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I. Echigo
pines endure silent
in the muffled snow of night
needle quilted warmth
It had been their intent to avoid a one-on-one fight with the God of War, especially on his own borders. Too much effort for too little gain, on the grand scale of the country, to bother jarring the man out of his recluse's fortress of ice and mystique. But even Hanbei can, at times, be maneuvered into battles he did not plan.
Hanbei waits up late in the night for the shinobi reports, and shivers in his quilted jacket as fine snow whispers on the walls of their tent. Winter in Echigo would not have been his first choice, especially not with the bulk of the Toyotomi army training in the relative warmth of Osaka, but they will endure regardless, and perhaps even redraw Kenshin's borders.
But for now, it is night, and bitter cold. Hanbei sets his small body with foursquare stubbornness, whispers in the lamplight as he runs through potential strategies, phalanxes, formations, strike points for Hideyoshi's fists. A shiver runs through him, wrenches a deep cough from his guts.
"Hanbei," Hideyoshi murmurs, and settles close, folding his bulk into an informal agura, the only way he'd ever been comfortable sitting. Hanbei scrubs a hand over his mouth, resumes his musing mid-sentence with a graceful apology.
Hideyoshi opens his own jacket, double-wide panels across the bulk of his chest, splays a hand over Hanbei's side, and tucks him bodily inside it.
"Hideyoshi." Hanbei tenses. He can feel it, this close, his limbs compacted, none of the expansive ease Hanbei usually affected. "Please, you need not worry yourself." It is as if they have traded places. Hideyoshi, for once, doesn't bother to keep himself contained, wraps his warmth around him.
"I could not worry for one so strong," Hideyoshi says firmly. "I merely wish you close."
It is mostly true. It mostly suffices. Hanbei eases, slowly, and the shivers pass with time, and he rests his head on Hideyoshi's bicep. Smoothes one small, soft hand down his chest. Hideyoshi is warm, he knows. His strength has always burnt as a furnace in him, leaving him ever-hungry, ever-hot. Hairy as a wild monkey, but Hanbei had never minded.
His second heart beats against his ribs.
Until sleep comes to them both, the expanse of Hideyoshi's chest becomes the battlefield of Echigo, and Hanbei's lacquered nails trace the paths of their victory through thick gray snow.
II. Odawara
wild cherries weep
over koi ponds pink with blood
scattered in triumph
The castle is theirs, and the first step on their campaign for dominion echoes like thunder across the land, as Hanbei had always promised. Only the name of the Hojo is of any consequence now that their power has faded, the name that once ruled the land from the shadows and the regent's seat, but the name has fallen to the Toyotomi like a blossom on the wind.
Hanbei is pristine, as always. Only the faintest brush of smoke from fallen ninjas on his shining white sleeve. He sweeps his arm, and the silk of his cape flies, and dust scatters. His strength lies in the kiss of a razor whip and the unbreakable line of his phalanxes, and his strength is as absolute as his beauty.
Hideyoshi stands on the highest seat of Odawara to thunder to the troops. The sign they all need. Hideyoshi raises one fist, still wrapped in his war gauntlets, dripping blood, and the castle roars with one voice in answer, and with Hanbei gleaming at his side, the world is already perfect.
Victory pounds in their blood like wine without decadence.
In their tent, Hanbei murmurs, wait. Holds up one slim gloved hand. "Please, Hideyoshi, let me attend to you."
Hideyoshi waits. He is an unhurried man. And the heavy-lidded promise in Hanbei's eyes stirs his blood still further.
Hanbei strips. With other men, Hideyoshi knew, he would have them bare before him, vulnerable, long before deigning to join them; but for Hideyoshi, he shows his all. Purple and white silk peeling away from his fine skin. His mask slid aside with beckoning ease.
Hanbei settles naked across his knees, blood and smoke of battle staining his skin, and Hideyoshi almost, almost stops him. Would lift him off to remain pristine but for the lust in his eyes, the abandon with which he parts his lips and kisses Hideyoshi's blood-spattered face.
For Hanbei's deepest dream is to hand him the country, and here, now, he shall taste of him in glory.
Hideyoshi rumbles his approval, feels his throat tighten as Hanbei's small fingers coax his hand up. Run reverently over the plates of his gauntlets, the captive light glimmering within. "Hanbei..."
"Hideyoshi," Hanbei murmurs. "I will see you take the country in this hands."
And he bows his head, and kisses the battered metal, and licks it clean as fervently as Mitsunari would, excitement lighting his face. Hideyoshi feels a low groan tighten in his throat, lust thick in his body, and lights his other hand on Hanbei's arm--gently, he could seize his whole bicep in his fist if he wished, break his arm like kindling, but Hanbei is strong, and Hideyoshi will never need to cast him aside--and leather and metal scrapes against Hanbei's bare skin and leaves stains of blood and conquest, and the hitch in Hanbei's breath is entrancing--
For once, time does not matter.
