Chapter Text
Kyojuro always seemed to sense the parts of people that they tried to hide. Mitsuri had learned this quickly, when he saw straight through her dyed hair and restrained appetite. His fiery spirit had been contagious from the moment they met. Her hands had trembled with the feeling that he was peering straight into her soul, and part of her had wanted to back away, unwilling to lose another friend to the truth of her being. Sparks had lit up in her heart that day, though. An inkling of hope that whispered, ‘he knows. He knows you’re strong and he is not running.’
Choosing to trust him had been the best decision Mitsuri ever made. With Kyojuro, she found not only a teacher, but the elder sibling she had always longed for and a true best friend.
Yes, she knew very well that he was an excellent judge of character. Kyojuro was fully aware of the fierce protectiveness behind Shinazugawa’s violent nature, as well as the way Tomioka’s aloof atmosphere barely disguised his loneliness. Mitsuri did not always see these things. But if Kyojuro believed it to be true, so did she.
Their opinions differed when it came to his father.
She had asked him, once, what had happened. Why his ever-present smile seemed to flicker with doubt when Oyakata-sama mentioned Rengoku Shinjuro. Why she had trained under Kyojuro for so long without ever meeting the man, despite the way his presence lurked in the shadows of the Rengoku Estate.
That was the first night she had ever seen him truly falter.
“He wasn’t always like that,” he had confided. His voice was uncharacteristically soft, and she had scooted closer across the engawa to soak in every word he was willing to share.
“…you know, I always wanted to be like him,” he continued, gaze locked on the horizon. “He was a good man. The loss of my mother changed him immensely.” He fiddled subconsciously with the tails of his haori, the one that his father had worn before him.
The air was still and fragile in the moment, and Mitsuri saw a flash of sweet, anxious little Senjuro in his expression. It was gone as quickly as it came, signature grin snapping back into place as he made a comment about trying his hardest and setting his heart ablaze. But it was the split second of vulnerability—of fear—that had stuck with her.
She had never met Rengoku Shinjuro before, and she hoped she never would.
This did not hold true.
Patrol went as usual that night, and Mitsuri was feeling good. She had saved two little girls before the demon even got close enough to startle them, and as such, her heart was bursting with joy and gratitude. A mid autumn breeze was beginning to set in, and the fresh air was like a balm on her skin. She still felt flushed and light from the effects of her love breathing. Being derived from breath of flame, there was a similar cooldown period, during which the user might feel a bit feverish from the intensity of the fire blooming in their lungs. Kyojuro was always composed enough that if he felt any discomfort from overusing his breath style, he did not show it. Love breathing tended to manifest as more of a warm-and-fuzzy type of thing anyway. So who could say?
Perhaps it was the heightened body temperature that caused her to miss the chill on the winds, and the storm brewing in the heavens above. She felt the first raindrop splash sweetly upon her brow, and admired it as a drizzle fitting to the season.
The next fell onto her exposed collarbone, and another kissed the tip of her nose.
Mitsuri looked up at the sky as it began to pour.
Just her luck! She took off at a run in the direction of town, cheeks burning with embarrassment and her own daftness. She had wasted time strolling along in her post-battle glow, and now would be showing up on some poor soul’s doorstep soaked to the bone! There was sure to be an inn in town, but she had been intending to carry on to the next one along, and had not brought enough money for a room. Perhaps a wisteria house, then? She would feel horrible leaving her hosts to clean up the puddle of water on their floor when she wasn’t able to pay, even if they would always politely refuse her money. Did she know anyone in town? Any distant family friends? Any slayer comrades who might be willing to take her in…
“—Rengoku-san!” She exclaimed aloud, heart leaping with the realization. Yes, that was right, the Flame Hashira’s estate was only a few minutes out from the village! She would not feel too guilty leaving water all over the Rengokus’ porch—after all, she had already gotten her fair share of blood, sweat and tears all around the estate while she endured his brutal training. And if anyone would forgive her without a doubt in their hearts, it would be Kyojuro and Senjuro. When was the last time she had been able to visit, anyway?
She took a turn at the end of the path with a newfound spring in her step.
