Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Tomioka estate had long since lost its warmth. Once, it had been a place where sunlight filtered softly through paper windows and the air was sweet with the scent of sakura in bloom. It echoed with laughter—his mother’s quiet hum as she worked in the kitchen, Tsutako’s teasing as she helped braid his hair when he was younger, and even his father’s chuckles, rare but real. But those days were gone.

Now, the house was a shadow of what it once was. Its walls, though clean and well-kept, seemed colder, as if the warmth had been swept out with the ashes of his mother’s funeral fire. Giyu Tomioka had become a ghost in his own home.

He stood quietly in the corner of the laundry room, his fingers trembling slightly as he folded a haori that wasn’t his. His own clothes had always been hand-me-downs or whatever his stepmother deemed unnecessary for the servants. Today, she had scolded him for ironing the sleeves incorrectly—again.

"You didn’t iron the sleeves properly," came the shrill, biting voice of Lady Tomioka. Her hair was tied perfectly, her lips always pulled into a disapproving line. "Honestly, are you even trying?"

"I’m sorry," Giyu murmured. His voice was barely audible.

She crossed her arms, eyes sharp and gleaming with a cruel satisfaction. "You apologize like that means anything. You’ve been useless since the day I arrived at this house. A disgrace to the Tomioka name."

Behind her, Ruka—the daughter she brought into the family after marrying Giyu’s father—giggled into her sleeve. "Maybe he likes being scolded. It’s the only attention he ever gets."

They laughed like he wasn’t there. Like he was a servant, or something less.

It wasn’t just words. Lady Tomioka assigned him the most grueling tasks—scrubbing floors, washing the dishes long after everyone had eaten, carrying heavy firewood to the back of the estate even in the snow. Sometimes he would slip on the icy steps, landing hard with the bundle of wood pressing into his ribs. No one helped. No one asked if he was alright.

He had once dared to sit at the family table during a formal meal. The silence that followed had been deafening. Lady Tomioka's spoon clattered into her bowl. His father said nothing as she screamed and ordered the servants to drag him out.

That night, he went to bed hungry.

His father sat silently in the adjacent room now, staring blankly into the garden. He hadn’t intervened once. Not today, not yesterday, not ever. Since his mother’s death, since Tsutako died protecting him, his father had changed. He no longer saw his son—only the ghosts that haunted the corridors of his memory.

"That’s enough," Giyu whispered, mostly to himself. Folding the last haori with care, he bowed his head and excused himself from the room.

He walked through the corridor, feet soft against the wooden floors, until he reached his own room. It was small and tucked into the furthest corner of the estate, where even servants rarely passed. Inside, there was a futon, a modest chest, and a single low table. It was clean, quiet, and painfully empty.

Giyu kneeled in front of the small wooden box on his table. Inside was a comb—his mother’s, worn but lovingly preserved. Next to it was a red ribbon, slightly frayed, that had once belonged to Tsutako. She used to tie it around her hair when she trained.

He picked up the ribbon gently, cradling it in his palms. The ache in his chest tightened.

"I miss you," he said quietly.

A knock startled him. He quickly put the ribbon away and stood, smoothing down his robes.

A retainer bowed deeply at the door. "Tomioka Giyu-sama, you’ve been summoned. The Master of the Demon Slayer Corps has arranged a marriage for you."

Giyu blinked. For a moment, the words didn’t register. "A marriage?"

"Yes, to Shinazugawa Sanemi, the Wind Hashira."

Of all names to be spoken, this one hit the hardest. Giyu knew of Sanemi. Everyone did. A volatile, brash, and mighty swordsman whose temper was as infamous as his strength. Giyu had spoken to him a handful of times, and those conversations never ended on friendly terms.

"Why me?" he asked before he could stop himself.

The retainer hesitated, bowing again. "The Master believes this alliance will be mutually beneficial. The Wind Hashira has refused every other proposal. Until now."

Giyu looked down. Why now? Why me?

He had no illusions about his worth. In the eyes of his family, he was a burden. In the eyes of the Corps, he was competent but detached. Not charismatic, nor admired. He was simply there—like a shadow.

"When am I to leave?" he asked softly.

"Tomorrow morning. Please be ready by first light."

The door closed, and Giyu stood still for a long time. The room was so quiet he could hear the rustle of leaves outside.

He returned to the box and picked up the ribbon again. He didn’t cry. He had forgotten how.

Instead, he whispered, "Sister... Mother... I’ll be leaving. I don’t know if it’s better or worse, but it’s something."

He packed his few belongings into a small bag. A second set of robes. A comb. The ribbon. A book of poetry that Tsutako used to read to him. That was all.

His mind drifted back to the funeral. The scent of incense. The sky that refused to rain, even when he begged it to. He had stood beside the pyre, numb, watching flames consume the only people who had ever held him with love.

After that, he became a shadow in his own home. He had tried, at first, to connect with Ruka, even with Lady Tomioka. He had brought tea, offered to help with chores beyond his duty. But every kind gesture was met with disdain or laughter. They twisted his efforts into weakness.

Once, he had overheard Ruka mocking him with a group of friends. "He thinks he’s better than us because he’s quiet. But really, he’s just pitiful. A sad little boy clinging to dead people."

He had walked away without letting them see how much it hurt.

As night fell, he sat by the open window, watching the stars slowly appear in the inky sky. The estate behind him was silent, save for the distant laughter of Ruka and her friends.

No one had come to say goodbye.

He didn’t expect them to.

He clutched the ribbon in his hand and closed his eyes. Memories came, unbidden—his sister’s arms around him as he cried after their mother died, her smile when she trained, the warmth of her presence beside him when he was afraid.

And then, the last memory—the one he could never forget. Tsutako throwing herself between him and the demon, her blade flashing like moonlight, her final scream echoing in his ears.

She died for him.

And he had lived every day wondering if he deserved it.

He opened his eyes again. The stars were brighter now.

"I’ll go," he said aloud. "Even if he’s cruel. Even if he hates me, I’ll survive. For you."

Staying here wasn’t an option anymore.

So he was leaving. That was it.

In the darkness of his room, Giyuu Tomioka waited quietly for the dawn, his heart aching and unsure, with the faintest trace of hope beneath it all.

For the first time in years, he was leaving the house that had never felt like home.

Chapter Text

Shinazugawa Sanemi hated waiting.

He especially hated waiting for something he never asked for.

His arms were crossed, foot tapping against the wooden floor of his estate's entrance hall. The place was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of wind and mountain pine, but his patience wore thin with each passing minute.

"A marriage," he muttered under his breath, scoffing. "What the hell was Oyakata-sama thinking?"

He had refused every arranged match so far — noble daughters, quiet widows, strong swordswomen. All of them had been dismissed before they could even step through his front gate. Sanemi didn't want anyone in his house, in his space, in his damn business.

And yet, this one had been different. Oyakata-sama hadn't given him a choice.

*“You’ve lost too much, Sanemi,”* the Master had said gently. *“You carry everything alone. This boy has suffered in silence long enough. Perhaps… you both need someone who won’t leave.”*

Sanemi had nearly walked out then and there.

But now it was too late.

A retainer called from outside, “He’s arrived.”

Sanemi stood straighter, scowl settling naturally across his face. The gate creaked open.

And there he was.

Tomioka Giyuu.

He looked even smaller than Sanemi remembered. His figure was slim, posture too straight — like he was bracing himself for something. He wore plain robes, neatly pressed, but nothing special. A small travel bag hung from one shoulder.

Sanemi’s first thought was, *He looks like he’ll break if I breathe too hard.*

His second thought, sharper and less kind: *This is what they sent me?*

Giyuu stepped through the gate and bowed deeply. “Shinazugawa-san. Thank you for receiving me.”

His voice was quiet. Controlled. His eyes didn’t rise from the ground.

Sanemi couldn’t decide if it irritated him or not.

“This way,” he said curtly, turning without waiting for a reply.

He led Giyuu through the house, each step echoing against the polished wood. The Wind Estate was simple but spacious — built for solitude and silence, not comfort. The hallways were wide, the walls sparsely decorated, and the air always seemed to carry a breeze.

Sanemi could feel Giyuu’s presence behind him like a shadow — soft-footed, quiet, unassuming.

They reached a small guest room. Sanemi slid the door open with a rough motion.

“This’ll be your room,” he said. “It’s got a futon, storage, and space to breathe. That’s all you need.”

Giyuu stepped inside and bowed again. “It’s more than enough. Thank you.”

Sanemi frowned. “You’re not here to flatter me.”

“I’m not,” Giyuu said simply.

There was no sarcasm in his voice. No fear either. Just a dull kind of calm.

It annoyed Sanemi more than it should have.

“I don’t care what the Master said,” he muttered, turning to leave. “We’re not playing house. Don’t get in my way, and I won’t get in yours.”

Giyuu nodded once. “Understood.”

Sanemi walked away without another word.

---

The rest of the day passed in uneasy quiet. Giyuu didn’t leave his room except once — to ask, politely, where to put his laundry. He spoke little, ate little, and moved like someone trying not to take up space.

Sanemi watched him from a distance.

There was something strange about it.

He had expected… something more. Resistance. Fear. Maybe even resentment.

Instead, Giyuu acted like someone who had stopped expecting anything a long time ago.

That night, Sanemi found himself pacing the veranda outside his room, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the moon. The wind ruffled his haori as he tried to make sense of the tension crawling beneath his skin.

Why did it bother him?

Why did it feel like he was living with a ghost?

---

Two days passed.

On the third, Sanemi found Giyuu kneeling in the courtyard garden, quietly sweeping fallen leaves.

“You don’t have to do that,” Sanemi called from the porch. “I have people for that.”

Giyuu didn’t look up. “I don’t mind.”

“You’re not a servant.”

“I know.”

Sanemi narrowed his eyes. “Then stop acting like one.”

Giyuu paused, then slowly stood. “It’s just something to do.”

Sanemi bit back a sharp retort. He didn’t know why this irritated him so much — maybe because it reminded him of how *empty* the guy seemed.

Like he’d been hollowed out and left behind.

---

Later that evening, Sanemi passed by the kitchen and caught sight of Giyuu carefully folding cloths on the table. A small box sat open beside him. Inside were a red ribbon and a comb.

Sanemi stared, unnoticed.

There was something different about Giyuu in that moment. Not fragile. Just… quiet. Grieving. Still trying to hold on to something.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t say a word. But for the first time, Sanemi didn’t see a burden.

He saw someone barely holding himself together.

---

That night, Sanemi couldn’t sleep.

He sat by the open window, staring out at the trees, frustration buzzing under his skin.

He didn’t want this.

He didn’t want to feel anything.

He didn’t know how to deal with someone like Giyuu — someone who didn’t ask for anything, didn’t fight back, didn’t even *exist* in the way Sanemi was used to.

But more than that…

He didn’t like the way something in him had started to care.

He didn’t want to notice the way Giyuu moved through the house like he didn’t belong. Or how he flinched slightly when someone raised their voice. Or how he never looked Sanemi in the eye.

He didn’t want to wonder who hurt him that badly.

And he sure as hell didn’t want to feel angry about it.

But he did.

Sanemi clenched his jaw.

“This is stupid,” he muttered.

He didn’t ask for this.

He didn’t *want* this.

But Giyuu Tomioka was here now. And like it or not, he wasn’t easy to ignore.

Chapter Text

The early morning light seeped softly through the thin, rice-paper windows of the Shinazugawa estate, painting gentle, shifting patterns on the polished wooden floorboards. Giyuu Tomioka lay still on the futon, the faint rustle of the morning breeze the only sound in the quiet room. It was an unfamiliar kind of peace — not the kind that settled easily in a heart weighed down by cold shadows, but the kind that hinted at possibility.

For a long moment, Giyuu just breathed, letting the silence fill the spaces where his memories used to haunt. His old home, with its cramped rooms and cold, hard floors, felt far away now. The air here was cleaner, crisper, carrying a faint scent of pine and earth that was absent in the stale atmosphere he’d known before. The walls around him did not echo with harsh words or disdain; they simply held still.

He shifted on the futon, noting the difference in its firmness. It was not the thin, scratchy mat he’d endured for years, but thick and supportive, the fabric worn but well cared for. There was a dignity here, even in this small comfort, a respect that had always been missing.

The house was large, but not overwhelming. The rooms, the halls, even the courtyard beyond the paper sliding doors — all spoke of care and purpose, though Giyuu felt like an outsider still, a visitor in a world that was not his own.

He slipped from the futon quietly and folded the bedding with deliberate care, smoothing every crease until it lay flat and neat. It was a small ritual, one he hoped might ground him. The routines of daily life were familiar, but here they felt different. Softer somehow, less edged with fear.

Dressing in the simple clothes laid out for him—a muted blue kimono, rough but clean—Giyuu’s fingers lingered briefly on the fabric, hesitation heavy in his movements. It wasn’t just unfamiliarity; it was the quiet weight of feeling undeserving, as if simply touching the garment was more than he deserved.

Making his way toward the outer courtyard, Giyuu intended to find a secluded spot where he wouldn’t intrude. He wasn’t sure what Sanemi expected from him—if anything at all—but he wanted to start this new life quietly, respectfully.

His steps slowed as he approached the main hall. Voices carried on the morning air—rough, familiar, and tinged with frustration.

“I said I’m not mad!” Sanemi’s sharp voice echoed through the courtyard.

“You sure? You’re pacing like you’re about to explode,” came the dry, teasing reply.

Giyuu stopped, the voice stirring a vague recognition. It was Obanai, a high-ranking member of the Corps, involved in administration. Strict and professional, but with a certain casualness reserved only for those closest to Sanemi.

“I’m not pacing. Just shut up.”

Giyuu hesitated but stayed rooted, caught by the raw honesty in their exchange.

“You could’ve said no, you know.”

Sanemi’s reply was swift and curt. “I didn’t. So shut it.”

A twist tightened Giyuu’s chest. Was Sanemi angry with him? Resentful of this marriage?

The idea stung more than he wanted to admit. He stepped away quietly, retreating toward the back garden. Beneath a plum tree, the wind rustled gently through the branches, the soft scent of blossoms grounding him.

He let himself sit for a moment, hands resting on his knees. It was peaceful here, away from the sharpness of voices and the weight of expectations.

A shadow fell beside him.

His breath caught, but before he could rise, a sharp voice cut through the quiet like a blade through silk.

“You always hide behind trees?”

Giyuu flinched. Slowly, he turned his head.

Sanemi stood a few steps away, half in shadow, half lit by the dappled morning sun that filtered through the branches. His arms were crossed, and his brows were drawn low—but there wasn’t any heat in his glare. Just something like confusion. Frustration, maybe.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Giyuu said quietly.

Sanemi gave a disbelieving snort. “You’re crouched behind a tree.”

Giyuu’s eyes lowered. “I didn’t want to be in the way.”

Sanemi exhaled through his nose, a sound somewhere between irritation and resignation. “Tch. This house isn’t exactly crawling with people. There’s space.”

“I know.” Giyuu’s voice was soft, almost inaudible. “It just doesn’t feel like mine.”

Sanemi didn’t respond right away. His gaze shifted down to the worn sandals on Giyuu’s feet, the way his shoulders curled inward like he was still bracing for something that hadn’t come.

“I’m not good at… talking,” Giyuu admitted suddenly, voice a thread of breath.

Sanemi let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, I noticed.”

He stepped closer, crunching the gravel beneath his feet until he was only a few paces away. Giyuu didn’t move, but his posture stiffened—watchful.

“You're always this jumpy?” Sanemi asked, but his voice was quieter now. Less sharp.

Giyuu nodded faintly.

“Noticed that too,” Sanemi muttered. Then, after a beat: “You sleep okay?”

Giyuu looked down at his hands. “The futon was soft. And clean.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I did sleep,” Giyuu said at last. “Better than I’m used to.”

Sanemi grunted. “Good. You look like you haven’t had a real rest in years.”

Giyuu blinked. He hadn’t expected that.

The breeze picked up again, tugging gently at the edges of their sleeves. Neither of them spoke for a while. The quiet between them wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. Just unfamiliar.

Sanemi finally rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “Look, I’m not great at this kind of stuff. Marriage. People. Whatever. So if I say something stupid or you need something, just… say it. Just don’t vanish into bushes or trees or wherever the hell else you sneak off to.”

Giyuu looked at him, startled.

“…You’re serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Sanemi said, scowling again—but there was a faint pink rising at the tips of his ears.

Giyuu almost smiled.

Almost.

But instead, he simply nodded.

“I’ll try,” he murmured.

Sanemi gave another gruff huff and turned toward the engawa. “Come inside. The housekeeper left some rice and pickles out. I’m not dragging you out of the dirt every morning.”

Giyuu hesitated—but rose slowly to his feet, brushing soil from his sleeves.

He followed.

The house was quiet when they stepped inside.

Giyuu padded softly across the wooden engawa, the soft thud of his footsteps barely audible behind Sanemi’s heavier, more purposeful gait. The scent of polished cedar and faint smoke from the kitchen hearth lingered in the air, cleaner than what he was used to. Not sharp like incense, not bitter like burnt wood. Just… lived in.

Sanemi pushed open the shoji screen to the small dining room, letting in a spill of soft morning light.

“Sit,” he said gruffly, already crouching beside the low table.

Giyuu did as he was told, folding his legs neatly beneath him. The rice was still warm, lightly steaming in the bowls left out. A small dish of pickled vegetables, some miso soup, and two cups of tea sat beside it, as if someone had prepared them with quiet thoughtfulness and left before being noticed.

Maybe the housekeeper had already learned they weren’t the kind to talk much in the morning.

Or at all.

They ate in near silence. The only sound was the faint clack of chopsticks and the occasional soft huff from Sanemi when a piece of pickle was too sour. Giyuu ate slowly, carefully. Not because he wasn’t hungry, but because the food was good. Really good. Better than what he was used to, and part of him still braced for someone to yank the bowl away before he could finish.

Across the table, Sanemi caught the motion—how Giyuu paused between each bite like he was unsure it belonged to him.

“You don’t have to ration it,” Sanemi muttered, not unkindly. “There’s more in the kitchen.”

Giyuu’s hand froze, chopsticks hovering. He didn’t look up.

“I’m not used to having seconds.”

Sanemi clicked his tongue. “Well, get used to it. You’re skin and bones.”

Giyuu nodded faintly but didn’t answer. His shoulders still sat high, tense around the edges.

Sanemi exhaled. “Tch. I didn’t mean it like that. You just… look like someone who hasn’t eaten properly in a long time.”

“I haven’t,” Giyuu said simply.

The admission hung between them, stark and unadorned. It wasn’t meant as a rebuke or a plea for sympathy—it was just the truth.

Sanemi looked away first.

A few more moments passed in quiet. The wind stirred outside, rustling the plum blossoms beyond the walls.

When they finished eating, Sanemi stood and stretched. His joints cracked like splintering wood.

“I’m heading out,” he said. “Gotta check on some things in town. You’ll be here?”

Giyuu nodded. “Yes.”

There was a pause, like Sanemi wanted to say something else. He scratched the back of his neck.

“If anyone bothers you, just tell them who you are. You live here now.”

That word— live —settled over Giyuu’s shoulders like a cloak he wasn’t sure fit yet.

“I’ll remember,” he said quietly.

Sanemi made a sound in the back of his throat, half acknowledgement, half something else. He turned on his heel and left through the front gate, boots crunching over the gravel.

Giyuu remained where he was, alone in the quiet again. The warmth of the tea lingered in his hands.

