Chapter Text
So if you need a hero just look in the mirror: no one's gonna save you now so you better save yourself! And everybody's hurting, everybody's going through it. But you just can't give up now 'cause you gotta save yourself
It was sunny, the day Tokito Muichiro opened his eyes,
He opened them, feeling the first rays of light strike his face with the delicacy of the spring sun, that comes out challenging the fog and the wind, to cheer up a little the living so discouraged by the harshness of the frost.
He opened them, and he thought of nothing but how gentle the sun was as it stroked his face from the nearby window.
There was a good smell in the air, from the flowering trees nearby, from the scented candle burning beside him, and from a delicate fragrance of lilac and spring-born glade, a good smell that mingled itself with the ferrous smell of the blood in an acrid union that made him relax so much.
Never anything so familiar, never anything so simple.
And that smell, the pleasant sensation of the sun's rays on his cheek, were the first things that hit him.
The body next to him, exuding a sweet warmth and the delicate fragrance of lilac and glade, was the second thing that struck him.
The third was that he blinked, and recognized the clear ceiling of the Butterfly Estate, which he never could forget.
The fourth was that he should have been a corpse at the feet of his ancestor.
He felt the ghost of a blade cutting through his torso, the pain of torn flesh and the sensation that at the slightest movement his innards would spill to the floor. The intense smell of blood that hit the floor like a gushing fountain, the instinct to bring your hand to the wound so as not to let everything out, and having to realize that you only have a stump in place of a forearm.
A muffled scream, suppressed moans of pain that everyone probably heard, and his body hitting the floor, Yuichiro glaring at him angrily.
("What the hell are you doing here?")
His breaths interrupted, Shinazugawa-san rushing towards him, the demon gone and kakushi gathered around him, Shinazugawa and Himejima leaving, and more men gathered around Genya.
Genya.
Genya.
With a lightning move he raised his torso, the pain a distant memory and his face towards the figure that emanated that perfect perfume, memories of trips on his shoulders and long hours of chats, and Genya was there, his face relaxed in sleep.
Genya was next to him, sleeping.
His chest rose and fell steadily but with difficulty, as if the action tired him, and he had his chest covered by heavy white bandages, visible from the yukata left open. He showed the world a new face, and Muichiro was struck by more images, his own panic-filled scream at Genya's skull being literally split in two, the way it became possible for him to see his brain, the flesh slowly coming back together.
A long precise line, almost surgical, had been left by the Uppermoon One's katana, and remained there, between the boy's eyes.
The boy, who breathed next to him, marked by that war but that was still breathing.
He moved his right arm (the only one remaining) with difficulty and grabbed the other's hand, and the first thing he noticed was the absence of tattoos.
Where the Uppermoon had shed its arms the flesh had regenerated, clear and free of all marks except where the blade had separated the flesh, the bands of cursed ink gone forever.
The flesh was soft, not marked with calluses, or scars. The nails of the perfect length, veins visible and colored on the wrists, and squeezing his palm between his he was able to rest his thumb on the same wrist, feeling the slow but present heartbeat of Genya echoing in his body.
And he continued to hold him, thinking of nothing.
He didn't say anything for long.
He said nothing, until the hand between his moved, and violet eyes stared into his, bright irises, big beautiful eyes, surprise and happiness.
Tears, and a silent cry.
"Genya"
A whispered name that slipped from his lips without permission. Tears and beautiful, beautiful shiny eyes and so much happiness in that smile.
His hand moved without permission, touching the face of the boy that had seemed stern in the past (before everything, before them) but so young, a boy he remembered lying in a pool of his own blood, the cries of his brother who in a panic tried to save him. He ran trembling fingers over the scar that ran across his face, new to his eyes and one he'd never had a chance to stroke before.
Genya raised the hand that was held by Muichiro's just before him and grabbed the one that touched his face, squeezing it and bringing it to his lips,
He kissed his knuckles with tears running down his cheeks, a wet kiss so full of happiness and devotion that Muichiro found himself leaning in, hoping for he didn't even know what.
With his one remaining hand he gripped the boy's face, and strode quickly, only to be pushed back.
"You're hurt" and he finally heard that voice, and it hadn't changed. Genya was always Genya. Genya was there "Stay like this"
And Genya pushed him against the pillows of the bed, his back leaning against them and now sitting on the white sheets. Genya stood up, taller than ever and sat on the edge of the bed, lowering himself with his eyes still shining.
