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It tastes like iron in his mouth, but iron should be a familiar taste to him by now—as familiar as the feeling of a hand on his hilt, as the feeling of the sharp edge of his blade meeting soft, yielding flesh and feeling it split—
“Let’s go home,” Buzen says, a hand on his lower back. “We’ve seen enough blood for today, Matsu.” He’s leaning in close, his voice low enough that the rest of the team can’t hear him.
Matsui nods, but even that slight motion makes his head spin and his knees weak. His eyes are too swollen from crying for him to see much other than the blue-red-black-white blurs that make up the rest of their team.
The trip back to the honmaru is as quick as the trip out and for a fraction of a second, Matsui feels relief. For a fraction of a second, he’s free, light as he felt in his master’s hand. But then he’s on his feet again and his nose and mouth are filled with the scent and taste of blood all over again. He opens his eyes and expects to see the honmaru awash in blood like the battlefield they’ve just left, but no. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and all is peaceful.
It takes him a moment to realize that the reason the scent of blood is still tormenting him is because he’s drenched in it, because his white shirt is stained red and his hands are caked with it, all over his knuckles and crusted into the beds of his nails.
For this is my blood of the covenant, which will be shed on behalf of many for the forgiveness of sins.
When the tears start anew, he can feel them cutting tracks through the blood on his face. The salt stings.
“—gonna go find Hachi-nii—” Urashima. He’s crying again.
“I’ll help you look for him—” Hyuuga. He’s forcing a smile. Matsui can tell even if he can’t see it through his tears.
“—have to report to Aruji—” Tsurumaru. Unfazed. Like nothing’s happened. Like they didn’t just watch nearly forty thousand people bleed and bleed and bleed and—
“Matsu, you okay? Matsu? Matsui?” His knees fold beneath him and Buzen’s hands are on his shoulders instantly. “Matsui? Are you hurt? C’mon, talk to me.”
Matsui is crying too hard to speak.
Speak to them this word: Let my eyes stream with tears day and night, without rest, over the great destruction which overwhelms the virgin daughter of my people, over her incurable wound.
“Let’s get you cleaned up. I’m gonna pick you up, okay?” Buzen crouches and scoops Matsui into his arms. The sudden movement is nauseating, the blur of colors and the scent of blood making everything into a sick kaleidoscope.
“The repair room has a private shower.” Ookurikara is speaking to Buzen, just barely audible over Matsui’s gasping tears. “Take him there.”
“Thanks, Kuri-san.” Buzen is fast as always. He sweeps Matsui into the honmaru, past a swirl of noise that sounds agonizingly like life, like people who haven’t been holding children at the point of a sword.
When he presses his cheek to Buzen’s shoulder, the cut across his cheekbone burns like fire. He doesn’t let himself flinch. He doesn’t deserve it.
The repair room is quiet when Buzen carries him in. At least, Matsui has to assume it’s the repair room. He’s never been here before and the tears won’t stop, so he can’t exactly take it in now.
“Buzen!” Someone comes over—Yagen, he introduced himself when Matsui first arrived, before the haze of blood descended over the world and permeated every one of Matsui’s senses, before he was choking, drowning— “What happened? Where is he injured? There’s so much blood…”
“I don’t think he’s hurt. Kuri-san said there’s a private shower attached to the repair room. Can we use it? I can’t take him to the regular bath.”
“Go ahead. No one else needs it right now.”
“Thanks. C’mon, Matsui.” Buzen is talking to him like Matsui is coherent enough to respond, like he can move himself. He shoulders the door open and the light comes on, bright enough to blind Matsui even through his tears.
To open the eyes of the blind, to bring out prisoners from confinement, and from the dungeon, those who live in darkness.
Buzen sets Matsui down on a cool bench. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He hears the rustling of Buzen removing his gloves and then warm hands are touching his cheeks to tilt Matsui’s face up. Matsui blinks up at him through his tears. Buzen is haloed by the bright lights of the repair room. There’s blood spattered across his face.