He looked around the room—the smooth floors, the clean walls, the faint scent of soap and pine oil. There were cracks here and there, in the wood, in the corners of the beams. But they weren’t the kind of cracks that came from neglect. Just age.

He could live with that.

--

The sky had deepened into a thick, velvety blue by the time Sanemi returned. Lantern light glowed faintly along the engawa, casting shifting shadows across the floorboards. The plum tree swayed gently in the evening breeze, its petals falling in slow, deliberate spirals onto the gravel.

Giyuu sat beneath it, still. He’d been there for some time—long enough for his legs to grow stiff, long enough for the silence to settle in his bones like dust. But he didn’t move. Not even when he heard the crunch of familiar footsteps.

Sanemi stopped a few paces away. His silhouette cut a strong line in the lantern glow—broad shoulders, scuffed boots, tension coiled in the set of his jaw. He didn’t speak at first.

Then, with a tone roughened by something that wasn’t quite annoyance, he muttered, “You’re not hiding behind a tree this time.”

Giyuu didn’t look up right away. His voice came softly, barely more than a whisper. “No.”

Sanemi shifted, running a hand through his hair, awkward, like he wasn’t used to standing still this long or saying what he meant. “Look… I’m not good at this. People stuff. Marriage. Talking. Any of it.”

The words hung in the air, brittle and unsure. Then Sanemi forced them out anyway.

“But if you need something—anything—just say it. Don’t disappear. Don’t hold it all in.”

Giyuu’s gaze lifted, catching his for a fleeting second before dropping again. “I’m trying,” he murmured.

Sanemi gave a small grunt, something between a laugh and an exhale. “Good enough for now.”

A long pause stretched between them. Not entirely comfortable, but no longer stifling.

Then, quieter, Sanemi added, “You’re not alone here. Not if I can help it.”

Those words—halting, unexpected—settled over Giyuu like a fragile shield. Not quite armor. But something.

He looked down at his hands. “Thank you.”

Sanemi cleared his throat, shifting again like he suddenly remembered how to move. “The servant’s got dinner going. Should be ready soon.”

“I’ll get it,” Giyuu offered quietly, already starting to rise.

Sanemi stopped him with a glance and a curt shake of his head. “No. Let them do it.”

“I don’t mind—”

“I said no.” Sanemi didn’t bark it, but the firmness in his voice left no room for argument. “You’ve been sitting out here long enough. You don’t need to serve anyone.”

Giyuu sat back down slowly, unsure of how to respond. He wasn’t used to being taken care of.

Sanemi turned toward the house. “I’ll tell them to bring it out. We’ll eat under the tree, or whatever. If you’re going to vanish, might as well be where I can see you.”

It was almost a joke. Almost.

And for a moment, it felt like something new was being built in the quiet between them, not loudly, not all at once. But laid gently, like the petals falling around them. A moment of peace carved from the awkward fragments of who they were.

As the lanterns glowed warm against the night and the wind carried the scent of steamed rice and simmering broth, Giyuu allowed himself to stay seated, back resting against the plum tree’s trunk.

He didn’t quite feel like he belonged—but this, whatever it was, didn’t feel so distant anymore.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since Tomioka last saw Sanemi after their interaction; the latter was too busy to stay for long.

The quiet lingered long after Sanemi had left.

Giyuu sat alone on the engawa, knees drawn up slightly, a half-finished cup of tea cooling between his hands. Morning light spilled gently across the veranda, trailing over gravel paths and pale garden stones. Plum blossoms had begun to fall in slow drifts, catching on the wind before settling like snow at his feet.

The words from the night before stirred faintly in his chest. You’re not alone here. Not if I can help it.

It had been awkward—rough around the edges—but real. More than he expected. Maybe more than Sanemi meant to give.

Don’t disappear, he’d said.

But Sanemi had disappeared, in his own way. Out again. Errands. Duties. Distance.

Giyuu didn’t blame him. He knew better than to expect closeness just because of a shared name on paper. But the house felt a little emptier when he was gone. The silence a little heavier. The shadows in the corners a little longer.

He rose slowly, placing the cup down with care, and made his way to the back of the house. There were things to do. A kitchen to clean. Rooms to sweep. Anything to keep his hands from going still.

Inside, the kitchen was already warm with morning preparations. A pot simmered gently over the stove, and two older women stood at the counter, slicing pickled vegetables and speaking in low voices.

They paused when Giyuu entered, looking up with faint surprise.

“Oh—Master Tomioka,” one said, wiping her hands on her apron.

Giyuu hesitated, unsure. “I don’t mean to intrude. I thought… I could help.”

The other servant looked flustered. “Oh, no, no, that’s not necessary. We have everything in hand.”

He stepped closer, gently reaching for a clean cloth to wipe down the nearby surface. “I don’t mind. I’m used to it.”

The first woman exchanged a glance with the other, then stepped forward, gently guiding his hand away from the cloth. “We appreciate it, truly. But Master Shinazugawa would scold us if he knew we let his bride do chores.”

Giyuu froze.

The cloth slipped from his fingers. Bride.

It wasn’t the first time someone had said it. But hearing it like that—casually, kindly, like it was obvious and natural—made something in his chest flutter and fall.

He looked down. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

The kind-faced woman gave him a gentle smile, her voice warm. “You’re not causing trouble at all, Master Tomioka. You’re very polite. We just want you to feel at ease here.”

She hesitated a moment, folding a cloth with quiet care before continuing, her tone soft. “Sanemi, well… he’s a bit much sometimes. Hot-tempered, quick to bark if something isn’t how he likes it. But that temper usually comes from somewhere else—something deeper. He acts colder than he means to.”

Giyuu’s hands lingered over the edge of the counter, uncertain. “I don’t want to be a burden. I just want to help. To do something useful.”

The woman paused what she was doing and looked at him more closely. “It’s sweet of you to want to help. But Sanemi… he’s protective. Not just of the estate, but of people. Of you.”

Giyuu blinked.

She chuckled, amused by her own words. “You probably haven’t noticed yet, but he doesn’t let just anyone close. He hasn’t accepted marriage proposals in years. Said no to every single one.”

The other woman nodded. “Until now.”

Her friend continued gently, “He acts differently when you’re around. Even if he doesn’t see it himself. That’s why I hope you’ll stay. It’s not easy for him to open up, but… I think he’s starting to trust you.”

Giyuu stared down at the cloth in his hands, her words settling deep in his chest like a small ember. He didn’t quite know what to do with the warmth it sparked.

“I’ll try not to cause trouble,” he said softly.

The servant gave a nod, her voice kind. “You’re not trouble. Just be patient—with him, and with yourself.”

Giyuu stepped outside once more, the screen door sliding shut with a soft clack behind him.

The sun had risen fully now, brushing the garden in light. The morning mist had lifted, revealing dew-speckled petals across the stone path. He made his way slowly back to the plum tree, where the blossoms still drifted downward in gentle flurries.

That word still echoed in his mind. Bride.

The way the servant had said it—calm, certain, like it was already fact. Like he belonged here.

Sanemi had never said it. Had never called him that. But maybe... he didn’t have to.

Giyuu knelt beside the tree again, fingertips brushing petals into the wooden bowl he’d left behind. He didn’t know what he was to Sanemi, not really. A stranger, a duty, a burden. A presence tolerated, at best. And yet…

He acts differently when you’re around.

He thought of Sanemi’s expression the night before—frustrated, yes, but softened in the corners. The quiet urgency in his voice when he’d said Don’t disappear. It hadn’t sounded like someone speaking to a stranger.

Still, the distance was there. In the way Sanemi left the estate early, he returned late. In the silences that hovered between them, heavy with things unsaid.

But maybe there was room in those silences. Room for something to grow.

Giyuu gathered another handful of petals. He didn’t know what he wanted, exactly. Only that being seen— really seen—by someone like Sanemi, someone who was all fire and scars and guarded glances… it meant more than he could admit aloud.

Giyuu’s head lifted at the sound of soft footsteps approaching the courtyard.

“Excuse me?” a voice called gently from beyond the gate. “Is this the Shinazugawa estate?”

He rose from where he knelt beneath the plum tree, brushing petals from his sleeves. Standing at the gate was a woman with a gentle smile and a pale parasol resting on her shoulder. Her posture was graceful, composed—but her eyes were warm with quiet amusement.

“Yes,” Giyuu replied softly. “May I help you?”

The woman stepped forward with easy grace. “I hope so. I’m here to speak with Sanemi Shinazugawa—there were a few things I needed to go over with him.”

Giyuu lowered his gaze. “He’s not home right now. He left earlier this morning.”

She hummed lightly, not surprised. “Off chasing something again, I suppose.”

There was a pause, her gaze drifting from the walkway to the petals caught in Giyuu’s dark hair.

“Well,” she continued, her voice warm and teasing at the edges, “I won’t pretend that was my only reason for coming.”

Giyuu blinked.

She gave a small, playful tilt of her head. “There’ve been rumors, you know. That Sanemi’s finally taken a spouse. Not that he’s told anyone outright—but people talk. Especially when someone like Sanemi, who used to turn down every match without a second thought, suddenly agrees to marry.”

Her eyes settled on Giyuu with gentle curiosity. “You must be the one everyone’s been talking about.”

Giyuu’s shoulders stiffened slightly. He didn’t know what to say.

The woman smiled more kindly. “Sorry—where are my manners? I’m Kanae Kocho.”

She bowed politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, truly.”

“…Tomioka Giyuu,” he replied quietly, returning the bow. “You can call me Giyuu.”

“Well then, Giyuu,” she said, taking a step closer, “since Sanemi’s run off again, would you mind if I kept you company while I wait?”

Giyuu hesitated, unsure. But there was something calming about her—like soft rain or a breeze through spring leaves. He nodded.

“I don’t mind.”

Kanae smiled brightly, stepping beside him beneath the plum tree. “Thank you. I couldn’t resist coming to see Sanemi’s beautiful bride for myself.”

Giyuu startled faintly, eyes widening, but Kanae only chuckled softly behind her hand.

“Ah, I’m teasing—just a little,” she said kindly. “I mean it as a compliment. You’re not what I expected… but that’s a good thing.”

Giyuu’s gaze lowered again, but this time his expression softened.

Kanae glanced around the garden, then back to him. “It’s peaceful here. Do you spend much time out like this?”

He gave a small nod. “When it’s quiet.”

“Well,” she said, settling in beside him with her parasol tilted between them, “let’s enjoy the quiet together for now. I’d like to get to know you, Giyuu.”

Kanae smiled softly as she settled just outside the sliding doors, her eyes quietly observing Giyuu in the gentle morning light.

“You’re a quiet one,” she said softly, her tone light, almost teasing. “Sanemi’s got good taste.”

Giyuu blinked, cheeks coloring faintly, but kept his voice low and steady.
“I don’t talk much.”

“That’s okay,” Kanae said, leaning back slightly with an easy grin. “Sometimes quiet is exactly what someone needs. Besides, Sanemi’s not the easiest person to open up to, so maybe it’s a good match.”

There was a gentle pause as Kanae studied him with kind eyes.
“Quiet people notice things others might miss. Like the way the sunlight filters through leaves, or the softness of plum blossoms.”

Giyuu’s gaze flickered up briefly, thoughtful.
“I like the garden.”

Kanae nodded. “Me too. It’s peaceful there. A good place to think… or just be.”

She smiled again, a little teasing sparkle in her eyes.
“So, do you find the garden peaceful, or just a place to keep busy when Sanemi’s away?”

Giyuu hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.
“A bit of both.”

Kanae laughed softly, warmth wrapping around the room like a gentle breeze.
“Well, I hope you find more peace than busy work. You deserve that.”

She glanced toward the doorway, then back at him with a sly smile.
“You know, I’ve heard Sanemi’s not one to take marriage lightly. Having someone by his side… that must be something special.”

Giyuu’s eyes widened just a fraction before he quickly looked down, voice quiet and steady.
“I don’t think so.”

Kanae chuckled softly, shaking her head.
“Well, I suppose only time will tell. Sometimes feelings sneak up on people when they least expect it.”

Giyuu gave a small, almost imperceptible smile but said nothing.

Giyuu’s voice was barely above a whisper as he glanced up at Kanae, his hands nervously twisting the edge of his sleeve.
“Could you tell me more about him? About Sanemi.”

Kanae’s eyes softened, and she gave a small, knowing smile.

“Sanemi is... complicated. He’s fierce and stubborn, quick to anger, sometimes harsh. But there’s more beneath all that.”

She leaned forward, speaking gently, almost like she was sharing a secret.
“He’s been through a lot, more than most realize. That’s why he keeps people at a distance—he’s afraid of getting hurt again.”

Giyuu listened closely, his gaze steady but gentle.

Kanae’s smile grew a little mischievous as she teased softly,
“And, well... he’s not very good at showing it, but I think he likes you. A lot.”

Giyuu blinked, cheeks coloring faintly. His voice was soft, almost shy.
“Likes me?”

Giyuu stayed quiet, eyes lowered, but his posture had softened—just enough for Kanae to notice.

She tilted her head, watching him for a beat. “You’re still not sure why he married you, are you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Giyuu’s lips parted like he might respond, but nothing came out. His expression softened, thoughtful. Then, in a quieter voice:
“I thought maybe… he was just tolerating me.”

Kanae gave him a look full of quiet empathy. “No one tolerates someone with that kind of care in their eyes.”

He looked at her again, his gaze hesitant. “Do you think so?”

“I know so,” she said simply, then added with a teasing glint, “and I’ve known Sanemi a long time. He doesn’t let people close. Not unless they mean something.”

The breeze brushed through the paper screen again, lifting the edge of Kanae’s parasol. Giyuu sat in silence, the warmth of her words curling somewhere unfamiliar in his chest.

Then Kanae leaned slightly toward him, voice dropping to a mock whisper.
“But don’t tell him I said any of this. He’ll get all prickly and stomp out of the room.”

A breath of laughter escaped Giyuu before he could stop it—light and quick. His hand moved instinctively to cover his mouth.

Kanae grinned, pleased. “There it is.”

Before either of them could say more, soft footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Kanae glanced over her shoulder, sensing the shift in the air.

Moments later, steady footsteps approached—familiar, heavy, and deliberate.

Sanemi appeared in the walkway, his eyes landing first on Kanae, then flicking to Giyuu.

Giyuu straightened instinctively, unsure, while Kanae simply offered a bright smile as if nothing at all had changed.

“Welcome back,” she said breezily, waving her fingers. “We were just talking.”

Sanemi’s eyes narrowed slightly—not at her, but at Giyuu, whose faintly flushed cheeks betrayed the peace that had just started to settle.

--

Sanemi stepped into the room, the sliding door clicking softly shut behind him. His gaze swept across the space, landing on Giyuu and Kanae seated by the low table, steam curling gently from the tea cups between them.

He opened his mouth to speak, but paused as his ears caught something strange—something that pulled him up short.

Giyuu was laughing. Quiet, but unmistakable. A soft, breathy sound.

Sanemi’s brows furrowed faintly.
He doesn’t laugh like that around me.

The corner of his mouth twitched, though whether in confusion or something else, even he wasn’t sure.

--

Sanemi stepped into the room, arms crossed, eyes narrowing slightly as they landed on Kanae, then drifting to Giyuu.

“Tch. You didn’t come all the way here just to sit around and gossip, did you?”

Kanae turned toward him with an easy smile. “No, I came to go over the border patrol rotations with you,” she said, then added with a hint of mischief, “but I stayed for the company—and to finally meet your bride.”

Her gaze moved back to Giyuu, softening. “He’s even handsome in person.”

Sanemi’s brows drew together. “Don’t say weird things.”

Giyuu blinked, caught off guard. Kanae only laughed lightly.

“What? I’m just telling the truth,” Kanae said with an easy smile. “You didn’t say a word, and then out of nowhere, you’re married. Everyone’s been talking about it. Some of them weren’t even sure it was real.”

 Sanemi scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Let them wonder.”

Kanae’s smile turned faintly teasing. “You’ve never let anyone stay, you know. Not like this.”

Giyuu’s gaze dropped to his hands again, fingers loosely intertwined in his lap.

Kanae leaned back, her eyes flicking to Sanemi. “Maybe it’s because someone is waiting for you now. That changes things, doesn’t it?”

Sanemi raised a brow, arms still crossed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kanae only gave a mysterious little hum, her attention drifting back to Giyuu with a soft smile.
“Nothing,” she said. “It suits you.”

Giyuu blinked, uncertain, but didn’t look away. Sanemi frowned faintly, clearly not following whatever Kanae was trying to suggest—but bothered by it all the same.

Kanae leaned back, resting her hands behind her. “Did he tell you?” she said, turning to Giyuu with a conspiratorial tone. Kanae’s smile turned sly. “He nearly punched a hole in the wall when he found out about the marriage proposal?”

Sanemi shot her a sharp look. “Oi.”

“I’m just saying—it was impressive,” Kanae replied with a mock-innocent shrug.

Giyuu’s lips twitched—just slightly—and Kanae’s smile brightened at once.

“Oh, now that was almost a smile. I think I’m winning him over.”

Giyuu shook his head softly, saying nothing, but there was a small warmth building in his chest, quiet, unfamiliar.

Sanemi frowned, eyes darting toward him again. He didn’t like how easily Kanae was drawing that out of him. Not that he understood why it bothered him. It just did.

Kanae stood and dusted off her sleeves. “Well, I suppose I should leave before I overstay my welcome.”

She turned to Giyuu with a graceful nod. “It was truly lovely meeting you.”

Giyuu stood as well, bowing slightly. “Likewise.”

As she passed Sanemi on her way out, she leaned in with a knowing smirk. “You’re more transparent than you think.”

Sanemi stiffened slightly, expression darkening. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Kanae just laughed. “You’ll figure it out eventually.”

Then she was gone, the door sliding shut behind her.

The room went still.

Giyuu sat again, quiet and calm, though his eyes flicked to Sanemi with something softer than before—curious, maybe, or simply unsure.

Sanemi scowled and looked away, folding his arms.

“…She talks too much.”

The door closed quietly behind Kanae, leaving the room feeling still and a little empty. Giyuu sat for a moment, the soft silence wrapping around him like a gentle sigh.

Sanemi returned shortly after, his eyes lingering on Giyuu longer than usual, a faint warmth hidden beneath his usual scowl. Clearing his throat, he muttered, “Don’t pay attention to what Kanae says. She likes to tease.”

Giyuu glanced up, meeting Sanemi’s gaze, catching the awkward edge in his voice. Sanemi shifted on his feet, clearly uncomfortable, then added, “Breakfast’s ready.”

Nodding, Giyuu rose and followed him toward the dining room. The faint aroma of steamed rice and simmering soup greeted them as sunlight filtered softly through the windows.

They sat across from each other in quiet companionship, the space between them calm and tentative—neither cold nor distant, but cautious, as if both were feeling their way through something unfamiliar. The morning light settled gently around them, carrying an unspoken possibility between them.

Chapter Text

The lanterns inside the tailor’s shop glowed warmly against polished wood and neatly stacked bolts of fabric. Sanemi hadn’t planned to stop. He was just passing by—on his way back from yet another patrol he hadn’t needed to take. Lately, he’d been volunteering for more missions than usual. Longer ones. Ones that gave him excuses to stay out late, sometimes even overnight.

It wasn’t like the estate was unbearable. But it was quiet. Too quiet. And Giyuu was always… there. Not in a bothersome way. Just—present. Still. Polite. So damned soft-spoken that sometimes Sanemi forgot he was in the room until he turned and found him watching the rain or folding linens with those calm, expressionless eyes.