Muichiro went towards him without moving his torso excessively, finally being able to touch his lips with Genya's fine ones.
They weren't soft, they weren't full and perfect. That kiss wasn't perfect, because Muichiro's lips were chapped, thin and the boy tired, but nothing had ever been perfect for them, and that wasn't either.
They moved slowly, first in a simple touch as delicate as the first hug they'd exchanged, a simple lean in a moment when they felt they had all the time in the world.
Muichiro opened his mouth, letting a shaky breath flow against Genya's, and moved closer again, recreating that contact they both wanted for a long time. This time he began to move slowly, feeling the thin and almost invisible scar under the boy's nose with his skin, feeling the one that divided his face and that went beyond his lips, and he still brought his hand to the neck of the other who reciprocated the contact with tenderness, the tears that had stopped flowing.
He ran his thumbs over Genya's wet cheeks, wiping them away from the traces of the salt water that had crossed his face, moving his lips to kiss them, letting out a short laugh.
"I was sure we would die"
"Me too"
Genya moved away, taking his hand in his owns.
"How are you feeling? Shall I go get one of the girls?"
"No, I..." he was silent for a second, shifting his eyes to where his arm had been days before.
To be able to feel it still there was more disturbing than any demon.
"Ten days have passed" Genya smiled, bringing a hand to brush his hair away from his face "The war is over. Muzan is dead. We are alive"
Sanemi continued to dream, in a blood-red fever that made his forehead sweat and his heart beat like a drum.
He dreamed of faces that seemed unfamiliar, faces of young people and children, faces marked with scars and covered in blood, gentle voices and desperate cries that rang in his head like a hurricane.
He dreamed and didn't see the light, not in that maelstrom of confusion, until he felt that familiar prayer reach his ears, invade them gently but urgently.
"Wake up, big brother. You've had enough rest, haven't you?"
The light invaded the terror, illuminating his eyes with something so distant yet close at the same time, something elusive but now becoming earthly, and he moved without thinking, leaning towards that light, towards that whispered and pained prayer.
Before him that face that had too long taken the place of the protagonist of his best or worst dreams and nightmares with a smiling face, distorted in disgust, in anger, with tears streaked cheeks, covered in blood as vivid as his eyes wide open in an expression of terror, with the sclera dyed a terrible black and the body twisted over the bodies of their siblings, with the violet pupils faded and far from that earth, so capable of making Sanemi wants so badly to follow them up, up.
In front of him Genya looked at him in surprise, his violet eyes shining with tears that began to flow in a few seconds marking the skin and deviating on the raised scars.
Genya, who didn't make him realize anything else before throwing himself on him, and hugging his chest without the slightest pity for the wounds he felt he had on his chest, but who cares. He already had scars, he wouldn't give up the first hug he had received from his brother (and whose fault was it?) in years.
Genya was holding his chest in his damned muscular arms, but still a little attentive to his wounds. His hands were spread on his back, pulling him again, and from where he was almost thrown to the ground, he jammed his head under Sanemi's chin, his face hidden in the man's bare but bandaged chest. Sanemi could feel the hot tears hitting his skin, but he ignored them. He ignored his brother's hair flying in his face, ignored the slight pain behind his shoulders, and wrapped his bandaged arms around his brother's neck, feeling him tremble one last time, and collapse.
"Nemi, are you-how are you? God, y-you almost died and I couldn't do anything m-more than wait"
"Genya, calm down, I'm fine"
"N-no, I don't-"
"Genya, I'm alive. You almost dying, we all did. We went against the greatest calamity of our times, little brother. Not dying is a miracle" he began to run a hand through the boy's dark hair, in a precise and delicate movement, a light firm massage and running down the length of the strands (as they did when they were barely able-to-walk babies), which only made Genya's tears worse.
"I'm glad you're alive, little brother"
"What?"
"I'm glad you're alive"
Genya seemed to force himself to calm down. He held his breath briefly, and expelled it almost trembling, repeating the process a few times until those strangled sobs stopped. He squeezed his brother's body one last time and pulled back, making visible his flushed face and his still shining eyes.
(Sanemi had to refrain from starting to cry from tenderness at the moment, wanting to maintain the little composure he had left, even if the scene squeezed his heart in an iron grip)
"For a moment I was afraid that you and Himejima-san, or Muichiro-kun, would die" he sniffed, wiping his face with his right hand and sighing again "It was never hard to imagine a world where I was dead. But one where the strongest people I know couldn't survive while I was still here?"
