It took Hayate just a bit over fifteen minutes. Mostly because he stopped out of hearing-range to get a very bad coughing fit out of the way. He hadn't rushed much but he'd taxed his breathing. So he got the fit over with, and strolled up to the training ground at his ease, carrying his katana and a bottle of water.

He smiled a crooked smile at Tsume and Kuromaru, the latter sprawled out full-length in the sunshine.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting," he offered, raspily, as he walked up beside them.

He shrugged off his heavy coat and dropped it on the ground, the water bottle beside it. The chill in the air instantly bit at him--but he'd be moving soon, and warm enough. He tucked the sheathed katana under and arm and pulled out his gloves. They were fingerless, less protection at the cold than a grip-precaution. He wasn't aware that he looked rather ragged--his sweatshirt's sleeves were just a tad too short, and between the hem and the cuff of his gloves about an inch of bony wrist showed. His jeans were better--the left knee did not quite have a hole in it yet. It was just threadbare.

He snugged his gloves on, and brought the sheathed sword from beneath his arm. Left hand on the hilt, right on the sheath, and he drew the blade almost reverently. The steel flashed impossibly bright in the sunshine, and Hayate felt his heart swell.

The weight of honest steel in his hands, the feel of the sunshine, the anticipation of doing what he loved.... Hayate's smile was completely unconscious, bright enough to match the day's sunshine.