“Buzen—” Matsui croaks. He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say. What he even could say.
“Let’s just get you into the shower.” Buzen crouches down in front of Matsui and carefully begins peeling the bloody glove off of Matsui’s hand. It takes longer than it should. The blood soaking it has started to dry and stick to Matsui’s skin.
“I can—”
Buzen is no longer backlit, crouching as he is. Matsui can look at his face and his impossibly kind eyes and the way his brow furrows softly.
“Let me. I think you’ve done enough for today, Matsu.”
His hands are gentle as they unfasten the clasps holding Matsui’s coat onto his shoulders. Something in him eases as the weight falls free. He closes his eyes. They’re still swollen and aching from his tears.
Gentle fingers start to unfasten the buttons of his shirt, one at a time, and push the suspenders off his shoulders. Matsui lets it happen, lets himself slump against the cool tile behind him.
Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.
“Lift your arms for me.” Buzen tugs Matsui’s shirt off and tosses it aside. It’s likely ruined, still wet with blood that’s soaked through to stain Matsui’s skin. The movement of his shirt pulls at the chain that’s still around his neck. “Can you stand up? Get your arms around my shoulders.” Buzen is treating him so carefully, so gently, like he’s fragile and delicate and worth protecting.
“I can stand,” Matsui says. Buzen smiles. Matsui’s entire chest aches with how good he is.
Even with Matsui’s words, Buzen slides an arm around his waist and helps pull him up to his feet. He tucks his face into the curve of Buzen’s neck, into the shelter offered by his arms and the sanctuary of his heartbeat. Buzen seems unfazed by this, even as Matsui knows he’s smearing dried blood along Buzen’s throat. Buzen’s hands expertly unfasten the buttons of Matsui’s pants and strip them off along with the blade still hanging at Matsui’s side. There’s kindness in his touch, as there is in every part of him. It’s almost too much to bear.
“Shh…it’s okay, it’s okay.” It takes a long moment for Matsui to realize that he’s crying again; Buzen is trying to comfort him. “Shh…Matsu.” Buzen kisses the top of his head. “Come on, you have to be getting cold now that you’re naked. Let me just get out of my armor at least and we’ll get you into a hot shower.”
Buzen isn’t wrong. He is chilled now that the blood on him has cooled to tacky stiffness. He lets himself be eased back down to sit on the same cold-tile bench while Buzen strips with his usual speed. The only thing Buzen treats with care is his blade. Everything else is tossed aside until Buzen is as naked as Matsui, if not nearly as blood-soaked.
There’s a moment where Matsui is settled back on the still-cold stool (built into the wall, it must be something special for the repair room) and Buzen’s back is to him, and Buzen is fumbling with the shower controls. Matsui looks down at Buzen’s feet, at his long toes and the bandage on the back of his heel, and his chest aches with how much he loves him and how much he doesn’t deserve any part of Buzen.
Then, Buzen figures out how the shower works and Matsui shrieks as cold water immediately soaks them both.
“Ah, sorry! Sorry! Just give it a moment—” Buzen is in front of him and blocking the water, turned with his hands planted on the wall above Matsui’s head. “Sorry, I didn’t think it’d be so cold, just give it a second.”
Matsui looks up at Buzen, backlit again, water dripping over his shoulders and running down his arms in little rivulets.
For you are my refuge, a tower of strength against the foe.
“…Is everything okay?” Yagen’s voice comes through the door.
“We’re fine!” Buzen calls back. “Just took a second to figure out the shower!”
“Okay.” Yagen sounds quite doubtful, but he doesn’t come in.
Buzen turns his attention back to Matsui. “Let’s get you cleaned up, Matsu. Should be warm enough now.” He slides an arm around Matsui’s waist and pulls him to his feet. They’re pressed together like this, hip to shoulder, and the water that hits Matsui now is pleasantly hot. When he tips his face up, the water stings his cut cheek. Buzen’s nose brushes against his ear. “Can you stand on your own? I want to grab the soap.”
