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The autumn sun floats at the border of the horizon, the golden fringe of it just skimming the peaks of the mountains in the distance. A skipping stone along the sea of the sky, the clouds parting around it like ripples across the quiet mirror of a lake.
Normally, Sanemi would be content to spend his evening watching the earth swallow the sun and the molten dome of colors above him dim to black. In fact, ever since the dissolution of the corps, he’s wasted many nights and afternoons and mornings sitting outside his estate, a cup of warm tea by his elbow, head tipped up against the breeze that always seems to coast down the hills to his porch. Guard down. Eyes open, eyes closed, soaking up the sunbeams slanting down on his face and all the little moments that were stolen from him the day he picked up a blade with the intent to kill.
Slowly, he learned how to relax. Bit by bit, the perpetual tension locked into his shoulders and the line of his back began to dwindle away, though it never quite vanished completely. With company, however, unwinding became easier, and with practice Sanemi learned to embrace those times of leisure along with his gradual acceptance that everything was well and truly over. No danger, no worries. Just him, his memories, and the exhausting ordeal of healing.
So, if this were any other day, Sanemi would be more than happy to indulge in another sunset. As it is, this is not any other day, and they have a memorial service to get to. To remember all those who perished in the final battle, their comrades and their family, the friends and the brothers and the people whose names they never learned.
The sun dips further behind the horizon as Sanemi stands in the entryway of Tomioka’s estate, waiting to escort him to the shrine. He’s trying to be patient, he really is, but his foot has been tapping out an erratic beat against the floorboards for the last five minutes and his arms are crossed so tight across his chest he’s probably wrinkling the fine fabric of his nicest kimono. He wants to hit the road as soon as possible to avoid showing up late, but clearly Tomioka doesn’t share the same sentiment.
Of all the people Sanemi thought he’d become buddy-buddy with during his retirement, Tomioka Giyuu was one of the last on the list. They never got along, always at odds, always one insult and one wrong look away from drawing their swords on each other and breaking the golden rule. Looking back on it, Sanemi realized most of the conflict between them was one-sided, but that never changed the fact that they had polarizing personalities.
While he had cooled down since then, Sanemi didn’t expect much development in the realm of his relationships and connections, especially not with Tomioka. In the first few weeks following their recovery, they only ran into each other at the Butterfly Mansion, or those rare occasions Uzui invited them both over to his estate for dinner with him and his wives. But because nothing in Sanemi’s life was ever made simple, that had to change.
On a day like any other, as Sanemi practiced wielding his blade with a reinvented grip, he was informed that he had a guest.
Guest, singular, which meant it wasn’t the Kamado brats come to deliver extra batches of food. Beyond them, Sanemi seldom received any visitors, so he didn’t know who or what to expect. For it to be Tomioka, standing at his doorstep in that unsightly haori and holding a little box of ohagi in his palm, was unfathomable. But he was there, and he remained there even when Sanemi pinched his arm to wake himself from what was surely a dream.
Before, Sanemi might’ve yelled at him, or drawn his sword to chase him right out. That afternoon he did neither. By then they had learned how to be civil with each other, and Sanemi could acknowledge he held some degree of respect for the guy who fought alongside him where it counted the most. Though Sanemi didn’t invite him in, he accepted the ohagi and ate it later that evening despite its questionable appearance. He also accepted the next, and the next, and the next, and eventually Tomioka made it past the threshold of his front door. And, strangely enough, became a constant in his life.
They sat in silence more than they talked, which was fitting, seeing as neither of them were good with their words. Painfully awkward at first, so much so Sanemi grew restless with the pressure, but with time he became tolerant of Tomioka’s particular brand of stone silence. It seemed to be his method of communication, anyhow, and they knew how to occupy themselves in other ways. Sometimes they set down the chessboard, shared a pot of tea until the first peek of dawn, or attended the festivals in the city. And, as a homage to the past, sometimes they sparred together, or at least as best as they could with Tomioka using his non-dominant hand and Sanemi still struggling to balance the handle against his palm with the loss of his index and middle finger.
Sanemi is hesitant to call him a friend, but he’s self-aware enough to know they’re more than acquaintances. He’s always hated labels, anyway. Tomioka’s always been just that—Tomioka. That’s more than enough.
And now, because of that tentative something between the two of them, Sanemi’s here to honor their agreement to walk down to the ceremony together. How splendid would it be if Tomioka could do the same.
One of the estate attendants rounds the corner and, spotting Sanemi, bends over in a deep bow.
“Hey,” Sanemi calls out before she can back away. “You know when your master’s gonna be ready?”
“He should be out soon,” she answers politely. With Sanemi’s grudging nod, she bows again and retreats from the room.
