Chapter Text
Everything was still.
Shinjuro lay unmoving on the ground. His jaw was an angry red and already starting to bruise, and a split lip sent a thin trail of blood down his chin.
She had caused that.
Senjuro emerged from around the corner, his face flushed from crying. Mitsuri’s own eyes welled up at the sight, though she could not tell what emotion caused it. Was it shock? Shame, at the realization that she had just decked her best friend’s father in the face? Fear of her own physical strength, or of her mental weakness? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was all of the above that sent her into a pattern of muffled sobs as she hustled forward and fell to her knees beside Senjuro.
“He’ll be alright,” Senjuro assured her, although his voice and hands trembled. He gently turned Shinjuro’s face toward him to examine the bruise, nodding slowly to himself. He did not meet her eyes as he spoke again.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “He’s fine.” It sounded like he was trying to remind himself more than her.
Mitsuri scrunched her eyes tightly shut to stop herself from crying harder. She did not understand. Why had she done that? If Senjuro seemed so upset, surely the situation had been under control! But still, why was he so worried for his father instead of running to check on Kyojuro?
Kyojuro!
Mitsuri whirled around to see him standing in precisely the same spot he had been before. His golden gaze was glassy and fixed on a point only he could see. One hand ghosted over his cheekbone, smudging the teardrop of blood beneath his eye.
His hands were shaking.
Mitsuri understood, then, what had happened. Kyojuro had always been the backbone of the family. The fighter, the champion, the defender. And he had always been there to reassure his brother in times of need. But now, standing trembling in his hallway, she did not see a Hashira renowned for his fortitude. She saw a beaten son, thrown into the spotlight for the world to judge his deepest troubles. Senjuro had seen the barely restrained emotion tearing at his brother’s heart. Kyojuro was petrified, and if he had ran to him for protection, the façade of never ending strength and confidence he had worked so hard to build would fall. Senjuro was waiting for his brother to come back to himself, to settle his soul, so that he would no longer be in danger of breaking down when they spoke to him. So with nothing else to do, he had gone first for the type of injury that he knew how to fix.
His gaze followed hers now, and his tears were flowing again.
“Kanroji-san,” he whispered. His gaze was glued to his brother’s unsteady form. “I don’t know what to do. This has never happened before.”
Mitsuri’s heart ached.
“Maybe we should give him a moment,” she said, voice cracking. “We’ll take Shinjuro back to his room so he doesn’t have to see him, and I could patch up his lip if you want to…try and talk to him?”
“No,” Senjuro interjected, “You should do it.” He seemed to shrink back at his sudden outburst. “I—I mean, I don’t think he wants me to see him like this. You know how seriously he takes his role as a defender, and…a-and maybe it would be better if he felt like he didn’t need to protect whoever goes to get him.” More tears fell over his cheeks as he spoke.
He had a point. If Senjuro came to him, Kyojuro would instinctively try and be strong for him. And he trusted Mitsuri. If he knew in his heart that she could fend for herself, perhaps it would be easier for him to come around.
“Okay,” she agreed, but the words came out uncertain. “What about you? What if he wakes up?”
Senjuro laughed wetly. “He won’t hurt me,” he asserted. “I don’t talk back to him. And he’s never tried to hurt me before. He knows that his words are more than enough to scare me off.”
Another wave of grief threatened to overcome her at his words. But he was right.
Knowing that it was true didn’t make it any easier.
In the end, Mitsuri was the one to haul the unconscious man back to his bedroom. Senjuro trailed along behind her in silence, and Shinjuro was not the only weight on her shoulders.
Senjuro was a good healer. He observed the injury with a critical eye, pulling out a number of ointments that Mitsuri did not recognize. She lingered in the doorway, watching as the boy cleaned the blood from his father’s chin. It was natural, she supposed, for him to be a talented nurse when he lived with two demon slayers. When Kyojuro can home from a particularly tough mission, Senjuro had most likely been the one to stitch him back up.
Senjuro looked up at her as he worked. He said nothing, but the pleading look in his eyes was message enough, and she turned slowly, stiffly, to go find Kyojuro.
She found him in the same place they had been, the hallway by the bathhouse. But, to her great relief, he seemed to have come to a bit. He had moved from his petrified position to sit against the wall, head in his hands.
“Rengoku-San,” she called out gently. He startled. Golden eyes slid upward to meet her own, and it pained her to see that they were red rimmed. He looked horribly pale, like he was about two seconds away from throwing up and then dying on the spot. Worry formed a lump in her throat.
Mitsuri sunk down next to him, and her soft hand reached out to take his. To her surprise, he reciprocated, wrapping her hand up in both of his. His palms were warm. He always had run hot.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “that you had to see that. It doesn’t usually get that bad.”
“No,” she protested, already tearing up again. That seemed to be the theme for the evening, and she had resigned herself to crying her eyes out until it all blew over. “No, Rengoku-san, it wasn’t your fault!”