Matsui hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until he opens them again. “I can stand.” He’s rewarded with a smile from Buzen that he can feel more than see.
For a moment, he loses Buzen’s warmth and he turns, fixed on Buzen as a planet orbiting the sun. He can do nothing more and nothing less. Buzen is half-turned away from him reaching for the soap, water running down his chest and thighs. On any other day, that would be enough to keep Matsui’s attention for quite some time, but his eyes catch on the blood being washed away, on the red dripping off of Buzen’s arm and running down his calf as he reaches for the soap. His gaze follows the trail of red, red, red, down to the floor of the shower where the water is pooling around the drain, sticky and red and the salt on his lips from his own tears tastes like the ocean that they left and its red, red, tide and Matsui buries his face against Buzen’s throat and grits back a sob.
At this I say: Turn away from me, let me weep bitterly; Do not try to comfort me for the ruin of the daughter of my people.
Buzen says nothing this time, but his soap-slicked hands begin to carefully move down Matsui’s arms. It feels like having poison drawn from a wound—the low steady pressure from shoulder to wrist, the way Buzen then takes Matsui’s hands, one at a time, and carefully begins to clean them with his own fingers. By the time Matsui can lift his head from Buzen’s shoulder, Buzen has begun gently rubbing soap across Matsui’s shoulder blades in a movement that feels more like a hug than bathing.
“I’ve got you,” Buzen says quietly. Matsui hooks his chin over Buzen’s shoulder and watches the blood-red water swirl around their feet as Buzen carefully cleans his back and chest. Eventually, Buzen turns his face against Matsui’s cheek. “Do you want to sit down on the bench and let me wash your hair?”
The last thing in this universe that Matsui wants is to let go of Buzen, but Buzen’s voice is gentle and when he touches Matsui’s hair, Matsui can feel where his hair is clumped with blood. It’s running down his face again, mixed with water. He sticks his tongue out and tastes the salt-iron-copper that pools there. It makes him vaguely nauseous when he swallows. He does it again anyway.
“Matsui,” Buzen says, gently jostling him. “Okay, hey, stop that. You’ll make yourself sick. Let’s get your hair cleaned up.” He manhandles Matsui into sitting on the bench that’s now warmed with shower water and steam. “I should have washed your hair first. I’m just going to get blood all over you again.”
“It’s fine,” Matsui says. Buzen shakes his head.
“Let me get the shampoo, okay?”
“Okay,” Matsui says. He watches Buzen turn away from him, watches the red running down his back and down his thighs. It’s not Buzen’s blood. It’s not Matsui’s either. It belongs to nameless humans who lived in Shimabara, who had the misfortune of encountering Matsui Gou or the blessing of encountering Buzen Gou. They’re dead now either way. Their blood is all that’s left and he watches it swirl down the drain.
“Look at me,” Buzen says. For a moment, Matsui isn’t quite sure when Buzen turned back to him, but Buzen has flicked the shower to its handheld mode and settled the bottle of shampoo on the bench beside Matsui. “Head back, Matsu.” Matsui obeys, blinking up at the ceiling like he has a fresh nosebleed. Buzen’s hand settles over his eyes, over his forehead. The darkness is confusing but not unwelcome. Not if it’s caused by Buzen’s familiarly calloused hand. “I don’t want to get stuff in your eyes,” Buzen explains. The warm water returns, clearly held in Buzen’s other hand and angled to begin rinsing blood out of Matsui’s hair.
Thoroughly wash away my guilt; and from my sin cleanse me. For I know my transgressions; my sin is always before me.
The water goes away, but it’s replaced by Buzen’s hand with a handful of shampoo that he starts to work into some of the most blood-clumped spots in Matsui’s hair. His hand is gentle. He doesn’t tug or scrub too hard. His free hand remains gently resting over Matsui’s eyes. Protecting him.
