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Winter
You meet Sanemi Shinazugawa on a cold winter day on the outskirts of your village.
The river is lazy as it winds along the banks, dipping and rising as the surface glistens like the stars on a clear night sky. Beneath your moon-bruised skin was your burden stitched into flesh, a girl born for tragedy. At your birth, the village head declared your sky-eyed soft soul to be brimming with heavenly decorum. You are a magnified centrepiece for destruction, etherealism glossed over in such elegant orbs and listening to the song of crows in nature.
You wander past the tall grass sprinkled with powdery snow, eyes scanning the field, a palette of green that seems to have greyed from the wash of winter. Your steps echo in the damp air and across the barren land, snowflakes in your ribs and sugar pollen on your eyelashes. The familiar touch of the sun no longer graces your skin.
No one comes around to check on the fields anymore, not ever since the blaze of winter arrived and snow rolled over the land.
You close off to the end where the final flowers are, a thinly-woven basket resting on your hip. You take in a deep inhale, the faded scent of lemongrass amongst cold air filling your nose as your gilded rib cage rattles. Tension curls up at the pit of your bones, aching muscles etching their forlorn feelings deeper into your soul.
You don’t get why people don’t come here to help out anymore.
Sure, people have their own ways of coping with the harshest winter the village has ever seen. You’ve caught glimpses of mothers leaving their infants out in the snow, white cushioning bluish skin amongst agonised infantile colic cries. You pretend not to notice the screaming outside on nights of gleaming crescent moons and thunderstorms, rumours of the supernatural clawing at people’s minds. You watch the children of the village run about through the very fields you try so hard to maintain, giggling away amidst warm yet damp winds. Their bodies are wrapped up in thick and woolly clothes, hugging the skin tightly.
Everyone has their own way of surviving this winter.
At first, you didn’t have one, not that it matters now that it seems spring might peek it’s head around the corner sometime soon. For the past two months after winter hit, you’ve been holding yourself in the florist shop, performing the same routine, day in and day out. It wasn’t until you had mesmerised the exact number and different types of each flower growing preciously in your care for the umpteenth time that you decided it was sickening.
So, you put on your mother’s handmade shawl, bracing for the cold winter winds, and ventured out into the decaying world.
The fields were a frost-laced eiderdown yet green shoots already arose from the earth. It was the sort of cold winter that would freeze the blood of those who didn't take sufficient care to be warm in heart and core.
And then, water starts to spiral from the sky. You are always the first to feel the rain. A cursed disguised as a blessing, mysteries shrouded in swells of tears as raindrops cascade down from the sky. It's a light sort of rain, not drowsy or meandering, just simple and serene. It's the kind of rain that flecks your cheeks as you lift your chin and close your eyes, so soft that it tickles.
Eyes lost in the midst of a fervour, you feel dazed and breathless when the rain dwindles, having been caught up in a young storm of childhood trauma; you bleed moonlight between the voids as the days go on.
You finally arrive at the last row at the back of the fields towards the feet of the mountains. Closed off and secluded from the other patches and flower fields - this one was just a long and narrow sequence of flowers tufted into the dirt.
You stare at the flowers; they were lined up in such a thin manner you would have to wiggle like a worm to carefully reach them all.
You hold in the urge to scoff, standing there slightly irritated - mostly disappointed - as a heavy exhale escapes his lips, a thin ghostly fog much like the smoke arising from a fire. You put down the basket, looking back at the few flowers you managed to salvage today and you start crawling towards the tightly-wound buds prodding from hardened dirt.
“What are you doing?”
You snap your head so fast you get whiplash. The sudden, cold and dismissive voice, so close to you in the barren open space, was enough to startle your nerves, sending shivers down your spine as your eyes flash to the source of the voice.
“Calm down,” A young man, you note, a young man with spiky white wearing a green-tinted uniform drawls. He has his muscular hand gripped tightly around the hilt of a long sword resting on his belt. An unbreakable expression forms on his face, “I’m not going to kill you.”
This time, you roll your eyes. You then proceed to pluck the flower you were after, it’s greying stalk polished with silver from the tinge of ice. A knot seems to swarm your insides, a pitless sinking emotion that swallows your stomach up. It might be too late to save this flower but you can always try.
The callous nature of the weather finally reaches a toll on you, blood starting to creep it’s way into your lungs which feel hot and burning as if a sensational fire was burning in the throaty anguish of your chest. You wheeze while feeling your arms start to shake, knowing that your clothes are too thin to survive out here, out this far.
