In the admittedly short life Tenka Hitofuri had led, up until this point, there were only two things that mattered to him, or to be precise, two people: his most beloved master Hideyoshi Toyotomi, and his most beloved Mikazuki Munechika.

If his master was the reason for his existence, Mikazuki Munechika was his reason to live. He came spiral down the abyss that was Mikazuki Munechika faster than he had even imagined possible, had he thought to imagine at all. Midnight sky and spring blossoms, Mikazuki was everything Tenka had ever believed beauty to be. He was the eternal flower that drew Tenka Hitofuri in as a moth to a cold, beautiful flame.

But Tenka had forgotten, flames burn.

The way down started as all things beautiful do: petal pink dreams, fragrant tea, and warm company.

It was a winter morning, one of many since the day Tenka Hitofuri and Mikazuki Munechika became swords of husband and wife. The first whiff of gyokuro rose and spread, dissolving the chill that had settled around them like an invisible blanket. Mikazuki would spend the first hour simply watching the skies and fluttering snows that fell like heaven's dust, while Tenka would watch him, tracing long sleeves to curled lashes. Tenka would often wonder, what was on Mikazuki's mind as deep blue eyes followed the swirls of pure white snow descending on tree tops and stone grounds. Would he be thinking of the warmth of the hearth, the sounds of festivals that came with the cold; or would he be imagining the loneliness that clung to its essence, the despondence that weighed down one's soul. While Tenka Hitofuri would think, that winter days were for the two of them on mornings like this, for freshly brewed tea and hot miso broth, for watching Mikazuki and believing he was warmth even in the depths of winter, even if his skin cooled and his eyes drowned.

"Tenka."

Tenka Hitofuri did not jump in his skin, but he could not quite stop the way his lashes flutter upon chilled cheeks. "You have been staring," Mikazuki told him, quiet, smiling – this Tenka Hitofuri knew from the crinkles of his eyes, not his covered lips. The question unasked lingered in the space between them. Tenka's lips parted.

"I…Mikazuki-dono seemed lost in thoughts. I've been wondering, if you're quite troubled by anything at all?"

The golden rings of Mikazuki's eyes glowed under the mild sun reflected off of the snow. He watched, observed, lashes fleeted over pale skin. Tenka Hitofuri swallowed, quiet, but not quite hiding, waited. He did not try to probe, could never, at Mikazuki, whose expression was smooth as porcelain without a wave of disturb, eyes like deep oceans where depths were unseen. The distance between them already counted in lifetimes, rather than centuries, but on days like this, the mere two shaku separating the heat of their bodies would feel like an eternity and further away.

The breeze was almost cutting with every shift, the snow getting thicker as time went by. Tenka's heart moved at a snail's beat, but each beat so distinct, so thunderous. Mikazuki stayed silent still. He turned to the curtains of snow beyond their porch, hands folded around his cup. Tenka watched as he brought his tea to his lips; once, then twice, unhurried, unwavering. Deep blue eyes gazed ahead, into the white-washed garden. Tenka Hitofuri felt the world turn silent at the look on his face. An expression Tenka had learnt to associate with winter days and its quietness. Tenka Hitofuri had no name to give this mien, but his chest squeezed, constricted, painful behind its cage the more he looked at Mikazuki. Consuming, it felt.

"I remember the past sometimes. Old memories," Mikazuki said, whatever emotion gone as though it was never there. Never supposed to be.

"…when you were in Kyoto?"

Their voices carried like snowflakes under the winter sky, quiet, hushed. Mikazuki's lips lifted higher. He could not explain, but Tenka Hitofuri had expected tears at the corner of his eyes. Mikazuki had never cried, not before him.

"Yes," Mikazuki Munechika closed his eyes, murmured, "When I was in Kyoto."

Seasons passed by like a blur, though never quickly enough.

Remnants of winter remained, in the chill of the breezes blowing on their porch. Tenka's heart quivered with every gust. Each day he wished already grass would grow, flowers would bloom. Melt away the last of the snow still blanketing their stone steps. Let spring come. Just so Tenka would not have to see Mikazuki in the midst of their garden, silent, amongst frosty white, reminiscing things Tenka Hitofuri was never told of.