So yeah, Sanemi had been working more. And thinking more than he wanted to.

He was halfway through the market when a flash of a deep blue, like a twilight sky just before it faded to black. No flashy patterns, no unnecessary frills. Just clean, elegant embroidery around the sleeves and collar. It stopped him in his tracks.

It would look good on him, Sanemi thought before he could stop himself. That soft, pale skin. Those eyes—icy, distant, but always so clear. The thought made his jaw clench. Gods, that sounded ridiculous. He didn’t think about things like that.

Still, he stepped inside.

The tailor, a man old enough to be his grandfather, glanced up from where he was folding a pale summer yukata. “Looking for something in particular?”

Sanemi nodded toward the blue kimono on the stand. “That one.”

“Ah. Fine choice,” the man said, carefully lifting it from the display. “Gift for someone?”

There was a pause.

Sanemi’s mouth opened before he had time to second-guess. “…Yeah. My husband.”

The words felt heavier out loud than they had in his head. Strange, considering it was true. It was his husband. Legally, anyway. But saying it still made something squirm in his chest, like he’d left himself too exposed.

The tailor didn’t react much—just gave a small nod and started folding the garment neatly. “Then I’ll make sure it’s packed properly.”

Sanemi coughed into his fist and looked away, suddenly more interested in the corner of the shop than anything else.

He hadn’t meant to think about it, but the image came anyway—of their first meeting, weeks ago. Of Giyuu standing quietly at the foot of the estate stairs, dressed in plain robes that didn’t fit quite right, chin slightly lowered like he was preparing himself to be spoken over. Sanemi hadn’t known what to do with him. Still didn’t, half the time.

---

Giyuu stood up quietly from the low dining table and began collecting the dishes without a word, his sleeves brushing the lacquered wood as he moved.

“I’ll wash these,” he said softly, already reaching for the empty bowls and plates with practiced hands.

Sanemi looked up from his seat, brows furrowing. “Don’t bother. We have maids for that.”

Giyuu paused, but didn’t stop. “It’s fine… I’m used to it.”

He stacked another plate gently, fingers precise. Familiar.

That’s all I ever did back in my old house, he thought bitterly, but didn’t say.

Sanemi pushed back his chair with a quiet scrape, standing. “Well, don’t get used to it,” he said, firm but not unkind. “You won’t have to anymore.”

Giyuu froze, hands hovering above the tableware.

“I mean…” he said, eyes lowered, voice thin, “how else am I useful?”

Sanemi blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“That’s all I did before,” Giyuu continued, still not looking at him. “Cleaned. Cooked. Stayed out of the way. That’s how I kept the peace.”

There was a rawness beneath his calm voice, not quite sadness—something older, deeper. Resignation.

Sanemi stepped closer, arms crossed, unsure whether to be angry or just hurt for him. “Whatever you did back there in your house… you’re not there anymore.”

Giyuu looked up slightly, his expression unreadable.

“You’re here. In my estate.” Sanemi hesitated, then added, quieter, “Our estate.”

His ears went a little pink, but he didn’t look away.

Something shifted behind Giyuu’s eyes, the words landing somewhere delicate.

Sanemi exhaled. “You don’t need to earn your place here by cleaning dishes. That’s not how this works.”

“I offered to clean when we first met,” Giyuu murmured.

“Yeah,” Sanemi said, with a soft snort. “You said you didn’t mind doing floors either. Like that was just… normal.”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

Sanemi rubbed the back of his neck, brow knit. “Can I ask you something?”

Giyuu nodded slowly.

“How were you treated back there? In that damn house?” Sanemi’s voice dropped. “What made you think chores and silence were all you were worth?”

The question hung in the air, and for a long moment, Giyuu said nothing.

Then quietly, “After my parents died… they took me in, but I was more like a shadow. I didn’t belong. Lady Tomioka… she didn’t say it outright, but I knew.”

He breathed slowly, like confessing a wound.

“Ruka was their real child. I was just… there. In the way. So I tried not to be. I learned to clean. Stay quiet. Be useful.”

Sanemi’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into loose fists. He hated the image—Giyuu, quiet and beautiful and lonely, living like some ghost in a house that should’ve loved him.

“That’s not how you should’ve been treated,” he muttered, stepping forward.

He reached out, gently taking the dishes from Giyuu’s hands and setting them on the table again.

“You don’t have to act like that here,” he said. “You don’t have to earn the right to exist in this place. You already have it.”

Giyuu looked at him then, really looked, like no one had ever said that to him before. There was something glassy behind his lashes, though he didn’t cry.

Sanemi cleared his throat suddenly, stepping back. “Anyway. I, uh… I got you something.”

Giyuu blinked, caught off guard. “A gift?”

“Yeah.” Sanemi walked to the corner of the room and returned with a neatly wrapped package. “I was out earlier and saw it.”

He held it out a bit awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure if he was doing this right.

Giyuu took it slowly, fingers brushing the soft wrapping.

Sanemi looked off to the side. “It’s a kimono. Blue. I thought… it’d suit you.”

Giyuu’s eyes widened slightly. “For me?”

“Yeah.” Sanemi shifted his weight. “Your skin is, uh… it’s pale. And your eyes are blue. It just… looked right. Not that I thought too hard about it or anything.”

Giyuu stared at the bundle in his hands, then back at Sanemi. There was something blooming in his expression—quiet, tender.

“No one’s ever… given me something like this,” he said softly.

Sanemi huffed. “Well, get used to it.”

He didn’t mean just the gifts.

They stood in the quiet stillness of the room, the only sound the soft rustle of fabric in Giyuu’s hands.

He clutched the blue kimono close to his chest, gaze flickering up toward Sanemi—then quickly away again.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low but sincere.

Sanemi gave a half-shrug. “It’s just a gift. Don’t overthink it.”

But Giyuu didn’t move.

Then—hesitantly, almost like he didn’t realize he was doing it—he took a step forward.

Sanemi blinked, confused, until Giyuu reached out, arms wrapping slowly around his middle in a shy, tentative hug.

It wasn’t tight. It wasn’t practiced.

But it was real.

Sanemi stiffened at first, caught off guard by the contact. His hands hovered for a second before he let them settle awkwardly around Giyuu’s back.

“…You’re welcome,” he muttered.

Giyuu said nothing. Just stood there, leaning into the warmth, letting himself breathe for once without bracing for it to be taken away.

It wasn’t perfect. It was a little awkward. Their arms didn’t quite know where to go.

But it was the kind of silence that didn’t sting.

And then—

“Caw! Urgent message from Lord Ubuyashiki for Sanemi Shinazugawa!”

The sharp caw made them both jolt apart like they'd been caught doing something scandalous.

Sanemi turned sharply to the window where a kasugai crow now perched, puffed up and smug, a sealed letter tied to its leg.

Giyuu stepped back quickly, avoiding eye contact, face pink. “Your… your crow,” he said, voice even quieter than usual.

Sanemi cleared his throat, thoroughly flustered. “Yeah. Obviously.”

He marched to the window and untied the letter with a little more force than necessary, muttering something under his breath.

Behind him, Giyuu stood still, the warmth of the hug lingering in his chest and fingertips.

Even as the interruption broke the moment, some small part of it remained—quiet, flickering, waiting to return.

Sanemi broke the seal and unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the neat calligraphy. He furrowed his brows slightly, then nodded with a faint sigh.

Giyuu stepped closer, his gaze shifting nervously between Sanemi and the letter.

The letter read:

“To Sanemi Shinazugawa and Tomioka Giyuu,

Lord Ubuyashiki kindly requests your presence at a dinner with the other Hashira and select members of the Corps.

This dinner will be held on Saturday of this week.

It is an opportunity to assess how you are both settling in, and to strengthen bonds among comrades.

Your attendance is expected.”

Sanemi stared at the letter a second longer, then exhaled through his nose. Great. Just what I needed. The Hashira are gonna make a damn circus out of me, I just know it.

He could already hear Obanai’s smug remarks, Mitsuri’s teasing giggles, Tengen’s overly dramatic winks. Normally, he’d roll his eyes and move on.

But this time… his gaze shifted toward Giyuu.

The other man stood there quietly, holding the edges of his sleeves, eyes downcast in thought.

The other Hashira… I’ve never met them properly. Just from a distance. They’re probably wondering why Sanemi married someone like me. I’m wondering that, too.

Sanemi shifted uncomfortably, watching him. The silence dragged, thick and uncertain.

“They invited us both,” Sanemi finally said. His tone was casual, but his fingers were gripping the edge of the letter just a little too tightly. “Dinner’s on Saturday. At the Ubuyashiki estate.”

Giyuu blinked slowly, but didn’t speak.

“They probably just wanna see if we haven’t killed each other yet,” Sanemi added with a dry scoff. then added after a pause, “Look, those guys… they can be loud as hell. Intense, too. They stare, whisper, make dumb comments—hell, they’ll tease me until I wanna strangle someone.”

Sanemi’s lips twitched in what might’ve been a smirk, but it didn’t last. He let out a short, humorless laugh instead. Then, after a beat—almost like it slipped out before he could stop it—he muttered, “…They’re not all that bad.”

Giyuu glanced up.

“Annoying as hell, yeah,” Sanemi went on, rubbing the back of his neck, “but… they’ll probably like you.”

That made Giyuu blink, caught off guard. “You think so?”

Sanemi shrugged, a little too stiffly. “You’re not hard to like.”

The two of them stood there, shoulders just barely brushing, still holding opposite ends of the letter like it might float away if they let go. Their pinkies touched—just for a second—and didn’t move. Sanemi felt the heat crawl up his neck, prickling all the way to his ears.

“…They’re not all that bad,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Annoying as hell, yeah, but… they’ll probably like you.”

Giyuu looked up at him, eyes wide and almost startled. “You think so?”

Sanemi grunted. “You’re not hard to like.”

That earned no reply—just Giyuu lowering his gaze again, his ears tinged pink.

The moment stretched longer than it probably should have.

A cool breeze drifted through the hallway, stirring the paper in their hands and reminding them that time kept moving forward.

Sanemi shifted first, clearing his throat. “It’s… late.”

Giyuu glanced outside. The moon was full, casting soft silver light over the estate. “Yeah.”

Neither moved.

“Right,” Sanemi said after a pause. “I should—uh, let you go.”

“Okay.” Giyuu’s voice was quiet.

They stayed still.

“…You gonna go?” Giyuu asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Sanemi admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

They froze again for a heartbeat, then Sanemi stepped back, forcing a small, crooked smile. “Okay, I’m leaving. Goodnight.”

He started down the hall.

“Sanemi,” Giyuu’s voice stopped him.

Sanemi turned slightly, brow furrowed.

“…Thanks,” Giyuu said softly. “For earlier.”

Sanemi blinked, caught off guard, then glanced away with a half-smile. “Don’t get all sappy on me.”

His voice was softer than usual, though.

Giyuu nodded, cheeks faintly flushed, then slipped into his room, pausing to look back.

Sanemi stood there a moment longer, hands tucked into his sleeves, feeling the warmth of the quiet between them.

The door closed gently behind Giyuu.

Sanemi stayed still, the memory of that pinky touch and the softness in Giyuu’s eyes lingering like a quiet spark.

He shook his head, muttering to himself about how ridiculous it was to get caught up in something so small.

Then he turned and walked down the moonlit corridor, the night feeling just a little less cold.

--

The room was quiet in the way only night could be — soft, distant sounds of wind against the shoji, the faint creak of old wood. Giyuu sat at the edge of the futon in stillness, bathed in pale moonlight filtering through the window.

He undid his haori with slow, careful fingers and folded it neatly, sleeves tucked carefully under, like how his sister used to do it.

He should sleep.

But he couldn't. Not yet.

His thoughts circled, slow and careful, like he was trying not to step on anything sharp.

Dinner with the Hashira.

He lay back, folding his arms over his chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling. It felt strange to think about the Hashira all sitting in one place.

He wasn’t sure where to sit at a table like that.

He didn’t speak like them. Not loudly, not quickly. He didn’t laugh easily, didn’t know how to join in when words twisted into jokes and voices layered on top of each other. They’d talk over him. Or worse—go quiet. He hated that more.

They’d wonder what he was doing there. Wonder how he ended up in this situation at all—tied to someone like Sanemi. They probably already had.

They’ll stare. Whisper. Try to figure it out.

He turned onto his side, tugging the blanket higher, his thoughts turning inward.

They’ll tease Sanemi. Maybe me too. That didn’t scare him—not really. But it unsettled something small and quiet inside of him. Because it wasn’t just about being teased. It was about being seen.

He wasn’t used to being seen.

Not like that.

And then there was him.

Sanemi.

His thoughts shifted—slow at first, like wading into deeper water.

He could still feel the shape of Sanemi’s shoulder beneath his cheek. The way his breath caught, like the hug had surprised him. Like it had cracked something open. Giyuu didn’t know what made him reach for him like that. He hadn’t planned to. It just… happened. One second of closeness in a world that never offered it freely.

And Sanemi hadn’t pulled away.

That part replayed again and again—Sanemi had held him. Even if just for a second.

What would’ve happened if the crow hadn’t interrupted us?

The thought crept in, uninvited and far too loud.

He swallowed and pressed his hand against his face, hiding it even though no one could see. The image of the two of them standing there, pinkies brushing, both holding the edge of the letter like it was something fragile, something shared—it wouldn’t leave him.

He thought about how Sanemi had looked at him. How he’d said You’re not hard to like.

And that was dangerous.

Because Giyuu didn’t know what that meant.

Or—he did. But he couldn’t believe it.

He rolled over again, onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow with a soft groan.

He didn’t mean it. Not like that.

He didn’t say it because he liked him.

He said it because Giyuu looked pathetic. Standing there like a fool, holding the letter like it was some kind of anchor. Hugging him like—like he needed it.

He felt sorry for me. That’s all. That’s all it was.

His chest felt tight.

I shouldn’t think about him like that. Not Sanemi.

Because Sanemi was rough, and loud, and sharp-tongued, and too much—and yet—somehow, around him, Giyuu felt something soft bloom in his ribs. Something careful. Something dangerous.

It terrified him.

Sanemi didn’t like quiet things. He didn’t like delicate things. He liked battles. Strength. Fire. Giyuu had watched him fight—like a storm with purpose. Giyuu didn’t move like that. He didn’t live like that.

So why had he held him like that?

Why did his voice sound so different when he said, If they make you uncomfortable… I’ll deal with it.

And why, despite everything, did that promise sit heavier in his chest than the hug itself?

Giyuu’s throat felt dry. He turned his face into the pillow again and shut his eyes tight.

I’m being stupid. So stupid.

And yet, the ache didn’t go away.

The warmth of Sanemi’s touch still lingered in his bones. His words echoed like a whisper left behind.

You’re not hard to like.

But Giyuu was. He knew he was.

He always had been.

And maybe that’s why it hurt so much to believe he wasn’t.

Chapter Text

The light in the room was dim and silvery when Giyuu blinked awake.

He stirred earlier than usual, the faint chill of morning air brushing over his cheek as he shifted under the covers. Outside, the estate grounds were still hushed—no footsteps, no sweeping, not even birds yet. Just silence, and the pale, watery glow of dawn bleeding through the shōji doors.

Giyuu turned onto his side slowly, the soft fabric of his bedding crinkling beneath him. He lay there for a while, unmoving, eyes half-lidded as he let his thoughts drift. The kimono Sanemi had given him hung neatly on the hook across the room, untouched since last night. The rich blue color shimmered faintly even in the low light.

His thoughts wandered back—unwillingly, almost dreamily—to the moment they'd stood so close. The warmth of Sanemi's hand brushing his. The way their pinkies had lingered. And then the hug.

Giyuu pressed his fingers to his chest.

He could still feel it—the strength of Sanemi’s arms around him, the awkward pressure, the way his breath had caught when he realized Sanemi wasn’t pulling away. That brief, unfamiliar heat blooming between them. He hadn't meant to lean in so much. Hadn't expected to be held like that. Not by him.

He shouldn't have.

"He only hugged me because he felt bad,"  Giyuu thought, squeezing his eyes shut. "Because I said something pathetic. Because he pitied me.

His stomach twisted. That was all it was—pity. A gesture of awkward kindness.

"He doesn’t like me. Not like that. Why would he?"

He shifted again, pulling the covers a little tighter around himself. The sheets felt colder somehow.

Still… it had felt so warm.

It startled him—how much that moment had stayed with him. How much he kept replaying it in his mind, over and over again, like he didn’t want to forget what it felt like to be touched with gentleness.

He was so unused to it. No one in the Tomioka estate had held him. Not when he was grieving, not when he was scared, not when he was forced to smile through silence. There were no embraces. No warmth waiting in the corners of that cold house.

So now—this, the smallest touch from someone who wasn’t cruel—it lingered too long. Burned too bright.

Maybe it’s just been too long since someone held me like that. Maybe I’ve just been alone for too long.

But even so, even if it didn’t mean anything to Sanemi… it meant something to him.

He rolled onto his back again, staring at the ceiling beams overhead.

“If the crow hadn’t come when it did…”

His face grew hot.

He buried it into the pillow.

“I have to stop thinking like this.”

He stayed like that for a while, quiet and tangled in thoughts that wouldn’t go away, until the first sounds of morning began to stir the house awake.

The kitchen was quiet when Giyuu stepped inside.

Sunlight slipped through the wooden slats, brushing over the floor like a soft welcome. A kettle was already set on the small iron stove, steam curling lazily from its spout. Someone—probably one of the house staff—had come through earlier, but the room now held only stillness and warmth.

He crossed the floor soundlessly, wrapped in his sleep robe, and poured hot water into a cup of roasted barley tea. The scent was earthy and faintly sweet, the kind of smell that reminded him he wasn’t at the Tomioka estate anymore.

He settled at the low table, hands wrapped around the cup, feeling the weight of the quiet around him.

It was different here. Not just the place, but the way mornings felt .

At his old house, he would rise before the others, move silently so as not to draw attention, and clean what he could before disappearing into the background. The cold was always sharper there, and the silence heavier.

Here, it was still quiet—but not with the same kind of emptiness.

He wasn’t sure if he belonged here yet. The estate didn’t feel like home. But… it didn’t feel like something to endure, either.

He sipped his tea slowly. Let it warm his chest. Let the quiet settle without swallowing him.

He didn’t hear Sanemi anywhere. Maybe he had gone out again. Maybe he was training, or on the roof, or halfway to another mission already.

Giyuu didn’t know.

But he noticed, faintly, that the estate felt more still when Sanemi wasn’t in it. Not in a bad way—just a quieter kind of presence gone missing.

A dull sound—like a wince or a thud—broke the stillness.

Giyuu blinked and looked toward the garden path. Outside, beyond the paper screen doors, he caught a glimpse of movement. A figure shifting slightly, as if leaning against the edge of the porch.

White hair.

Sanemi hadn’t left after all.

Giyuu set his cup down gently and stood. He slid open the door, stepping out onto the engawa barefoot. The wood was cool beneath his feet. Morning light filtered through the leaves above.

He didn’t move—just stayed beneath the shadowed veranda, watching from a distance.

Sanemi was outside, training.

Not the kind of sparring that involved other swordsmen or formal routines—this was something different. Sharper. More restless.

His haori lay tossed carelessly across a low branch, and his sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, exposing lean arms marked by scars and muscle. He swung his wooden training sword in fierce, controlled arcs, each one slamming into the post he'd set up in the corner of the yard. The crack of wood against wood echoed faintly in the morning air.