“Who the hell are you?” You ask hoarsely, clutching your chest as you haul your basket back towards the village.
Despite the initial impression of abrasion that you received from him, he scowls and you feel the weight of the full basket being taken off from your shoulders. It was his burden now. “Tch,” The stranger mutters.
You sigh, continuing on your walk back down the way you came from, promptly deciding to flee from the embarrassment. One for ruining the quiet ambience of the field and two for seeing you wriggle on the ground, pulling out flowers on their deathbed like some flower thief.
“I’m a Demon Slayer. There, does that answer your question?”
You stop in your wake, sparring the man behind a raised eyebrow.
The stranger remains distant yet intriguing, “I’m carrying your basket, you know! Are you from Matazo?”
You fully turn to him, suddenly interested. There’s something about him that is bitterly familiar, gnawing at your cranium like when a sakura blossom wilts away and rots.
You reply hesitantly, “Yes. I live there.”
“Your village has a demon,” He says bluntly, continuing to walk ahead, “Maybe even two judging by the reports.”
You gaze back up at him, a silver of a smile almost gracing your lips at how he was carrying your basket for you, “Mm, and you’re sent to kill it?”
“I told you I was a Demon Slayer,” He rolls his eyes, “What did you think that was? A placeholder?”
You press your eyes shut briefly, faint snowflakes dancing as they land on your hair. When you open the lids and feel the breath of fresh air, you playfully respond, “Well, I don’t know much about demons.”
He turns and his figure is silhouetted against the mountains carrying bursts of wisteria. In this early dawn his eyes are the dew scattering the nascent rays, ever illuminating your soul. It’s the kind of purple that comes with lavender in the spring, or when you had trekked up the mountain earlier this week and seen all the colours of the wind and more. The wisteria blossoms look so beautiful in the tepid morning; you just want to burn by looking at them.
“Good,” The corners of his lips twitch slightly, “I don’t know how you don’t know anything about demons though…”
“I want to know.”
You don’t know why you blurted that out. You don’t know why your cheeks flame up in shame when you do say it. You don’t know why you feel the cold, rapid breeze swallow you whole every time this stranger looks at you, eyes violet and bright, almost guarded.
“No you don’t,” He retorts sharply, words cutting through the thick fog in the air. “Come on, just show me to the village. It’s north of here, right?”
You cast your gaze on him, admiring him from afar, old scars riddle warm ivory and thin lines tickle flesh across his skin, likely accrued over his many years of fighting Demons. He definitely seemed like he was around your age, somehow making your heart flutter in trepidation. “It is,” You reply with a thin smile, “You must be a very good Demon Slayer.”
“And you look like a decent… what is it you do? You look like a prostitute.”
“Excuse me?!” You splutter, whacking his arm and then wincing at how muscular and slender his physique was. The worst part was that he strikes you as a difficult man to dissuade when making his mind about something; you were now branded with this initial impression. “I happen to be a very successful florist. I have customers from all over the land.”
“Is that why you’re here in this field?” He purses his lips, gesturing to the icy atmosphere threatening to devour the two of you whole, “You’re salvaging flowers for spring. Don’t they die out in this weather? The winter here is ruthless.”
“And yet your uniform is unbuttoned to expose your (annoyingly pretty) chest and abs but who’s noticing?” You murmur, your sense of humour normally goes undetected but you glimpse something between a weak smile and a restrained expression on the stranger’s face. “You are right though - most of them die. I don’t blame them, I’d die in this weather.”
His interest seems to have slightly piqued, “So why aren’t you dead? You do seem quite weak.”
“Gee, thanks,” You stifle a laugh and smile. It’s bright and spreads across your entire face like a beam of sunshine. It’s a pretty smile, the stranger thinks. “My mother’s quite good with medicine so I make sure I build up a good resolve for when winter hits. There are more deaths in this time which means more funerals which means more flowers and that's where I come in.”
The stranger’s hot-blooded expression seems to have mellowed out in your presence, “So you live like that.” It’s not a question, more like he is taking interest slowly, bit by bit in your life.
“Give me the basket,” You say suddenly, feeling rejuvenated just in his presence, almost like ichor and blood scamper across your diluted veins. The stranger eyes you offhandedly, prompting you to exhale with a small grin, “I’m not gonna die, I promise!”
He carefully gives it to you, as if it was heated glass, fragile and delicate. It surprises you how gentle his touch could be given the cold and abrasive exterior of his personality. You hug it tightly against your chest as if it was an infant, slowly feeling warm inside.
You don’t hold back the cheek splitting grin that spreads across your face.