He wanted to tell Mikazuki, that he knew, too, how history and memories never left them. Each and every ones made their blades sharp and their swings powerful. They wore these stories like armours, like their lifelines. But sometimes, carrying became a festered wound itself. Armours dug into one's skin, swords cut into their hands. A hearth burning too bright would bring everything down with it. Tenka Hitofuri knew, and there was nothing he could do. He could only blame. Blame Kyoto that was so close, yet never close enough. Blame how some things stayed, but would ever be out of reach.

His heart brought out and flayed open, Tenka made a promise, he would remain with the Moon, for as long as he was allowed. With time, and they had plenty, even the deepest cut would heal, even the hardest ice would thaw. Ridiculous excuses, juvenile antics, Tenka did them all, just to keep Mikazuki in bed a little longer, with him, and away from their cold porch, away from fluttering snow and white-washed grounds. Mikazuki smiled and stayed, even if his eyes trayed sometimes, when he thought Tenka was asleep, burrowed in between the sheets. But that was fine, as long as Mikazuki remained. Tenka knew, some things could not be replaced. But Mikazuki loved him anyway, leniently, gracefully, and that was all that mattered.

When spring came, they sat side by side, Tenka Hitofuri watching Mikazuki watch delicate petals of the sweetest pink, immersed in a dance known only to them, enraptured. Tenka would hope, one day Mikazuki would come to love Spring with sakura-scented memories, rather than absorbed by Winter's jaded nostalgia. Tenka had always thought, Mikazuki Munechika amongst sakura-coloured skies and gold-trimmed robes was the most beautiful. And, perhaps, he would be as lovely in sky blue as he did in the colours of summer nights. (It never occurred to him, that the Moon maybe would look just as beautiful in white – snow white.)

"It seems you do have the habit of staring."

Mikazuki's voice was a drop of water unsettling a quiet lake. Tenka blinked. Mikazuki's deep blue gaze trained on him, curious and amused in equal measures. Tenka stared, mesmerised, even as pink rose and flushed atop his cheeks.

"N-no…I…ah—" Warmth crept up his neck, to the tips of his ears. The sakura petals swirled and danced, as though in jest of Tenka's predicament. Tenka whipped his head down, amber eyes on his lap. The tea in his palm was cool to the touch, while Mikazuki's gaze on his skin was liquid fire.

Ah. "Mikazuki-dono!"

"Stem! A standing stem!" Tenka Hitofuri exclaimed, head bent peering into his own cup, shyness washed away by excitement.

Mikazuki leaned over his shoulder, sleeves fluttering at Tenka's elbow. "Ah, luck might come your way today, it seems," Mikazuki said. Tenka could hear the smile in his voice. Ears a pleasant burn, Tenka hid his own smile behind the rim of his cup.

Mikazuki retreated back to his cushion, leaving Tenka's elbow a faint void, and picked up his teacup. "Tenka." He said, gentle as though afraid Tenka might be startled, "I would loathe to say this, but it seems quite time we made our departure. Lady Nene would not appreciate having to wait, I'm afraid."

Tenka Hitofuri's heart sank, as if the strings holding it up were cut all of a sudden. Perhaps it was absurd of him, the one thing they did not lack was time, after all, but his chest squeezed at the reminder all the same.

"Yes, I suppose we should." He said at last, unfolding his legs. Next to him, Mikazuki had already straightened himself. "There is always time for tea in the evening."

"Yes, that we do have," Mikazuki said, smiling, half-turned and already about to leave. Tenka swallowed the hole opening up in his throat. His eyes followed Mikazuki's figure until the Moon disappeared behind a corridor. Tenka sighed, spinning on his heels to head to the other direction.

Time was an unstoppable current, as Tenka tended to one task after another. Lunch was a brief affair, Tenka had not more than half a bow before being swept away once more. The last of Tenka's duty came to an end when the sun had already disappeared behind the bamboo hedges. As the shoji doors to his master's office clicked close, Tenka's feet carried him away, down the corridor to the kitchen. He had thought of making Mikazuki's favourite snack zunda mochi before tea time. By the time he managed to finish the snack, bathe and change himself, the sky had turned a deep blue.

By their porch, soft moonlight colouring his figure a pale gold, Mikazuki sat tall and waiting. The moon had risen up high upon the deep blue sky, prideful and solitary, halo dwarfing even the shine of tenrousei and everything else around it.