Giyuu watched in silence, gaze tracking each movement.

There was something almost mesmerizing about it—the precision, the aggression just barely held back. Sanemi moved like he was chasing something he couldn’t quite catch. Or maybe trying to outrun something worse.

Sweat clung to his neck, glinting in the sunlight. His hair stuck to his forehead, his jaw tight with focus. The muscles along his back flexed with each swing.

Then, a stutter in his rhythm.

Sanemi grunted low under his breath and dropped his stance for a moment, his hand pressing to his left side. His shirt clung darkly there—stained with fresh blood.

Giyuu straightened, heart kicking once in his chest.

The scar. It had reopened.

Sanemi’s next movement was slower, but he didn’t stop. He lifted the sword again—grimacing as his body resisted.

Giyuu’s brows knit together, his fingers curling against the edge of the wooden frame beside him. He took a step forward… then hesitated.

He should say something. Call out. Tell him to stop.

But the words sat unspoken in his throat.

Because somehow, watching Sanemi like this—wounded and furious and refusing to yield—it felt like glimpsing something he wasn’t meant to see. Something too private. Too raw.

Giyuu’s chest ached with a strange sort of tightness. Not pain exactly but something heavier—unease, maybe.

Still, he didn’t look away.

The wind stirred faintly, brushing past him as he lingered just out of reach. The morning sun had risen fully now, casting long shadows across the yard.

Giyuu stood there for another moment longer.

Then, slowly, quietly, he turned and walked back into the house.

But not before passing the cabinet in the hall—and pausing briefly, his eyes flicking to the wooden box on the shelf.

The medicine kit.

Just in case.

He didn’t hesitate.

Gripping the box tightly, he slipped back outside, his footsteps muffled on the wooden floor.

Sanemi was still there, training with fierce intensity, sweat beading on his brow.

But Giyuu caught the sharp wince—the moment Sanemi faltered, pressing a hand against his left side.

The scar had reopened—deep, jagged lines tracing the rough history of battles past.

The skin was taut and pale in places, the old wound a stark reminder of pain that never fully healed.

Giyuu’s voice was low, almost hesitant. “Sanemi.”

The man’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and guarded.

Without hesitation, Giyuu knelt beside him, pulling the medicine box closer.

“You don’t have to,” Sanemi grunted, his voice tight.

“I want to,” Giyuu said gently, eyes lingering on the scars as he carefully peeled back the torn fabric of Sanemi’s shirt.

The skin beneath was tough but fragile, marked with raised edges and faint purple hues—old memories etched into flesh. Giyuu’s fingers hovered for a moment, hesitant but steady, before lifting the cloth to clean the fresh cut.

Sanemi’s breath hitched as Giyuu’s hands worked slowly, the cloth moving with soft, precise strokes. The cool antiseptic contrasted with the warmth of Sanemi’s skin beneath, the sting barely masking the deeper ache hidden in those scars.

Sanemi tensed beneath Giyuu’s touch, jaw clenched tight, eyes fixed ahead, refusing to meet Giyuu’s steady gaze.

“Hold still,” Giyuu whispered.

“I am,” Sanemi muttered, voice rough but subdued.

As Giyuu leaned in to bandage the cut, their faces close enough to catch each other’s breath, the air shifted. The usual walls between them felt fragile, and Sanemi’s chest tightened at the unexpected nearness.

Giyuu’s fingers brushed a particularly jagged scar, and for a fleeting second, it was as if he saw the weight Sanemi carried—not just the physical pain, but the battles fought beneath that hardened exterior.

Their eyes locked briefly—Giyuu’s calm and unreadable, Sanemi’s flickering with something unspoken—before Sanemi looked away, the moment hanging thick and unspoken between them.

Sanemi’s jaw clenched tightly, a muscle twitching in frustration—or maybe something closer to pain. His voice came out rough and low, barely more than a rasp.
“I’m not used to this,” he said, words scraped from someplace deeper than he meant to expose. “I’m not used to this kind of... attention.”

He hated how his voice sounded—too bare, too open. Hated even more that it was the truth.

Hell, when was the last time someone touched him without expecting something in return? When was the last time someone tended to him like this, without judgment, without flinching at the scars?
The answer came quickly—never. Not really. Not since he was a kid. And back then, it hadn’t lasted.

His gaze dropped to the dirt between them, tracing the uneven ridges with his eyes. He couldn’t look at Giyuu. Couldn’t stand to see that unreadable calm, afraid it might slip into pity. Or worse—kindness.
Because kindness was dangerous. Kindness made him falter.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles pale. The tension was armor—tight and rigid, like it would crack the second he let himself ease into this strange warmth.

Why the hell did it have to be him?
Giyuu, with his quiet presence and unreadable expression. Giyuu, who didn’t push, didn’t pry, didn’t look away when Sanemi was at his worst.
It made him feel seen—and he wasn’t sure he could handle being seen.

“I’m not good at this,” he muttered, eyes still low. “Being cared for. Letting someone in. Feeling... vulnerable.”

The words burned in his mouth, but they were true. He didn’t know how to be soft without breaking. He didn’t know how to be touched without flinching.

And yet, here he was—sitting still, letting Giyuu’s hands tend to his skin, his wounds. Letting the silence stretch awkward and thick around them, like a blanket he didn’t ask for but didn’t shrug off, either.

Giyuu’s touch didn’t waver. It was steady, careful. Gentle in a way that almost made Sanemi angry—because it was too much. And not enough.

What the hell do you see when you look at me, Tomioka? Just another fucked-up swordsman? Just someone to fix? Or... something else?

He didn’t ask. He didn’t dare.

Their shoulders brushed faintly, and he inhaled too quickly. Giyuu didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. It was always hard to tell.

The quiet held them both, thick and fragile. And in that stillness, Sanemi found himself hoping—just a little—that Giyuu wouldn't pull away.

Because for all his sharpness, all his anger and pride, Sanemi had no defense against the way Giyuu stayed. Against the way he cared—quietly, relentlessly, without asking for anything in return.

And that scared him more than any wound ever had.

Giyuu’s hands stilled, resting just near the edge of the bandage, where the warmth of Sanemi’s skin met the rough edge of cotton. The air between them was thick—not with tension exactly, but with something quieter. Hesitant. Lingering.

Sanemi’s words still hovered in the space they shared: “...not like I’m used to this kind of… attention.”

And Giyuu… he understood. Too well.

He sat there, unmoving, staring down at his own hands like they didn’t quite belong to him. His gaze wasn’t sharp or distant—it was inward, heavy with thought.

Then, without looking up, he said softly, “Me neither.”

Two words. So small they might’ve gone unnoticed. But they didn’t.

Sanemi shifted ever so slightly, caught off guard, as if those words had brushed against something he didn’t know he was guarding.

“I don’t really know what to do with kindness,” Giyuu said, voice low but steady, like it had taken effort just to get the sentence out whole. “Sometimes I think I’ve forgotten how to accept it.”

He drew in a breath, then let it out slowly, like the act of speaking was unwinding something too tightly wound.

“Most of my life, I’ve been quiet,” he continued, eyes still on his fingers. “I thought if I said less, needed less, I wouldn’t get in the way. That maybe it would make things easier.”

He gave the faintest huff of air—dry and humorless. “But it just made it easier for people to forget I was there.”

Sanemi didn’t say anything. But his hands, clenched beside him moments before, had slowly eased open.

“I got used to it,” Giyuu said. “To being overlooked. To thinking that if I wasn’t needed, I didn’t matter.”

He looked up at last, just briefly, his eyes catching on Sanemi’s.

“...”

Sanemi’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t know how to take it,” Giyuu admitted. “Because part of me wanted to believe you. And the other part… didn’t think I deserved to.”

His voice wavered, just slightly. Not enough to break. Just enough to tremble like the surface of water disturbed by the wind.

“But I wanted to believe it,” he said again, quieter now. “I still do.”

A pause. The air around them felt suspended, like the world had slowed down to listen.

“And when you hugged me,” he said, the words almost fragile, “I didn’t want it to end.”

Sanemi’s breath caught in his throat. Giyuu didn’t seem to notice—he was too caught in the storm of his own thoughts now.

Giyuu’s voice was soft, almost lost to the breeze. “It wasn’t just pity. It felt… real. Like you meant it.”

He dropped his gaze again, lashes low against his pale cheeks. “It felt… safe.”

The word lingered in the air between them like a thread spun from glass.

Sanemi swallowed hard, something tightening in his chest. That word— safe —hit him harder than he expected.

Because he hadn’t meant for it to feel that way. Hadn’t planned any of it. But hearing that… hearing Giyuu say it meant something…

What the hell am I doing? he thought, stomach twisting.

He wasn’t good at this—comfort, softness, anything that asked for vulnerability. But here Giyuu was, sitting inches from him, opening up like it was the most natural thing in the world. And it rattled him.

Because Sanemi didn’t think he deserved that kind of trust. Not from someone like Giyuu.

And yet…

He didn’t pull away.
Didn’t slam the door shut around his heart like he usually did when things got too close.
Didn’t deflect with a sharp word or cold silence, no shield to hide behind this time.

Instead, he stayed there, still and taut—each breath shallow but steady—trying to carry the weight of that fragile moment without breaking apart.

His chest tightened, not with pain but something unfamiliar, like a slow burn curling beneath his ribs. The kind of ache that’s sharp and dull all at once, a confusion he’d never known before.

Their shoulders didn’t quite touch, but the air between them hummed with an unspoken current—electric and raw—pulling taut like a thread stretched too thin, threatening to snap with even the slightest movement.

The quiet around them felt heavy and alive, charged with something new and dangerous.

Sanemi’s gaze flicked to Giyuu, and for a long moment, he just looked—really looked. Not with the usual guarded suspicion or irritation, but with something softer, something hesitant and searching.

The lines of Giyuu’s face, the way his calm eyes held steady even when the world felt uncertain—Sanemi felt drawn in, like trying to hold onto a flame that could warm or burn.

A heat spread through Sanemi’s chest—uneasy, unwelcome, yet impossible to ignore. His heart quickened, thudding loudly in his ears, while a lump lodged deep in his throat made swallowing difficult.

He shifted awkwardly, the scrape of his clothing unnaturally loud in the thick silence. His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loud might shatter the moment.

“Yeah... thanks, Giyuu. For saying that. But... don’t think I’m some soft idiot now.”

The words were a shield, a rough edge to cover the vulnerability beneath—the flutter of something raw and new that scared him more than any wound or battle scar.

Giyuu’s faint smile was quiet but genuine, a small beacon in the tense air—soft and steady, like the calm after a storm.

Sanemi’s mind raced, trying to shove away the feelings clawing at him, insisting they were distractions—weaknesses he couldn’t afford to feel or face.

But beneath the harsh exterior, beneath the gruff voice and guarded eyes, a fragile truth was stirring.

Maybe it was the way Giyuu looked at him—with quiet understanding, as if he saw through the walls and scars to something beneath.

Maybe it was the gentle care in his hands, or the soft warmth lingering long after their touch had ended.

Whatever it was, it unsettled Sanemi deeply, making his chest ache in ways old wounds never had.

And maybe… just maybe… that ache was the beginning of something neither of them were ready to name yet.

Chapter Text

The moment had lingered far longer than either of them expected—a fragile silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things neither dared voice. Giyuu sat quietly on the edge of his futon, the faint warmth of Sanemi’s nearness still clinging to him like a soft, secret ember beneath his skin. It was strange—how something so brief could feel so heavy, so alive.

His fingers absently brushed the spot where their hands had almost touched, and a slow pulse of something unfamiliar fluttered in his chest. It wasn’t loneliness, not exactly. It was something more complicated—an ache that wasn’t pain but not quite comfort either. A fragile hope mixed with a cautious fear.

He thought about the way Sanemi’s eyes had met his, flickering with something unspoken—hesitation, maybe, or something raw and unguarded, glimpsed only in that quiet moment. The usual armor of harsh words and cold gazes had softened, just a little. And for a fleeting second, it was like seeing a crack in the stone wall Sanemi kept so carefully built around himself.

Giyuu wasn’t sure if Sanemi felt it too. If those flickers of vulnerability were just a slip, or the first cracks of something new. It was terrifying to hope. It was terrifying to want it.

He swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat and pressed his palms against his knees, grounding himself against the swell of emotions rising inside. The room felt too still, too empty, as if the silence outside these walls had seeped into his bones.

Duty tugged at the edges of his thoughts—the morning meal waiting, the maids preparing the estate, the world outside that needed them both. But the weight of the moment pressed heavily against his ribs, reluctant to be dismissed so easily.

He stayed there a moment longer, tracing the outline of that quiet space between them, wondering if Sanemi’s heart had skipped a beat like his had. Wondering if Sanemi was as tangled in this strange new feeling as he was—if the flicker of something gentle beneath the surface was real.

It hadn’t felt like pity.

It had felt... like something else. Something careful. Honest.

And as Giyuu finally stood and moved toward the door, the weight in his chest didn’t press down like it usually did.

This wasn’t emptiness.

It was something unfamiliar. Quiet, but present. Unnamed, but no longer ignored.

And for now, that was enough.

Later the same morning

The sunlight had shifted since dawn—no longer the pale, silvery glow that edged the horizon when he’d tended Sanemi’s wound, but a warmer gold that slipped through the shōji in thin, quiet bands. Giyuu sat on the futon exactly where he’d lowered himself earlier, knees drawn close, fingers loosely laced.

Everything felt hushed, the house holding its breath. In that fragile stillness, he replayed the garden moment—Sanemi’s breath catching, the rough grate of his voice, the way he hadn’t pushed Giyuu’s hands away. It had been clumsy, tense, and yet… startlingly real.

A new, unfamiliar ache had settled beneath Giyuu’s ribs. Not pain, but a soft weight that refused to lift. Something careful; something that asked to be protected. He pressed a palm lightly to his chest, half‑bemused by how steady his heartbeat felt despite the turmoil in his head.

What now? He wondered.
The question lingered, unanswered, as dust motes drifted lazily in a slant of sun.

The faint clack of pots from the distant kitchen reminded him that the household would soon wake in full. Normally, the maids prepared breakfast before Sanemi emerged, efficient and wordless. Today, though, an impulse rooted itself before Giyuu could talk himself out of it.

He wanted to cook.

Not because anyone expected it—not as a leftover habit from the Tomioka estate—but because he chose to. A small gesture, offered freely, hoping it might keep the fragile thread between them from fraying.

Decision made, he rose. Tatami sighed under his feet. Each quiet step down the hall felt strangely momentous, as though the corridor itself had lengthened just to test his resolve.

He slid the kitchen door open a handspan. Inside, one of the senior maids was already rinsing rice. She looked up, surprised.

“Tomio—Master Giyuu,” she said, half‑bowing. “Breakfast will be ready shortly.”

Giyuu dipped his head. “I’d like to prepare it today.”

Her brows knit. “Ah… forgive me, but Shinazugawa‑sama may be displeased if we change the routine.”

“I understand,” he answered, voice low yet steady. “Still—I’d prefer to handle it.”

The maid hesitated, weighing his quiet insistence. At length, she nodded, though concern lingered in her eyes. “Very well. Shall I stay to assist?”

“No,” he said, softer. “Thank you. I’ll manage.”

She bowed again, gathering her towel. At the threshold, she paused, tone almost motherly. “He isn’t easy to please, sir—but sometimes the smallest kindness stays with him longer than he admits.” With that gentle warning, she withdrew.

Left alone, Giyuu exhaled, rolled up his sleeves, and set the rice to soak. He chose miso, a handful of greens, and eggs for tamagoyaki—simple dishes that Sanemi never complained about. Knife strokes found a quiet rhythm; broth warmed, releasing a delicate, reassuring steam. The kitchen smelled of toasted dashi and fresh scallions, a scent that felt—unexpectedly—like home.

As he whisked eggs, he pictured Sanemi’s guarded eyes, the slight tremor he’d detected when their gazes held. The memory coaxed a heat to Giyuu’s cheeks he didn’t try to hide; no one was here to see.

Maybe he’ll scowl, Giyuu thought, folding the omelette with deliberate care. Maybe he’ll pretend not to notice. Yet the possibility that Sanemi might pause—might see the intention—was reason enough to keep going.

He plated the food with quiet precision. Two bowls, two cups of tea—one slightly stronger, the way Sanemi seemed to prefer it. Outside the window, cicadas had begun their early song. Somewhere in the distance, a door slid open.

Giyuu took a slow breath.

Whatever happened next, this—this small, intentional act—was his first offering.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. His something

--

The clink of chopsticks against ceramic broke the silence between them.

Outside, the wind stirred faintly, brushing through the leaves beyond the estate’s windows. Inside, morning light filtered softly through the slats, draping gold across the floorboards and glinting off the steam rising from the rice bowls. The air smelled faintly of miso and grilled fish—simple, warm, grounding.

Sanemi stood frozen in the doorway.

His white hair was still damp, a bead of water trailing from his temple down the column of his throat. His collar hung open from where he’d yet to button it up, revealing the edge of a scar that curved over his collarbone and disappeared beneath the fabric. The muscles along his jaw worked, tensing and untensing as he stared at the quiet figure at the table.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked finally, voice coming out rougher than he meant. It felt too loud in the small room, like it didn’t belong in the soft quiet Giyuu had created.

Giyuu didn’t flinch.

He looked up slowly, the morning light catching on his lashes, casting faint shadows beneath his eyes. His gaze was unreadable but steady, his voice calm when he said, “I made breakfast.”

“I can see that.” Sanemi’s eyes flicked over the table, then back to him. His arms crossed over his chest defensively. “Didn’t I tell you not to?”

“You did,” Giyuu replied, reaching to smooth the edge of a folded napkin with delicate precision. “But I still wanted to.”

Still wanted to.

The words landed too gently. They didn't bounce off the way they should have.

Sanemi stared at him.

There was no defiance in Giyuu’s voice. No smugness, no attempt to guilt him or act self-righteous. Just… truth. Simple and unwavering.

His mouth opened to argue, but nothing came out. He hesitated—a half-step forward, then stopped.

“…Why?”

Giyuu tilted his head slightly, as if he didn’t understand the question. Or maybe he did, but didn’t think it needed answering.

“Because I wanted to,” he said again.

The answer was so plain, so gentle, it made something tighten in Sanemi’s jaw. He didn’t understand this kind of honesty—quiet, steady, not asking for anything back. It was disarming. 

They ate in silence for a while, the only sound the occasional clink of porcelain or the faint rustle of sleeves. Sanemi kept his eyes mostly on his food, but every so often, he snuck glances across the table. 

Giyuu looked… calm. Not smug. Not proud. Just there, sharing the meal like it meant something. Like he wanted it to. 

Sanemi cleared his throat. “You’re not doing this to prove something, are you?” he asked, voice low. “Because I don’t need—” “I’m not,” Giyuu interrupted, gently.

 Sanemi blinked.

“I’m not trying to impress you either,” Giyuu added, eyes flicking up to meet his just briefly. 

Something in Sanemi’s chest stirred, low and unwelcome. He hated how it made his ribs feel too tight.

He glanced at the second bowl already set out, steam curling into the air like a fragile offering. The sight of it made his pulse flicker, uneven.

“You didn’t have to wake up early just for this,” he muttered, gaze darting toward the floor.

“I didn’t mind. I was already awake.”