“I’m [Y/N],” You say, looking up to the stranger, the only person in this lonely field with you. And probably the only person in the village that was taking an interest in who you were.
The white-haired man with lilac eyes and scar-blessed skin looks absent-mindedly back at you.
“Sanemi.”
You see him around a lot now.
Sometimes, it’s by accidents, like when you’re tending to the flowers in the back of your shop and you hear him entering with a heavy and tired sigh.
You’d be arms deep in soil, small hands curled around thin roots and sinking into the muddy earth, and he’d pretend to look disinterested but you can see curiosity tug at his eyes. The way his expression changes ever so slightly when hues of pale lavender glaze over the warm hearth in the corner and the plants growing on the shelves.
He scowls, “You do this every day?”
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to come here!” You giggle and throw some dirt at him.
Those days are accidents but it makes you feel better by the end.
Spring
Some days, you go out looking for him with intention. You know everyone in the village and it would be no surprise to see Sanemi slinking about empty streets and scaring off a lot of children with his angry attitude.
“It’s demon hunting time!” You say abruptly on a beautiful spring afternoon, linking your arm with his. “I closed the shop for this.”
“There is no way I am allowing you of all people to come with me,” Sanemi thins his lips, stunned at your equally abrasive confidence. He had never met anyone like you. You were you, but you weren’t the same as the shy-eyed girls in long dresses weeping and weaving away behind closed doors. You weren’t a young mother with an infant cooing on your hip, shackled to the mercy of marriage and the control of a man.
You weren’t anyone. Just yourself.
He liked that. He liked that a lot about you.
(Of course, he would rather die than admit it.)
“Come on! I don’t even need to fight. I just wanna watch you slay a demon. You are a Demon Slayer after all… or is it really a placeholder?” You tease him with that iconic smile of his.
Needless to say, Sanemi would have a slightly crazed look whenever sees you scurrying behind him on his travels and you would descend into a hysterical fit of laughter and beg him to see the look on his face in a mirror.
Some days, you don’t meet at all.
There are days where you wait at the counter to the florist shops, watching people come in and out, buying yellow lilies and white chrysanthemums for their hanawas following the dead winter. And he doesn’t turn up. He’s still searching for that demon and you don’t blame him, your friend went missing the other day and you suspect that supernatural creature was behind it.
And on one of those days, you’re sitting on the floor at your family home, listening to your parents’ beratement on how no one has asked for your hand in marriage yet, when the world crumbles.
“Where is she?!” Sanemi roars and walks in, dragging you out, “You wanted a demon, you’re going to get one. I found it.”
Naturally, you follow him, because what else were you going to do? Sit by and wait idly like every other girl in the village or would you truly leap at the chance for adventure?
But… looking back, you hate that day.
You hate it, you hate it, you hate it.
You have never seen a demon before, only heard some vile rumours elicited from frightened tongues of teenager terror, twisted images perforating your nightmares and controlling your fear like the puppeteer to it’s puppet.
The demon itself has its fangs halfway into the arm of a flopping corpse, once alive but dwindled in it’s lifeline, soul no longer tethered to this earth. The crimson bleeds so profusely and so proudly, running down skin like fresh paint. Your chest constricts as if vines tangle your rib cage together, and then the wheezing comes as if you're lurching over and over again, as if you are trying to claw out your heart, and the tangy taste of blood lingers in the inside of your mouth like a wolf once devouring its food. The sight of something so inhuman stirred something within you: it was like being force fed ambrosia by God’s fist.
Thin, long claws curl at the end of the creature’s hands. They are blotched and smothered with sticky red, dripping down it’s palms somehow like a painter was finger-painting with elegance.
It moves too quickly for you to understand but you just see cold eyes and a pale face and feel your insides about to turn out but then Sanemi’s blade is unsheathed and metal graces skin. The sound of flesh being slit is gaunt and hangs in the air in the moments after.
But the death of the demon comes at a cost which is made evidently clear when you are left breathless at Sanemi’s crippled body, bleeding cardinal all over your clothes as you hug him tightly. Another scar to add to his collection. A scar he will wear proudly.
He’s bedridden for a whole month.
You visit everyday, after all, it was your mother who took him in under her roof and blessed him with her medicine.
And each day, you bring a different flower and different smile and a different you.
You are a world away from the horrors he has succumbed to, but he would give anything to breathe in your beauty again.
Day 1 - Spring
The first day, he’s almost embarrassed to see you. You hurry in, having ran from across town, carrying bandages and equipment, setting the stuff on the table next to him. In your grip is a small daisy, a flower you have rarely ever seen in your years of living.
