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“So, I hear from Kyoujuro that you’ve been making friends!”
Straight and to the point. While her words aren’t strictly accusatory, the mere suggestion of the prospect of her unraveling his closely guarded secret is a threat all in itself. He feels himself being scrutinized by violet eyes that have never seemed more threatening than they do in the present moment. Indeed, Senjuro freezes as if he’s being held at the wicked point of her blade, his heart making a slow and gradual migration towards the base of his throat despite the gentle curve of her smile and the harmless cherry-pink shade of her lips, pressed together in an unassuming line.
He belatedly realizes that he is in fact, a terrible liar.
“No! I mean- yes!” His palms are clammy with nervous sweat. It’s far too cold to chalk up the thin sheen of perspiration that has begun to prickle over his brow to the weather. Senjuro manages a forced smile, only to have a traitorous snowflake land on his temple and melt in testament to his insincerity. He cringes- then straightens immediately as his mind conjures a scarily realistic approximation of Akaza’s voice that snaps in disapproval.
“I mean- I go to the market on Tuesdays and Thursdays,” He’s babbling before he can stop himself, trying desperately to ignore the way Shinobu’s brow creases slightly in return. “There’s lots of people there, see - there’s an old lady who sells fruit and she always gives me a discount ‘cause she thinks I’m cute, and there’s a-”
( Senjuro gawks at a forearm of unearthly pallor thrust elbow deep into a chest; hears the crunch of ribs and a wet, rattling gasp through gaping fangs- )
Shinobu nods along with an attentive smile, outwardly unfazed by his flustered yammering. Senjuro stops for breath, chewing his bottom lip, suddenly unsure of himself in the face of her unreadable nonchalance. Shinobu nods once more and giggles .
“I’m so happy for you Senjuro.” She sighs delightedly. He might have been more consoled by her easing off in such a manner if there wasn’t that faint shade of almost patronizing skepticism coloring every facet of her aura. “We were all so worried after hearing about your incident. Unbelievable- you were incredibly fortunate that there was someone around. Are you really sure you don’t remember their face?”
( Dark ichor streaks an expression twisted in fury and made all the more fearsome by an unempathetic adornment of stripes, the bars of which further divide that pale approximation of rage lit by the waxing moon overhead. Senjuro feels his knuckles- bloodied and skinned, prickle and burn. )
“It’s not that I don’t remember them. I just-” His gaze flicks in nervous indecision from Shinobu’s face- still overly impartial beneath a mask of gaiety, to the ground then back up again; this time, he conveys all the brazen innocuity of a spring lamb to match her own facade. “-I never got their name is all!”
( Yellow eyes narrowed in fury are ablaze with figurative heat, directed not towards him, but to the shaking demon practically impaled and held in place in a grotesque and blatant demonstration of power. )
“Oh that’s a shame.” She laments. “And here I thought we might have a chance at nabbing a new recruit. It’s really not every day that you find someone capable, or willing to take on a demon.”
( Akaza is unyielding even as his unfortunate captive blubbers in shameless terror- ‘I’m sorry! If I’d known that he was your prey then I wouldn’t have-!’ )
Crunch.
He practically jumps as she takes a step towards him, each footstep accentuated by the ensuing crackle of dry leaves. Her hand- deceptively manicured and smooth despite the callouses across her palms, lands upon his shoulder. She levels him with a look of concern.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Senjuro-san? Even trained slayers find it difficult to get over attacks like that.” Her inflection is pointed and the sympathy all the more disquieting. He nods quickly and averts his gaze. Trained slayers don’t get away from such attacks with only bruised knuckles and little else to show, and he’s well aware of how dubious it makes his narrative sound.
“I’m alright, Kocho-san.” This time, his smile is as genuine as he can manage it. His heart skips a rapid beat in his chest. “I promise.”
She nods in return, almost sadly. Then she presses a bundle of dried wisteria into his hands, clasping them in her own. “We’ll always be here whenever you need us… so don’t be a stranger, alright?”
As it turns out, her meaning borders on being every bit as literal as he might have reasonably construed.
The Hashira come in rotation- some more casually than others, and some not at all. Senjuro doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have guests around, especially when said guests make Kyoujuro smile all the more brightly. The mood feels lighter with the constant distraction; the air more breathable without his older brother fussing over him at every turn and the brooding shadow of his father and his newfound vigilance, too stilted to be affectionate, but there all the same.