Sanemi felt discomfort invade his mind, images of a bleeding Genya on the ground, his body almost divided in two and flesh desperately trying to reunite in a grotesque show that he encouraged with all his might.
"You died for a few minutes, Genya. Did they tell you?" Genya nodded silently "I almost died too. And I wasn't against the idea, because what was the point of living in a world where I wasn't even able to save my brother?"
Genya didn't say anything else, but his face hardened into a stony expression (so similar to his brother) and he put his hands on Sanemi's shoulders, a confident expression on his face.
"You should have survived, because you are strong, Nemi. I am not strong, and my death would have been nothing but natural. This is how the world works and you know it. But you, Himejima-san, Muichiro, Giyuu-san, Tenjiro, even Zenitsu, you are strong, and you have the possibility, the right and the duty to live after having sacrificed so much. You deserve this and more than this."
Sanemi stared into Genya's eyes, and the first tear ran down his face, his face almost impassive but pupils large and now dripping with tears.
And he ignored Genya's panic, or the worried tone in which he started calling him scared, because he could only think of those words, and he hadn't cried in a long time.
Crying would have been nice, perhaps, if the situation had been different.
Sanemi didn't cry discreetly, and never had. His tears seemed to never stop, his face reddened on his cheeks, around his nose, his eyes became heavy and his sclera was tinged with a pink color that didn't well hide its cause. And he didn't even cry silently, or still. He brought his right hand to his mouth, in a last-ditch effort not to make too much noise, when the first sob came, shaking him so hard it felt like someone had punched him in the chest. He hunched his shoulders and breathed through his nose, trying to stop. The second sob shook him, and this time he couldn't silence it, a horrible moan that managed to leave his lips and hand trembling that he tried to fix at the last second, failing miserably.
Genya seemed to recover from where he had frozen, and awkwardly took Sanemi's hands in his own, managing to resist his brother's strength (perhaps because he had spent the last week in a coma that almost saw him dead) and allow him to breathe through the mouth. He ignored the same pain he felt in his chest every time he could feel those broken breaths leaving his lips, and he made a point of keeping Sanemi's hands away from his face.
It wouldn't help him to silence himself like that.
It never would.
"Nemi, can you-"
He broke off hearing murmurs barely distinguishable from sobs, words slurred between pursed lips and hurried breaths, an expression that showed all the universe nothing but pain.
"My fau-, it' my fault, min-, onl-fault"
"No, Nemi, how can-"
"I wanted you to build a life away from such violence, Genya, not risk dying and surviving just to consider your life so miserable"
Genya remained in the same position, not moving away and not saying anything, and shook his head after a few seconds.
"Well, even if it was your fault, I forgive you then"
Sanemi froze, the last sob shaking his chest before he became a marble statue. A simple "what?" he escaped his lips, an almost pathetic gust of air, out of a man that felt nothing but pathetic.
"You can feel as guilty as you want, but it would be a waste. Nemi, Muzan is dead" he looked him straight in the eyes, purple in purple, serious but with a smile that slowly widened on his face "There are no demons to kill, families to protect, people to save. Our life is there, and we can't waste it on guilt. So" he sat on Sanemi's thighs, and put his hands around the man's neck making their foreheads touch "I apologize for making you feel so much pain after our family was killed. I apologize for not giving up being a demon slayer, because as much as I don't regret it, it made you suffer. I apologize for being such an irresponsible and annoying brother"
Sanemi closed his eyes letting go of a long sigh, and slowly opened them again.
Genya looked at him with an iron expression, firm in his decision.
Genya believed what he said.
Genya forgave him.
Genya apologized to him.
Sanemi nodded and spoke in a trembling voice, and only once he had calmed down did he dwell on a long list of excuses.
But in that moment, he just nodded.
(Tomioka Giyuu saw the light, and followed it without making a fuss.
He ignored the voices that called him back, to follow the one that pulled him forward with force, as if to take him by the sleeve and run off laughing, a sense of warmth that expanded in his chest as he imagined that laugh.
He ignored everything for that calm voice, soft and strong, feminine and unfamiliar, but warm and inviting.
The hand that was holding his squeezed it again, and he opened his eyes to find pink eyes so familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time.
"Giyuu-san, you're awake!"
He observed that huge smile, the big and shiny eyes, the small physique and the long hair, dark as mahogany. He looked at that face familiar but so different at the same time, managing only to murmur her name in a broken voice.
