suffocate under how much love Sonnamon has for— someone else, because at the very least, he never expected that brat to find anyone who could stand to be around with, never mind love him in return. "There's just the issue of her being a man."
"Huh?" Sonnamon forces a laugh, but when Kousaka doesn't return it, his face pales, and he pushes his tray forward, clearly lacking an appetite now. "What… what are you talking about?"
"He's a man." Their captain was naturally curious about his love life, and Kousaka didn't refuse his offer to tag along to watch over one of their dates. Sonnamon had a long way to go, unable to detect their presence and notice that the woman he's courting is the very 'rival' he vowed to defeat. "He's convincing, but he's taller than most of our men, has a lump in his throat, broad shoulders, the like. I'm surprised you didn't know. I only assumed that was the company you kept now."
"No, that's—…" Sonnamon's strangely quiet, visibly thinking everything through. The view he has of Hanko-san changes, though once he's out of his spell, he isn't disgusted or horrified, just has that stupid determined look on his face, the same when he's deep in training to defeat Doi. "Hanko-san is a woman. She would've told me if she wasn't."
"If that's what you want to believe." He's not in the mood to convince him otherwise, but at the very least, he wants Sonnamon to feel stupid. "I worry about you, Sonnamon. You're too naive. Someone like that could be taking advantage of you. I can imagine that gift being pawned off for his—"
"Stop it." Sonnamon stands up, glare sharper than his kunai. When did he get the gall to look at him like that? "Call her what she is."
"That's what you're getting worked up about?"
"I mean it." If he doesn't sit down, he's going to make a scene. The nearby tables are already looking. "Don't do it again, or…"
"Or what?" Kousaka meets him on his feet, anyway, because this is ridiculous. Bitterness rising to the surface, Sonnamon's only part of the collateral. "…You know, out of all of us, I didn't expect you to fall for a—"
A fist crashes into his nose, sends him stumbling back, and he clutches the lower half of his face, feels liquid heat on his fingertips, iron on his tongue, vision red as he watches Sonnamon's eyes flicker between his fist and Kousaka, like he's surprised at himself for having the balls to punch him. He'd be a fool to expect Kousaka to stand there and take it. Their castle had order, and he supposed Sonnamon just needed to relearn his place—
On the floor, tackled to it, wrestling each other like they were kids again; pulling hair, sinking teeth, clawing nails, more akin to animals than men, the growls and drawn blood and bruises that'll linger for weeks, a reminder of Kousaka's strength, his experience, straddling Sonnamon's chest and watching his face break and swell under his fists. Again. And again and again.
There's a crowd around them, some shocked, some repulsed, most cheering at the sudden brawl, free entertainment after a half-decent meal. No one dares interrupt, though he hears the faint hush of Yamamoto's exasperated sigh among the shouting.
Sonnamon is struggling rather fighting, pathetic attempts to shove him off, and it's his fault for starting it, Kousaka's just finishing it, and it'd be so easy to, thin fingers curling around his neck, squeezing until the last of his air bubbled up as desperate gurgles, first red, then blue in the face, the fire in his eyes quelled, life fainter and fainter—
"Enough."
The low timbre rips them from their bloodthirst. Hands release what's caught in their respective grip. For him, it's Sonnamon's throat, purple in the shape of his fingers left behind. For Sonnamon, it's the chest of Kousaka's uniform, stretched thin. They scramble and separate like scolded pups, ashamed as they move to their feet, unable to look at each other or their leader, who parts the now silent audience with his every step.
"Sonnamon. Outside, now."
He doesn't have to look up to know that Sonnamon does as he's told.
"Jinza."
Slowly lifting his head up, heart sinking at Zatto's visceral disappointment.
"To my quarters."
He doesn't wait long. Sonnamon getting a talking to was no different than usual. Kousaka, on the other hand, behaved himself, always the loyal dog, molded into the model soldier.
Zatto's room is the same as he remembers. Bare, only used for rest, and his eyes bore into the sole futon at the center, tempted to crawl and bury himself in their leader's scent. His restraint wins out, and he's rewarded with Zatto's approaching footsteps, and even though he knows he's on his way, he still flinches, then stiffens when he enters.
Zatto ducks to fit through the door, like he always does, and Kousaka is swift to bow, preach his apologies. "I made a shameful display. There's nothing I can do to make up for what I've done, captain, but I will do anything you ask of me."
"Up, Jinza. I already know you're sorry," Zatto assures. "Sonnamon's in pretty bad shape."
As he rises, he hesitates, briefly, as the guilt settles into his skin. He avoids looking at his hands, knows Sonnamon's blood is still smeared on his knuckles. Undeserving brutality.
"You're usually unphased with what comes out of his mouth." It's an invitation to talk it through, but Kousaka wouldn't dare admit the truth, that it was envy that sent him into a blind, unrelenting rage.
"…It just got to me this time, captain." He doesn't elaborate, and, thankfully, Zatto doesn't expect him to.
"I expected better of you."
It—
Hurts. Begins at his heart and circles through his bloodstream until it's agony to even breathe. Not good enough, never will be. Unremarkable, unchosen, undeserving, unworthy of a place by his side. He's a boy again, vulnerable and lonely and desperate. A gushing, dripping wound that he has to make everyone's problem.