Hanbei swallows his bare fingers to the root after finally cleaning and loosening his gauntlets, throat working as it would around a lesser man's cock, and a curl of his hair falls across his eyes and his choked moan is giddy. Victorious.
III. Osaka
cicadas buzz bright
his nape sweat damp and fever
hot under the sun
Hanbei does not sleep.
Years of preparations to come to a head in one summer, perhaps with a few residual matters to be left to the fall. The reason for the rush is not questioned. Not ever. Not by either of them.
Hideyoshi discusses matters with him in the evening, always, and takes to paying close attention to Hanbei's expectations for the evening. His spy and logistics networks run even in the dark of the moon, but some nights are nights of waiting. Now, for example: everything is accounted for pending news from Chugoku, news which could not come in one night.
And yet Hanbei still sits up late in the evening, quill in hand. Obsession lights his eyes, grants him a feverish beauty. Hideyoshi lets him wind the briefing to a close, and settles his hand on his back, easily spanning his shoulder blades that stand out like knives under satin.
"Hanbei."
A small, coy smile teases his painted lips. "Hideyoshi. Is there something else you wish?"
"Attend to me." Hideyoshi's voice feels small to his own ears. Almost the weakness of a question.
Hanbei's breath hitches in his throat, and he lays down his quill and turns.
"You do have the time," Hideyoshi adds, and doesn't quite allow that to be a question either.
"For you," Hanbei murmurs sweetly. "Always."
He seems even smaller under Hideyoshi's hands tonight. The mask has worn off some of the powder on his face, showing the shadows beneath his eyes. The loose-limbed shudder as Hideyoshi prepares him--with his own hands, relentless, this is no time to lean back and let Hanbei put on a show for him--is longer than usual, but that alone does not give Hideyoshi pause.
For he wishes to see him undone in his entirety. Exultant in the weakness that he transforms into such strength.
He straddles him, mantles over him, as he so rarely does. Usually he sits, lets Hanbei ride him, measured. Now he bears one slim pale thigh against his chest, drives him into the futon, sprawled face-up like a woman, for he never wishes to take his eyes off Hanbei's face. Not in this.
Hanbei cries his name in adoration until it drags apart into scattered syllables, voice cracking as Hideyoshi fucks him, relentless. Hanbei's too-pale cheeks light in a flush of sheer pleasure, and Hideyoshi pauses only when his breath seizes in his chest, rumbles his name to make him catch a deep lungful of air in delight. Hanbei falls to pieces just as Hideyoshi had hoped, writhing heedless, and no other man could ever earn this from him, and Hideyoshi feels every shudder of it somewhere deep and warm in his chest.
In climax, the world gleams, and it is as if all of Japan is already spread out beneath them and nothing need ever end.
Exhausted, Hanbei sleeps, limp as a babe, his breathing deep and calm. Hideyoshi silently tidies up after, pauses to brush sticky curls out of Hanbei's face with the lightest touch he could muster. Then steps out of the room, gently slides the screen closed with a fingertip.
Hanbei will be stronger in the morning. Hideyoshi is pleased.
Gyobu's presence is unbidden, silent and watchful in the hallway, but his diseased eyes hold no particular alarm. Rather he is welcome. His strength is the reed that should cleave to Hanbei's in this summer of many marches.
"Gather any reports that come from Hanbei's networks in the night, and attend to him in the morning. It should not be an eventful night, but he will desire assurance."
"Of course." The bandages suck in over Gyobu's mouth, cling tight and his voice drips like natto between the fingers. "You care for him well, Taiko."
Hideyoshi turns from the thought of his weakness. Leaves.
IV. Kaga
red maple leaves fly
and bales of rice lie gutted
all to ground to rot
Blood bubbles softly on Maeda Keiji's lips. Falls off the boil along with the rice kettles whose flames have been trampled out by a thousand feet.
He had not spoken a word. Not one that could have reached Hideyoshi's ears.
Hideyoshi's chest is stone. A knotted fist. His blood feels chill as first snow in his veins, even in the full bloom of fall and the heat of battle. He is alone. He is alone. He is alone.
Mitsunari crouches at his feet, and his voice comes as a whisper from beyond the sea, and were Hanbei at his side, Hideyoshi could have spared a word for him, but he was silent.
He has no friend. Mitsunari is his blade to be honed and wielded. What else there was is gone.
Hideyoshi had not been strong enough. Strong enough to destroy fate, to force back the inevitable weight of time, to change even one small life.
No matter.
He would be stronger.
He had to be.
Hanbei should no longer be a matter of concern. He should never have allowed him to be, he should never have--
Keiji's hand clutches the little embroidered bag even in death.
This, too, was inevitable. Every moment, inevitable. The strong must see the future and shoulder its burden unflinching.
Hideyoshi's heart is stone. Hideyoshi's heart is ice. He turns. Commands his feet to march in time with the drums, even when his body wishes for nothing more but rest and weakness in sorrow. Moves out.
There was nothing else left for him.