Archive of Our Own ^beta

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To be perfectly honest, he feels a little stupid.

He’s a warlord after all, a merciless general known for his ruthlessness in battle and his exceptionally crude mannerisms for someone of his stature. He’s fearsome and unbeatable, an incredible force to be reckoned with, a harbinger of death and a warrior destined to lead the Land of the Rising Sun into indomitable glory.

This isn’t exactly a part of his job description.

And what is that damned little niggling, fluttery feeling presently residing in his stomach…?

"Ah! Lord Masamune! I am most surprised to see you here!"

Shitshitshit. Screw feeling a little stupid; he feels like a fucking idiot.

Yukimura continues to babble on in the background, eyes alright with enthusiasm as he approaches, body practically singing with energy. Damn, of all the times to lose his usual nerve…

"Lord Masamune?"

"Here!"

Displaying all his usual skills in diplomacy, the feared One-Eyed Dragon of Oshu proceeds to shove a lone, somewhat wilted flower into Yukimura’s hand before turning tail and running like his life depends on it, not stopping until he’s managed to put a good bit of distance between them.

The Tiger Cub stands behind, looking at the unexpected gift in sheer befuddlement. Sasuke, previously unseen beside him, claps a hand to his forehead in exasperation.

"So much for that…"

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If someone had told him even one month ago that he would be cuddling with someone, he would’ve punched them in the face. Maybe stabbed them too. The thought of being so intimate with someone scared the ever-loving hell out of him (not like he’d ever admit that though) and besides, it was a waste of time. He had better things to think about, more important matters to attend to than those best left to the darkness of private chambers. Let the romantics have their fun; wouldn’t be his problem when they let their guard down.

But here he is. Wrapped around someone else and not afraid at all, not ashamed, not worried about getting onto something else. He’s here with the one person who has always been able to make him change his mind, make him lose his footing-

(Make him fall in love.)

How he hadn’t seen it coming prior continues to elude him, but right now, all that matters is the body curled up next to his own, the one radiating warmth and breathing softly, evenly.

“Of course it’d be you, Red.” Masamune murmurs affectionately, running careful fingers through his sleeping lover’s hair. “No one else in the world could get me this good.”

If someone had told him even one month ago that he would be cuddling with someone, he would’ve punched them in the face. Maybe stabbed them too.

But that had been before he’d fallen in love with Sanada Yukimura.

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Yukimura, essentially, is the sun. He's bright and unyielding, a burning soul alight with the flames of endless power. In a way, he's also a flower too, one that reaches for the sun, standing strong in the rain and extending his essence upward, always climbing higher.

(It's funny to think of the Tiger Cub of Kai as a flower. He'd be a bright one, big and red, growing fast and unrestrained in his natural habitat.)

Masamune, in contrast, is more like the moon. Calmer, quieter, less inclined to burst but no less capable of causing damage. Tides could destroy just as quickly as flares, after all, and the One-Eyed Dragon is well accustomed to making waves.

(Being a wielder of lightning, he's not as good with water, but when you're a general in this era, you gotta take what you can get.)

In the light, Yukimura shines. He stands out even brighter against the background, spears whirling, hair flying, shouts ringing unhindered through the hills and valleys. He lives off of the light, and he loves it too, impossible to withstand and impossible to resist.

(Their first fight was in the sun, hot and blazing with passions previously unknown to them. )

Likewise, Masamune excels in the dark. The shadows along the edges of the battlefield are his friends, concealing his form and stealing along the sharp lines of his blades. When night falls or when the sky is drenched in dark clouds, he finds his best rhythm, fiercely determined and absolutely stunning.

(Their first fight alongside each other was in the dark, a desperate gamble to save their country and their future.)

Naturally, like in every other aspect, they strike their balance here, sun and moon, day and night, light and dark. Through Masamune, Yukimura learns to see in the dark, to find the silent sunlight along each and every feature of the One-Eyed Dragon's face. Alternately, Masamune begins to share Yukimura's fondness for the daylight, finding the warmth on his skin to be a pleasant reminder of the Tiger Cub's touch. Through their love for each other, they begin to nurture a love for what the other does.

(From day one, it was an endless dance around each other, and they weren't intending on stopping anytime soon, sun or moon, day or night, light or dark.)

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It's a song that plays in the background, a broken record spewing the same, worn-out phrases over and over until someone catches on and shuts the damn thing off.

"What did I tell ya? You're so naive."

It's a blade without a handle, a spear without a shaft, useless to those unwilling to destroy themselves in an attempt to utilize it.

"I refuse your affections this time. I do not want to see you here ever again!"

It's a general without his second, a warlord without his strategist, a vassal without his master.