Sanemi raked a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. The strands stuck to his damp forehead. His shirt clung faintly to his side, the fabric shifting slightly as he moved, catching at the edges of old scars worn into his skin. He hated being seen like this—bare, unguarded. But Giyuu didn’t stare. He didn’t shrink away either.

He just looked.

Calm. Steady.

Not flinching.

And for some damn reason… that rattled him more than judgment ever had.

Sanemi ran a rough hand through his damp hair, pushing the strands back from his forehead. The coolness of the morning air mixed with the lingering warmth of the bath clinging to his skin. His shirt hung loose, unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the sharp lines of old scars etched deep into his chest and collarbone. Every breath made the fabric shift over those marks—marks he was used to hiding, even from himself.
He hated being seen like this—bare, exposed, vulnerable. But Giyuu didn’t look away. No flicker of judgment, no glance to escape the sight. He just watched, steady and calm, as if holding a silent promise not to break what he saw.

That simple act rattled Sanemi more than any harsh word ever could.

Giyuu’s fingers brushed lightly against the rim of his teacup, the faintest tremble in the movement betraying a nervousness Sanemi wasn’t used to seeing. His voice was softer now, almost shy, as if voicing this thought was new territory.
“I just thought it’d be nice… sitting down like this. With you.”

Sanemi’s eyes snapped down, heat flushing his cheeks in an instant.
“You’re weird.”
The word was rough, clipped—more a reflex than a true insult.

“I’ve heard that before.”
Giyuu’s quiet reply came with the barest hint of a smile, a flicker of light breaking through the tension.

Silence settled, thick but fragile, wrapping around them like a fragile thread stretched taut across the room. It wasn’t heavy, but it was far from easy. There was something unfamiliar pressing between them, a new and fragile weight that neither wanted to name.

Giyuu shifted, fingers nervously tracing the teacup’s edge.
“If it bothers you, I won’t do it again.”

Sanemi’s mouth opened, as if to retort, but the words tangled in his throat.
It didn’t bother him—at least, not in the way he thought it would.
It unsettled him.
That was different.
He swallowed hard, his voice low and rough as he muttered,
“…I didn’t say that.”

Giyuu blinked, clearly surprised, a faint and fleeting smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
They sank back into silence.

Sanemi poked at his food awkwardly, the rough scrape of his chopsticks breaking the stillness.
“It’s not bad, you know. The rice.”

Giyuu glanced up, eyes steady and soft.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Don’t push it,” Sanemi muttered, but the sharpness had softened, the usual edge gone missing.

Another pause stretched between them. Neither rushing to fill it.

Sanemi poked at his food awkwardly, then glanced up, voice low and rough.

“You should’ve let the maids help you.”

Giyuu’s eyes softened as he looked back.

“Maybe. But sometimes, it feels better to do something with my own hands.”

“…You didn’t want anyone else helping, huh?”

Giyuu’s gaze didn’t waver. “No.”

A beat passed.

Sanemi clicked his tongue, glancing down at his food again. “You’re unbelievable.”
He meant it to sound annoyed. But it came out too soft, almost like he didn’t mind.

Giyuu didn’t respond right away, and Sanemi hated how the silence felt too full—like every breath between them carried more weight than it should.

Finally, Giyuu said, “I just wanted it to come from me. Not the estate. Not duty. Just… me.”

Sanemi’s grip faltered slightly. He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.
Because somewhere beneath the irritation, the unease, the deflection—
That fluttering thing in his chest was back again.
And it scared him more than he’d ever admit.

--

As the days slipped by—slow and golden and strangely quiet—something between them began to shift.

Sanemi walked in that next morning, fully expecting it to be a one-time thing.

It wasn’t.

And though he scoffed and muttered—“You really doing this again?”—he still sat down. Still ate. Still watched Giyuu out of the corner of his eye, even when he pretended not to.

By the third morning, he’d stopped bothering to complain.

The protests were half-hearted now. Just grumbles. Sharp glances. A scowl that didn’t reach as deep as it used to. And still, he ate.

Something about the ritual settled beneath his skin. Unfamiliar. Uneasy. Not bad, just… new.

Every morning, Giyuu would be there. Quietly setting dishes on the table before the maids could step in. Always early, always calm. There was no fanfare to it—no performance. Just simple gestures, soft and deliberate. The clink of ceramic. The smell of freshly steamed rice. A second cup of tea was poured without asking.

He never made a show of it, and he never waited for thanks.

And Sanemi—though his pride prickled—never told him to stop again.

Giyuu never pushed conversation. But every day, the silence grew a little softer. A little less stiff. Some mornings they exchanged a few words—a comment about the weather, a small remark about training or the garden. On others, they said nothing at all. But it no longer felt awkward. It felt… easy. Companionable.

Sanemi would sit with his arms crossed at first, posture tense, guarded. But by the time the second bowl was set out, he’d have relaxed enough to lean back slightly, the curve of his shoulder turned just enough toward Giyuu to betray his unease softening.

He hated how aware he’d become of Giyuu’s presence.

The quiet way he moved through the kitchen. The steam curling in his hair. The way his fingers lingered just a little too long when setting down Sanemi’s cup.

He’d catch himself noticing the small things. How Giyuu’s voice stayed low in the mornings, still husky with sleep. How his expression changed—barely—when he focused, lips parting slightly, brow furrowing in thought.

It unsettled him.

It made something coil tight in his chest, something warm and restless he didn’t know how to name. He told himself it was just the routine, just the quiet. That he was just getting used to it.

But he knew that wasn’t all.

Because something about sitting across from Giyuu every morning—just the two of them, with nothing loud or urgent or forced between them—started to feel like the beginning of something.

He wasn’t ready to admit what.

And Giyuu didn’t press.

But with each passing day, the distance between them felt just a little smaller.

Saturday crept closer, the dinner with the Hashira looming like a shadow at the end of the week. But even that couldn’t pierce the fragile rhythm they had started to build.

Not yet.

Not when the mornings still belonged to them.

Chapter Text

The estate had gone still hours ago.

The maids had retired. The halls were quiet. The garden, beyond the open shoji, was hushed beneath the moonlight—silver spilling through the dark like spilled ink on rice paper.

Sanemi hadn’t meant to stay up. He’d gone out for air, only to find Giyuu already there, sitting quietly at the edge of the veranda with his knees drawn in and a cup of now-cold tea at his side.

He didn’t look over when Sanemi stepped into view. Just sat there, eyes trained on some distant point in the garden. His profile was faintly illuminated—more shadow than skin.

Sanemi hesitated, then walked over and sat beside him.

No words at first. Just the sound of night insects humming low and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.

“You keep sighing,” Sanemi said, voice low as he leaned against the doorframe. “Gonna wear yourself out before morning.”

Giyuu didn’t turn around. “Didn’t realize I was.”

Sanemi stepped further in. “You’re not usually this tense.”

That pulled the faintest shift from Giyuu—barely a tilt of the head. Then, softly: “Tomorrow.”

Sanemi glanced at him. “The dinner?”

A nod.

“They’re not going to bite you,” Sanemi offered, awkwardly trying to sound light. “Unless Mitsuri’s had too much sake.”

That earned him the smallest exhale of a laugh. But Giyuu’s eyes stayed lowered.

“I’ve never met them,” he said finally, his tone calm, but softer than usual. “The other Hashira. I’ve only heard things.”

Sanemi went quiet. He stared at the moonlight stretched across the floorboards, jaw tight.

Sanemi folded his arms, brow furrowed. “You’re not walking into an ambush, y’know. They’re not that bad.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Giyuu tilted his head, voice barely above a murmur. “I just don’t know what to expect.”

After a long pause, he said, “If they’ve got a problem, it’s theirs. Not yours.”

That made Giyuu glance over, slow and unreadable. Sanemi could feel the weight of those eyes on him, calm but questioning.

“You say that like it’s simple,” Giyuu said after a moment, almost a whisper.

“It is,” Sanemi muttered. Then, after a beat, he added—less sharply—“Maybe not easy. But it’s not your job to convince them of anything.”

Giyuu looked down again, the tension in his shoulders not fully gone, but looser somehow. “...Alright.”

The words sat with him—not forceful, not loud, but firm in that grounded way Sanemi always was when he wasn’t trying to push him away.

“Still,” Giyuu said softly, “I don’t want to embarrass you.”

Sanemi scoffed. “You? Embarrass me?”

He leaned back slightly, arms folding over his chest. His eyes flicked toward the window, where the moonlight pooled faintly against the wooden floorboards. “Tch. You already survived living under that uptight hellhole of a family. This’ll be nothing.”

Giyuu looked up at him then, hesitant. “You really think so?”

Sanemi met his gaze, jaw tight—but something gentler lingered behind his expression now. “Yeah. I do.”

A quiet settled between them again. Not awkward. Just calm.

Sanemi let out a slow breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re gonna like you. Probably more than they like me.”

That startled a tiny sound out of Giyuu—more breath than laugh, but it softened something in the room.

“Doubt that,” he murmured.

“You shouldn’t,” Sanemi replied. His voice was a little gruff, but the sincerity beneath it wasn’t hard to catch.

They sat with that a moment. Giyuu’s pulse had slowed. The anxiety that had coiled in his chest all evening didn’t vanish, but it eased, settling into something a little more manageable. Not because he suddenly felt brave—but because Sanemi was steady, even when he didn’t mean to be.

Giyuu looked down at the floor, then back at him. “Thank you.”

Sanemi shrugged like it didn’t matter, but his ears were a little pink. “Don’t get weird about it.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

Sanemi stayed in the room a little longer than he meant to, watching the way Giyuu's hair caught the moonlight, soft and dark and still. He couldn’t name the feeling it stirred in his chest—only that it lingered longer than it should’ve

--

The first light of dawn crept through the slats, pale and cool against the tatami. Giyuu was already awake.

Sleep had been shallow, restless, the same thoughts circling until the sky began to lighten. He lay there for a while, listening to the hush of the wind outside, the faint creak of the estate as it settled. Then, quietly, he sat up.

Today.

By nightfall, he would be sitting across from the other Hashira. People whose names he had only heard, whose reputations carried the weight of steel. The strongest of the Corps. The ones who stood at Sanemi’s side.

He drew a breath, steadying himself. It wasn’t fear, not exactly. More like stepping into water that looked too deep to see the bottom.

The kitchen was quiet when he slipped in, familiar in its stillness. He let his hands move on instinct—the soft rush of rice grains against the pot, the measured rhythm of a knife through green onions, the faint hiss of fish catching on the grill. Ritual. Something to anchor him when his mind threatened to drift too far ahead.

Would they judge him before he even spoke? Would they look at him and only see someone unworthy of Sanemi’s household? His chest tightened at the thought. But he pressed on, hands steady. At the very least, he could set the table properly.

By the time Sanemi walked in, the table was already half-set.

“You’re up early,” Sanemi muttered, his voice still rough with sleep. He scrubbed a hand over his face, white hair sticking out in uneven tufts. A bead of water trailed from his temple down the line of his throat, disappearing into the loose edge of his collar.

Giyuu looked up at him, faintly caught by the image before forcing his gaze back down. “…I couldn’t sleep,” he said simply, placing down another bowl. Steam curled upward, catching the morning light.

Sanemi paused, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he leaned against the doorframe. His eyes narrowed faintly. “You’re worked up about tonight, aren’t you?”

Giyuu stilled, fingers brushing the rim of a teacup. The words stung, not because they were untrue, but because Sanemi could read him so easily. After a moment, he nodded once. “…A little.”

Sanemi snorted and came closer, dropping into his seat with a careless heaviness. “They’re just people, y’know. Loud, annoying people, sure. But people.”

People he had never met, Giyuu thought. People who already had a bond with Sanemi, a history he wasn’t a part of. He wondered if they would resent his presence here, if they would see him as an intrusion.

“That doesn’t make it easier,” he admitted quietly, sliding the last dish onto the table before settling across from him.

The silence stretched for a bit, filled only by the faint clink of porcelain as they began to eat. Sanemi didn’t say anything at first, chewing absently, but every so often his gaze flicked up—catching the slight downturn of Giyuu’s mouth, the way his shoulders sat tighter than usual.

Finally, Giyuu lifted his gaze. “…What are they like? The others.”

Sanemi’s chopsticks hovered for a beat. He chewed, swallowed, then leaned back slightly.

“They’re all different,” he said at last. “Tengen’s flashy and won’t shut the hell up. Shinobu’s got a smile that’ll cut deeper than her blade. Mitsuri’s… different. Warm. Too damn warm, sometimes. Obanai’s a snake—literally and otherwise.” His mouth twitched faintly, like he wasn’t sure if that counted as an insult or not. “Kyojuro… he’s loud, but you’ll know where he stands.”

He stopped there, realizing he was talking more than he usually did.

Giyuu listened, quiet as ever, hands curled loosely around his teacup. Steam rose in soft spirals, brushing over his face. A small part of him relaxed hearing Sanemi speak so plainly about them, but doubt still tugged at the edges.

“…Do you think they’ll—” He cut himself short, shaking his head. “…Never mind.”

Sanemi frowned. “Spit it out.”

Giyuu’s eyes lowered. His fingers tightened slightly around the porcelain. “…Do you think they’ll accept me?”

The words were soft. But they landed heavy.

Sanemi scowled, though his chest tugged uncomfortably. “Tch. Doesn’t matter if they do or don’t.”

The words should have been enough—practical, unbothered. But Giyuu’s chest squeezed. If it didn’t matter, why did the thought leave him so uneasy? Why did he want Sanemi’s people to see him as more than a shadow in the corner?

Sanemi cursed under his breath.

“But yeah,” he added, rougher, quieter. “They’ll come around. They’d be idiots not to.”

Something in Giyuu’s shoulders eased, just slightly. His lips pressed faintly together, as though holding back something more. “…Thank you.”

He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hear that.

Sanemi grunted, looking away. 

For a while, they ate in silence again. But it wasn’t the heavy silence of strangers anymore. It was steady, balanced on something silent.

Giyuu found himself watching Sanemi’s profile when the man wasn’t looking. Rough edges, unshaken confidence. He wondered if the others were like him, or if Sanemi stood apart even among them.

Sanemi’s words weren’t gentle, but they settled somewhere steady inside him. And when Giyuu thought of tonight, the unease that usually rose in his chest felt quieter, less sharp.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Giyuu found himself moving through the estate’s corridors with an unusual stillness, watching the faint stirrings of preparation unfold around him. The maids spoke in hushed tones as they carried trays, linens, and polished dishes. Every sound—the rustle of fabric, the click of sliding doors—reminded him that the dinner wasn’t hours away anymore. It was here. Tonight.

In his room, the quiet didn’t bring peace. His thoughts turned restless. He had never met the other Hashira, though he’d heard their names whispered with weight. To be seated among them, to be looked at as Sanemi’s partner—it twisted something inside him. He smoothed the fabric at his knees, his fingers pressing faint creases into the silk before he realized he was gripping too tightly.

The maids entered then, carrying the folded kimono Sanemi had chosen for him days ago. Giyuu hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t even thought about what he might wear—but Sanemi had. That thought alone made his chest stir uncomfortably.

The kimono was heavier than what he was used to, its silk cool under his fingertips. The color was deep and subdued, grounding, though there was something about it that felt deliberate—chosen. As they dressed him, tying the layers with precise hands, he sat still and quiet. His reflection in a polished lacquer tray caught his eye for only a moment, but it was enough. The figure staring back looked composed. Presentable. Like someone he wasn’t sure he fully recognized.

By the time the maids finished and withdrew, the sky had already begun to darken. Lantern light flickered against the shoji doors, casting pale gold across the floor. Giyuu drew in a slow breath, smoothing his sleeve, and stood.

He almost didn’t want to step out.

But when he did, he stilled in place.

Sanemi was already in the hall.

For once, he wasn’t dressed in his usual half-buttoned uniform or with hair clinging messily from training. His haori was clean, his uniform straightened, the lines sharp against his frame. His hair—though still a little stubborn—had been combed back enough to look almost proper.

Giyuu found himself staring before he could stop. The difference wasn’t drastic, but it was enough. Sanemi looked like he belonged at a formal table. Like someone others would notice first.

Sanemi caught the look, scowling faintly. “What? Don’t look at me like that. It’s just dinner.

But inside, the words didn’t match the tug low in his chest.

He wasn’t the type to fuss over appearances, never had been. Straight collars, clean lines, sitting still long enough to look respectable—it all felt pointless most days. But when he thought about tonight, about Giyuu sitting in a room full of eyes that might judge before they understood, his hands had gone to the buttons anyway. He’d combed his hair. Straightened his haori.

It wasn’t for himself. He knew that much.

And now, with Giyuu standing there in the kimono he’d chosen—quiet, steady, almost too composed for how uncertain he must have felt—Sanemi couldn’t help but think it had been worth the damn effort.

The way Giyuu’s eyes lingered wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t critical. Just… there. Careful. A kind of attention Sanemi wasn’t used to, and didn’t know what to do with.

He turned his head away with a mutter. “Tch. Quit staring.”

But truthfully, he didn’t mind it. Not from him.

Sanemi adjusted the edge of his haori again, fingers tugging at a crease that wasn’t really there. It felt unnatural, walking out the door looking so put-together, but Giyuu was at his side now, quiet as ever, and for some reason that made him straighten his back.

Giyuu’s steps were nearly soundless against the wooden floorboards, the hem of his kimono brushing lightly as he moved. Every so often, he adjusted the sleeve, like he wasn’t used to wearing something so fine. Sanemi noticed the way his hand lingered at the fabric, careful, almost reverent—as if he didn’t quite believe it belonged to him.

Something in Sanemi’s chest tightened. Damn fool didn’t even know he looked—

He cleared his throat, shoving the thought down before it could finish.

They walked in silence for a while, the space between them close but not touching. Sanemi’s ears caught every little sound—Giyuu’s soft breath, the faint swish of his sleeve, the tap of geta against wood. Normally, silence chewed at him, made his skin itch. But here, with Giyuu beside him, it wasn’t so unbearable.

If anything, it felt… steady.

He stole a glance at him, at the way Giyuu’s gaze stayed fixed forward, calm but not cold.

And for a fleeting moment, Sanemi thought—if the Hashira couldn’t see the worth in him, then to hell with them.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

The maids bowed low as the doors of the estate closed behind them. The evening air was cool, touched with the faint smell of pine, and the waiting carriage gleamed under lantern light. Sanemi motioned for Giyuu to step in first, then followed after, the door shutting with a muffled thud behind them.

The carriage rocked gently as it set into motion, the sound of hooves striking against the gravel carrying them further from the estate. Inside, the lantern hanging overhead cast a warm glow across the wooden frame, shadows flickering across their faces as they sat across from one another.

Giyuu’s gaze drifted to the window, though the scenery outside blurred quickly into streaks of darkening blue and the occasional cluster of fireflies. His hands rested in his lap, fingers interlaced too tightly, betraying the calm he was trying to project.

Sanemi leaned back against the seat, arms crossed over his chest. He looked, at first glance, like the picture of ease—but his eyes kept flicking toward Giyuu. Just for a second at a time. Always catching the slight shift of his hands, the way his shoulders curled as though bracing against something unseen.

“Quit twisting yourself up,” Sanemi said suddenly, voice low and gruff.

Giyuu blinked, glancing at him. “…I’m not.”

Sanemi snorted, tilting his head back. “You are. I can hear your damn sleeves creaking from over here.”

Heat crept faintly across Giyuu’s ears, and he lowered his gaze again, trying to still his hands. For a moment, the silence threatened to settle heavy between them once more.

