No one except Hijikata really understood, until now - and Hijikata himself hadn't yet known the extent of his illness. Not in the way Yamazaki had. Yamazaki, who wanted to force him to continue living, even if it meant wasting away in bed, so far away from the battlefields he was born for that he couldn't even be water for the new flowers waiting to bloom. Yamazaki, who had done nothing wrong, but who he still held in mildly bitter regard just because he did hate being forced to bend to that will.
There's understanding in his own eyes, first, and then an almost fever-bright sort of intensity as it really clicks. Someone gets it. Souji's suddenly grasping Jae-ha's hands in turn with a strength that someone so sickly shouldn't reasonably be capable of, stepping forward with the urgency of a dying man, heedless of the fact that the bubble is dissipating around them, like his view has narrowed down to a singular point.
He thinks of the memory he'd seen. Of the iron shackling Jae-ha down, only for him to break it so easily, to decide on his own terms what he would or wouldn't offer. Where he would or wouldn't go. Is that where it came from? The aesthetic that he lives by, even today?]
That's-- [That's exactly it, isn't it?] That's where I'm meant to be. [Or perhaps more importantly:] That's where I want to be. I've only ever wanted that.
[To live and die as a sword. It's awful - he's awful, really - but he'd certainly do anything if it meant he could die by his own terms. In a sudden burst of honesty:]
I can't stand it. Being told to sit in my room like that, like I'm meant to wait there until I die - I really can't stand it. You understand.
[Not a question so much as a confirmation. Even like this, one person is able to see what he so desperately wants and still say I think that's beautiful.
no subject
No one except Hijikata really understood, until now - and Hijikata himself hadn't yet known the extent of his illness. Not in the way Yamazaki had. Yamazaki, who wanted to force him to continue living, even if it meant wasting away in bed, so far away from the battlefields he was born for that he couldn't even be water for the new flowers waiting to bloom. Yamazaki, who had done nothing wrong, but who he still held in mildly bitter regard just because he did hate being forced to bend to that will.
There's understanding in his own eyes, first, and then an almost fever-bright sort of intensity as it really clicks. Someone gets it. Souji's suddenly grasping Jae-ha's hands in turn with a strength that someone so sickly shouldn't reasonably be capable of, stepping forward with the urgency of a dying man, heedless of the fact that the bubble is dissipating around them, like his view has narrowed down to a singular point.
He thinks of the memory he'd seen. Of the iron shackling Jae-ha down, only for him to break it so easily, to decide on his own terms what he would or wouldn't offer. Where he would or wouldn't go. Is that where it came from? The aesthetic that he lives by, even today?]
That's-- [That's exactly it, isn't it?] That's where I'm meant to be. [Or perhaps more importantly:] That's where I want to be. I've only ever wanted that.
[To live and die as a sword. It's awful - he's awful, really - but he'd certainly do anything if it meant he could die by his own terms. In a sudden burst of honesty:]
I can't stand it. Being told to sit in my room like that, like I'm meant to wait there until I die - I really can't stand it. You understand.
[Not a question so much as a confirmation. Even like this, one person is able to see what he so desperately wants and still say I think that's beautiful.
The amazing one is Jae-ha, really.]