[ For a long while, there is no response beyond the sound of the other man's movements, the way his sword cuts the air, his feet touch the floors, his clothes touch his body. Isamu waits and it is a stubborn kind of waiting, the kind that acknowledges that he is being given every available opportunity to save his dignity and his position, disappear not unseen, but unknown back into the hallways, but he remains where he is. He does not flee, because Isamu has lost his dignity many times over already and in the end, being unknown saved him nothing before.
Never let the Master see you unless invited, Isamu's father used to tell him, when he was little and he played noisily, so he would disturb the whole household and the Hayashi head would stick an arm out the window, waving it annoyed. For we are not worth more than the air we breathe. Back then, Isamu had thought it was a stupid way to look at it, no one was worth more than the air they breathed, were they, but as he grew up, he understood why men like Natsu's father needed to put price tags on people. After all, he had the likes of Natsu. Who was precious.
Before this unnamed member of the Kuchiki Clan, Isamu thinks even the air he breathes is too valuable for him, the sounds he makes as he talks are wasted, but none of that has to do with one man carrying a sword and the other a wash brush. People are always more alike than different from one another, Natsu would say. It is only things that set them apart. Swords. Brushes.
Underneath...
The man moves, making Isamu glance up at him, meeting his eyes. He does not hurriedly look away, even if he does avert his gaze. They are just people, marked by things. The both of them. Keeping his voice pleasant, low, he murmurs: ]
I've lost my way. The worst reason to be anywhere.
[ While he is definitely talking about the western storage rooms, Isamu is also talking about more than the western storage rooms. About what you might lose or could possibly have gained beyond the intricate design of any household.
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Never let the Master see you unless invited, Isamu's father used to tell him, when he was little and he played noisily, so he would disturb the whole household and the Hayashi head would stick an arm out the window, waving it annoyed. For we are not worth more than the air we breathe. Back then, Isamu had thought it was a stupid way to look at it, no one was worth more than the air they breathed, were they, but as he grew up, he understood why men like Natsu's father needed to put price tags on people. After all, he had the likes of Natsu. Who was precious.
Before this unnamed member of the Kuchiki Clan, Isamu thinks even the air he breathes is too valuable for him, the sounds he makes as he talks are wasted, but none of that has to do with one man carrying a sword and the other a wash brush. People are always more alike than different from one another, Natsu would say. It is only things that set them apart. Swords. Brushes.
Underneath...
The man moves, making Isamu glance up at him, meeting his eyes. He does not hurriedly look away, even if he does avert his gaze. They are just people, marked by things. The both of them. Keeping his voice pleasant, low, he murmurs: ]
I've lost my way. The worst reason to be anywhere.
[ While he is definitely talking about the western storage rooms, Isamu is also talking about more than the western storage rooms. About what you might lose or could possibly have gained beyond the intricate design of any household.
Walls can hold only so much, after all. ]