“Soon” turns out to be never. As his annoyance climbs higher and higher, Sanemi works himself up by playing percussion with his foot, glaring out at the bleeding sky, and wondering what the fuck Tomioka could be doing to warrant this kind of delay. A grind of the teeth, jaw clenched—fuck it, and he’s pushing himself off the wall to shake himself into motion, unable to stay stationary for a second longer.
He wanders the walkways bordering the estate, past the closed shoji, hoping he’ll bump into Tomioka on his way out. The chances are slim, but at this point Sanemi would rather take a stroll around the place than waste his time staring at the bland, barren walls of the entryway.
As expected, he doesn’t run into Tomioka. But on the last leg of his journey, faced with a dead end and preparing to turn back, he spots a familiar silhouette against the translucent sheets of the shoji to his left. It’s ajar, too, and just when Sanemi takes a step closer to investigate he hears the person inside make a frustrated noise. A voice he’s heard before, and after all the hours they’ve spent together, one that he could pick out in the midst of a crowd. Sanemi isn’t sure what exactly that means, but he figures it isn’t worth picking apart. At least for now.
He’s drawn out of his thoughts by the succeeding sounds of a thump, the whisk of fabric, and that same voice—this time splintered into a curse.
That does it. Sanemi peaks inside the room to confirm his suspicions, and sure enough—it’s Tomioka, turned away, head bowed as he grapples with the obi of his black kimono.
With the way his head is angled down, combined with his short hair—hair that Sanemi cut, by the way, on an impulsive request from Tomioka himself shortly after his discharge from the infirmary—Sanemi can see way too much of the bare skin of his nape, stretched over the bump of the first vertebrae of his spine. Pale as mist, smooth as glass, and Sanemi wonders if it feels as soft as it looks.
Moving on, Sanemi lets his eyes trail further down to the site of the problem, and he can tell from first glance that it’s a futile effort. Whenever Tomioka lets go of one end, the other moves out of place, and this repeats in a never-ending cycle that should’ve exasperated him after the first few tries. Now and then the stump of his arm twitches as he tries to use it out of habit, before going limp again once he remembers the absence of the rest of that arm. Sanemi has no idea how long Tomioka’s been here doing this, let alone why he hasn’t sought any assistance yet.
In fact, it’s a goddamn miracle Tomioka’s made it this far; he must be getting more skilled at functioning with only one arm, just as Sanemi’s slowly adapted to the loss of two fingers. Even so, fixing the obi in a proper fashion will be an impossibility for him no matter how hard he tries, and Sanemi doesn’t know how he hasn’t realized this yet. Either Tomioka genuinely thinks he can succeed, or he refuses to admit he needs help. Whatever it is, he’s a dumbass, and Sanemi isn’t about to let him ruin their plans for tonight. Very important plans they will miss if this continues any longer.
Sanemi raps his knuckles along the wooden frame of the shoji, and Tomioka jumps so suddenly his sorry excuse for a knot immediately unravels.
Rolling his eyes, Sanemi says, “Tomioka, we’re gonna be late.”
Tomioka whips around, his left arm wrapping around himself like Sanemi just walked in on him naked. He looks shaken when his eyes find Sanemi’s—wide, vast blue, bottomless depths, backlit by surprise. Then he registers who interrupted, and with his next breath they settle back into that unreadable dullness.
“I’m sorry for making you wait,” Tomioka apologizes, lowering his arm until it hangs limp by his side. The obi droops along with it, the end just barely brushing the floor next to his feet. “I’m almost… Give me another minute and I’ll be ready.”
Sanemi strongly doubts this, given the current state of Tomioka’s dress and the certainty that his other arm isn’t returning to him any time soon. He also refuses to leave now and return to the entryway, just so he can sulk the night away as Tomioka spends eternity cooped up in here.
But Tomioka seems determined to do this by himself, so Sanemi reaches a compromise by staying at the door, one hand resting on the shoji without pushing it aside to step fully into the room. There, he watches Tomioka carefully without bothering to hide the blatant judgment spread over his face.
“Okay,” Sanemi nods, flat. “Go ahead, then. Pretend I’m not here.”
Tomioka’s eyes stay stuck on him for a moment longer, as if he wants to say something else, but he just presses his lips together and turns back to his clothes.
A minute passes. Sanemi, feeling generous tonight, decides to lend him another. When that one ticks away without a lick of progress, Sanemi lets his irritation get the best of him and slides the shoji open all the way to march into the room.