Akaza makes an odd noise when Senjuro ventures out to meet him by the river, and his expression only scrunches with further distaste as he nears him.
“Why do you smell like that?”
Senjuro fumbles over his apologies upon realizing that he’d forgotten to swap out the coat which Gyomei had taken painstaking care in tailoring- the man sat at their comparatively miniscule dining table and having spent much of the afternoon sewing dried wisteria into the hems.
It’s a good-natured gesture, albeit an entirely unsubtle one in belying his perception of Senjuro’s helplessness.
He drapes the coat neatly over a nearby tree branch- Akaza eyes it with peevish vehemence.
“They were worried after the last time.” Senjuro explains. “I didn’t tell them about any of this.”
‘Couldn’t’ goes unspoken. How he could even begin to explain regularly meeting his brother’s near-killer for over half a year is something he’s yet to puzzle out. Lying to everyone feels wrong when deception has never come instinctually to him. It’s a flaw which Akaza seems to find great satisfaction in pointing out time and time again. Senjuro doesn’t take it personally. He’s used to being needled incessantly by the demon at this point.
“Good grief.” Akaza mutters- surely already having noticed the rotation of his newly appointed ‘guard’. “Talk about being overprotective.”
Senjuro smartly declines to mention that Akaza had been the one responsible for so furiously quelling the inciting threat so many nights ago. Despite the magnanimity associated with that show of egregious violence, the terrifying visage of the Upper Moon splattered in blood had fuelled a vivid host of nightmares for a week. Not that it was the first time he’d seen Akaza bloodied- after all, it would be the peak of negligence to turn a blind eye to every single time they’d met with the latter wearing the remnants of a fresh kill. Perturbed as he is by the sight of gore, their growing familiarity makes it difficult for Senjuro not to begin to rationalize the other’s circumstances.
Akaza has to eat, he reasons; and if one was left with no choice at all, could the full extent of blame justifiably be set upon the scales of their conscience? Besides, it wasn’t as if slaughter formed his raison d'être. On the contrary, the demon seemed most highly strung over the notion of honing his strength than bloodlust alone.
“Where were they when that bottom feeder had its claws in you?” Said Upper Moon currently dons an expression of callous disapproval. “And now they resolve to console you with overbearing attention and dried flowers. How typically human.”
By now Senjuro knows that Akaza can be extremely difficult to dissuade once he sees fit to roll into yet another one of his tirades. “They’re just looking out for me. Like you!” He protests regardless. “They’re busy too, you know? Don’t you Upper Moons have more to do than hang around human teenagers?”
“Well,” Akaza snorts haughtily, cynical as ever to a fault. “Most of the others would have eaten you.”
That brings their conversation to a halt. In the end, it proves much easier to fall into their regular routine than to press the debate any further.
Senjuro ends up leaving his coat by the riverside. Tomioka Giyuu retrieves it the next day and sets it silently before him with a fresh bundle of wisteria decorating the neatly folded bundle. Much to his chagrin, he proceeds to produce a bottle of what he coolly informs him to be distilled wisteria essence; courtesy of Shinobu, and gives the entirety of him a customary spritz by way of greeting.
Resigned to his fate of becoming an amateur botanist with an almost perverse fixation on a certain genus of floral bloom, Senjuro abandons his marinating filets of salmon to fill another vase with water for the trimmed stems, and sets himself to cutting up a fresh stick of daikon for lunch.
Senjuro takes two baths the day after Tomioka’s departure. Despite his earnest effort, Akaza gives him one unsavory look and promptly trips him into the river.
It’s almost a relief that Sanemi and Obanai fail to show up. The fourth Hashira to pay them a visit is none other than his brother’s former Tsugoku, and Senjuro spies her approaching head of pink curls as he sweeps the courtyard that morning.
Kyoujuro receives her company with an unrestrained measure of delight. The afternoon passes beneath the honeysuckle warmth of sunlight and the steadfast awning of their raucous laughter. Senjuro smiles along, a patient and eager audience as the two of them recount stories, reminiscence wrought from the succulent fibers of nostalgia to shape an approximation of joy that feels sadly foreign. Regardless, he relishes each narrative - some so clipped with impatience and excitement to become incoherent, others embellished to the furthest stretches of incredulity.