“Look what I got!” The smile gracing your lips is so beautiful that gods would trade it for ichor, “Ta-da! It’s a daisy.”
Sanemi remains unperturbed, “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a shop to run?”
“I closed it,” Your face falls, a sulky expression appearing, “Do you like it? It’s pretty rare. Mother told me that it only ever grows in the West.”
“Then how did you find it?” He rolls his eyes, yet you can tell he is listening avidly.
You sit at the bedside, gently unfurling his hands and placing the delicate flower there, “I guess I got lucky.”
“You’re a very bad liar,” He notes, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
“Okay, fine. I had my uncle get it from abroad and I ran down to the train station to get it. But it’s worth it,” You add, matching his smirk.
Sanemi looks away, “It’s worth it?”
“Only for you.”
Day 7 - Spring
By the seventh day, Sanemi is secretly excited for whenever you visit. There’s something audaciously different about you and he seems to crave it in order to feel whole again. You remind him of bittersweet love he wants to treasure but he can’t.
Because, if life had taught Sanemi anything, it’s that you will lose everything you obtain to the demons. It’s a troubling thought that tends to circle the shore of the pool inside his mind, fed by the events of his bloodied past and the even bloodier waves which drown him always.
You walk in with a couple red spider lilies in your hand, inhaling sharply having performed some errands in the morning and you can see Sanemi lost in his own head, drifting and drifting and drifting.
“Hi,” You sit down delicately and gently coo, “What are you thinking about?”
His expression turns cold, which was normal for him as you had gathered. It was difficult to mellow him into a tepid breeze, unfurl tragedy and plant warmth into his fractured soul. “Demons,” He murmurs in a low voice, almost a growl as if angered just by saying that one viperous word.
You blink, slightly stirring, “Do you… have a family to go back to?”
Upon asking it, you immediately curse yourself. It was so personal, so close and invasive. You felt like a wicked serpentine creature, worming into the crevice of something homely.
Sanemi is silent for a long time before he replies.
“Not anymore.”
You don’t push him further, just holding his hand until he falls asleep.
Day 14 - Spring
Two weeks in, Sanemi secretly awaits your visits. It’s the only thing that can take his mind off the darkness. He’s a stranger in an unfamiliar village, swallowed up by the damage to his body and the scars left in his wake. He feels constantly alone, lost in pools of his memories which torment him over and over again.
He falls asleep before you finally arrive.
(He looks so beautiful when he sleeps.)
(So beautiful.)
His features were much softer in sleep, the lines that usually creased his brow replaced by the youthful appearance that matched those of others their age. He looked peaceful. Wanting nothing more than to curl up into the curve of his body, you gently caress his forehead, murmuring a low whisper.
"When you wake up… I hope you like the peonies."
Sanemi stirs, rolling to his side, "Stay… please don't leave me."
And he was so handsome as he slept, that steady heart, those steady breaths; they were more than enough to make you fall in love with him.
You don't want to ever let him wander alone in the perpetual darkness. The imperfections will eat away at him and you can't bear to see him in pain. He had toughened himself but despite such a gilded shield, he was ever so fragile like a flower petal.
So, you stay with him.
The hours slip through your hands like silky sand.
Day 24 - Spring
One day, you aren't there.
He's been waiting all day, drumming his fingers along the surface of the wooden bedside drawer. He's waiting and waiting and waiting and it's slowly starting to hurt now.
You're in the hut next door with your parents, head bowed as you listen to them. They say the same stuff as they normally do - Marriage! Marriage! Marriage! It goes in one ear and out the other.
But today… today it's different.
“I know how hard this has been for you," Mother says, such a tepid gaze haunting her eyes. "But, that young man you're chasing after is not the kind that goes for marriage, [Y/N]. He's going to die to a demon long before you have children… You'll be a widow."
Your lips thin out while pursed, "Then so be it."
Father sighs, "You can't just speak to us like that, [Y/N]. We truly do care about you. That boy is going to get you hurt."
You lower your head in shame, mumbling, "I'm sorry…"
"I've arranged for a suitor from a swordsman village," Mother gulps, trying to maintain a figure of decorum.
"I don't need marriage, Mother," You whisper sadly, "I just need him."
"You know me, Father," You finally force yourself to face your parents, hands shaking.
You know me.
Day 25 - Spring
"You weren't here yesterday," Sanemi notes. He tries hiding the curiosity in his typically abrasive voice but it's no use.
You slump next to him. Today's flower is a bundle of purple hyacinths… symbolising sorrow.