"I think you've both learned your lesson. I encourage you both talk to each other like grownups. Will you be able to make it to tomorrow's—"
"…Is it because he's younger than me?"
Zatto's taken aback, blinking at his interruption. Kousaka hurriedly fills the silence, otherwise he'll drown in it.
"Prettier?" Forward, closer. He's hysterical. It's suffocating. What's wrong with him? Dying would be a mercy. "Kinder?"
"Which is it?" He can't take it. Further more, until he can make out the shape of his leader through his boiling hot tears. "I can change. I've always—"
"Jinza." Zatto's hands clamp down on his shoulders, forces distance between them, and the pity in his eye is fatal. "Isaku is the one I love."
Whether he means to or not, it's the cruelest thing he could've said.
They're wed the moment the boy graduates, to no one's surprise. Kousaka is given the high honor of witnessing in the private ceremony, and it goes without a hitch. As much as Kousaka wishes the boy dead, he's a beautiful thing, soft where Kousaka is sharp, still has light in his eyes, wears his wedding garb so well it's difficult to believe he's a boy at all. He had never witnessed a marriage this tender, the few others he partook were a mere formality, cold and stiff, an obligation to their respective family.
But this is— Zatto holds the boy's hands as if they'll shatter under his touch, and the boy appears lost in their little world, a feeling Kousaka knows— knew well, how Zatto's fawning made one feel whole. It's a shameless display of affection, but Zatto has always cared little for keeping up appearances. As the ceremony continues, the pair naturally draw closer and closer as they exchange vows, so subtle it's clear they don't mean to, and by the time the boy notices and allows embarrassment to color his cheeks, Zatto laughs, and settles a hand on his waist.
Kousaka can't look, distracts himself with the small crowd, and it only makes things worse, Yamamoto wears pride, Sonnamon's clearly inspired, and no one else but Kousaka dares to make his disgust known.
But, like a good soldier, he waits. Waits until the boy takes Zatto's name, until their lips meet, until the festivities draw to a close, but before he can politely excuse himself, Zatto catches him by the shoulder, his wife in tow.
"It's good to see you, Jinza. Don't you look dashing." A compliment he would revere on any other day, but he knows he's hideous compared to the bride at Zatto's hip. "I don't mean to keep you, but someone wanted to make an introduction."
"Ah, well, it's just…" the boy trails off, like Kousaka has time for it. "I've gotten to speak with everyone else, it feels like. Konnamon-san has told me a lot about you. It's a pleasure."
Kousaka can't imagine what he's heard, and he's content with never knowing.
"Likewise," he forces, bile billowing at the back of his throat, keeping burning hatred at bay. "You… make him happy. I only hope that continues."
"I hope so, too!" he laughs, and it's obvious why Zatto would fall for someone so warm. Their castle has more than enough moonlight, it's only fair that their leader would want for the sun.
Kousaka makes his escape, or tries to, at least, but when has anything in his life gone his way? A body stumbles into his— short, soft, and… blonde? A kid, but not one of their own. Strangers were rare, but he clearly was invited in, or he wouldn't be left alive. The boy huffs as he eases back, rubbing his nose after it drove into Kousaka's sharp collarbone.
"Excuse me, oh— oh!" Recognition in his soft eyes, though Kousaka can't mirror it. "Hello again, it's been a long time."
A long time, he says, but his voice doesn't ring any bells, nor does his face stick out in his memory, so clearly it wasn't worth remembering.
"I don't know who you are." He doesn't have the patience to feign politeness, not after doing it all evening. "Excuse me—"
The boy blocks his path, and it's great, really, that Kousaka's night is ending with being forced to entertain a child. He didn't understand what Zatto saw in children, really. Just a bunch of annoying brats that had no clue of the way the world worked.
"Really? I know you. You're…" He stops, hums and cups his chin as he thinks. Once he's got it, he brings his fist to his open palm. "Choukasa Jinkammon!"
With an answer like that, why did he even bother trying? "Not even close."
"Hm, are you sure?" See, this is exactly what was wrong with kids nowadays. They had no respect. Kousaka shuffles around the boy again, but he's persistent, arms outstretched to keep him right there. "Wait, wait! You came from the wedding, right?"
Everything came back to the wedding, didn't it. A nod was all the boy got, but it was just the answer he wanted, his lips curling upward, smile easy and mischievous.
"Perfect!" Cozying up to his side, hip to hip, overly familiar and gross. "You'll have to tell me all about it. You know, I did Isaku-san's hair, but they didn't even let me see the finished product… isn't that too mean?"
"Get off of me," Kousaka elbows him off, but the boy expects it, dodges the blow and only nestles closer in, head resting on the dip of his shoulder. "Go home. It's over."
"Don't be that way! I have one more night before they send me back to Ninjutsu Academy, you know. I think it'll be good for us to keep each other company. So, like I said, I want to hear everything, did Isaku-san's hair stay up? I worried that the pins would get caught on something, you know how he is— Oh, and did the jewels match his outfit? I made sure to tell them what colors would look best with it, and—"
Somehow, Kousaka had a sinking feeling that this was start of a pest most persistent.