Mitsuri’s voracious appetite is no secret. Senjuro vividly remembers his disbelief upon watching her devour ten bowls of unagi-don and an additional portion of shrimp tempura the first time Kyoujuro had invited him to join them for lunch. Indeed, his brother’s food-borne enthusiasm seems paltry (though by no means unimpressive ) in comparison. Which is why the three of them eventually wind up in the kitchen as the sun begins to settle into the gentle curve of the distant hills. He watches it gild the treetops and paint the clouds as the thought of Akaza’s whereabouts briefly crosses his mind. A warm hand settles over his own. Senjuro startles, nearly dropping the blade in his grip in shock, only to find Kyoujuro beaming down at him.
“Careful!” He booms, and Senjuro draws his fingers quickly away from the knife’s edge; there’s flour across his brother’s cheek and carrot shavings dot his hair. Guilt coils in him, sharp and venomous, but he forces a reassuring smile nonetheless.
“I-It’s okay, aniue! I’m all done.” The finely chopped scallions are deposited into a bowl containing the outcomes of Kyoujuro’s efforts, far more crude and removed from refinement.
“It’s not like you to be so waylaid!” He leans down and his voice drops to conspiratorial tones, his eyes flicking knowingly towards Mitsuri, currently occupied with heating a large pot of oil. “Is there something on your mind?”
It’s almost impossible to conjure knowing deception in the face of an expression so genuine and heartfelt. Senjuro opens his mouth, feeling the urge to seek comfort in his brother’s embrace, to spill every grisly detail and relieve his self-imposed burden. Then he shuts it. If he’s getting stronger for the purpose of being there for Kyoujuro, then there’s no reasonable justification behind worrying him (in the most optimistic terms) for any reason beyond assuaging his own comfort.
“Nothing, aniue.” He finally sighs. “I’m just- I’m just so happy to have you back.”
“And you will have me for a while yet!” Kyoujuro tousles his hair warmly, but the sensation pools like a lump in his throat. Senjuro swallows around it with difficulty. Then setting down the bowl, he turns and wraps his arms firmly around him, breathing in his scent and fighting the rising urge to cry.
Their newfound peace quickly proves itself transient. It’s only later when they’re sat around enjoying the fruits of their labor that Mitsuri elects to destroy all the tranquil that Senjuro’s worked so hard to cultivate and maintain.
“So you’ve found yourself a boyfriend!” Mitsuri gushes, overeager in a way that suggests she’s probably been restraining herself all night. “There’s no need to be so coy about it! It’s alright, I won’t tell the others!”
He nearly chokes around his mouthful of tempura. Kyoujuro does choke, and Senjuro spends the next half a minute patting his back as he doubles over and heaves. Senjuro jolts back as he resurfaces, his eyes watering and wide with incredulity.
“You what? ”
“I haven’t!” Senjuro wails, despondent in the face of such blatant misunderstanding. “It’s not like that at all!”
“What’s this about you sneaking out every night then?” She accuses, so convinced of her own hypothesis that she hasn’t stopped beaming. Senjuro can’t bring himself to meet his brother’s eyes and the scandalized ‘o’ of his mouth. “And Tomioka-san said he’d found your jacket by the riverside, which means you’d have taken it off-“
“You do have a good physique!” Kyoujuro interjects suddenly; then ducks his head in immediate regret and shouts an amendment. “Not that- Not that I condone any of this!”
Senjuro puts his head in his hands. The tabletop has become the most captivating object in the room. Mitsuri takes it as some apparent form of concession and utters a triumphant squeal. Maybe… Maybe this is a good thing. After all, wouldn’t it be easier to admit to some romantic fling than to the fact that he’s struck up a friendly correspondence with Upper Moon Three?
He sucks in a breath.
“Yeah.” He mumbles, all false doe-like shyness. “You got me. But it’s nothing big, okay?”
Kyoujuro stares at him in stunned silence like he’s just admitted to eloping with Muzan Kibutsuji. Mitsuri on the other hand, pounces at the first hint of weakness, crowing in unrestrained delight, balled fists flung upwards in excitement.
“Ooh, I knew it!”
“Brother, I…” His heart sinks, Kyoujuro looks to be on the verge of tears. “I never thought I’d see the day-“
“Huh? Kyoujuro!” Mitsuri’s swat lands squarely across the back of his head. “How could you say that? Senjuro’s a perfectly handsome- perfectly fine young man!”