He doesn't know what these flowers mean, just admiring the colour of the petals from afar. The scent is so saddening.
So evocative. So serene.
“I… I'm sorry," You quietly whisper, "I'm sorry…"
His face pales, large eyes staring intently at your trembling lips, "Sorry about what?"
You inhale, "I'm not sure… I don't know how to… accept it.”
"You're getting married, aren't you?" He says blankly. His tone is hard to place.
“I declined the offer," You bite your lip, "My parents are fine with it… after some persuading."
He scowls, "Then why are you sorry?"
"Because… I know you," You gently fiddle with the thin stalks of the makeshift bouquet, "You don't want to be married but you also do want me to be married.”
He rolls his eyes, "I don't care about what happens to you."
“Aw, come on! You big softie!" You smirk, "The last 25 days have told me that you sorta like me now."
“I've been stuck with your presence for the last two months," He sighs, pale purple eyes looking over at the flowers. "Okay, I'll admit it. You're better than a demon."
(His heart hurts from not being to express his love properly.)
You smirk slightly, "I am?”
Sanemi looks away, mumbling, "I think I love you."
You pretend not to hear it, humming as you run your fingers through his white hair.
(But I think I love you too.)
Day 30 - Spring
It's the last day.
He's not bedridden anymore.
Sanemi is laughing mischievously as he runs up and down the street, roaring at the use of his limbs. He stands on the top of the hill in the village, gazing out into the sunset. It was the blush of a rose petal, syrupy and smooth. A painter's stroke of their brush. The sunset comes as a settled heart to the horizon, as if the sky itself could speak of love.
It was growing honey in colour, being the sweetest and somber of days.
You tap him on the shoulder and he spins on his heel, flashing you with that grin you have grown to love. Everything about him makes you feel complete. You can no longer fathom existence without the burst of his heart's gold.
"I have something for you," You smile; it's a sad smile. In your outwards hands is clutched a ragged notebook, worn around the edges but that made it more personal and close.
Sanemi narrows his eyes in doubt for a moment, having rarely ever received a present. He clutches it in his scarred palms (which have the softest touch) and opens the book, feeling his heart weep at tug as he reads.
The contents are composed of pressed flowers, all the flowers that you had given him each day with a fantasia written next to each of them. Your doodles are sprawled everywhere and so are blobs of ink. It's messy but spiritual and handmade, a soulful reminder of your time with him.
"I…" Sanemi Shinazugawa does not cry. But this is the closest he has ever been. "I love it."
"Ooh, say that again Mr. Tough Boy," You glee, wanting to press your lips against his then and there.
He elbows you playfully in a roar, "Another word and I'll throw it out."
That's a lie, of course. As Sanemi looks down at the notebook, he realises he's going to keep it forever and close to his heart.
Looking at it makes him think of you. (And he really, really likes you.)
A momentary silence cracks across the air, a line that splits and devours the two of you. You shatter it with a single word.
“So,” All the words in the world seem to be stuck in your throat as you struggle to speak, unwilling to face the truth, “You’re going now, right?”
Sanemi’s gaze remains unwaveringly pillared, “That demon’s dead but there are more to slay.”
The silence really does seem to swallow the two of you up.
When you don’t speak, he does, “I can’t settle down, [Y/N]. I hope you know that.”
“What, marriage too much of a commitment?” You wryly smile, trying to instill something normal into such a sad and difficult conversation.
“Do I look like someone who will be married?” He arches an eyebrow with a sharp grin; it’s a rhetorical question. Pursing his lips, he continues, “I’m gonna kill every last demon. Until Muzan Kibutsuji dies at my hand. That’s when his reign of terror will end.”
Your eyes shimmer as tears pool together beneath your watery lids, “I’ll wait. It’s not like I have anything better to do.”
“You're gonna wait? Pft," He says, wielding his sword and showing it off. The blade shimmers in the sunlight. "You're the most impatient person I know. You cut in line at the bakery to get us bread yesterday."
"Sanemiiiii," You sigh loudly, "Just don't forget me, alright?"
His eyes remain fixed on the sky, watching colours merge and space fold and crumble in deities' fists. "I won't. It's nice to know I have someone waiting for me when I come back."
"Think of me when you see flowers," You grin from ear to ear.
As you say this, Sanemi suddenly takes your hand. They felt like sandpaper or perhaps stone, rough and unfinished. It suits him, you think, looking into his deep eyes, cheeks reddening. His hands were warm in yours as he brought them up to his lips, your nerves tingling at the harsh comfort of contact.
"I will."