Matsui takes a shuddering breath. “Buzen—”
“Ah, Matsu, you’re bleeding!” That gentle hand leaves his eyes and Matsui blinks in surprise at the stark-white ceiling.
“I’m…bleeding?” He doesn’t feel any pain, but when he raises his hand to touch under his nose, his hand comes away sticky. It looks like all the other blood he’s covered in.
“It’s not bad,” Buzen assures him. “It should stop in a minute. Just tip your head forward, pinch your nose.” Buzen’s hand moves to cradle the back of Matsui’s head and tip him forward. “Ah, one sec, one sec. Shit, let me just get the soap off this hand.”
Matsui watches the water swirling down the drain and tries to blink the water out of his eyes as it starts to run out of his hair. His eyes sting with soap and he winces.
“Shit, sorry, shit—okay, I’ve got you.” Buzen’s hand returns, brushing Matsui’s bangs up and holding them back so that they stop dripping into his eyes. “I’ve got you. Just breathe through your mouth until you stop bleeding, okay? Yagen told me that’s what you’re supposed to do for a nosebleed.”
Matsui manages a slight nod, somewhat trapped as he is between Buzen’s hand on his forehead and the other resting on the back of his neck, but Buzen seems to understand what he means well enough. The hand on the back of his neck squeezes gently. His thumb is rubbing along Matsui’s neck, bumping over each vertebrae. Matsui watches his blood drip from his face to run down the drain. It looks just like all the other blood that he’s washed off today, red and sticky and gone down the drain in an instant.
He reaches out to drag his fingers through the bloody water pooling on the floor. It’s runny, thin, floods his nail beds as quick as seawater. It’s about as salty when he touches his fingers to his tongue.
“Matsui,” Buzen says gently. “Don’t do that.”
“It’s leaving,” Matsui says, like that makes any amount of sense.
“Let it go,” Buzen says. “Let it go, Matsu.”
“I can’t,” Matsui says, his throat tightening. “I can’t just forget—”
“Shh…You don’t have to forget, but we can’t keep it either. Close your eyes.” Matsui obeys because he couldn’t defy Buzen even if he wanted to. Buzen lets Matsui’s bangs fall so he can slip his fingers under Matsui’s chin and tip his face up. “Looks like your nosebleed has stopped.” Buzen’s thumb swipes under his nose and before Matsui can open his eyes, warm lips are brushing over his swollen eyelids. It stings.
“Buzen—” he can’t finish the sentence. He isn’t even entirely sure what he’s trying to say. Buzen’s body is blocking the hot water, but Matsui can hardly even feel the chill setting in.
He set me free in the open; he rescued me because he loves me.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up before the water goes cold.” Buzen’s hand leaves his chin and its absence aches like a physical wound. The pain is quickly soothed by that same hand returning to his hair and restarting the process of breaking up the tacky clumps of blood that still remain. Under Buzen’s careful attention, the water runs from sticky red to watery pink to clear. The sting of salt leaves Matsui’s cheeks. He’s still not sure if it was from sea spray, blood, or tears.
There’s a knock at the door and a tentative call.
“Leader? Matsui? Yagen found me and said you both might need clean clothes and towels.”
“Ah, Kotegiri!” Buzen straightens. His smile is blinding. It makes Matsui’s entire chest ache enough that he has to lean forward and hide his face against Buzen’s hip. “There’s a bench right inside the door if you could come drop those off. Matsu and I are just getting cleaned up.”
The door opens just a crack and Kotegiri slips in. Matsui can hear his footsteps, just barely louder than the running shower water.
“Leader, are you both okay?” There’s a rustle of fabric. He must have seen their ruined clothes. “You’re in the repair room shower…”
“We’re not injured. Just needed to get cleaned up and didn’t want to make a mess in the showers, you know? We’re okay, Kote. Hey, can you do me a favor? Can you hunt down some leftovers or something from the kitchen? We’ll head back to the room as soon as we’re done here but we haven’t had a chance to get anything to eat.” Buzen’s fingers are gently scratching through the short hair at the nape of Matsui’s neck.