“No! That’s not what I meant!”
Senjuro’s cheeks are ablaze. There are two Hashira sat across from him currently engaged in heated squabbling over the fiction of his love life; a fabrication which he- he dimly realises, is going to have to uphold for the entirety of his coming future. This can’t possibly be happening.
“Surely!” Kyoujuro is teary-eyed with desperation now, and he grips his shoulders with broad, calloused hands. “Surely what she’s saying can’t be true!”
He proceeds to blurt over Mitsuri’s appalled gasp ( ‘he’s at that curious age, Kyoujuro!’ ), conveying all the grave and stolid formality of a man poised to drive his blade into his own abdomen in ritual seppuku. “Senjuro! You- You didn’t go down to the brothels did you?”
If Senjuro has never been more convinced that he’s destined for hell, he’s certain now- his damnation carved in holy stone and blessed by a shaman nervously backing away from a soul surely cursed by unhappy divinity. He watches with grim satisfaction as two of the finest slayers of a generation stumble and gawk over his impromptu web of lies and heresy. It nearly makes the whole ordeal worth it. Just nearly.
That is to say, Senjuro thinks himself well prepared to face a good array of negative outcomes ranging from accusations of treason and collusion, to sentences of exile or execution, to the most invigorating scenario of ‘my pet Upper Moon has murdered my father, my brother and all our shared acquaintances in roughly that order’. But disappointing his brother with rumors of underaged depravity and romantic perversion was never amongst said list, and he finds his resolve quickly withering with the display of emotional distress unfolding before him.
It’s quickly becoming obvious that no amount of reassurance which he can provide will serve sufficient to mitigate the destruction so wrought in the Love Hashira’s wake. Rather than embark on such a futile attempt, Senjuro exhales slowly and begins to gather the dishes.
“Brothels.” Kyoujuro repeats hollowly, with the beginnings of genuine anguish.
“I call myself an amnesiac…” Muichiro says slowly, steadily handing him another bundle of wisteria- the fifth thus far in a seemingly never-ending sequence of offerings. “For more than just convenience...”
Senjuro tucks this bouquet neatly underarm to join its four other counterparts, already thinking of the small duffel bag which Mitsuri had left as a parting gift. Giyuu’s fresher contributions have already begun to wilt on the dining table, courtesy of a well-meaning addition of ( ‘ nutritious!’ ) miso soup into the vase by a certain someone undergoing lengthy recuperation that yes, might have stemmed partly from his duel with an overenthusiastic Upper Moon; but moreso has its most immediate effects attributable to the mental ordeal of having to process the doom of his teenage brother’s inevitable creep towards puberty.
Muichiro visibly shares none of these concerns- largely, Senjuro decides, because they’re of a similar age despite being leagues apart in rank and ability. In fact, the meandering torpor of his finite attention span is highly suggestive that no story of any magnitude- outlandishly wild or uncomfortably visceral, will faze him. Senjuro can’t help but admire this smothering level of apathy which would have been impossible to muster by conceivably anyone else with even an ounce of social courtesy to their name. Nonetheless, the distant gaze of the aforementioned eccentric remains distant as he reaches into the folds of his kimono and comes up empty.
He makes a sound, then rummages elsewhere. Senjuro’s breath of relief is curtailed with unhappy realization as he pulls another floral sheaf from his right sleeve. Six.
“Romance…” Muichiro offers breezily, eyes wandering. “... prostitutes…” The object of his address is often too ambiguous to make any more than fifty three percent of his dialogue intelligible; especially when he seems so intent on leaving his audience bereft of any means of discerning much needed context. Indeed, what can only add to this exceeding difficulty is the way his words are so determinedly spaced out, each spoken so leisurely and flatly as to border on palpable disinterest.
Even now, he seems to be musing to himself more than he is offering his largely solicited advice. His gaze drifts to the immediate left- a tile splattered with crow droppings which Senjuro has scrutinized with vehemence for the entire duration of the morning.