Then Sanemi shifted forward, resting his forearm against his knee, his tone quieter this time. “Listen. They’re not lookin’ to tear you apart. You’ll see soon enough—half of them barely know what to do with themselves at a dinner table.”

Giyuu’s lips parted, the faintest flicker of curiosity breaking through his nerves. “…Half?”

Sanemi smirked, sharp but not unkind. “You’ll figure out which ones soon enough.”

The corner of Giyuu’s mouth twitched like he almost wanted to smile, but it faded before it could take shape. Still, something in his chest loosened. The carriage’s steady rocking no longer felt quite so suffocating.

Sanemi leaned back again, closing his eyes like he couldn’t care less about the ride or the night ahead. But even with his arms crossed, even with his head tilted as if resting, a thought slid through the cracks of his stubborn defenses—quiet, uninvited, and impossible to ignore.

He’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.

The rest of the ride passed in quiet, save for the steady rhythm of the wheels on the road. Giyuu kept his gaze on the window, though his focus drifted inward more than outward. His hand lingered at his lap, brushing the fine weave of fabric he wasn’t used to—something new, something chosen for him. The thought made his chest stir strangely, and he turned his face slightly, as if the passing night could cool the warmth at his cheeks.

Sanemi, leaning back with his arms crossed, cracked an eye open at him once, catching the faint movement of Giyuu’s hand and the restless shift of his shoulders. He didn’t say anything, just huffed quietly to himself before closing his eyes again. The corner of his mouth twitched like he’d swallowed back words he wasn’t ready to let out.

The wheels hit a smoother stretch, the ride softening as the carriage neared its stop. Outside, the muffled murmur of voices grew clearer, a glow of lanterns breaking through the window’s edge.

Sanemi straightened, rolling his shoulders, and glanced over. “You ready?” he asked, voice gruff, but not unkind.

Giyuu startled slightly at the sound, blinking as if pulled from his thoughts. His hand smoothed down his sleeve again before he nodded. “…Yes.”

The carriage slowed to a halt, the door opening with a faint creak. Evening air rushed in—cool, carrying the faint hum of laughter and movement from the estate.

Sanemi stepped down first, then turned without thinking, waiting. Giyuu followed, pausing just long enough for the lantern light to catch on the faint flush still at his ears. He ducked his head quickly, as though the night air might hide it.

Together, they moved toward the entrance. Side by side, their steps fell into rhythm, and though neither spoke, something gentle threaded between them—light as a brush of fingers, steady as their matching pace.

The doors opened with a soft creak, and Lady Ubuyashiki appeared, her presence calm and welcoming.

“Sanemi. Giyuu. We’re so glad you could join us,” she said, her smile warm enough to ease the edge of the evening chill. She stepped aside gracefully. “Please, come in. Everyone is waiting.”

Giyuu bowed politely, his words quiet. “Thank you for having us.”

Sanemi gave a curt nod, but his hand pressed lightly against the small of Giyuu’s back, urging him forward. Together, they crossed the threshold, their steps muffled against polished floors and the faint scent of incense trailing through the halls.

When they entered the main hall, the dinner table stretched out before them. At its head sat Lord Ubuyashiki, serene as ever, his presence commanding without effort despite the frailty of his body. His sightless eyes lifted as though he could see them, his voice carrying with gentle authority.

Lady Ubuyashiki’s voice was soft as she stepped aside, ushering them into the room. “Welcome. We’ve been waiting for you.”

At the head of the table, Lord Ubuyashiki inclined his head, his voice gentle but steady. “Please, come in. Sit. Tonight is for warmth, not formality.”

The words sank into Giyuu’s chest heavier than expected—welcome. He lowered his head, unsure how to answer, but Lord Ubuyashiki’s soft smile made it clear no response was required.

Around the table, the Hashira turned their attention toward the newcomers. Giyuu’s stomach tightened as unfamiliar faces—each weighted with power and presence—fixed on him. He had never met them, only heard whispers of their strength. All except one.

Kanae Kocho.

Her kind eyes softened when they found him, and the small curve of her smile was enough to ease his breathing just slightly. She inclined her head in a gentle, reassuring gesture, one that made Giyuu’s pulse steady despite the scrutiny of the others.

Giyuu followed Sanemi’s lead, kneeling at the table. The moment he settled, he felt the weight of eyes on him—curious, sharp, assessing, yet not unkind. His hands rested neatly in his lap, though his pulse betrayed him with its uneven rhythm.

The first voice came from the giant presence at the table. Gyomei bowed his head slightly, prayer beads shifting softly in his hands. “I am Himejima Gyomei. It’s an honor to finally meet you, Tomioka Giyuu. Your quiet nature carries strength—I can already sense it.”

Giyuu lowered his gaze respectfully. “…Thank you,” he said, voice quiet but even

Next came a thunderous laugh, as bright as fire. “Rengoku Kyojuro!” the Flame Hashira declared, his energy filling the room like an open flame. “It is a joy to meet you! I look forward to sharing a meal!”

The sheer force of his voice made Giyuu’s shoulders stiffen. He gave a small nod, unsure how else to respond, but Rengoku’s unwavering grin left little room for awkwardness.

From across the table, Mitsuri leaned forward, her hair spilling over her shoulder. “I’m Kanroji Mitsuri! It’s so nice to finally meet you!” Her voice was warm, sweet—almost too much. Then, softer, almost to herself: “He’s so reserved… but it makes him even more charming,”

Obanai’s mismatched gaze slid toward Mitsuri, then to Giyuu. His voice was clipped, carrying a dry edge. “Iguro Obanai. Don’t let her chatter fool you—she says things like that too easily.”

Mitsuri puffed her cheeks, whispering back, “I don’t say it about everyone… he really is different.” Her words slipped out softly, almost to herself, though her eyes lingered on Giyuu with open curiosity.

Obanai’s stare sharpened a fraction, though he said nothing more, the faintest tension threading through his tone as he turned his attention back to the table.

A low chuckle followed, smooth and playful. “Uzui Tengen,” the Sound Hashira announced, tipping his cup with easy grace. “You don’t have to try to be flashy, Tomioka. Pretty boy like you pulls attention without lifting a finger.”

Giyuu froze. His breath caught, and for a moment he thought about lowering his gaze again—but it was already there, fixed on the pattern of the table as if it could shield him. Heat crept faintly into his ears.

Sanemi shifted beside him, almost imperceptibly. A grounding presence, steady, like an anchor. He didn’t say a word, but Giyuu felt it.

And then—familiar softness.

“You’re looking well, Tomioka. It’s good to see you again.”  Kanae said gently. Her smile carried no weight, only warmth. 

His head lifted almost on instinct. Her smile was the same as he remembered—warm, patient, disarming. The tension in his chest loosened, just a little. He inclined his head in return, softer than before. “…You as well, Kocho-san.”

Sanemi noticed. He noticed too much—the faint softening in Giyuu’s expression, the way his shoulders seemed a fraction less tense when speaking to her. Something twisted low in his chest, sharp and unwelcome, and he had to look away before it showed.

Kanae’s smile warmed as she tilted her head, studying Giyuu’s quiet presence with gentle ease. “You don’t have to be nervous,” she said softly. “Everyone here only wants to know you better.”

Giyuu blinked, his lips parting as if to respond, but no words came. He settled instead for a small nod, the tips of his ears betraying the faintest flush.

Across the table, Sanemi’s jaw tightened. He busied himself with reaching for his cup, fingers curling too firmly around the porcelain. It wasn’t like Giyuu was doing anything wrong. Hell, he was just… answering, being polite. Still, Sanemi couldn’t shake the uncomfortable pinch that came from seeing someone else draw out that tiny, unguarded softness he’d only glimpsed in passing.

The conversation moved easily from there—introductions traded, voices overlapping, the warmth of the table pressing in—but Sanemi kept finding his gaze dragged back to Giyuu, even when he told himself to cut it out.

The air around the table brightened with interest.

Uzui arched a brow, smirking as he leaned back. “So, the quiet one leaves an impression after all. Flashy surprise, I’ll give him that.”

Mitsuri giggled behind her hand. “It’s not a bad thing! Kanae has such a warm heart—I’m glad she wasn’t alone that day. And Tomioka seems so… dependable.” She whispered the last word, as if testing how it sounded, before returning to her food with a shy smile.

Giyuu shifted in his seat, every muscle tight, as if the attention pressed too heavily against his shoulders. Compliments weren’t something he knew what to do with. His gaze flicked down to his lap, hands folding neatly, betraying the faintest tremor in his fingers.

Kanae must have noticed, because her tone softened, graceful as always. “It wasn’t much of a meeting, really. A brief moment—kind, but simple. Tomioka is very considerate, that’s all.”

Her words landed gently, meant to ease the spotlight. Still, Sanemi caught the way Giyuu’s lips parted as though to respond—only to close again, the words swallowed before they could form.

He hated how easily she could do that—ease him, draw those fleeting changes in his expression. It clawed at him, sharp and unwanted, sitting just beneath his ribs.

Obanai’s gaze cut across the table again, serpentine and quiet, watching Giyuu with the kind of scrutiny that made Sanemi’s jaw clench. It wasn’t anything blatant, but the flicker of interest was enough.

Sanemi let his chopsticks snap against the rim of his plate, sharp enough to draw a glance or two, but not enough to warrant a question. “Eat,” he muttered under his breath, nudging Giyuu’s elbow lightly—more forceful than gentle, though the intent was muddled even to himself.

Giyuu blinked, startled, but obeyed, lifting his bowl. His movements were careful, precise, but his eyes remained downcast, as if hiding the faint color clinging to his cheeks.

The conversation swelled around them again, lively and warm, but for Sanemi, it was little more than background noise. His focus stayed too close. Too narrow.

On Giyuu.

Always on Giyuu.

Gyomei’s voice, deep and resonant even in its gentleness, cut through the chatter. “It eases my heart to know you were not entirely alone upon arriving, Tomioka. Such kindness is a blessing.”

Giyuu’s head dipped, unsure how to respond to such words, and so he gave the only thing he could manage: a quiet nod.

“That’s right!” Rengoku boomed again, his smile unwavering. “And now, you are among comrades. A fine gathering tonight—one meant to strengthen bonds!”

Uzui leaned an elbow against the table, smirking. “Bold words for someone still sizing him up. Don’t think we can’t see you staring, Rengoku.”

Rengoku barked out a laugh, unbothered. “Of course I’m staring! One must see clearly those they break bread with! Tomioka’s spirit is written all over him—unshakable!”

“Unshakable, hm?” Obanai’s voice slithered in from across the table, quiet but sharp. His mismatched eyes flicked toward Giyuu, then to Sanemi for the briefest beat, before he added, “We’ll see.”

The words were casual, but the weight behind them wasn’t.

Sanemi’s jaw ticked.

Before the air could stiffen too much, Kanae’s light laugh smoothed over the edges. “Don’t be so harsh, Iguro. It’s his first evening with us. If anything, he’s holding himself well.”

Mitsuri nodded eagerly beside him, her curls bouncing. “Yes! And he looks so—ah, well, I mean—” She caught herself, pressing a hand to her lips, cheeks rosy.

Sanemi caught the slip, and heat pricked the back of his neck. He turned slightly, gruff as he snapped, “Oi, quit staring at him like he’s a damn festival doll.”

That earned him a round of chuckles from some of the table—Rengoku the loudest, Uzui smirking again.

Giyuu, however, ducked his head lower, ears pink, fingers curling faintly against his lap.

Sanemi’s scowl deepened.

And then—quiet, steady—Lord Ubuyashiki’s voice cut through the room, easing the laughter into silence.

“Sanemi has long rejected the idea of marriage,” he said, his tone calm as still water. “He has turned down every offer I have ever placed before him. Yet now—he has accepted you, Tomioka.”

The words seemed to still the air. Even the faint crackle of lantern light sounded louder in the hush that followed. The Hashira shifted, their amusement cooling into something more curious, more intent.

Mitsuri leaned forward first, eyes wide, hands clasped near her chin. “Ehh? Really? I knew you were stubborn, Sanemi, but you turned them all down?” Her voice carried a kind of awe, tinged with surprise.

Uzui tipped his head back with a low laugh, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Tch. ‘All’ is an understatement. The man’s rejected more proposals than I can count. Practically made it an art form.”

“That’s true,” Obanai said, his voice smooth but carrying a faint edge. His mismatched gaze slid toward Sanemi. “It was almost a given. Whoever tried would get cut down before they finished asking.” He let the words hang, just long enough to glance at Giyuu—sharp and assessing.

Kyojuro boomed with laughter, slapping a broad hand against the table, the sound ringing through the room. “Indeed! I recall several families who tried and failed—Sanemi would sooner bite their heads off than let them finish the sentence! But now…” His voice softened only slightly, eyes blazing bright as ever as he turned toward Giyuu. “Now, he sits here beside you, Tomioka. Truly remarkable!”

A ripple of amusement went around the table again, lighter this time, threaded with wonder rather than mockery.

Mitsuri pressed her fingers against her lips, as if trying to hold back the words spilling out. “You must be… really special,” she said softly, leaning a little closer toward Giyuu. Her cheeks warmed, her smile bright but sincere. “For him to say yes after all this time—” She stopped herself, realizing the weight her words carried, but the sentiment lingered in her eyes.

Giyuu’s breath caught, his chest tightening. Special. The word landed too heavily, too sharply, as though it belonged to someone else. His gaze dropped, lashes low as he stared at his hands in his lap. They curled tighter, faint tremors in his fingers betraying the unease coiling in his stomach.

He had never been called that before. Never thought himself deserving of such a word.

The attention pressed down on him, suffocating and strange, and yet—beneath it—there was something warm. Something he couldn’t quite name.

Sanemi’s jaw ticked, his scowl sharpening. Every glance, every laugh, every damn word that put Giyuu beneath their scrutiny set his nerves alight. It wasn’t just irritation at their teasing—it was the way they looked at Giyuu. The way Giyuu flushed, softened, shifted under it all.

Something twisted hot and unfamiliar inside clawing at the edges of his temper.

He wanted to bark at them, tell them to knock it off, to mind their own business. But the words stuck, heavy in his throat. Because beneath their laughter was truth. And it was that truth—raw and undeniable—that made his chest feel too tight.

The silence stretched. The air was thick, humming with thoughts left unsaid.

Kanae, seated gracefully a few places down, studied Giyuu with quiet eyes. Her smile was small but knowing, the kind that spoke without words. She did not add to the teasing—did not need to.

It was Mitsuri again who leaned in, her curiosity outweighing her restraint. She tilted her head, the softness in her voice wrapping around the question like silk.

“But… if you’ve always refused before, Sanemi… what changed this time?” She blinked, glancing between him and Giyuu. “Why Giyuu?”—when Lord Ubuyashiki’s calm, deliberate voice rose above the murmurs.

“Let us not dwell on the past,” he said gently, the authority in his tone halting everyone mid-sentence. “Tonight is for introductions and for welcoming our newest guest. Let us focus on sharing this meal.”

The tension lingered like a held breath.  Giyuu’s breathing quickened; he wanted to thank Lord Ubuyashiki, but the words stuck in his throat. His fingers loosened slightly, the faint crescent shapes pressed into his palms now fading. Even so, he allowed himself the tiniest sense of relief.

Sanemi’s shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly, though his jaw remained tight. He hated how relieved he felt, hated that part of him was grateful for the intervention. His eyes flicked to Giyuu, who now seemed smaller somehow, his posture subtly contracting as he adjusted to the quiet authority. Something sharp, almost possessive, stirred-a flicker of jealousy that he quickly shoved down. He wasn’t going to let anyone see it.

Giyuu dared a tiny glance at him, catching that flicker before Sanemi looked away, as if he hadn’t noticed. The weight of it passed between them, light and electric, threading through the space like a secret tether only they could feel.

The room settled into a quiet hum. Conversation resumed, softer now, careful. The attention was still there, but muted. Giyuu exhaled almost imperceptibly, his chest less tight than moments ago. He allowed himself a small measure of composure, though the heat in his cheeks lingered.

Sanemi studied him out of the corner of his eye. Giyuu’s hands rested lightly in his lap, fingers brushing against one another, the faintest hesitation in his movements. The quiet, the small gestures, the way he seemed to shrink yet stay present—it struck Sanemi in a way that was sharp, insistent.

He hated it. Hated how protective the urge felt, how much he wanted to shield Giyuu from even the smallest discomfort. And yet, he couldn’t look away. Each small movement Giyuu made—the subtle tilt of his head, the way he adjusted the folds of his kimono—kept tugging at that unfamiliar ache in his chest.

The evening hadn’t even truly begun, and already the threads between them were taut, humming with unsaid words and emotions neither dared name. Giyuu’s quiet fluster, Sanemi’s suppressed tension and faint jealousy, and the gentle authority of Lord Ubuyashiki created a delicate, charged intimacy in the room.

And in that suspended moment, both of them felt it—the careful balance of closeness and restraint, of acknowledgment and restraint, of something quietly growing that neither had yet allowed themselves to fully understand.

The silence at the table softened as Mitsuri leaned forward, pink hair falling slightly over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling with open curiosity. “So, Tomioka… how are you finding things at the estate? Living with Sanemi isn’t too difficult, is it?” Her voice carried no malice, only warmth, though there was a faint nervous giggle at the end, as if she couldn’t help herself.

Giyuu shifted where he sat, his gaze lowering to his hands. “…It’s quiet,” he answered, voice soft but even. “I don’t mind it.”

Mitsuri’s shoulders relaxed, and her lips curved into a smile. “Ahh, I’m glad! I was worried you might be overwhelmed. Sanemi can be… well, very forward, but it sounds like you're getting used to it.”

Sanemi scoffed, folding his arms, his tone edged with annoyance. “Oi. Don’t talk like I’m some beast locked in a cage.”

That sparked Rengoku’s laughter, loud and infectious, filling the hall. “But you are forward, Shinazugawa!” he boomed. “That’s no insult! It’s simply your nature. All flame, no hesitation. And yet—” His eyes gleamed as they flicked toward Giyuu. “If Tomioka is at ease, then you must have tempered yourself. That’s worth celebrating!”

The praise made Giyuu’s ears heat faintly. He shifted in his seat, brushing his sleeve between his fingers as if grounding himself against the growing attention.

Uzui leaned back with a smirk, one hand draped lazily over the back of his chair. “Tempered, huh? Now that’s a sight I never thought I’d see. Shinazugawa playing house instead of punching holes in the walls.” His gaze slid to Giyuu, sharp but oddly amused. “You’ve got more patience than the rest of us gave you credit for, Tomioka. Flashy, in its own way.”

Obanai’s voice cut in, quieter but carrying weight. His mismatched eyes fixed on Giyuu, unreadable. “You don’t speak much,” he observed, tone blunt but not cruel. “But you don’t look uncomfortable either. That’s… unusual.”

The words weren’t meant as praise, but there was a slant to them—pointed, as his gaze flicked, just briefly, toward Sanemi.

Sanemi bristled immediately, his scowl darkening. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Obanai shrugged faintly, his gaze still resting on Giyuu a fraction too long. “Only that anyone else would’ve been driven off by now. Tomioka hasn’t been.”

The faint shift in the air was enough to draw subtle tension, but Kanae stepped in before it could sour. Her voice was gentle, carrying a calm that wrapped around the room like balm. “I noticed that as well,” she said, her smile warm, her eyes soft as they settled on Giyuu. “He carries himself with quiet grace. It balances you, Sanemi, in a way I wouldn’t have expected.”