Right up to Tomioka, where he lifts an arm up to grab that cursed sash. “Here, let me—”
“I got it,” Tomioka insists, twisting his upper body to dodge Sanemi’s hand. The obi falls away from his fingers yet again, the sleek material of it too slippery for Tomioka to handle with just one hand. But instead of giving up like any sane person would, he just stoops to pick up the loose end and venture another attempt. Which, once again, ends in failure. After all his fumbles, the thing doesn’t even sit snug around his waist anymore. It’s on the verge of falling apart, one wrong nudge away from crumpling to the ground.
Sanemi balks at the display. He knew Tomioka was determined, but damn. He has attendants for a reason, and hell—even Sanemi offered to lend a hand. Which, considering Tomioka’s present situation, is exactly what he needs. Literally.
Several more confused contortions of the fingers, and Tomioka seems to actually get somewhere, a semi-decent knot beginning to form at the jut of his hip. But the second he lets go, the fabric unwinds to reveal a false tie, and the last of Sanemi’s restraint crumbles away with it. He throws his hand out, faster than Tomioka can register, and snatches his wrist. A forceful intervention, halting Tomioka in his tracks before he digs himself into a deeper hole.
“You don’t got a thing,” Sanemi snaps, squeezing down hard enough to make Tomioka’s impassive expression waver. “Just—stop. Let me help, okay?”
Without waiting for a reply, Sanemi drops Tomioka’s wrist and his hands down to the obi, undoing what he has so far and restarting from scratch.
Sanemi works in silence, slow but steady, fascinated by how tight he can loop the silk around Tomioka’s waist before he shifts and lets out a telltale noise of discomfort. Only when he gives that signal does Sanemi loosen his grip and work on actually tying the knot into place. He does his best to keep his hands from actually touching Tomioka, but with the context of what he’s doing and the proximity of their bodies, the contact is inevitable. A graze of the palm, the slide of his fingers through the folds of fabric. Tomioka doesn’t seem to mind it, so Sanemi just holds his tongue and tries to keep his attention focused on the task instead of how thin Tomioka’s waist is. How, if Sanemi fit both hands around it, he could probably make the tips of his fingers—
Sanemi rids himself of the rest of that thought with a vigorous shake of the head and a harsh yank at the obi, which draws Tomioka a step closer to him and punches the air from his chest.
“Sorry,” Sanemi grunts, forcing himself to slacken his fist. But Tomioka doesn’t replace the distance between them, leaving them almost uncomfortably close as Sanemi twists the sash between his remaining fingers and strains to remember what comes next. Keeps his eyes downcast, though, because he can feel that bastard staring at him, the heat of his somber gaze washing over Sanemi’s averted face.
He’s lived with his bad hand for months now, relearning how to perform routine tasks he used to carry out without a thought. It took some time to adjust, and he’s still hopelessly clumsy sometimes, but he makes do. Besides, he secured his own obi with little issue, so Tomioka’s shouldn’t pose any real challenge.
Another tuck, another fold, and they end up with a promising knot. It’s rough, but it’ll hold up, so Sanemi gives the ends one last tug and backs away to admire his handiwork. Satisfied with what he sees, he closes in once more to hook his hands under the sash and turn it around until the knot is hidden at the middle of Tomioka’s back. Then he steps away for good, and finally lifts his head to look at Tomioka straight on.
Tomioka blinks back at him with those blank, blank eyes, ever so vacant, a sight that used to tick Sanemi off to no end. After all the times their eyes met—over their teacups, across the room, as they walked the grounds of Sanemi’s estate—Sanemi thinks he knows that deep shade of blue better than the back of his own hand. He also likes to think he understands it more, or at least enough to keep him from flying into a blind rage whenever Tomioka turns that gaze upon him.
“How’s it look?” Tomioka asks, the question nothing but genuine.
Sanemi gives him a once-over, humming to himself and ignoring the way his eyes linger around the sight of that tiny waist cinched by that silk. Almost nods when he realizes something’s off. Missing.
Frowning, Sanemi examines the rest of the room, scanning the walls and the sparse furniture along the floor. He stops on Tomioka’s haori, folded neatly and set aside next to the low table a couple feet away. With all those jarring colors and that god-awful pattern, it sticks out against the plain tatami mat like a sore thumb.
Although he still doesn’t know the backstory behind the thing, Sanemi knows it’s important. As ugly as it is, it means something to Tomioka, and he isn’t Tomioka without it. So, reluctantly, Sanemi bends down to snag the haori by its corner and, after shaking it out, drapes it across Tomioka’s shoulders where it belongs.
The haori doesn’t fit quite right now that Tomioka’s missing an arm, but it completes his image. This time, when Sanemi appraises him, he finds nothing amiss.
