One routine beneath his feet. A second begun. Moves memorized and carefully kept played out in his head as his feet and body kept the tempo. It was a challenge to think ahead of his moves, at this speed, to react and remain in control. He loved it. The pace of breathing, the strict control, the pressure for perfection...never anything less. Never inferiority.

Less than perfect was a gap in defense, an opening for attack or injury or death.

There was no such thing as absolute perfection, and he did know that. He wasn't going to force himself to a standard no-one could reach. He would burn out and lose the love and passion for his sword-work if he ever tried.

But to make few mistakes as possible: that he could do. Would do. Delighted in doing.

A third routine. He was pushing it. His breathing burned in his throat. He could keep going: he wasn't tired. But to keep going, he would have to pull up the jutsu to suppress his cough. He hated that, and he hadn't planned on a hard workout today. Just practise, luxuriating in the sunshine.

A final sweeping stroke and he skidded to a standstill. The switch from motion to motionless was a little dizzying, and he crouched a moment, sword outheld and gleaming.

The sudden change in his breathing pattern hit moments after he stopped, breath rasping raw over strained tissue. The coughing fit doubled him over and forced him to drop a knee to the ground to stay upright. The coughs were harsh, dry, and centered deep in his chest. Despite the paroxysms of coughing, he minded his sword, careful not to let the blade touch the earth. It was almost a minute before he he could breathe again, carefully. His throat felt raw and there was a beginning ache in his chest, right beneath his breastbone.

But neither cough nor ache could take the smile off his face, bright and satisfied. He'd made minor mistakes--three of footing and a slip with chakra--but they had been just that. Minor. Perfectly correctable within seconds. Delight thrilled under his skin and lifted his heart.

He got to his feet, to walk and cool down, and retrieve his bottle of water to soothe his throat. Tsume was still beside his coat and the sleeping Kuromaru, despite his coughing fit. He beamed at her, eyes bright.