“...I wouldn’t say it would be… strange… if Rengoku-san were to mysteriously forget the implications of that conversation…”
That sounds remarkably ( alarmingly ) like a threat. Nonetheless, Senjuro gathers his wily hopes, mustering the fraying remnants of his once boundless patience. If books are to be consulted ( and trusted for that matter ), then the act of forgetting in increments seems to be a common outcome amongst those who have sustained grievous injury. He doesn’t want to wish ill will upon his brother- but the events of that night’s dinner have left Kyoujuro so crestfallen that Senjuro’s begun to grope for any means of dousing the forest fire-esque catastrophe of such an abysmal display of decision-making on his part.
“You really think so?”
Muichiro is silent for a considerable amount of time. Senjuro watches intently, processing the figurative whirr of machinery between his ears.
“...No.”
He can swear the crow on the roof is laughing at him.
“... But… have you considered other options?” His expression is deceptively vacant for someone so adept at remorselessly laying waste to the earnest sum of Senjuro’s hopes and dreams. “... perhaps poison… or a very long sharp stick…”
“Are you telling me to kill my brother?”
“That is… your problem, is it not?” His eyes bore levelly into him as Senjuro fights to keep some semblance of outward composure. ‘ Outward’ is the key.
“He is upset and you want to remedy that… all the dead are bereft of suffering… if it is upper body strength you are concerned about… you need not worry… humans are much softer than demons…”
Heavens above- He stares in blank disbelief; he’s worse than Akaza .
“What?” Senjuro repeats weakly.
Muichiro blinks idly at him. A peaceable, infuriating challenge.
“All… humans die… for all our heroics and lofty virtues… we are murderers… butchers… though for a good cause of course… though saving lives… is a distant second when it comes to priorities…”
He wanders off. Apparently, the single wilted daisy by the door is of more intrigue to him than his precipitously abandoned and ill-conceived plots of fratricide. Senjuro returns to scrubbing the tiles with more force than necessary, conceding that there is little sense if any, in inviting the opinion of someone who could only speak to having the entirety of his ménage amongst the deceased.
Though still noticeably glum, Kyoujuro is decently cajoled by an offering of sweet potatoes. Senjuro waits until he’s soundly asleep before he heads out, trotting along the beaten path. As usual, Akaza waits patiently in the field. He’s chosen a spot as reclusive as ever, though he’s hunched over this time rather than slouched against the bark of the dead oak.
Senjuro stops. The air seems to drop several degrees in wrongness and temperature both, and gooseflesh climbs his arms. There’s a body. A mutilated corpse laid in the grass, one leg missing and its chest hacked open in some grotesque imitation of a peeled orange. Akaza squats, unhurriedly tearing into a dark mass of something with his teeth. The moonlight affords him only an appreciation of the sheer amount of blood that splatters the ground and the disproportionate spotlessness of Akaza’s complexion, coupled with the lackadaisical bob of his throat as he swallows with visible relish.
Months ago, Senjuro might have turned tail and run from such a display of overt brutality. Equally, he might have frozen in hapless shock beneath the pressure of the demon’s mere notice . For someone who has just murdered a man- for someone who is currently eating said man, Akaza looks remarkably blasé.
“You look surprised.” He drags out each syllable with menacing emphasis. “... have you perhaps forgotten what I am?”
Akaza’s little test is a show of teeth and savage warning that could have been more convincing if Senjuro was just a fraction more gullible. The body does not need to testify to assuage him of Akaza’s guilt, but he has never been quite as invested in this dichotomy - humans good, demons bad, which so many slayers see fit to perpetuate. Ironically, it’s largely thanks to Akaza himself that Senjuro finds himself able to close the remaining distance between them, his feet halting inches from the blood-sodden earth. The reply comes naturally, the waver struck from his voice with an ease that surprises even himself.
“No. Never.”
After all, how could he strike from memory that furious, devastating avatar of condemnation that had descended upon his attacker that night? Without his interference, Senjuro has little doubt that he’d have been left little better than the corpse currently laid between them.
It’s a strange compulsion which drives him to lower himself, settling back on his heels to meet the demon at eye-level. The heady aroma of blood is almost choking, and the moonlight glints warningly off Akaza’s fangs as his tongue slips out to clean a speck of blood from the corner of his mouth. It’s really only some bizarre sense of profound personal obligation that keeps him from leaving the demon to his grotesque meal and resolving to come back another day.
“Who was he?” He asks instead.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What if he had a wife? Children? A family?”