"You know what? I can't fucking stand you! You put this fire in my heart, and I want you to get it out, goddammit! What did you do to me?!"

It's everything.

"You? What about me? I have never felt these things before! I am just as lost as you are!"

It's nothing.

"I love you!"

And it's all the things in between.

Every broken phrase spit with venomous intent, every whispered apology and internalized miscommunication. All the screaming fights and cold shoulders and desperate texts and empty threats and rambling phone messages. Every sleepless night, every badly aimed punch, every crumpled up and tossed-out letter. All the messy kisses and surprise attacks and falling back together no matter how many times they try to walk away because they just can't, they're bound together by something beyond their understanding, something beyond their time.

(Black and gold clutching red, azure mixed with crimson, the clash of steel blades and spearheads writing out a legend that neither of them know yet that both of them breathe every day of their lives.)

And they snap back together, falling harder than the first time, teeth clicking and lips bruising, clothing rumpled by rough hands. One pushes, one pulls; both tumble down into place, buttons flying and zippers catching, cursing and gasping and just trying to fucking breathe-

"Ma-Ma-Masamune!"

Yukimura is beyond coherent thought, head thrown back and undone hair fanned out over the pillow. Above him, Masamune is relentless, lips and teeth set against his throat, hips driving down once more for emphasis.

"That's right," he growls, but he's panting too, almost as unwound as the other is. "Fuck. How do you-"

Voices cracking, giving out, unable to continue for fear of sounding weak. Pleasure spiking, driving out words that are never supposed to be said in coherence -

"Don't leave." Masamune chokes out, forehead pressing against Yukimura's. "Don't. I need you, dammit. You can't do this to me again."

Sometimes things come out that they don't understand, not in their own context, but they let it go anyway. The older teen's voice aches with some kind of unbelievable longing, and the younger responds to it, fingers clutching Masamune's back and his own voice keening softly.

"I made a promise..." Yukimura sounds dazed, eyes hazed over, lost in the other's ministrations. "We made a promise..."

"Yeah. We did."

A cautious kiss, a quiet sigh. A beat of silence, and then Masamune pushes, rolling his hips down and Yukimura cries out, flashes of lightning dancing behind closed eyelids. Neither can hang on, not now, not ever -

It's everything, it's nothing, and it's all the things in between.

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Things are going great. Seriously, they are. They’d gotten all worked up after yet another fight and then the make-out session had started and then they’d managed to sneak into Yukimura’s house without Sasuke noticing. Honestly, everything has been working like a fucking miracle so far and at this rate, it’s going to keep getting better and Masamune is so fucking ready for this.

"You okay there, Red?" He manages and the other nods vigorously in response, face bright pink but brown eyes alight with the fiery determination that Masamune loved so much. He kisses his classmate again, hissing in a breath between his teeth when Yukimura arches up against him.

"Ma-Masamune!"

The older boy curses quietly, entwining his fingers with his rival’s when he pins his hands down, kissing him again, harder this time. This is so worth the shit he’s going to get from Kojuurou for running off without telling him…again…what the…?

Upon glancing up, Masamune realizes that there’s a giant painting above his head, bright and vibrant in many shades of red and absolutely ridiculous, but that’s not the problem, oh no.

The problem is that the picture is of Takeda Shingen.

Masamune chokes and reels back dramatically, staring in fascinated horror at the crimson monstrosity perched just above his rival’s headboard. The face the man is making in the picture is probably just a replica of his standard glare of domination, but right now, Masamune is at least ninety percent sure that the thing is giving him the stinkeye.

"Masamune? Is something the matter?" Yukimura sounds worried enough but the other male isn’t listening, opting instead to whirl around on the younger’s bed and make sure that the opposite wall isn’t covered in-

Oh hell no.

“What the fuck,” the older boy manages weakly even as the army of framed photographs of Takeda practically smothering the wall glare back at him.

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"Hey, Red! You mind helping me out with this for a sec?"

Masamune’s voice rang out from across the apartment, irritated and more than a little strained. Briefly, as Yukimura rose from his place by the window and made his way to the bedroom, he wondered what was going on that could cause the other’s voice to sound like that.

"What is it, Masamune? Are you…uh…?"

Well.

This was new.

Masamune had somehow managed to get himself halfway inside a slinky little…something…and was currently struggling to get the cloying, clinging material over the broad line of his shoulders. It resembled a semi-transluscent wet suit, really, it just…cut off really high on Masamune’s thighs and seemed to match the rest of a rather incriminating outfit strewn out on the bed behind him.

"Ma…samune…?" Yukimura felt exceptionally lightheaded, especially when he saw the ripple of lithe muscles under the thin material when the other man moved.