Sanemi clicked his tongue and turned his head aside, but his hand curled tightly against his armrest, the truth in her words pressing too close for comfort.

Mitsuri, unable to contain herself, leaned closer toward Giyuu, her cheeks flushed with unfiltered excitement. She whispered as though it were a secret, though the table could hear her clearly.  “You’re so reserved… but it’s really endearing. Like a quiet kind of strength.”

The words hit too directly. Giyuu froze, his shoulders stiffening as the heat in his face spread down his neck. He ducked his head further, black hair shifting to shadow the pink in his cheeks. His hands twisted faintly against his lap, fingers curling as though he wished for something to hold.

Sanemi saw it all—the faint tremor in Giyuu’s shoulders, the way he shrank from the attention, the color blooming against pale skin. Something inside him twisted hot and sharp, half frustration, half… something else. He ground his teeth and forced his gaze away before it could show on his face.

Rengoku, ever unbothered, leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I must say, Tomioka, you carry yourself with admirable composure. Most would falter beneath so many eyes, yet you remain steady. A fine trait!”

“Agreed,” Kanae added softly. “Not many can stay composed in a room like this.”

“…It’s nothing,” Giyuu murmured, his voice barely audible, though the faint blush on his skin betrayed him.

For Sanemi, that tiny sound only made the knot in his chest pull tighter.

The quiet hum of voices around the table seemed to press in, but Sanemi barely heard them—his focus kept drifting, against his will, to the dark fall of Giyuu’s lashes, the faint flush still clinging to his ears.

Before he could think too hard on it, Lord Ubuyashiki’s voice rose once more, gentle but carrying enough weight to still the room.

“Forgive me,” he said, folding his hands together. His tone was as calm as ever, but faintly thinner now, like wind moving through reeds. “I must take my leave. There are matters I must attend to—and my body won’t allow me to linger longer than this.”

Lady Amane was already rising, steady and graceful, ready to guide him from the room. He gave her a small nod before turning back to the table, his pale eyes moving slowly across each of them, lingering—soft, deliberate—on Sanemi and Giyuu.

“I am glad,” he continued, voice quiet, “to have seen you both here tonight. Cherish what you have found, even in its earliest shape. It is worth protecting.”

The words left a hush in their wake, a stillness almost reverent. Sanemi’s throat worked, something sharp and unspoken clawing at his chest. Giyuu shifted faintly beside him, fingers curling against his lap as though steadying himself.

Then, with Amane’s careful guidance, Lord Ubuyashiki withdrew, leaving the faintest trace of incense in the air.

The door closed softly behind them.

A beat of silence followed, fragile as glass—until Rengoku clapped his hands together, laughter booming and bright, shattering the heaviness. “Well then! If we’re to eat, let us eat with full spirit!”

Uzui smirked, swirling his cup of sake. “Trust Rengoku to break the tension. Still—he’s not wrong. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

The room eased again, the solemnity replaced with the lighter rhythm of conversation, dishes passed hand to hand, and laughter sparking in waves.

Sanemi exhaled through his nose, dragging his gaze from the door. His chest still felt tight, though he’d never admit it aloud.

And beside him, Giyuu sat quietly, shoulders drawn just slightly inward, as though carrying something heavier than the meal in front of him.

--

Hours slipped by almost unnoticed. Conversation ebbed and flowed, sometimes loud with laughter, other times softened by the rhythm of smaller exchanges. Plates were refilled, cups raised, voices overlapping in easy familiarity.

For the others, perhaps it was nothing unusual—another evening shared, another dinner among comrades. But for Giyuu… it was something else entirely.

He sat quietly, listening, watching. The way Rengoku’s laughter rolled bright and unrestrained. The way Mitsuri’s hands fluttered animatedly as she spoke, her cheeks flushed with delight. The way Uzui leaned back with a smirk, tossing in remarks that made Obanai sigh and Kanae smile knowingly. Even Gyomei’s soft, resonant voice added a calm undercurrent to it all.

It was warmth. A warmth that settled into the cracks of the room and lingered there, filling every corner.

And it struck him with a quiet ache.

For so long, meals had been silent. A single bowl set before him, shadows for company, the sound of his own breath the only thing to remind him he was alive. Even after his sister, after everything, the emptiness of those nights had followed him—an absence that gnawed at the edges of his chest.

But here—here was laughter. Smiles. The faint clink of dishes being passed around, the easy weight of belonging that hung in the air like something alive.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t on the outside of it. He was sitting in the middle of it. A part of it.

His gaze drifted, almost without thought, to the man beside him. Sanemi, whose scowl hadn’t fully left but whose presence was steady, solid, unmovable.

And in the flicker of that moment, Giyuu understood something quietly, without words:
He wanted this.

Not just the meal. Not just the warmth of laughter that softened the edges of loneliness. He wanted to stay by Sanemi’s side—to share more mornings, more silences, more nights like this where belonging didn’t feel like a distant dream.

The thought made his chest tighten, made his fingers curl faintly against his lap. It scared him—wanting something so fragile, so new. But still, the want was there.

He lowered his gaze, the faintest heat touching his ears, and let the noise of the table wash over him.

For the moment, this would do—just this, sitting here, side by side, letting the world wait outside.

Chapter Text

The dining hall had been a bright bloom of voices only moments ago; now the doorways echoed with the measured tread of departing feet. Lantern light pooled on the polished floor, throwing long, soft ripples across the tatami as one by one the Hashira stood, bowed, and stepped into the night. Rengoku’s laugh faded first, Uzui’s smirk the next, Obanai’s shadow receding with a curt nod. Mitsuri lingered with a bright smile and too many questions; Gyomei’s figure left a gentle hush in his wake.

Giyuu stayed where he was, hands folded lightly in his sleeves, watching each familiar face, storing the warmth like a thing to carry home. Kanae moved with her usual quiet grace beside him, a small parasol tucked under her arm, eyes completely present. She stepped forward to accept a farewell from Rengoku, then turned back to him as the room emptied, and suddenly the hubbub felt far away.

Only a handful of servants remained. The last of the Hashira bowed out with murmured goodnights and promises to write, and the sliding doors sighed closed behind them. Lanterns clicked; footsteps faded. For the first time that evening, Giyuu and Kanae found themselves alone—no longer just the quiet two who’d eaten together but two people standing at the threshold of a house breathing the same air.

Kanae’s voice came without ceremony, soft as wind through silk. “Giyuu,” she said, and he inclined his head, not sure whether to prepare himself for a question or a compliment.

She didn’t ask either. She smiled instead, the kind that reached her eyes first and left the rest of her gentle. “You’ve seen the sides of him most people don’t,” she said. “That first meeting of ours—Sanemi is blunt. He can be sharp, rough. He says things that sting. He pushes people away on purpose.”

Giyuu’s fingers tightened briefly at his sleeves. He remembered Sanemi’s first curt words, the clipped gruffness across the first nights in the house. He’d learned to expect it. But there was something else in Kanae’s tone — not pity, only understanding.

“He isn’t cruel for cruelty’s sake,” Kanae continued. “There’s something that hardened him. Loss, perhaps. Or the weight of what he thinks he must never show.” She hesitated, then added, quietly, “You’ve probably noticed—he’s stubborn, a little rude if you catch him on a bad day, and—yes—he’s quick to anger. But if you look a bit closer, you’ll see it’s all masking… something soft, something careful. He cares, even if he doesn’t show it in the ways others expect.”

Giyuu listened. Her words were simple, factual, but they landed like small stones thrown into still water—making rings that reached him. He felt a small, unfamiliar ache: curiosity—yes—but also a small green prickle of jealousy. Kanae had known Sanemi long enough to see the edges of him. She had seen what he hid. The thought flared hot and ridiculous in his chest: she knows him in a way I don’t yet.

Kanae’s eyes caught his, warm and forgiving. “He chose to accept you,” she said, low. “Perhaps he doesn’t understand what that means yet. But you are… something to him, Giyuu. Something important. Even if he won’t say it out loud.” Her hand, without drama, touched the sleeve of his kimono—light, an encouragement more than a comfort. The small contact put a tremor through him.

From a few paces away, half-shaded by the corridor and the slow drift of lantern-light, Sanemi watched.

He had meant to move—he had meant to be the first at the door, to sweep them both into the cool air and out of conversation. Instead, he lingered, arms folded, jaw tight, and the sight of Kanae’s hand at Giyuu’s sleeve hit him like an unexpected gust. A small, sharp flare of something raw and stupid rolled through him: jealousy. Not loud, not dramatic—just a tight, hot line of possessiveness that coiled under his ribs.

Kanae gets too comfortable, he thought, brow tightening. She’s warm—too warm—and she’s been hanging around my estate talking to him as if she owns the place. Is she trying to steal him? The idea was foolish the instant it appeared. Kanae was gentle and careful; she’d teased him earlier in jest and left. She wasn’t that kind of person—

Except the thought didn’t vanish. It left a taste of unease at the back of his tongue, and Sanemi found himself stepping forward because the sight of that small contact put him off-balance more than he expected. He wasn’t proud of the way his footsteps came closer, or that his jaw set harder as he did.

Kanae looked up as he approached and inclined her head with a soft smile that didn’t flinch. “Shinazugawa,” she greeted, courteous, almost sisterly. She wasn’t startled. She had always known how to be gracious and unobtrusive in equal measure.

“Go,” Sanemi said, quick and clipped, not quite meeting her eyes. The words sounded rough in the quiet corridor. “It’s getting dark.”

Kanae’s smile didn’t falter, and there was a patient amusement in it—an understanding that made his words sound small and ridiculous. “It is late,” she agreed. “Please thank Lord Ubuyashiki for the evening. I’ll take my leave.” Her voice held no anger; only a faint, knowing care for the man who’d snapped the order.

She turned, and then, touching Giyuu’s sleeve again with less than an inch of space between them, added in a whisper meant for Giyuu alone: “Be kind to him, okay? He’ll do his best—he just doesn’t always know how to show it.” The words were private, warm. Giyuu’s stomach knotted with a sudden, gentle longing and with gratitude—grateful for the insight, guilty for the tiny flare of jealousy, because every small kindness Kanae offered felt like an invitation into something he wanted to keep.

Sanemi watched the exchange; a muscle ticked in his temple. Kanae rose with a small curtsy and the faint rustle of silk. “Goodnight, Tomioka.” Her eyes met his for a heartbeat—soft, steady, not lingering—and then she moved away, a pale flower of a figure beneath the lantern glow.

When her silhouette slid beneath the open eaves and the night swallowed the last of her light steps, Sanemi exhaled—more slowly than he expected. The small, possessive sting in his chest didn’t disappear. If anything, it settled into a weight he didn’t want to name.

Giyuu’s hands were still where Kanae had touched him; for a long instant, he kept them folded there, feeling the echo of that brief contact. He watched Sanemi as Kanae disappeared, and the two of them stood in a silence that hummed with a dozen small things unsaid.

Sanemi stepped back then—uncertain, rough—more to reopen space than to close it. He didn’t say sorry. He didn’t know how to. But he turned, shoulders squared against the night, and led Giyuu toward the veranda where the moon was waiting—leaving both men pulled taut with an ache and a promise neither dared voice. 

The last trace of Kanae’s figure disappeared past the gates, leaving only the faint rustle of the garden trees and the low hum of crickets. The estate, once lively with voices and light, had sunk into a hush.

Sanemi’s stride was brisk, his hand shoved into his sleeve as if to keep them from reaching for something reckless. Giyuu followed a pace behind, quiet, his gaze drifting to the ground where the lantern glow spilled in pale circles.

The silence between them was thick—not hostile, not cold, but charged. Heavy with the weight of Kanae’s words still pressing faintly at Giyuu’s chest. Something special. Important to him. The echo of her touch lingered, and with it, the sharper sting of a thought he hadn’t wanted: She knows him better than I do.

Sanemi stopped just outside the veranda, where moonlight stretched long across the wooden floorboards. He tilted his head back, letting the night air cool the heat buzzing under his skin. “Tch. She talks too much,” he muttered, but his voice lacked the usual bite.

Giyuu’s steps slowed until he stood beside him. He didn’t answer at first, simply followed Sanemi’s gaze upward. The sky was wide, washed in silver, the moon round and bright enough to paint every scar, every line of Sanemi’s face in softer light. For once, the sharpness looked less like anger and more like something fragile.

“I don’t think she meant any harm,” Giyuu said at last, his voice steady but low.

Sanemi scoffed, a sound more to fill the air than to disagree. He turned his face aside, jaw tight. “Doesn’t matter. She should keep her nose out of other people’s business.”

The words were clipped, but his hands betrayed him—restless, flexing once before he forced them still at his sides.

Giyuu’s lips pressed together, the urge to ask rising unbidden. Why do you push people away? But the words stuck in his throat, caught on old habits of silence. Instead, he let the quiet hold.

For a long moment, they stood in parallel—two figures lit by the same moon, shadows nearly touching.

And then something shifted.

Sanemi turned his head. Giyuu did too. Their eyes caught in the middle, close enough now that the distance between them felt perilously thin. The night pressed in around them, the world smaller, their breaths almost mingling. Giyuu’s pulse thrummed at the base of his throat, a sharp, unsteady rhythm.

Sanemi’s gaze dropped—unbidden—to Giyuu’s mouth, then jerked back up with a scowl that didn’t reach his eyes. He told himself it was nothing. He told himself to step back. But his body didn’t listen.

The air tightened.

Close. Too close.

Giyuu’s lips parted, a soundless breath slipping out, and the faintest heat crawled up his neck. He wasn’t used to being seen like this—flushed, uncertain—but Sanemi wasn’t looking away.

Sanemi’s gaze lingered, heavy and unrelenting, and for a moment Giyuu swore his breath might give him away. The space between them was so slight, the air so taut, it felt like the world had narrowed to nothing but the sound of their hearts.

Then—

“Lord Shinazugawa. Lord Tomioka.” A servant’s voice slipped through the hush as the shoji slid open. “Your carriage is ready.”

The spell cracked apart.

Sanemi straightened at once, face hardening, though a flicker of color still clung stubbornly to his ears. Giyuu lowered his gaze, the heat in his cheeks refusing to fade as he stepped back a pace. Neither spoke.

The servant bowed and withdrew, leaving silence to rush in again. But it was different now—charged, brittle.

On the way to the gates, their strides never quite matched. Sanemi kept his hands shoved into his sleeves, shoulders taut, as if daring the night air to cool the restlessness thrumming under his skin. Giyuu trailed a half-step behind, his own silence shaped not by indifference but by the tremor of what almost was.

By the time they reached the carriage, the air between them was thick with what neither dared name.

The carriage wheels ground to a halt against the stone, the lanterns along the estate gate swaying faintly in the night breeze. Neither Sanemi nor Giyuu had spoken for the entire ride back. 

The silence was thick—not entirely hostile, but charged, every so often brushing against the memory of how close they had come before that interruption. The carriage came to a stop with a rough jolt against the stones, the lanterns by the estate gate swaying gently in the night air. 

Throughout the journey back, neither Sanemi nor Giyu had exchanged a single word. The silence hung heavily between them—not quite filled with animosity, yet electric, occasionally tinged with the memory of how close they had come before that interruption.

Giyuu kept his eyes trained on the dark window, watching trees blur into nothing as the horses stamped impatiently. His hands were folded loosely in his lap, but his fingers betrayed him, tightening now and again, restless in the quiet. 

Across from him, Sanemi sat with arms crossed and jaw tight, gaze fixed toward the opposite wall as though daring it to speak first. Even so, he stole glances at Giyuu—half-frustrated, half-drawn—and every time their eyes almost met, one of them looked away.

When the driver pulled the door open, the cool night air rushed in. The weight of silence lingered between them as they stepped down, lantern light catching on Sanemi’s scarred cheek and the pale curve of Giyuu’s profile.

At once, the estate staff lined up in neat formation near the entrance. They bowed deeply, voices carrying in unison, warm and practiced:

“Welcome home, Master, Lord Tomioka.”

The words echoed in the still courtyard. Giyuu’s lashes fluttered, a faint pink brushing his ears. It was still strange—hearing himself addressed that way, being welcomed not as a shadow to be overlooked, but as someone whose return mattered.

Sanemi only gave a short grunt of acknowledgment, shoulders stiff, though there was the faintest flicker of something in his eyes when he glanced sideways at Giyuu.

One of the maids stepped forward, folding her hands neatly before her. “The bath has been prepared.”

Sanemi jerked his chin toward the hall. “Go on. You first.”

Giyuu hesitated only a breath before slipping away, sandals whispering over the polished floor.

The bathhouse was already steeped in steam, the faint scent of hinoki wood rising from the warm water. Giyuu untied his haori with careful hands, his reflection wavering in the misted surface before disappearing as he sank into the pool. The heat embraced him at once, loosening his tired muscles, but not the knot that pressed tight in his chest.

His eyes closed. And the moment came rushing back—the nearness of Sanemi’s face, the raw, unguarded flash in his pale eyes, the ghost of something almost tender beneath his scowl. They had been so close, so dangerously close, as if one more breath would have closed the space between them. Giyuu pressed damp fingers against his lips, as though that could erase the memory of almost, almost touching. But the warmth there refused to fade.

He thought back to the long years after his sister’s death, where meals were taken in silence, his days folded into dark corners where only solitude kept him company. Loneliness had been his only companion, sharp and constant. Tonight, though… tonight had been different. He had sat among laughter, warmth, the Hashira’s bickering and gentle prodding, and for the first time in so long, he hadn’t felt entirely alone.

And Sanemi—rough, infuriating, impossible Sanemi—had been the one beside him.

A part of him, fragile, longed to stay in that warmth, longed to stay in that warmth. To stay at Sanemi’s side, no matter how uneven the path there might be.

The water rippled faintly as Giyuu sank deeper, letting the heat blur the edges of his thoughts. Yet even there, submerged and alone, the memory of Sanemi’s nearness clung stubbornly, refusing to let him go.

--

Sanemi watched Giyuu’s retreating figure until the shadows of the corridor swallowed him whole. The faint, measured sound of footsteps slipped away, and then—quiet. Too damn quiet.

The maids bowed, murmured something about preparing his own bath once Lord Tomioka was finished, then disappeared into their duties. That left him standing there in the entryway, alone with the soft chirring of crickets and the distant creak of wood as the estate settled into night.

“Tch.” The sound scraped from his throat before he realized it, sharp in the stillness.

He rolled his shoulders back, as if shaking something off, but the tension clung stubbornly, wound tight as barbed wire beneath his skin. The carriage ride home had been a special kind of torture. He wasn’t afraid of silence—hell, he lived in it more than most—but that silence, heavy and electric, pressing down between them? That was different. That was unbearable. Every bump of the wheels, every faint flicker of lamplight on 

Giyuu's face only intensified the moment, stretching the air so tight that Sanemi felt an urgent need to break it—to shatter it with words, with anything.

But he hadn’t. Because every time he’d opened his mouth, his damn eyes betrayed him. He’d caught sight of Giyuu’s lashes, dark against his skin, or the faint curve of his jaw in the shifting light, or the way his hands rested so neatly in his lap, knuckles pale from how tightly he held them together. And suddenly, Sanemi had no words at all. His throat locked, his jaw worked uselessly, and all that spilled out was the steady thud of his heartbeat hammering in his ears.

With a growl low in his chest, Sanemi shoved the door open and stepped out onto the engawa. The night air hit him sharp and clean, the coolness cutting against the lingering warmth of the dining hall. He lowered himself onto the wooden slats with a grunt, stretching his legs out in front of him and bracing one elbow against his knee. The wood was cool beneath him, grounding in a way the carriage had never been.