"Nez-ko?")
The survivors were few, and those who had made it had come out more than wounded. In the most disparate ways.
But no one was complaining, not when hundreds of their underlings were dead.
Not when none of them had been deprived of scars so deep as to leave marks visible even to those who had only shared that experience with them.
One last meeting, the six remaining Hashira gathered around the heir of the Ubuyashiki family, who thanked them with tears in his eyes.
The only woman reassured the boy with a red face, beautiful despite the tiredness of the visible recovery and the scar on her left cheek where a blow had almost divided her face in two, grazing it and taking away a modestly sized piece of flesh.
The man next to her smiled under the bandages that wrapped part of his face, deep scratches marked his uncovered top passing over his eyes, and he squeezed the larger hand in his.
Towering above all of them was a stoic man with a small open smile on his face, clear eyes open and a single thin, already healed scar slanting across his face, flanked by a teenager who constantly stared at the door, a single arm missing, the stump bandaged and covered by the light blue yukata.
A man was smiling at the one next to him, his face relaxed and his thin lips pursed to show an expression never seen before. The other pulled away a lock of light hair from his eyes, to remain practically frozen by that sight. He tentatively smiled back, and didn't take his eyes off the other. Only terrible scars marked his chest, deep and very clear, while the raven had survived without an entire arm.
They were thanked, but they could only thank the gods for still being alive, and mourn those who hadn't made it.
(Because there was silence in that room, without Rengoku's high, ringing laughter, Tengen's bawdy exclamations, Shinobu's sweet but venomous comments. And nobody wanted to face that shortcoming. Not sober, at least)
The curse of the Ubuyashiki family wasn't anymore, and the descendants of that family would be able to make it past the age of twenty without the slightest problem.
With the demise of Demon Slayer, those who had manifested the marks would survive past twenty-five, given a chance to do so, and live.
Live.
Strange, because none of them had ever really lived.
Muichiro was ready to swear it.
He was practically fifteen, and had never lived before meeting Genya.
He had had a childhood marked by shadows despite the company of his twin. And more tragedies upon tragedies, death, hard but so natural training. Blood on blood, mind covered in thick fog, faces all the same and so anonymous, terrible beings.
Memories, the aftermath of a tough but won battle.
Genya looking at him, the first face he couldn't move his gaze from.
Light eyes glued to that figure covered in scars and a decidedly dramatic past, with some behavioral problems for sure and a lot of brute force. Definite muscles and an exaggerated height, but a face that looked no older than eighteen.
And what a face.
Big eyes marked by tiredness, but at the same time so full of life. Violet irises like wisteria, thin lips that he would soon have seen open up in a smile so small but so beautiful at the same time as to make him blush.
One blatant request, and the colors had returned so strongly that they stunned him.
Him, Muichiro Tokito, the youngest Hashira in history and only beatable by a few of his comrades in arms, found himself blushing before the force of someone so different from him.
The only person who would ever be able to beat him, he decided one day, would be Genya.
With his kindness and gentle manners, calm and anger, sweet or angry jokes, protectiveness for a brother who hated him, infinite patience when it came to Muichiro, so much respect when he raised his big eyes to the figure of Himejima .
The Genya who would have never single-handed kill an Uppermoon like him, but who would snort and carry him around balanced on one of his biceps if Muichiro asked, who kept pushing ahead so determined to have that fraternal forgiveness, that love they had exchanged as children when that horrible world hadn't yet destroyed them.
Muichiro never thought he could have lived without his sword strapped to his side.
Without the constant alertness, without the constant risk, without the suicidal adrenaline, without the familiar smell of blood on his clothes.
A future where he would've been capable of something beyond demon-slaying swordsmanship.
A future where he would've lived as a normal person.
A future where he would have grown up.
A future where he would have been able to not be just a simple boy with a sacred lineage, great skills and little will to live.
A future where he and Genya would've been able to heal.
And now he was there, holding out his hand.
Surrounded by the scent of flowers, surrounded by the other Hashiras, flanked by Genya.
Genya, who smiled relaxing his face marked by deep scars in a gentle and modest smile, that blended perfectly with the very clear sky.
Everything and everyone celebrated Muzan's death, their new freedom.
And he would have been no less.
He grabbed Genya's hand, next to his, and looked him straight in the eyes, his face as serious as ever.
"I'm tired. Carry me on your back"