Thanks to their combined difficulties, Tomioka’s hair is a little mussed, messier than Sanemi’s used to. To fix that, Sanemi uses a hand to smooth it out, tucking a few stray strands behind Tomioka’s ear and brushing others off his forehead. It works, and soon he looks like his usual pristine self. Sanemi sneers, a curl of the lip with no bite. If he has an inexplicable urge to mess Tomioka up seconds after he’s been put back together, whether through a fistfight or some other indecent means, then that’s something only he needs to know.
Sanemi leans back to drag his eyes down the finished product. Tomioka fidgets under his scrutiny, fingers curling around the hem of his haori in trepidation.
Not like there’s anything to worry about, anyway. He looks good.
Sanemi clears his throat.
“There,” he says. “Perfect.”
The second that word falls from his mouth, a thoughtless remark, Tomioka’s entire face changes. Not all at once, but gradually—Sanemi watches as a smile splits down the middle of his mouth, a crack in the delicate rind of his lip, spilling something uncharacteristically sweet between them. Slim and secret, fleeting, flickering at the edges. Sanemi’s instincts tell him he should look away for his own good, but he drinks up the vision of that smile like it’s the last thing he’ll ever see.
They’ve drifted closer, two ends of the same magnet, enough that their tiny difference in height becomes noticeable. Enough that Tomioka has to tip his chin up a little to look Sanemi in the eye and Sanemi can determine the exact length of his lashes.
Sanemi’s first thought is, I could kiss him right now.
It’s true—they’re standing so close that if Sanemi were to tilt forward just that extra inch, the tips of their noses would touch and their lips would follow soon after.
His second thought is, What the fuck.
Sure, he and Tomioka are on better terms now, but that doesn’t mean—they wouldn’t—it can’t mean—
“Thank you, Shinazugawa,” Tomioka says, bringing his whirlwind of emotions to a standstill with that low, hushed voice. The same way he always seems to meet Sanemi’s tornado of a personality—braving his brutal anger with a calm face, deflecting all his underhanded jibes with flat retorts, responding to his pointed glares with that cold stare. Like a tide of water swept over the spark of a flame, dousing it without much effort at all.
Then, to Sanemi’s infinite surprise, Tomioka’s eyes flit away. Upon closer inspection, Sanemi discovers the faintest shade of pink blotched over his cheeks, so subtle it would’ve gone undetected under normal circumstances.
With Tomioka distracted, Sanemi sneaks a glance at his mouth. Small. Lips rosy, slightly parted. Much too tempting.
Before that first thought can come back with a vengeance, Sanemi redirects his own eyes away from Tomioka and puts some much-needed space between them. When he’s back in safe territory and the right headspace, having shoved all those newfound feelings into the very back of his mind, Sanemi finally finds his voice again.
“Don’t have to thank me or anything,” he mutters, reaching up to rub at his nape. The skin there is a little too warm to be passed off as the air in the room, and Sanemi can barely hold himself back from cringing.
“Still,” Tomioka presses, persistent even in this regard. “I… appreciate it. You are kinder than you seem. I forget that sometimes.”
The heat at the back of Sanemi’s neck starts to spread. Tickling behind his ear, creeping onto his face. Shit.
Sanemi jerks his head to the side, wills the blush away. He refuses to turn around, though, since that would be the same as admitting defeat. In his head, he counts to ten, then forces himself to look at Tomioka again. Pins him with a glare for good measure, but even Sanemi can tell it’s too weak to have any sort of effect.
“Oi, listen to me.” Sanemi scowls, disturbed by this unfamiliar atmosphere. It sticks to him, clinging to the roof of his mouth and the beat of his heart. “Don’t be so fuckin’ stubborn, alright? If you need anything, just ask. I’ve still got both of my hands.”
Tomioka blinks at him again. Still with that deep, deep blue, no less vacant but with a certain softness around the pupils. Seafoam against the ragged outline of the shore, rough sand smoothed under saltwater.
“Okay,” Tomioka says, and that’s all. Okay and that stupid fucking smile, unbearably content where it plays upon his lips. Simmering, trembling, the ghost of something tender. The fucker probably doesn’t even know he’s smiling, it’s so—
Sanemi turns on his heel, sighs as he exits the room. He can hear Tomioka following close behind, as solemn and unassuming as he always is. It’s a relief as much as it’s a burden, and Sanemi finds he’s okay with both.
They leave, and on their way out Tomioka slips his remaining arm through Sanemi’s. Sanemi huffs, but he doesn’t pull away, and together they stroll down the road under the golden sun. A sliver of its blinding ring still visible above the mountains, lending light to the path ahead, step by step. Whisper by whisper.
Dusk falls slowly. Time seems to stop. Maybe they won’t be late, after all.