He tilted his head back, dragging a hand through his hair, and stared up at the black sky littered with stars. He should’ve felt relief being here, away from the Hashira’s knowing stares, their too-loud laughter, their damn stories about him. He should’ve welcomed the solitude.

But the truth? It only made the memory worse.

That moment.

That cursed, fleeting moment when Giyuu had been so close, Sanemi swore he could feel his breath. Just one more heartbeat, one more inch—and he would’ve… hell, he didn’t even know. Kissed him? Pulled away? Both possibilities terrified him equally. His body had moved without thought, leaning in, drawn like a moth to flame. And the way Giyuu hadn’t pulled back—the way those blue eyes had widened, not with fear, but something softer, something open—

Sanemi shut his eyes hard, teeth grinding. “Idiot.” The word came out rough, meant for himself as much as for Giyuu.

He couldn’t shake it. That look was burned into him, carved deep enough to leave a mark. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Giyuu wasn’t supposed to get under his skin, wasn’t supposed to stir things Sanemi had long buried under scars and rage. And yet, here he was, fighting to breathe evenly under the weight of something he couldn’t name.

His fist curled tight against his thigh, nails biting into his skin.

He thought back to dinner, to the way Giyuu had sat there, quiet but not detached, almost drinking in the warmth of the room. The faint curve of his lips when someone laughed, the way his eyes softened as he watched—not envy, not longing, just quiet wonder. Sanemi had caught it more than once, and each time, it had twisted something deep in his chest.

Because he knew that look.

It was the look of someone starved. Of someone who’d gone too long without being seen, without being part of something. And damn it all, it made Sanemi’s chest ache in a way battle scars never could.

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.

He should’ve gone to bed, should’ve ignored it, should’ve let it slide away like every other fleeting moment of weakness. But the truth gnawed at him, relentless, impossible to silence.

If not for that interruption, he would’ve done something reckless tonight.

And the worst part? A piece of him still wanted to.

Sanemi leaned back on his hands, letting the night air cool the heat prickling against his skin. The stars blurred above him, sharp pinpricks in a sky too vast to understand. He hated this—hated the restlessness, the pull, the way he couldn’t sit still without thinking of him.

But no matter how many curses he muttered under his breath, the truth remained, heavy and immovable.

He wanted Giyuu close again.

Wanted it so badly it scared the hell out of him.

The sliding door whispered open, and Sanemi’s shoulders stiffened at the sound. He’d been sitting out on the engawa for what felt like forever, staring at nothing, fists loose against his knees as if clenching them would only give his thoughts more weight.

Soft footsteps padded across the polished floor.

Then came his voice—low, steady, carrying that same quiet that somehow pressed heavier than most men’s shouts.

“I’m… done.”

Sanemi’s head turned before he could stop it.

Giyuu stood there, framed by the glow of the lantern light spilling from inside. His hair was damp, dark strands sticking in uneven locks against his temples and down the curve of his jaw. Beads of water still clung to the ends, catching in the light before dripping onto the loose fabric of his yukata. The collar gaped slightly, showing the line of his collarbone, skin flushed faint pink from the bath.

It was nothing out of the ordinary. Just someone stepping out of a bath. But Sanemi’s chest tightened all the same. He stared too long, far longer than was safe.

Giyuu shifted, noticing—or maybe not—but his gaze didn’t accuse, didn’t flinch. He simply stood there, calm as always, as if his very presence weren’t tugging the ground out from beneath Sanemi’s feet.

The silence stretched.

Sanemi’s jaw flexed. His throat felt dry. He forced himself to scoff, pushing up from the step with a roughness he didn’t feel. “Tch. Took you long enough.”

His voice came out gruff, uneven at the edges. Not the sharp bark he usually threw at people—more like a dull strike, lacking bite. His eyes slid away, anywhere but that damp hair, that faint blush of heat still clinging to Giyuu’s skin. “Don’t hog all the hot water next time.”

For a moment, Giyuu just blinked at him. He looked almost… startled. Not because of the words, but because of how they’d been said—like Sanemi had forgotten how to put his usual venom behind them.

“…Sorry,” Giyuu murmured. Simple. Soft.

That damn apology—it shouldn’t have meant anything. But the sound of it pressed into Sanemi’s chest, sharp and unwelcome. It made something twist tight inside him, something he didn’t have a name for, something he didn’t want to name.

Sanemi grunted in reply, brushing past him toward the bathhouse. But the warmth radiating from Giyuu brushed against him in passing, subtle and fleeting, the kind of heat that stayed long after it should have faded.

He kept his eyes forward, refusing to look back. If he did, he wasn’t sure what the hell he’d see—or worse, what the hell he’d give away.

So he kept walking.

And for reasons he didn’t dare put into words, the knot in his chest only pulled tighter.

--

The estate was too quiet. Not in the peaceful way Giyuu liked, but in a way that made every sound ring sharper than it should—the scrape of a chair, the pour of tea, the faint hiss of rice steaming.

Sanemi sat at the table, hunched slightly forward, pretending to focus on his food. His chopsticks tapped against the rim of the bowl now and then, more nervous tick than impatience. He didn’t look up when the door slid open, though his shoulders tensed, betraying he knew exactly who it was.

Giyuu stepped inside, closing the door behind him with practiced care. His gaze darted toward Sanemi just once—quick, fleeting—and then dropped away as though the look had burned him. He crossed to the counter, fingers moving with precision as he poured tea.

“...You don’t have to,” Sanemi muttered, voice low, gravelly.

“I want to,” Giyuu answered, just as softly.

The words hovered there, fragile and unfinished.

When Giyuu set the teacup down, his sleeve brushed the edge of Sanemi’s hand. It was nothing—barely a touch—but both of them froze. Sanemi pulled back quickly, covering it by reaching for his rice. Giyuu withdrew just as fast, his fingers curling slightly against the lacquered tray. Neither spoke.

The meal dragged into silence, but it wasn’t empty. Each movement carried too much weight. When Sanemi reached for the pickled vegetables, Giyuu’s chopsticks shifted at the same time, nearly tangling with his. Sanemi grunted under his breath, scowling at his plate, but the edge of his ear flushed faintly pink.

“...Sorry,” Giyuu murmured.

“Tch. Watch what you’re doing.” The words were sharp, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

Minutes later, Giyuu slid the miso bowl across the table, fingers grazing Sanemi’s knuckles again. This time, Sanemi didn’t jerk back right away. Just a beat too long, his hand stayed there before he cleared his throat roughly and grabbed the bowl like it had insulted him.

The maids passed quietly in the background, laying out side dishes, eyes politely lowered. If they noticed the strange tension thickening the room, they gave no sign.

Giyuu’s appetite waned before he’d finished. He sat straighter than usual, posture rigid, chopsticks resting neatly on the bowl he hadn’t emptied. His gaze lingered on the steam curling off the tea, then flicked—unintended, too quick—toward Sanemi. Their eyes nearly met. Giyuu looked down instantly, but not before Sanemi caught the faint color rising in his cheeks.

Sanemi shoveled the last of his rice like he needed to get it over with. His jaw worked tight, his throat bobbing with a swallow that seemed heavier than it should’ve been. He set his chopsticks down with a click, more forceful than necessary, and stood.

“I’ll be out,” he said curtly.

He didn’t wait for Giyuu to answer, didn’t dare risk what his face might show if he stayed another second.

The door slid shut behind him.

Outside, the morning light hit him square in the face—bright, sharp, too alive for the way his chest felt. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

What the hell was that?

He scowled at the gravel path, hands shoved into his pockets. It wasn’t like anything happened. Just breakfast. Just food. Just—

The way Giyuu’s sleeve brushed his hand. The faint sound of his voice was when he apologized. The soft, almost hesitant warmth in his eyes when their gazes met for that half second too long.

Sanemi’s throat tightened. He kicked at a loose pebble, watching it roll across the stones and into the grass.

This was stupid. He was acting stupid.

But the more he told himself that, the more he couldn’t stop seeing that quiet little flush on Giyuu’s face—or the way his own pulse had stumbled for no damn reason.

He swore under his breath, dragging a hand over his mouth.

Distance. That’s what he needed. A bit of space to clear his head.

But as he walked toward the training grounds, the thought that kept following him, unshakable and unwanted, was simple:

He didn’t actually want space. Not from Giyuu

The clang of metal against metal filled the training grounds, sharp and rhythmic. Sanemi’s katana bit into the wooden post again, the repeated strikes echoing through the still morning air. Splinters scattered at his feet, straw spilling from the target’s core. He stepped back, chest rising and falling with the effort.

He’d been out here for a while—longer than necessary. Each swing was too forceful, too deliberate, as though he could strike out the memory of the morning before: the soft brush of Giyuu’s hand, the quiet that had followed, the heat that lingered far longer than it should have.

“Tch,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair. It’s nothing. Just awkward silence and bad timing.

But even he couldn’t convince himself of that.

A sharp cry cut through the air.

“Caw! Shinazugawa Sanemi! Urgent orders! Urgent orders!*”

Sanemi turned as a black crow swooped down, wings stirring the dust. It perched neatly atop the fence post, feathers gleaming under the sun.

“What now?” Sanemi asked, wiping his wrist with the edge of his sleeve.

The crow puffed up, voice clipped and official. “Reports of Grotesqueries stirring near the northern provinces! Multiple sightings—villages uneased. Lord Ubuyashiki requests your immediate departure. Duration: unknown.”

Sanemi’s brow furrowed. Grotesqueries—twisted spirits born of lingering malice. They weren’t uncommon, but when they gathered in numbers, they were far more troublesome than demons.

He gave a small nod. “Understood.”

The crow cawed once in acknowledgment and took off again, disappearing into the horizon.

Sanemi sheathed his blade, the weight of his orders settling heavily on his shoulders. He’d been expecting something soon, but the timing…

His gaze drifted toward the estate. Through the thin shoji doors, he could just make out faint movement—Giyuu, probably tending to chores or quietly checking on the garden.

A strange, tight feeling pulled in his chest.

Leaving was easy. It always had been. But now the thought of returning felt heavier than it used to—because for once, someone would actually be waiting.

He exhaled roughly and strode toward the veranda.

Giyuu looked up from where he knelt by the doorway, adjusting the petals of a flower arrangement. His hair was still slightly damp, a few strands sticking to his cheek. The sight made Sanemi’s heart skip before he caught himself.

“…You’re leaving,” Giyuu said quietly, reading the situation before Sanemi could even speak.

Sanemi hesitated, then grunted, “Yeah. Crow brought word—Grotesqueries up north.”

“Oh,” Giyuu murmured. His gaze lowered, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “For long?”

“Dunno. Depends on how bad it is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy either. It stretched between them like a thin thread neither knew how to cut.

Finally, Giyuu said softly, “Be careful.”

Sanemi blinked. He wasn’t used to that tone—gentle, genuine. It made something in him stumble. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, his voice rougher than intended. “You too. Don’t go overworking yourself.”

That earned him the faintest smile—small, shy, and fleeting.

“I’ll tell the maids to prepare your things,” Giyuu offered.

“I’ll do it,” Sanemi said quickly, almost too fast.

“Okay,” Giyuu replied, and their eyes met again—steady, searching. Something passed between them, quiet but undeniable.

Sanemi tore his gaze away first, muttering something half-incoherent about packing before heading down the steps.

Giyuu stood there long after he’d gone, watching the path until Sanemi’s figure disappeared behind the trees.

The breeze picked up, tugging gently at his sleeves. The courtyard felt emptier than it had any right to.

He turned back toward the house, lips pressed together, trying to convince himself that the strange heaviness in his chest was nothing more than worry for a fellow Demon Slayer.

But when night fell and the estate grew quiet, that same heaviness lingered—soft and persistent—as he sat by the window, gazing at the empty yard and wondering when the sound of Sanemi’s voice had started to feel like home

--

The estate felt larger without him.

It wasn’t something Giyuu noticed right away. At first, it was just the silence — a stillness that settled in after Sanemi’s footsteps faded down the road. No heavy doors opening, no distant clatter from the training yard, no low, irritated grumbles drifting from the hall. Just quiet.

Too quiet.

That first morning, Giyuu rose early as usual. The sunlight pooled through the shoji doors, faint and pale, brushing gold against the tatami. He folded Sanemi’s haori, the one left draped over a chair, and set it neatly aside on his desk. The fabric still smelled faintly of cedar and smoke.

He lingered longer than he meant to.

When breakfast came, he ate alone. The food the maids prepared was simple — rice, grilled fish, and miso soup — but without the sound of another pair of chopsticks or the occasional gruff complaint about the seasoning being “too bland,” everything tasted muted.

He found himself glancing across the table more than once, as if expecting Sanemi to be there — elbows propped up, muttering something sharp, pretending not to care while sneaking glances of his own.

The chair stayed empty.

By midday, the quiet had begun to settle under his skin. He tried to fill it the way he always had before: sweeping the veranda, tending to the garden, helping the maids with small tasks. But the more he tried, the more the quiet pressed in.

He found himself talking to the servants more than usual, just to hear a voice other than his own. They were kind, polite, gentle—but their conversations stayed surface-level.

And every evening, when the lamps were lit and shadows danced along the walls, Giyuu would sit near the engawa, watching the trees sway against the night.

Sometimes, a passing crow would call in the distance, and for a fleeting second, he’d look up, heart quickening—only to realize it wasn’t Sanemi’s.

He sighed then, quiet and soft. “...He’ll be back soon,” he murmured, as if saying it aloud might make it true.

Days passed like that measured by the slow rhythm of sunrise and sunset, meals and silence. The estate never felt cold, but it lacked warmth, as though something vital had been pulled away.

By the fourth night, the loneliness had begun to curl around his thoughts.

At dinner, he sat at the long table again, but he barely touched the food. He kept catching himself thinking about little things—the way Sanemi’s chuckle could fill a room, or the stubborn glint in his eyes when he trained. Even his temper—the harshness that once frightened him—had started to feel like something alive, something real that cut through the emptiness.

He didn’t know when it had started, this quiet longing. But now that he noticed it, it wouldn’t let him go.

Giyuu set his chopsticks down, fingers trembling slightly.

“Do you think…” his voice came out quieter than he meant, barely a whisper against the hum of the evening, “he regrets that night?”

The words lingered in the air, fragile as the flame flickering in the lantern beside him.

He didn’t need to say which night. The image was still etched behind his eyes — the soft pull of tension, the closeness, the warmth of Sanemi’s breath brushing against his skin before the moment shattered.

It had been nothing. Just a heartbeat too close.
But it haunted him anyway.

He wondered if Sanemi thought about it too — or if he’d buried it, dismissed it as a mistake. Maybe he’d wished it had never happened at all.

The thought twisted something deep inside Giyuu, small and aching.

Outside, the garden rustled with the sound of night wind, the camellias bending softly in the dark. He traced the rim of his bowl, gaze distant.

“If he does,” he murmured, “then maybe I was the only one who felt it.”

The lantern flickered again, shadows moving across his face, and for a moment, the loneliness he’d tried to swallow all week finally settled heavy in his chest.

The house felt emptier at night.

Without Sanemi’s footsteps echoing through the halls or his sharp voice grumbling orders at the maids, the silence pressed closer — heavier, colder. Giyuu carried a small lantern down the corridor, its glow following him like a ghost, throwing soft gold across the tatami.

He paused outside Sanemi’s room.
The door was closed, of course. It always was when he was away. Still, Giyuu found himself lingering longer than he should have — staring at the faint gap beneath the door, as if expecting a shadow to appear.

It didn’t.

With a quiet exhale, he turned away and retreated to his own quarters.

The futon felt colder than usual when he lay down. The night air crept in through the cracks, brushing against his skin. For the first time in weeks, he missed the steady weight of another presence nearby. Not touch. Not even words. Just… knowing someone else was there.

His thoughts circled back — to that night.
To how close they’d been — Sanemi’s breath, warm and uneven. A faint tremor in his hand when their fingers brushed. The look in his eyes that Giyuu still couldn’t name — sharp, but soft around the edges.

He rolled onto his side, watching the lantern light tremble against the paper screen.

It had been nothing.
A fleeting moment, interrupted and easily forgotten — at least, it should have been.

But it wasn’t.

That night had rooted itself in him, quiet and deep, like the memory of warmth that refused to fade. He could still feel the space between them — the almost — and how, for a heartbeat, it hadn’t felt wrong.

He knew now what it was.
What it had been all along.

The thought of Sanemi — the way his voice softened when he wasn’t thinking, the faint roughness of his hands, the strange steadiness beneath his temper — it wasn’t just comfort anymore. It wasn’t duty or obligation or gratitude.

It was something gentler. Something he didn’t want to lose.

He pressed his fingers lightly to his lips, then let his hand fall away.
He knew what he felt. He’d already accepted it — quietly, without fight, without shame.

Still… he didn’t know what Sanemi felt. Or if he’d even let himself feel at all.

A small ache gathered in his chest.

Sanemi hadn’t written. His crow hadn’t come.

Days had passed, then weeks — and the silence had grown louder, more pointed. Maybe Sanemi had regretted it the moment it happened. Maybe it had been nothing more than impulse — something careless, born from fatigue or pity.

Maybe Giyuu had only imagined the hesitation in his breath. The softness in his eyes. The way his hand had lingered — almost as if it didn’t want to pull away.

He drew the blanket closer, curling in slightly. The air felt colder now, biting through the thin fabric.

Perhaps he’d misunderstood. He’d done that before — mistaking kindness for something else, mistaking attention for care. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d reached for warmth that wasn’t meant for him.

His chest tightened at the thought. He told himself he was fine with it — that he didn’t expect anything. But that small, foolish part of him still hoped Sanemi had thought of him, even just once.

Maybe that night hadn’t meant anything. Maybe it had lingered for him, too, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.

Giyuu’s palm came to rest over his heart, where his pulse felt too loud in the quiet. The steady rhythm filled the space Sanemi had left behind, too human, too lonely.

Maybe it was foolish. Maybe Sanemi really did regret that night — maybe that was why he hadn’t written, why his crow stayed silent.

Still… a small part of him hoped otherwise.

That maybe, somewhere out there, Sanemi was thinking about that night too.

The next morning felt heavier somehow.

Sunlight filtered through the shōji, soft and pale, but it did little to warm the quiet. Giyuu sat at the low table, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had already gone cold. The maids moved quietly through the hall, polite and distant as always, and still—everything felt too still.

He tried not to think about it, but the silence pressed against his ribs like a weight. Every sound—every creak of the house, every caw from a crow outside—made him wonder if Sanemi would walk through the door.

He never did.

Giyuu set his cup down, fingers lingering against the rim. Maybe Sanemi was only being himself—reckless, impatient, too busy to think of such things. Or maybe… maybe that night had been a mistake.

Maybe he’d imagined the way Sanemi’s breath caught. The way his eyes softened, just for a heartbeat. Maybe it had meant nothing at all.

He told himself it shouldn’t matter. That he should be used to being forgotten. That he’d learned long ago not to expect anyone to stay.
But somehow, this time, it did matter.

His chest felt tight, his thoughts looping back to what-ifs and half-remembered warmth. Maybe Sanemi regretted it. Maybe he’d already decided to keep his distance when he returned.

And yet—despite everything—Giyuu found himself glancing toward the window. Toward the pale morning sky stretching far beyond the estate walls.

Because a small, foolish part of him still wanted to believe that Sanemi would come back.
That's when he did, things wouldn’t feel so cold anymore.