“Oh! Okay,” Kotegiri calls back. “I think Kuwana brought in some fresh vegetables that he wanted to do something with—I’ll see if he’s working on anything with them.”
“Thanks, Kote.” Buzen’s voice is impossibly warm. The door closes and Buzen shifts. “Come on, Matsu. Let’s get you back on your feet. Up we go.” The sudden shift from sitting to standing in the hot shower water is enough to make Matsui’s head spin.
“You—I should help you,” Matsui says as Buzen goes to his knees to wash down Matsui’s legs. Buzen looks up at him and something twists in Matsui’s chest so hard it hurts. “Buzen—” There’s red puddling around Buzen on the floor—it’s so much lighter than it was when they first got into the shower. There’s so much less blood. It’s all being washed away. All of it just…
“Nah, I’m good. You’re about done, so you can sit down again and I’ll get cleaned up real quick.” Buzen stands and gently cups Matsui’s face in his hands. “Just a minute.”
Matsui stares into Buzen’s eyes, bright and warm and so alive and red. “Buzen—”
“Sit down. It’s okay.” Buzen smiles. “I’ve got you.”
Matsui’s throat tightens. “Buzen—I need to say—”
Buzen pauses, just watching him. For someone who goes so fast, Buzen can be endlessly patient. The words lodge themselves in Matsui’s throat. He’s choking.
“Okay, Matsu. It’s okay.” Buzen’s thumbs brush along his cheekbones. “If it’s too hard to say, you don’t have to. Remember?”
“I want to,” Matsui says. “I need to.”
This I say by way of concession, however, not as a command.
Buzen holds his gaze for a long moment before he nods. “Okay. What is it?”
“What I couldn’t tell you before,” Matsui says. The words taste like he still has blood on his teeth. “The thing that was too heavy—”
Buzen makes an affirmative sound but doesn’t press. The water is getting cold. Buzen doesn’t object when Matsui presses in against him so they’re touching from knee to shoulder. Even under slightly-chilly water, Buzen radiates warmth. The water runs clear over them both. The tile is shining white around them.
Matsui speaks to the blank tile. He can’t say the words to Buzen’s face.
“I killed them. Those children.”
“Matsu, you didn’t do anything to them,” Buzen says soothingly. “I know you feel responsible, but that was just history.”
“No,” Matsui insists. “No, it was me. Not this time. The first time. I killed them. I—” His eyes are stinging like he has any more tears to give. “I—”
“Oh. Oh, Matsui,” Buzen’s voice is heavy with such immense kindness that Matsui’s tears break through. “Shh…”
Matsui cries. His tears track down his cheeks, clean and clear. There’s no blood to be washed away now. No evidence of what he’s done. What’s been done to him. There’s just Matsui and Buzen, bare as unsheathed blades and infinitely more fragile.
They stand in the shower until the water turns cold as ocean spray and Matsui’s shivering has overtaken his tears. Buzen reaches behind himself to turn the shower off.
“Let’s get dried off and then, I think it’s time for food and bed.”
It’s too easy to let himself be taken care of a little more. Just a bit. It’s too easy to have Buzen wrap a big, clean towel around him and scrub him warm and dry. Kotegiri brought them comfortable, clean clothes. Each piece that Buzen helps tug onto him feels like love, like protection.
Buzen shrugs himself into his own clothes. He’s beautiful. He’s always been beautiful.
When he turns to look at Matsui, his smile is brighter than the sunrise over the sea.
He holds out his hand. “Ready, Matsu?”
Matsui looks up at him. Radiant. Perfect. Clean.
“Ready.”
He takes Buzen’s hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet.
Therefore, encourage one another and build one another up, as indeed you do.