"Forgive me, Mikazuki-dono, I did not mean to take so long…." Tenka Hitofuri said, settled by his side. The plate of mochidrew Mikazuki's attention almost instantly.

"Ah. We are in no hurry," Mikazuki said, peering at the treat, "if these are the reason why you were late, I suppose it could be forgiven."

Lips tilting, the Moon brought the plate eye-level, examining them as if they were the most interesting thing he had seen all day. Tenka did not miss the twinkle in his eyes. Coughing into his palm, Tenka inclined his head, pale pink dusting fair cheeks. And if he was expecting little teasing half-smiles or carefully worded compliments that flustered Tenka to no ends, no one could fault him, knowing Mikazuki Munechika as he did. But it was free, unrestrained laughter that reached his ears, instead. Mikazuki held the plate aloft in both hands, almost reverent, open, uninhibited chortles leaving his lips tinkling like windchimes. Tenka stared. It was not that Mikazuki never laughed, but it was always quiet chuckles accompanied by polite smiles.

"…Mikazuki-dono…?" It could not be the mochi, could it? "Do they look…so dreadful…?" Tenka Hitofuri gestured at the spread of tea and sweets. Admittedly, they were not the prettiest shapes; he might even go so far as to say some looked properly…deformed. But would that not just have prompted low, teasing chuckles as much of those silly things Tenka did tended to? Or if it was because it was such an unexpected gift? That it was that unthinkable a treasured sword such as Tenka would go so far as to labour himself in the kitchen to please a lover? But that did not sound like Mikazuki. What was it?

"Hmm." Mikazuki hummed, straightening himself. One long sleeve swept over his eyes. Mikazuki let out one last laugh, said, "Ah, no, no. They are quite lovely." He shook his head, reached over to take one of the mochi and started munching on the treat in small, careful bites. The smile stayed. Tenka Hitofuri dared not call him giddy, Mikazuki always too graceful and composed for such a word; but right here, right now, there could not be another to describe what Tenka was bearing witness to. And there, in his eyes, glimmers of true, genuine happiness shined like gems under the moonlight. A smile curled at Tenka's lips, eyes still wide, jaws still slack. He turned and took a treat for himself. If these simple hand-made treats were enough to bring Mikazuki such delight, he would not mind doing it more often. Perhaps the fortune of standing tea stem was real, after all, Tenka liked to think.

"I should think Lady Nene's kimono fitting went quite well, Mikazuki-dono?" Tenka Hitofuri started around his second mochi. "I happened to see milady just before returning. She seemed pleased."

"Yes, yes, indeed." Mikazuki was already on his fourth. "She has been quite unwell for the past months. Winter has never been kind to her health. It is good just the thought of Spring should brighten her a little."

Mikazuki's voice carried a care, a concern not quite foreign, yet not quite familiar either. Ah…this may be the reason why Mikazuki was more lively than usual…? Tenka would not be surprised if it were, if their masters did not possess them completely, nothing could. Out of the corner of his eyes, Tenka's gaze travelled over the elegant form of his spouse for the umpteenth time of the day. Mikazuki's posture expressed a joy Tenka Hitofuri was not entirely used to. He himself had never seen Mikazuki quite like so, not on evenings like this, neither in the confines of their beds. It softened the edges, even as rounded as the Moon had always been, around his eyes and mouth. The line of his back was not as straight as it often was. The sharp curves of the Moon blunted, and they glowed. The man next to him was Mikazuki Munechika, but at the same time not. Elated as he was at this new-found revelation, Tenka had to wonder…when…when would he alone be enough to have Mikazuki like this once more…?

Tenka Hitofuri caught it, then, a glimmer of gold and white, not unlike the shine of moonlight gliding over their robes.

The bend of the pointed tip and the soft-looking folds suggested it was a piece of cloth of some kind, bent and curled as if hidden by intention. Tenka squinted. The colours of the fabric did not match Mikazuki's robes for the night. It also did not match the Moon's usual attire. Where Mikazuki's clothes were the colours of summer evenings, tinted with warm indigo, golden threads like stars glimmered softly, this was instead dyed with winter nights: grey-toned, frosty to the eyes, glinting silver like moonlight amongst ice. Tenka could not further make out any pattern on the cloth, nor can he assume the material.