The Rengoku estate was a sight to behold. It had been in the family for generations, passed from son to son as each one came of age or entered pillarhood. Whichever ancestor had built the place must have been quite wealthy, for it was grand in size and quality, even if nowadays it was a bit outdated. Mitsuri had always adored it. She loved the impeccable groundskeeping which Senjuro worked so hard to maintain, the beautiful dark wood of the floors, and the cranes painted on the sliding doors that she suspected were done by Kyojuro’s mother. If she could, she would have moved right in. The Rengoku brothers were practically her family anyway! She missed the days of staying at the house almost as much as she missed the two of them.
As luck would have it, Kyojuro was out on the engawa when she arrived. He looked entirely at peace. Gazing out at the rain, expression nostalgic and the picture of serenity. Mitsuri hated to ruin it.
And then he caught sight of her, drenched and muddy and sprinting towards him out of nowhere, and she saw laughter light up his face before she heard it. He was on his feet in seconds. For a moment, Mitsuri thought to run into his embrace like a homecoming, before remembering her sodden state and came to a halt at the edge of the porch.
“Rengoku-san,” she blurted out, suddenly flustered. “Please pardon the intrusion! I was caught up in the storm on the way back from my mission, and I didn’t know where to go, and I’m sorry to bother—“
“—nonsense! You are always welcome in our home,” Kyojuro interrupted, his trademark smile bright against the grey of the sky. “Good heavens, Kanroji-san, come in. You’ll catch a chill!”
How could she argue with that? After all, what Kyojuro said, she trusted. He turned on his heel and she followed, warmth settling in her chest.
Senjuro was settled in the main room, wrapped in an oversized yukata and writing something in a worn-looking journal. He nearly spilled the ink when he saw her, jumping hard enough to shake his work surface.
“K-Kanroji-san!” He squeaked, darting to his feet to give her a respectful bow. Always the gentleman, if he was bothered by the way her clothes dripped onto his freshly cleaned floor, he did not show it.
He came to meet them at the door, taking her saturated haori and looking awfully flustered.
“Please forgive me, Kanroji-san, I wasn’t expecting to have any visitors today! I would have cleaned up more!” He exclaimed, sounding distressed, and Mitsuri almost missed the why-on-earth-didn’t-you-warn-me look that he shot towards Kyojuro. Had she not been an elder sister to five siblings, it would have flown right over her head.
“Now, now, Senjuro,” Kyojuro chuckled, patting his brother’s fiery hair and giving him the appearance of an owl with its feathers ruffled. “I’m sure Kanroji-san won’t mind. And besides, you do such a wonderful job of keeping things in order around here, I suspect not a thing is out of place!”
If the poor boy wasn’t embarrassed before, the praise from his elder brother was enough to do him in. His cheeks reddened as they split into a sheepish grin.
“In that case, I’ll go start some tea for you both,” he excused himself, but the sincerity of the polite smile he gave Mitsuri exposed his barely restrained excitement. Gosh, she loved that kid. He was going places someday—whether to the top ranks of the slayer corps or somewhere else entirely, she couldn’t say, but it was certain that he would excel wherever he ended up.
“Right, then!” Kyojuro announced, and she snapped to attention. “You’re welcome to use our bathhouse. I have a yukata you can borrow, though it might not fit all that well!”
She giggled to herself, imagining it. She was several inches shorter than him, and though she possessed a similar strength and musculature, her shoulders weren’t quite as broad and her hips were certainly wider than his. But, what else was she to do? Wearing her drenched uniform was certainly not an option, so she graciously accepted the simple grey yukata he offered her.
The bathhouse was especially nostalgic to Mitsuri—like the engawa and the open aired dojo, much of her time at the estate had been spent there. Kyojuro had been determined to push her to her very limits, and she always ended up with some combination of sweat, dirt, and occasionally blood plastered over her skin as a result. The after-training bath was her special routine to cleanse her body and mind.
Mitsuri slipped into the hot water, sighing with relief as it soothed the chills on her skin. She stared lovingly up at the ceiling as she sunk down far enough to cover her ears. The resulting silence was meditative. She stayed there in her tranquility, letting the water fight off the cold, until her fingers and toes began to wrinkle.
Ripples and splashes replaced the peace of being underwater as Mitsuri finally stood to dry herself. She was just finished tying her Yukata when she heard it.
There were voices in the hallway.