"There you are, Red." Masamune sounded pretty relieved, but then again, Yukimura really couldn’t know that for sure. "Could ya help me get this off before Kojuurou gets back? I’m pretty sure he’d have a heart attack if he saw me in this stuff…hey, Red, you okay? Yukimura?"

A thin line of blood ran down the younger man’s face before he fainted.

Masamune stretches luxuriously, long arms reaching skyward and back arching in a dramatic, sweeping curve, pants slung low on his waist and yeah, Yukimura doesn’t know what’s going on in his head, but whatever it is, it’s making his nose itch. Which doesn’t even make sense, not really?

But his rival isn’t wearing a shirt and those damn pants are barely staying on and Masamune is planning on going through sword techniques like this? What is he thinking? Does he ever think? Yukimura is not exactly the poster child for forethought, but this is getting ridiculous. Unconsciously, Yukimura rubs his nose with the back of his hand to alleviate the discomfort.

"You need a bucket there, Sanada? Maybe a towel?" The other man practically sing-songs and Yukimura blinks, befuddled and maybe a little dazzled by Masamune’s casually attractive appearance with his messy hair and slightly flushed face and oh dear…his nose is itching again.

"Pardon?" He inquires around his hand, and Masamune watches with some amusement before shaking his head and resting his hands on his hips.

"Your nose is bleeding, Red. You might want to stop messing with it." Yukimura yelps, coloring in embarrassment, and his rival just laughs.

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"Oh just relax, would ya?" Masamune complained, hands gripping Yukimura's shoulders and stilling his nervous fidgeting for what must've been the millionth time. "I'm not going to kill you or anything."

"Lord Masamune, I'm afraid that I rather dislike not being able to see what you're doing. It makes me nervous." Also for the millionth time, the younger teen was reaching up to dislodge the scarf around his eyes only to have the other knock his hand away with increasing insistence.

"Red, seriously, just work with me, okay? The sooner you stop harassing me the sooner I can finish what I'm doing and then you can take the blindfold off, ya see?"

"Yes, but-"

"Good boy." Masamune said under his breath, tuning out Yukimura's faint whining in the background. "Try not to fall off that stool, okay? I don't think Kojuurou would appreciate cleaning up dashed brains off of the kitchen floor."

His classmate abruptly stops moving and lets out a distressed yelp; Masamune just shakes his head and moves back to the stove, trying to sort out the last bit of the recipe.

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"...What do you think?"

It had taken long enough as it was to get Yukimura to eat what Masamune was offering him, and now the kid was just taking all the time in the world to process what his taste buds were telling him, apparently.

"It's...not bad, Masamune! It's rather sweet, actually! What is it?"

"It was supposed to be dango," Masamune confessed as he undid the blindfold, and Yukimura blinked wide brown eyes at him in vague astonishment. "Wh-what? What's that face for?"

"No need to be so defensive," the younger laughed, leaning forward a little to press a slightly sticky kiss to Masamune's cheek. "You worked hard on this, no?"

If the current state of the kitchen was anything to go by, he'd practically waged a war to get the recipe to work with him, and even that hadn't worked entirely. Eventually he'd just settled for mashing sugar into the lumps of dough and throwing together whatever didn't make him retch upon mention. The results, while not dango, had not been charred, toxic, or unidentifiable either, so Masamune reasoned that it had to be good enough.

"You attempted cooking just for me?" Yukimura inquired innocently and his classmate puffed up a little bit in mixed pride and defiance.

"Hey, I can cook! It's just a waste of time and...shit...and yeah! So?"

Yukimura just laughed and kissed Masamune again, this time on the lips, and the older boy was effectively shut up.

"Thank you." He said, face alight with sincere praise and Masamune was not blushing. No. He was not.

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It’s always the same, this lingering, burning feeling in his limbs whenever he tries to sleep at night. If he doesn’t work himself to the bone during the day and find something extracurricular to do at night, he just can’t find the strength to close his eyes and keep his body still long enough to drift off. Masamune may be stubborn, but he understands the importance of sleep on a deep and personal level.

Or at least, he thought he did, but it seems as though he really doesn’t. It must be the positioning of the moon or something.

Regardless, it’s dark outside and he’s cuddled up next to Yukimura in his private chambers, content and drowsy but somehow still unable to take the final steps into blissful oblivion and it’s really starting to irk him now. When he shifts in discomfort for what must be the millionth time, Yukimura hums a quiet question of concern.

“You alright, Lord Masamune?”

Any comment about honorifics dies in Masamune’s throat and he just snuggles closer, obstinately trying to ignore the fact that his body is not yet willing to relinquish his consciousness. He’s about to just get up and damn it all to hell when he feels a soothing brush of fingers in his hair and wow does that feel good.