"Ah…" Mikazuki turned to look at him, head tilted in question. He was chewing on his fifth mochi, even though he had never had so much of a sweet tooth. "I, I was just wondering," Tenka paused, said, "if that was one of the cloth samples brought to Lady Nene today?" He gestured at the sleeve with the piece of fabric, eyes meeting Mikazuki's own.

Mikazuki blinked, peering down.

"Ah, yes, yes," The Crescent Moon smiled. He straightened himself, reaching for his teacup. Mouth hidden behind the rim of his cup, deep blue eyes glowed, sharp.

Tenka waited. He hoped. Expected. But Mikazuki kept his side to Tenka, still.

Tenka sat, he watched Mikazuki. Mikazuki's smile was gentle, soft. Distant. Tenka's skin crawled, a sudden anxiousness like static under the fine silk of his robes, made all the more palpable. Unease shot through him like an arrow implanting itself into the bullseye with a thunk. Familiar, it was. He had felt it before, when his master had treasures (of blood and bones, flesh and tears, of secrets untold) he did not want to share. He had felt it, when blood spattered across his blade from those who had dared grapple for a glimpse.

The words forced themselves out into the open air, even as Tenka struggled to understand its meaning.

"May I admire it?" He asked. He was used to this; acting as though he was calm, composed, not a line of distress would be seen, as guts spilled under his sword.

Tenka kept himself open, true, limbs slack and relaxed. His chest squeezed. His heart beat as if he had run a thousand miles. It was only a piece of cloth. He only wished to admire it. There was nothing wrong with it, was it? But his heart sank anyway, when Mikazuki stilled, eyes flashing, before his lips curled upward. Tenka's gaze trained on Mikazuki's own. They were the colours of summer nights, crescent moons like curved blades, glowing, protecting. Tenka sucked in a breath. There were no wounds in his stomach, yet he felt it burn hot and cold. Festering, decaying flesh.

One of Mikazuki's hands reached into the folds of one long sleeve. He was smiling. "Of course." The Moon said, pleasant, cloth in hand, extended.

Tenka took it from him, fingers firmer than his thoughts. The piece of fabric was cool to the touch, gliding between his fingers like spring water, soft yet solid. It was everything Tenka did not feel. The cloth was just a little more than Tenka Hitofuri's palms put together, each side around seven sun. From the texture of fine silk to the gleam of dainty, silver threads, itwas nothing short of a piece of treasured art. The intricate embroideries beneath Tenka's fingers twirled and whirled into the shape of a bird, a beautiful white bird, the tsuru, whose wings curved like crescent moons, elegant and majestic, ruling the winter nights that were the background. Tenka had never seen them, these birds that were said to endow eternity and bestow fortune. Yet, he could imagine them in his mind, as vivid as it was real, these creatures taking flight, over the boundless skies, wings vast and wide, white as the snow of Hokkaido's winter, framing the moon in arches over the red of their crowns, embracing it like it was none but theirs.

Tenka Hitofuri's fingers glided over the threads. His breath hitched at the back of his throat, "I have not seen anything quite like this. I cannot imagine Lady Nene not having any interest." He lifted his head. Mikazuki had been watching him, smile in place. Tenka's own flickered away. Oh. He did not ask to admire this for Lady Nene's sake, now did he. There was nothing strange about Mikazuki's expression, ever calm, ever serene. There should not be. Tenka Hitofuri's heart quivered with every breath he took. This was not right. It was just a piece of cloth. Why was Mikazuki looking at him like that? Like…like he was disapproved. The decay in his veins burnt, blistering, festering.

"Ha-ha. No, it seemed her ladyship preferred phoenixes over cranes." Mikazuki's voice washed over Tenka, imperturbable. He turned, picked up his cup, each movement fluid, casual, as though in mocking of Tenka's thoughts in staccato. He said, "Though, I myself thought this was very fine work. Wouldn't you think so?" Mikazuki's gaze was not on him. Like the question did not need an answer from Tenka anyway. He nodded nonetheless, faint, eyes and fingers over the stitches of moons and cranes. Mikazuki continued, "There was something nostalgic about it, these embroideries." He reached for another mochi, flashes of delight fluttering and dancing in those blue-gold eyes with every bite. Colouring them the same way nostalgia tinted his voice. Tenka stared. He exhaled, slow, through his nose, a tightly wounded breath he did not know he was holding back.

