I Came Back to Comfort My Friend the General, But He Confessed His Feelings With a Desperate Kiss

The air on Watatsumi Island tasted of salt and peace. It was a flavor Kazuha had nearly forgotten, a gentle caress against the tongue rather than the sharp, metallic tang of drawn steel that had defined this place for so long. The wind, his oldest friend, whispered through the strange, coral-like trees, its voice no longer carrying the shouts of men or the clash of swords, but the simple sigh of the sea. He had come to honor a promise, one made in the hushed moments between battles, when the future was a luxury neither he nor Gorou could afford to imagine.

He made his way toward the grand Sangonomiya Shrine, his soft-soled sandals making no sound on the winding stone paths. Resistance soldiers, now guards in peacetime, recognized him. Their salutes were less rigid now, their eyes holding a quiet respect that had outlasted the war. He returned their nods with a small, serene smile. When he inquired after General Gorou, he was not directed to the training grounds or a strategic lookout, but to a small administrative building tucked away behind the main shrine.

The door was ajar. Kazuha paused, his hand hovering near the frame. He could hear the frantic scratching of a pen, followed by a low, frustrated sigh that was so distinctly Gorou’s it made Kazuha’s chest ache with a sudden, sharp pang of familiarity. He peered inside.

The General of the Watatsumi Army was not standing over a map, commanding his troops with a clear, resonant voice. He was hunched over a desk, practically buried alive under precarious stacks of scrolls and ledgers. Ink stained the side of his hand, and his military pauldron seemed too rigid, too formal for the cramped space. His brow was deeply furrowed in concentration, and one of his ears gave an irritated flick, as if trying to bat away a particularly troublesome thought. He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the carefully arranged locks, and let out another heavy breath, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of the room.

He looked smaller here, Kazuha thought, swallowed by the sheer volume of his new duties. The vibrant, confident commander who could rally a hundred men with a single cry was gone. In his place was a young man drowning in paperwork, his shoulders slumped not from the weight of his armor, but from the burden of a peace he didn’t seem to know how to navigate. Kazuha listened, not just with his ears, but with his entire being. The sounds of the room were a discordant song: the rustle of paper, the agitated tap of a finger on wood, the tight silence of stress. It was the sound of a storm, not one of thunder and lightning, but the quiet, grinding pressure of a tempest building deep within a man he once knew so well.

Kazuha finally rapped his knuckles gently against the wooden doorframe.

Gorou jumped, a stack of scrolls teetering precariously before settling. He looked up, his eyes wide and unfocused for a second before they landed on Kazuha. Recognition dawned, followed by a wave of something else—panic, perhaps, or embarrassment. He shot to his feet, knocking his chair back slightly.

“Kazuha!” His voice was too loud for the small room. He hastily began trying to straighten the piles on his desk, a futile effort that only made the mess seem more pronounced. “My apologies, you’ve caught me at a… busy moment. Welcome back to Watatsumi. Had I known you were arriving, I would have arranged a proper reception.”

He smoothed down the front of his uniform, his movements stiff and rehearsed. It was the formal address of a general to an esteemed ally, not the greeting of a friend. The easy warmth they had shared while huddled around campfires, backs pressed against one another for warmth, was gone. In its place was a stilted courtesy that felt as foreign as the paperwork cluttering Gorou’s desk.

Kazuha offered a small, placid smile, stepping fully into the room. His gaze didn’t linger on the mess, but on Gorou himself—on the tension in his shoulders and the faint tremor in his hand as he gestured vaguely to a corner. “Please, have a seat. Can I get you some tea?”

“There is no need for that, Gorou.” Kazuha’s voice was soft, a stark contrast to Gorou’s strained formality. He remained standing, observing the way Gorou’s ears flattened slightly against his hair, a telltale sign of his unease. “I did not come seeking a reception.”

