late-blooming blade [genshin impact; domon/anzai; gen]

[sodomhipped]

Title: late-blooming blade [or read on ao3]

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Pairing: Domon/Anzai

Rating: Gen

Warning: None

Tags: Canon Compliant, Missing Scene, POV Second Person, Recovery, Falling In Love, Old Men In Love, Enemies to Lovers, Holding Hands, Cuddling & Snuggling, Inazuma

Summary:

You’ve allowed yourself to be delayed too long. It is so late that you will likely spend another night. It would not reflect well upon you if you so quickly became accustomed to this. It should not matter that Domon is healthy and hale or degrading once again, so long as he does the work he has promised to do. And yet, you accept when he invites you to sit with him in the evening and enjoy tea together once again. You do not understand yourself or why you’re doing any of this.

『Or, Anzai slowly falls in love with Domon after he loses his Vision.』

---

Even pulled out of his madness, you can tell that Domon is not doing well.

You see it in the way he carefully avoids your eyes and how his once-steady hands tremble as he pours the tea. He seems to notice you looking, so you fix your eyes on your tea so as not to embarrass him.

Once he sets the teapot safely onto the table, you ask, “How are your disciples coming along?”

“You will have to tell me your opinion tomorrow before you go,” Domon answers. “They work hard, but their teacher—”

“Their teacher indulges too much in self-deprecation,” you interrupt.

“Perhaps,” Domon says, mildly. “Regardless, you should see for yourself in the morning. You may assess their progress yourself.”

You had planned to leave shortly after the tea, and yet you find yourself agreeing. “Yes, I suppose I should.”

 

 

Nanako or Junya are not even a pale reflection of Domon’s genius when he was at the height of his prowess—but you must admit that they are diligent.

They work through their lesson slowly. The pace is set by Domon’s voice. He offers guidance primarily through verbal instruction. And yet, even though his body is sound and he does little physical demonstration, he sits to rest often. You stand to the side to watch and do not interfere.

By the early afternoon, Domon looks more weary than his pupils.

“Sensei, would you like to retire for the day?” Nanako asks. “Junya and I can practice what you’ve taught us until the evening meal.”

Domon pauses before answering. You can feel his eyes find you at your position as observer before he says, “No, let’s continue for a little while longer.”

 

 

You’ve allowed yourself to be delayed too long. It is so late that you will likely spend another night. It would not reflect well upon you if you so quickly became accustomed to this. It should not matter that Domon is healthy and hale or degrading once again, so long as he does the work he has promised to do. And yet, you accept when he invites you to sit with him in the evening and enjoy tea together once again. You do not understand yourself or why you’re doing any of this.

“What did you think of Nanako and Junya?”

Domon’s question startles you out of your thoughts.

“I’ve said before,” you answer, “that they are worthy disciples.” But Domon keeps looking at you, eyes not wavering as they so often do, so you add, “It is a relief that the art of Meikyou Shisui will be carried forward by such spirited youths. They may not have your victories, but they will certainly manage better than either of us.”

Silence settles between you. You do not find it uncomfortable.

“I wish I had not been so blind before,” Domon eventually says, voice so quiet that you can barely make out the words. “I barely noticed anyone around me—and I never once realized that my ambition—my Vision—would become my greatest weakness. It feels as if I have been cut at the knee, fated to never stand steady again.”

You look at Domon through the darkness of the room. His expression is serious and full of sorrow.

“I would not treat you so lightly if I could go back.”

“Don’t speak to me of regrets,” you say. It is difficult to speak. You have to force a steadying breath before managing to continue. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Anzai—“ Domon is saying, but you do not listen.

You stand, limbs jerking awkwardly under the weight of an anger you believed to be long dead. You abandon Domon and his useless thoughts as you retreat to your borrowed room.

How dare he revive these feelings now when it is far too late?

You do not want to think about how things might have been different. What would it even mean if the past had been as you so often wished it to be? Would you be a better person if Domon had not so thoroughly crushed your hope? If you had not seen him shine so brightly that all others—yourself included—were eclipsed?