Oh.

Oh.

It was never about the present, was it? It was never a time Tenka had a place in.

His thoughts dipped, and dripped in long, slow trickles, like blood out of a knife cut. The cloth, he returned to Mikazuki. His fingers felt more wooden sticks than flesh and bones. He watched, as the Moon held the silk in between slim, nimble fingers, tracing – caressing – the embroidered threads, in the shape of a crane, with a care unknown to the sword famed for his beauty as much as his dispassion.

"Do you perhaps…much fancy cranes, Mikazuki-dono?" Tenka Hitofuri asked—whispered. His voice did not belong to him. He saw more grey than blue, than gold, than red and green. When Mikazuki turned to him, Tenka's breath slowed, each exhale as if dragged from a passage too tight. To come to a cease, the moment their eyes met. Tenka's chest torn open, his heart ripped out of its cage, forbidding him from ever breathing again, the second he beheld the warmth in those gold-blue eyes, crescent moons glimmering upon the night sky.

"I…," Mikazuki began, murmuring. Tenka's chest squeezed, his lungs heaved. Could he imagine being quite so breathless? "I do, don't I. I do quite fancy tsuru."

Later, much later, between the four walls of their chamber, darkness descending over their tangled forms, Tenka Hitofuri held Mikazuki Munechika tight, the Moon's voice echoing in his mind in whispers of cranes and moonlit nights; thought,

There was love in Mikazuki Munechika, after all, a love not unlike Tenka Hitofuri's.

A love deep enough to rob him of his breath.

And realised, it was not for him.

Time flew, seasons passed. And the evening of zunda mochi and winter fabric never happened. Not the way in which mattered to either of them. No, not quite. Spring turned to summer, to fall. Then winter all over again. The evening never happened, not the way their love did. In the present. Mikazuki was ever smiling, ever flustering Tenka Hitofuri when he could, ever loving him with unchanged tenderness. Tenka Hitofuri, without fail, would blush, would splutter. The evening did not matter, no; but Mikazuki's love did, in every way it did not to Tenka Hitofuri.

And oh…had he become so selfish now? To desire what he did not have…?

Tenka held his head high, his heart locked beneath armours and uniforms. He watched, tucked away and unseen, the way Mikazuki held the silk in between elegant fingers: with a reverence he recognised – the reverence he had all but offered to the Moon on a silver dish, upon what was now torn flesh and tainted blood. Tenka Hitofuri knew, Mikazuki would take care to keep his cloth under wrap and heavy folds in Tenka's company. But sometimes, there was company you could not see, yet there anyway. Tenka Hitofuri's lips tilted. His feet carried him away, his tongue tasting naught but bitterness. Alas, what had one got to hide if not for something one truly in love with his spouse would not do?

It started with a chuckled. Then loud chortling. How ridiculous, to lose to a piece of fabric…Tenka was no fool; naïve, perhaps, but not foolish. Would he ever tell Mikazuki? He realised, then, that he was brave, but it seemed never that brave…

And so, he kept his heart in his chest, not his sleeves. And if it was bleeding, no one would know but him. He would keep it all to himself. Even as winter came and Mikazuki spent more time in bed, less watching snow (the silk fabric with him at every step). Even as spring arrived and they would be drinking tea, enjoying mochi, and sharing quiet kisses. Even as war broke out between one season and the next. Tenka Hitofuri kept his heart closed. Even as he watched Mikazuki refuse to reach for his cloth, tearing at his own summer night robes to wipe at the blood spattered upon Tenka's face, treasure well-hidden between layers of deep-blue.

Tenka kept his heart closed.

Even as his master was killed, even as his castle fell.

Even as blazing fire slowly but unfalteringly turned him back to what he once was.

As flames engulfed the sword that was once known as 'the only blade under all heaven', blessed and loved, Tenka Hitofuri drifted off to sleep with one and only thought: could you have loved me the way you loved your crane—

Amber eyes fluttered close…it was never just a piece of cloth, nor was it ever cranes…