Mitsuri froze, trying to listen through the wall. She could hear Kyojuro pretty well, as he was a naturally loud speaker, but his voice had taken on an odd tone. It was almost stiff, as if he were walking on eggshells. The second voice was not one she recognized. The speaker was an adult man, and it was too loud to be soft-spoken Senjuro anyway.
Shinjuro? Her blood ran cold and she hurried closer to the door to listen. The second voice was getting louder, more aggressive. Accusatory. There was a strange lilt to the muffled sound, like the words were slurred. Kyojuro was speaking more forcefully as well, and their back and forth was heating up quickly. Mitsuri froze in place. What on earth should she do? Would it be wise to intervene, and risk escalating the situation? Probably not. On second thought, how could she possibly leave Kyojuro to stand alone against a man who made his spirit waver so? And what about Senjuro? He was such a gentle soul, how could he possibly stand up for himself if he got involved?
A small crash sounded from outside, as if someone had knocked something off of a table.
That was it. She was getting involved, and she wasn’t going to let this man bully his sons any longer!
Mitsuri flung open the sliding door, the sound of yelling flooding into her senses. Kyojuro stood in front of the door, his back to her. His posture was tall as always, and he stood his ground without missing a beat. But she could see the way he had positioned himself, blocking the hallway as if guarding the room where she had been. She caught a glance of Senjuro’s face peering around the corner, eyes welling with tears.
“—worthless,” his father was snarling, advancing slowly like he was hunting his prey. “You think you’re all high and mighty now that you’re a hashira, that you can do whatever you want, but y’know what? It means nothing.” Mitsuri hated the way he looked just like his son, the same fiery hair and striking golden eyes. But the bitter words and sake bottle hanging from his hand showed full well that they were very different people.
So that was it. Kyojuro’s father was an alcoholic, and a violent one at that. She moved to step forward, but Kyojuro cut her off with a subtle hand motion and she froze where she stood.
“I do not think such a thing,” he answered, his tone steady and free of emotion. “Besides, Kanroji-san is a respectable woman, and she is not here to spite you! I invited her in because she got caught in—“
“Liar!” Shinjuro roared, and Mitsuri flinched, heart pounding. Had her arrival caused this?
He lurched forward again and Kyojuro tensed. “Listen here, boy,” the man growled. He lifted his bottle like a weapon. “You better get your useless ass out of my house. And you can take your little harlot friend with you.”
Mitsuri gasped aloud, burning up with shame. She instinctively brought both hands up to cover her chest. Even though Shinjuro had barely spared her a glance, she was all too used to men judging her for her body. Kyojuro visibly bristled now. His hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword. It was for intimidation, she knew. He would rather give up his blade than ever raise it against another human, especially a family member. But it did give Shinjuro pause. As a former slayer, he was not stupid, and she could see the gears turn in his drunken mind as he processed Kyojuro’s implications.
“Stand down, father,” he commanded, although his voice was notably softer than usual.
Shockingly, Shinjuro relented. He staggered backwards, glaring at the ground. Kyojuro’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and Mitsuri exhaled shakily. Perhaps conflict had been avoided, after all. Kyojuro turned his head slightly to meet her eye over his shoulder, offering a reassuring smile.
Everything snapped all at once. In the half second that his son let his guard down, Shinjuro launched the sake jug at him with his full strength. Mitsuri shrieked, and Kyojuro flung an arm up in front of his face, pushing her behind him.
The bottle shattered against his arm, sending dozens of tiny shards of ceramic flying around them. Kyojuro gasped at the impact, and when she opened her eyes, she saw a small trickle of blood falling like a tear over his cheekbone.
Mitsuri saw red. Kyojuro, the sunshine in her life, her big brother, had been hurt, and the bastard responsible was ready to do it again.
Compared to other women in the corps, Mitsuri was noticeably muscular. Still, she had never quite been able to achieve much more than a modest muscle definition. Standing next to Kyojuro, she probably appeared quite small. But her muscles themselves were eight times denser than the average human. She had been afraid of herself once. That strength had been hidden away before Kyojuro came along. And now she was going to repay the favor.
Shinjuro dared to take one more step towards his son, shocked and bleeding, and was greeted instead by Kanroji Mitsui, the eight-fold woman.
Her fist connected with his jaw with a startling crack, and the man she had hoped for years to never meet collapsed unconscious at her feet.