Yukimura smiles softly down at Masamune when he notices that his actions have halted the other’s restless twitching; he moves his hand again, dragging it slowly through the dark brown strands and Masamune purrs, beginning to settle down and finally relax.

“Have I ever told you about the time I got stuck in a tree?” He ventures quietly and grins to himself when the other snorts softly in amusement. “Sasuke was not pleased…”

“That ninja…” Masamune barely gets out in a low, muffled voice, his eye slowly drifting shut at the sound of Yukimura’s voice and the feel of his fingers stroking through his hair. “Mmphm…”

“What was that?” The other teases lightly, laughing a little when Masamune responds in a similar fashion. He decides to continue talking, voice soft as he details childhood escapades even as he cards through Masamune’s hair and feels him slowly drifting off. At this rate, he’ll be out in no time…

True to Yukimura’s prediction, the other is soon asleep at long last, breathing evenly with a contented smile on his face.

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He's probably got better things to be doing with his time, but this is just one of those things that he can't seem to get past. Masamune is a very particular drunk - that is to say, once he fixates on something, he has a hard time getting off of it.

Last week it was that ugly-ass vase that his mother had sent as some of kind of late birthday consolation present. (It had wound up in a smashed pile on the floor before the night was through.)

This week it's Yukimura's weird as hell sweater.

Now, Masamune has seen a lot of weird things in his life, from straight-laced kids prancing shirtless onto campus to snapdragon orchid crossbreeds that looked like something from the movie Alien (dammit Kojuurou) but this just has to take the goddamn weird cake. And maybe it's just because he's absolutely shit-faced right now, but he seriously can't get over this.

"Dude, are you wearin' polka-dots?"

Yukimura fidgets uncomfortably under the style of Masamune's attention; he isn't usually fazed, but a drunk roommate has never been a good thing and has never produced good results.

"It's just a sweater, Masamune-dono." He mutters, giving the other a cautious glance as he tries to gauge the exact state of his inebriation. "It would probably be wise if you stopped drinking now."

"What was that? I can't see ya, Red, where are ya?"

Yukimura's eyebrows furrow in concern and confusion as he watches Masamune down the last of his drink, push himself off the counter, and proceed to wander aimlessly around the kitchen in apparent search of him.

"Masamune-dono, I don't-"

"Oi where are ya hidin' now?" His roommate laughs drunkenly as he stumbles and hits the wall, amused by his own, secret joke. "I can't see ya when you're wearin' dots!"

Yukimura frowns when Masamune pushes off the wall only to stumble into the coffee table, watching as his completely hammered roommate attempts to straighten himself up.

"Masamune-dono, if this is a joke, it's a highly inappropriate one."

The older man rolls his eyes before he doubles over with hysterical laughter, tears streaming down his face as the mirth from his secret little escapade overtakes him.

"TIGERS DON'T WEAR DOTS, THEY WEAR STRIPES!" He wheezes, straightening up briefly before he tips over backwards and passes out in a dramatic swoop onto the couch.

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At times, it can be difficult to backtrack through prior events in order to locate the exact moment when something happened to change. It’s also a lot of work to sift through all those memories, hunting for specific tip-offs or even monumental shifts in moods. Sometimes, the most important clues are also the fuzziest. Occasionally, there isn’t even anything to go off of. It’s a spontaneous reaction of sorts.

He’s not sure what this qualifies as, but it’s a little hard to think when someone else has you pinned to the floor by your wrists and is kissing you utterly, gloriously senseless. Yukimura is nothing if not thorough, and he’s always known how to drive Masamune absolutely crazy. (Not like it's hard, necessarily, but it still deserves mention.) It started on the battlefield and only escalated whenever they found themselves alone, out of combat; the first time they’d found themselves like this had been ridiculous and an agonizingly long time coming.

(So much pressure, Masamune slamming Yukimura against the wall, claiming his mouth with a sheer, dominating force and leaving his rival a shuddering mess.)

But by now Yukimura has learned quite a bit and he’s pressing his advantage with relentless fervor, straddling Masamune’s hips and kissing him fiercely. There’s no better way to beat a dragon than to completely overwhelm him, and while Yukimura may not yet be able to sufficiently best him on the battlefield, he is certainly capable of accomplishing such a feat in their private chambers. Masamune cannot be coerced, cannot be led, cannot be dragged down into the fray; no, he either charges forward on his own volition or is forcefully pushed.

Or, in this case, is pinned down to the floor and trying desperately to draw breath without gasping.

"Is th-that all you got, Red?" He manages, voice hitching on a shameless moan. Yukimura looks up at him with burning, bright brown eyes and Masamune feels the grin forming on his face unbidden. Oh, this is going to be one hell of a ride.