Gorou’s hands fell to his sides, his posture still rigid. “Then… to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

The question hung in the air, laden with an awkward weight. Kazuha took a slow step closer, the scent of maple and open air following him. “I came to collect on a promise,” he said simply. Gorou blinked, his confusion plain. Kazuha continued, his eyes holding Gorou’s with a gentle intensity. “You told me that when the fighting was done, and the decree was but a memory, you would share a moment of true peace with me. No strategies, no patrols. Just the sun on the rocks and the sound of the sea.”

The memory broke through Gorou’s composure like a sunbeam through storm clouds. The rigid set of his shoulders softened, his jaw unclenched. A faint flush of color rose from his collar, creeping up his neck. He remembered it perfectly—a whispered oath on a cold night, a desperate wish for a future that had seemed impossible. He had been so sure of himself then, so certain of what peace would feel like. He looked from Kazuha’s calm face to the mountains of paperwork that were his new reality, and a fresh wave of shame washed over him. He wasn’t the confident general who had made that promise.

“I… I remember,” Gorou managed, his voice barely above a whisper. The formality had evaporated, leaving behind a raw, vulnerable honesty.

He averted his eyes, his gaze falling to the disaster of his desk as if seeing it for the first time. The earnest promise of peace felt like a mockery in this suffocating room. “I… yes. Of course.” He cleared his throat, the sound rough. “My apologies, Kazuha. My duties have been… demanding. I haven't had much time for… well, for the sun.”

He made a weak, self-deprecating gesture at the stacks of paper, a silent admission of his failure to find the very peace they had fought for. The general who had inspired soldiers with his unwavering spirit now looked like a boy confessing he had forgotten his chores.

“Peace has its own battles,” Kazuha said, his tone devoid of judgment. “They are simply fought with ink instead of steel.”

The simple understanding in Kazuha’s voice was more disarming than any reprimand could have been. Gorou’s defenses crumbled completely. He looked up, meeting Kazuha’s steady, crimson gaze. The desire to escape the room, to escape the crushing weight of these scrolls, was a sudden, desperate ache in his chest. He wanted the sun. He wanted the person who reminded him of a time when his purpose felt clear and true.

“Tomorrow,” Gorou said, the word coming out in a rush, as if he feared the opportunity might vanish. “We can go tomorrow. There’s a cove, on the western shore. The cliffs there… we used to watch for the Shogun’s ships from the top.” He paused, a flicker of the old days in his eyes. “The rocks below are flat and warm by midday. It’s quiet there.”

“Then it is a perfect place,” Kazuha replied, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. It was all the confirmation Gorou needed. A sliver of relief, pure and sharp, cut through the fog of Gorou’s anxiety.

“I will meet you at the main gate after the morning briefing,” Gorou said, his voice regaining a fraction of its usual command, grounded by the certainty of a plan.

Kazuha gave a slow, deliberate nod. “I will be there.” He offered a slight bow, a gesture of respect that felt both formal and deeply personal, before turning and stepping out of the room. He moved with the same silent grace he always had, disappearing from the doorway as quietly as he had appeared.

Left alone, Gorou sank back into his chair, the sudden silence of the room pressing in on him. For a long moment, he just stared at the empty doorway, the scent of maple and wind lingering in the air.

As Kazuha walked back toward the sea, he let the island’s air fill his lungs. The sounds of peace were all around him—the distant chatter of merchants, the chime of a bell from the shrine, the rhythmic wash of waves against the shore. Yet, another sound lingered in his senses, a discordance that clung to his memory of the room he had just left. It was the frantic, unsteady rhythm of Gorou’s heart, a tempo of a man bracing for an impact that had already happened. It was in the tight, strained notes of his voice and the scent of ozone that seemed to cling to his uniform. Kazuha closed his eyes, listening. The calm sea air was a lie, or at least, an incomplete truth. Beneath the surface of this newfound peace, his friend was weathering a private and violent storm, one Kazuha could hear gathering strength far out from any visible shore.