“I didn’t tell you,” he said, slipping into a whisper. “I didn’t want anybody to know. I didn’t want you to know. I thought I was protecting you.”
Mitsuri squeezed his hand tighter. “I know,” she told him. “I know that you want to keep us all safe. You would bundle us all up in cotton if you could.” He huffed a laugh, and she counted it as a small victory.
“That’s the thing, though,” Mitsuri continued. “I’m strong, Rengoku-san. You helped me be strong. I don’t need you to protect me all the time anymore.”
Kyojuro nodded slowly, seeming defeated. “What about Senjuro?” He sighed. “God, I have made this so much worse, haven’t I? Senjuro saw everything, I know he did.”
Somehow, Mitsuri could tell he wasn’t only referring to the fight.
“Senjuro is not a child anymore,” she hummed. “And you know, it might be a good thing for you to rely on him a little more. I think he wants to help.” She fiddled with the bottom of her braid, heart pounding. She was not used to giving Kyojuro advice. He had been her master, taught her everything she knew, and here she saw telling him how to treat his family! How horribly out of line was she?
Kyojuro closed his eyes, his brow screwing up in internal agony as he took a deep breath. “Right,” he said, voice strained. “I do not want him to deal with this, though. How can he trust me to keep him safe if he sees me like…” He paused, gesturing vaguely at himself. Mitsuri got the picture.
“Rengoku-san,” she affirmed, “that boy would still trust you even if you were just a goat in a cloak.”
His laugh was a bit more of a wheeze as he shifted his weight to lean against her. His eyes shone with emotion, and as Mitsuri turned to gather him into her arms, she saw her dearest friend cry for the first time in her life.
They stayed like that for a while, his face buried into her stomach and her hands combing absently through his mane of bright hair. The Rengoku hair always astounded her, with its sheer abundance and its multitude of different textures. Every once and awhile, she would find a stray curl or coil among his typical waves, and giggle softly to herself. She would feel his warm breath against her belly as he chuckled along with her, knowing she had made a discovery.
Finally, he straightened, running a hand over his face. He appeared thoroughly exhausted.
“We ought to find Senjuro,” he uttered.
“I’m here,” a small voice sounded, and Kyojuro whipped around to see his brother standing in his typical, slightly awkward fashion at the end of the hall. “Sorry,” he blurted out, “I came to check on you two, and then you looked peaceful and I—I didn’t want…”
Kyojuro’s expression softened. He looked at Senjuro like he had hung the stars, Mitsuri thought.
And Kyojuro held out his arms, making grabby hands like a little kid.
She laughed aloud as Senjuro barreled into his brother’s embrace.
The Rengoku household had a strange atmosphere that night. It was heavy when Senjuro taped gauze over the cut on Kyojuro’s cheek, and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a nasty bruise on his forearm. The ceramic jar had hit hard, and if it hadn’t been for Kyojuro’s sharp instincts, it certainly would have done more damage. But, as it was, it had simply painted his arm with brown and purple, and the three of them had observed it in quiet gratitude as Senjuro covered it with a bruising cream.
It was solemn when Mitsuri went to check on Shinjuro only to discover that he had awoken and slipped out while they were distracted. To buy more sake, presumably. Kyojuro had chewed on his lip in worry while Senjuro went to turn on a light in the front hall for when he returned.
Despite it all, the house was also warm with a shared understanding. There was a sense of togetherness in it all, and for once, everyone’s walls were down at once. Senjuro spoke animatedly about the research he had been doing into the family history—specifically the wives who married into the family and the way that their traits were immediately smothered by the intensity of the Rengoku genetic features. It was fascinating, Mitsuri supposed, and she laughed along and listened contentedly even though she didn’t understand much of it. A glance at Kyojuro told her that he was lost as well, and they shared a secret grin. After all, they were swordsmen, not scholars.
Kyojuro sat at ease. With his father gone and his family around, it seemed they had finally gotten him to truly relax. Mitsuri saw it in his face when she spoke about Obanai. His features brightened with mischief, and he leaned forward as she told him about their last outing, like they were a couple of gossiping schoolchildren. The Rengoku brothers just about lost their minds when she told them that Obanai had almost held her hand. Almost, but not quite there. Next time, they insisted! Next time! It will be the time that Kanroji Mitsuri finally acquires her one true love!
If Mitsuri could have dug a hole to hide in, she would have. And yet, despite her flustered babbling and the teasing shouts and giggles, she knew full well that with these people, she had finally found shelter from the storm that brewed in the world around them. Kyojuro would always be there to welcome her in, and Senjuro to take her coat. And she would always be there to punch their father in his stupid mouth.
Metaphorically, of course. By filling their hearts with enough love to hide any lack of it they felt before, and ensuring that the joy in their lives increased eightfold.