He’s never been a sensualist or any kind of aesthete. He doesn’t savor food or drink for their tastes. He doesn’t buy fine clothes to feel the textures against his skin. He doesn’t go to watch the flowers at any time of year.<\/p>\n
The few sense pleasures he enjoys are the gifts of other people.<\/p>\n
The hot, black bitterness of coffee, steaming in a thick mug, is the taste and smell of a talk with Musashi. The dry rattle of paper and wood, under the still, slanting shadows of leaves and temple roofs, is the sound and color of Kurita’s trust.<\/p>\n
And, while he never expected to enjoy either, the sharp tang of cleaners coming off sleek, bright surfaces is the scent of Anezaki’s care.<\/p>\n
So when Anezaki wonders how he can possibly drink his coffee black, or Musashi wants to know why he doesn’t open a window already, he just laughs.<\/p>\n
Life is like that.<\/p>\n
End<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Hiruma considers the things he’s gotten from his friends.