#KANETSUGU: Great wisdom is generous; petty wisdom is contentious.

[syneilesis]

writing practice ft. Naoe Kanetsugu

A/N: Just trying to get back into the writing groove. I haven't finished Kanetsugu's route yet so I am not confident about his voice. But I'm enjoying his route too much I can't not write for him.

Kanetsugu’s sitting behind his desk, poring over his new text that just came this morning. From the glimpses you see of the book before his hand obscures it with his annotations, it’s by Zhuang Zhou – not that you know much about him and ancient Chinese philosophers, but Kanetsugu seems absorbed enough that he’s made no clicking sounds when you slid by the side of his desk, planting your elbows on the smooth wooden surface and directing your interested gaze at him. It’s getting late in the afternoon, and the sky begins to bleed red and purple, the light slanting through the slits of the windows, hitting Kanetsugu’s pale skin and silver hair in burnished marigold. If you had a camera with you, you’d take a picture of his profile and frame it on your bedroom wall (his bedroom wall, but details, details).

Spring has just arrived, and with it a lull in conflict, as if all the warlords collectively decided to admire and savor the blooming flowers first before rushing back into war. There’s nothing to complain about; after all, it’s allowed Kanetsugu to stay in the castle and spend more time with his philosophical texts, which allows you to spend more time watching him, and that’s not such a bad deal at all.

Finally, after hours of studying the book (and hours of staring at him), Kanetsugu’s eyebrow twitches.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” he says, raising his head and throwing you an unimpressed look.

“Like what?”

Kanetsugu’s face scrunches, miffed, and you think, Can Sasuke invent a DSLR camera right now?

To himself, he murmurs, “You can't discuss the ocean with a well frog – he's limited by the space he lives in. You can't discuss ice with a summer insect – he's bound to a single season.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know that this is a productive use of my time!”

“What – prolonged staring?”

“No –” and you sound so smug at this “– appreciating a work of art.”

There’s a twitch of his jaw, and the hand gripping the writing brush tightens. Slowly, a blush creeps into Kanetsugu’s cheeks; it reaches into his ears and his neck.

He closes his eyes as if pained, and expires a heavy sigh. You can’t help but grin.

“I’m just being honest.”

“And you sound like Lord Shingen and Lord Yoshimoto combined.”

You shrug airily. “They’re great teachers.”

That snaps Kanetsugu’s eyes open. His body twists to face you, tilting forward. He pins you with a narrow, bladed gaze that promises heat and fire, almost glowing with it. He gets closer and closer, expression never faltering, until you feel his warm breath puffing your skin, your lips.

You squirm in your seat, your eyes trapped under his – until they fall to his mouth.

And then he launches.