If it were not so late, you would leave immediately. As it is, you must wait for the morning.

 

 

Your sleep is fitful and racked with dreams.

In your dreams, Domon is not the version of himself broken by time and unforgivable loss, but he is instead young and strong. You lie in the dirt at his feet while he looks down at you. His eyes glint as he sheathes his blade. There is a cut on your side oozing blood onto the earth beneath you.

He says the same thing he said so long ago: “I thought you would be a more formidable adversary.”

The words cut far deeper than your wound.

This dream had plagued you often in the early years, but it has been so long since the last time that you have forgotten how it felt to have Domon look through you. You had never before—or since—felt so insignificant.

At the time, you cursed the unfairness of fate for gifting a man with so little honor a Vision.

 

 

You wake in a cold sweat before the sun rises. It only takes minutes to pack your small satchel and slip away from Domon’s home without anyone noticing.

You travel as fast as you can. Your promise to Domon means you must return—but you have no intention of doing so any time soon.

A week passes. Then a month. And then another.

 

 

Your guilt overtakes you with the approach of autumn. By the time the red and gold leaves begin to fall, you find yourself at Domon’s once again.

Junya sees you approaching. He disappears inside the home. When he returns, Domon is at his side. Even from a distance, you can tell Domon looks pleased.

Domon ushers you in with careful grace. The fact he does not mention your long absence while muttering about what tea or food he should set out for you irritates like a burr against skin. You cannot understand this mild-mannered old man, who seems so intent to not upset you.

You wish he would ask why you were gone for so long when you made a promise.

Domon is still asking your preferences about something or other when you cut him off. “I should not have been away for so long.”

If anything, this only flusters Domon more. He rattles as if you had chastised him rather than offer a half-formed apology.

“No,” he says, dissembling. “You have no obligation here—or to me. If anything, it is I who owes you.”

It’s clear to you that this is the sort of thing Domon has spent the last months thinking about. Without you around to tell him to stop, he likely stewed over the past every moment of your absence. It is no wonder that he looks so haggard now. His skin is transparently thin and exhaustion defines his eyes.

As if he can hear your thoughts, Domon says, “I’ve been thinking.”

You dread what Domon will say next and tell him so.

“It is fortunate that you witness my being humbled,” Domon continues. “Although it is a poor compensation for all I have done to you.”

You remember Domon in your dream, haughty and sharp as his sword. The man before you is the same man, hastily repaired once before but ready to shatter again upon the next swing.

“All you need to do is keep instructing your disciples, Domon.”

“I am not certain,” Domon starts. The sentence falters to a stop. He tries again, “I worry that I will not be able to keep my promise to you. What if I am not able to resist the madness?”

There is much unsaid under the statement. It is a plain and clear admission that he is still struggling.

Surprising yourself, you take his hand. His long fingers slip past your palm, sliding to a stop on the inside of your wrist. You can feel the tendons contract under your touch. He is confused—but he does not pull away from you.

“I said I would see this through with you,” you say, trying to sound more certain than you feel. “Doubt yourself if you must, but do not doubt me.”

You sit together for a long while after with your hands pressed together. You do not know what Domon thinks, but you keep yourself still, not willing to disrupt the moment.

 

 

“Where’s Domon?” you ask on the day you decide to leave. You’ve lingered longer than you should. A whole week flew by with minor tasks.

“He had something to attend to this morning,” Nanako says with a relatively straight face, considering you both know that it is a lie.

“I see,” you say. “Please tell him that I will come again before winter.”

“That is good,” she answers. “He does better when you are here.”

“Before the first snow,” you promise.

When you leave, traveling pack familiar over your shoulder, it feels different than the times before.

 

 

You have been a wanderer for a long time. You told Domon as much.

When you began this life, you felt like an untethered boat, carried off by unknown wind and waves. Any stop you found along the way was the same—all ports are equal when they mean so little.

