the imitation does not pass unnoticed. a low hiss comes from the hunter’s throat, grating on the ears, and she shifts her weight to the other foot, daring him to follow suit. this mimicry is a game to him, she thinks. she is not certain of it, but then again, she is rarely certain of anything when it comes to masamune. and if she ever does believe she’s getting somewhere, he puts up additional fronts, relishing her confusion as any opponent takes pride in a careful outmaneuvering. is the nature of any dragon to AGGRAVATE her, even self-professed ones? ( it’s a cruel comparison, but still a little funny. )
❝ you waste it on me . ❞ such a lovely talent ! how flawless his execution ! she clicks her tongue. his efforts are to be commended, but what use is there wearing a disguise to fool the blind besides to mock their lack of sight ? ❝ do you trust anyone ? ❞ there should be bite to those words, but curiosity softens their taste. she could tell you the secrets of the stars before she managed to pull a single hidden truth from masamune’s heart, but one does not need to dig so deep to find the weight of responsibility, the mantle of leadership. the look of a warrior is universal. ( and perhaps that is why when he smiles, she follows along as if she gets the joke. ) ❝ or can you not afford it ? ❞
Masamune’s eye tracks her shift in posture, that smile still plastered to his lips as if it had any meaning whatsoever. He again imitates her, shifting his weight to the opposite leg, but follows it up by crossing his arms over his chest. This little game has never been one with the intention of frustrating her, or intentionally irritating her; it’s more-so his own attempt to play. Granted, his sense of playfulness errs on the side of combativeness, but it’s certainly not something that is purposefully so. Years of being denied the ability to socialise regularly has somewhat skewed his understanding of what it means to “play around”.
Having rarely been afforded even so much as the idea of having acquaintances since he was young – well, those that weren’t from the family, or strictly allies, or enemies sat the table for negotiations – he’s at something of a disadvantage when attempting to convey the comfort he finds in Samus’ presence. It’s not a homely comfort, that’s for sure, but is something that feels distinctly like camaraderie; but he dare not say as much where she could hear. He feels comfortable enough to engage in activities with her that went beyond picking a fight, though he understands if she doesn’t quite see it the same way. (All that said, he wouldn’t be opposed to going a round or two in a fight with her. It would be interesting, and he’s sure that he could stand to learn a thing or two from her, as mighty a warrior as she is.)
But as she accuses him of distrust – no, her tone isn’t accusatory, though he feels as if it is all the same – his customary smile falters a bit, his brows knitting, before the smirk is gone altogether, replaced with a grim line. It figures, of course, that she would want to know. Anyone would. Hell, Samus has the right to know.
His countenance utterly changes: the loud, boisterous, overbearing and immature demeanour he typically purports disappears almost instantaneously, and is replaced by something calm, quiet, and contemplative. Masamune has no reason to pretend in front of her. (Not about this, anyway.) This is the absolute least that she deserves – and, regretfully, is all that he can manage for now.
A smile appears on his lips once more, though it’s something decidedly softer than what is typical of him. Rather than smug self-assuredness, this smirk betrays only sadness; it is mournful, the corners of his mouth drooping beneath the weight of a sadness so pervasive that for the first time – in front of her – it’s palpable. Within an instant it’s gone again, and he catches himself staring at his feet. He kicks the dirt with resentment, Masamune allowing his arms to fall free from their crossed position over his chest. His hands float down to his hips, and there’s a silence that settles between them that’s anything but customary.
For once, he’s allowing her to see him as he truly is: a reflective man, mournful, and always, always aching for one reason or another.
‵ I trust, ′ he says finally, his voice coming out as a low baritone, resonating with hollowness. ‵ Though it has proven to be a damning quality in the past. ′ Be grateful you did not know me before now, Samus, he thinks, closing his eye and inhaling sharply. ‵ I can’t afford to do so anymore. ′ And yet here I am, trusting you with this part of myself, Masamune sneers internally. There’s definitely some bitterness in his words. This was never something that he had asked for.
He had never wanted to be a lone figure, without anyone to call a real friend. Of course there’s Kojūrо̄, so he isn’t so entirely lonely; but even so, Kojūrо̄ was born into an obligation to the Date clan, and Masamune was born into his care. Their bond was something that had been predetermined for the both of them. (This doesn’t imply that Masamune appreciates the man any less – only serves as mere observation.) He earnestly wishes that he’d been allowed the opportunity to form relationships that hadn’t been dictated by someone else, or were merely cultivated as a matter of convenience – allyship and war, to name two – or as the by-product of some other political bullshit.
If only – if only things weren’t this way. Then, maybe, just maybe, he could trust Samus as much as he wants to.
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