For the first time, you feel as if you are traveling away from something.

 

 

It is Nanako rather than Junya who spots you this time. Rather than fetch Domon, she gestures at you to enter through the side yard.

Domon is there, looking more hale and healthy than you have ever seen him in past months. He holds a wooden practice sword—a bokken—and his face is serious as he explains something to Junya. Junya adjusts his stance under Domon’s guidance, equally serious. Domon nods at him, seemingly pleased. He looks comfortable in his role as teacher.

“I apologize for interrupting,” you say by way of greeting.

Domon had been raising the bokken again to demonstrate something further, but he immediately lowers it at your voice. He hands it to Junya before walking towards you. There is some embarrassment coloring his cheeks, though you cannot think of why.

“You are never interrupting,” Domon promises. “Give me a moment and I can be a proper host.”

“You forget that I once was in the same dojo as you—don’t let me disturb your lesson.”

“It really is no trouble—” Domon begins.

You cut him off, saying, “I think I’d prefer to watch you teach the young ones, if you don’t mind.”

Junya speaks then to ask, “Why not join us?”

Nanako pitches in, hopefully, “We would love to see another master of the art.”

You’re about to inform them that you are no master when Domon speaks, cutting down any protest you may have attempted.

“Yes, Anzai, why don’t we show my disciples what you can do?”

 

 

You drop your pack along the wall of the house. When you return to the middle of the practice area, Junya offers you a shinai—a bamboo sword usually used for practice matches rather than katas—rather than the bokken. The wooden handle is strange in your hand. You have had no reason to work with a practice sword since the day you left the dojo—you were no longer a student, nor destined to be a teacher. It is much lighter than your katana, but the shape is close.

Before you can ask why you were given the shinai, you notice that Domon has taken up one as well.

You had thought you were being asked to show off a few katas of your own, but it seems that you are meant to spar.

The idea ignites in your chest, an inexplicable emotion that makes your heart spasm in uneven beats. You have not faced Domon since that fateful day.

“I would hate to embarrass you in front of your students.”

“They have already seen the worst of me—as you have,” Domon answers. “What harm can come from a simple training session?”

“If you say so,” you say and take on a position of readiness, “but I expect you to take me seriously this time.”

“Of course,” Domon agrees, and settles into his own stance.

You test Domon carefully at first. He meets your movements. If his first moves are uncertain, they grow more confident with each breath.

Once he’s found his stride, Domon’s form is as beautiful as you remember. Every movement is efficiently calculated, perfectly rendered. However, his swing lacks the indomitable confidence that so easily crushed his opponents—and you—in the past.

The blunt blades clack against each other, and neither of you gains ground.

 

 

“I wish this is how we could have been,” Domon says once you are inside.

You are both sweaty from exertion, waiting while Nanako and Junya draw a bath. There’s a pleasant ache in your body from the spar, and your skin is still warmed from the sun. You feel better than you have in months, a satisfaction thrumming in your veins.

It would have been impossible to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with Domon in the past, when he was filled with insurmountable pride and ambition. But you feel content at his side now. He is more fragile now, but you find yourself wanting to protect both him and this feeling unfurling between you, equally delicate.

Perhaps that is why you say, “I cannot wish that. The past is what it is—but perhaps we had to live it to be where we are now.”

Domon makes a noncommittal noise. “How long do you plan to stay with us this time?”

“I’m not certain yet,” you answer. “I suppose I’ll have to leave soon enough.”

Domon surprises you for the second time today. He leans over and rests his head upon your shoulder. For a moment, you do not speak, and neither does he. Eventually, he slides further until his face is buried in the crook of your neck.

“So long as you do not forget to return to us,” he says, muffled into your throat.

Domon seems to catch himself—or embarrassment has caught him again—and he starts to move away. You capture him with an arm, holding him so he rests against your body again.

You’ve both changed so much.

“I will always leave,” you say, “but you can always look forward to my return.”