Akaza pauses thoughtfully, then takes another bite before he speaks with an undeniable note of levity which seems entirely inappropriate. “It’s not like he’s complaining.”
“He’s dead. ”
In lieu of a proper answer, Akaza lifts one of the partially dissected forearms and noisily cracks the bone instead. “Right.” He mumbles peevishly, prodding at the marrow as if he might in doing so conceal the noticeable shift in his attitude. “That’s why it doesn’t matter.”
“That’s not true.” Senjuro tries. “Just because someone’s dead doesn’t mean their life had no meaning.”
“I suppose that’s what you like to think, isn’t it? With your lives so short and all, what more can you really do?” Akaza drops the body and pushes through the dried stalks reaching thigh-height to rinse his hands and face in the well by the treeline, its surface delicately iced over and traced with frost. Senjuro joins him and watches him douse his bloody hands, that shimmering reflection of the moon dissolving in an instant.
“Do you mourn each blade of grass which withers at your feet?” He makes a face and doesn’t wait for a response; the water that drips from the curves of his cheeks is pinkish. In the moonlight, he almost looks soft. “Funnily enough, Kyoujuro said something similar that time. He kept going on and on about the beauty of impermanence or something like that.”
“Aniue…” He hesitates, briefly considering the implications of sharing before casting all misgivings to the wayside. “Our mother died when I was really young. But I know she and him… they were close. She died, and there’s nothing we can do to change any of that; butI know it made the time we did have with her all the more valuable.”
“The dead don’t have feelings or memories.” Akaza sounds distant, but there’s a hint of desperation in the shortened spaces between his words- conveying in rhythm alone all the brisk alacrity of someone who has stepped unheedingly into a gulf and scrabbles for unreliable footing. “They don’t care about any of that. They don’t matter. ”
“You’re right. The dead are gone when they’re gone.” His mind flits to his father, rageful and ensnared in a cycle of grieving. Austere as he is even to his own blood, Senjuro knows that his spirit has centered itself around pain; the memory of the man he once knew diminishes with every year spent beneath the stoic repetition of the figurative executioner’s pendulum, crumpling under the weight of his guilt. He thinks of Kyoujuro, poised to die fighting; death being more preferable than the alternative notion of betraying their mother’s ideals.
He hasn’t been through any equivalent hardship. Even with swords and demons and life-threatening injury forcefully shoved aside, he feels estranged from the shared loss of their mother by virtue of his age alone. Still his voice firms. “But that doesn’t matter. The people they were close to do all the remembering and feeling for them.”
Senjuro knows it amounts to little more than conjecture, especially coming from him. Whatever moralistic implication his statement might have carried seems lost. Indeed, Akaza is perfunctory at best and plainly uncomprehending at worst. The dark tips of his fingers tighten around the edge of the well before he plunges them back into the water with vehemence. Senjuro decides its time to change the subject.
“Senjuro.” Uzui asks gently. “What have we said about whores?”
Senjuro takes a moment to consider the question. “To check their credentials?”
“Yes, yes of course. Very sensible. They can be sneaky- those ones.” He ushers him down the garden path and out of earshot of his brother. The Hashira makes for an awkward sight, his too-tall frame hunching as he parks under the clotheslines and shudders. “They’ll up and take all your money when they think you’re not looking, and they’re not above holding your trousers hostage while they’re at it either. Eugh.”
Senjuro lets himself be steered, fighting the urge to excuse himself. Uzui looks frighteningly poised to deliver a litany of personal anecdotes of the most debauched and grotesquely reprobate variety, but rather than regale him with an odyssey of his personal romantic conquests, he deigns instead to pat him firmly on the head. “Now I’m not saying that I’m against young love. That’s hardly the same thing unless you go overboard with experimenting, the more the merrier really!” His voice drops. “But not everyone is quite so accepting of that kind of commitment at your age, take it from me.”
Discussing the squeamish topic of his false romantic ventures is the last thing he wants to do at this point. Uzui is, as a rule- simultaneously too much and too little. A character too shamelessly overt and paradoxically insensitive in a way that only he seems to be able to muster, with an unnerving talent in reading between the lines in the most inconvenient of instances.
“You’re a charming young man,” There’s a concerning note of gleeful certainty, “-more cute than handsome for sure, but I’m sure you’ll have hordes of suitors when the time comes!”
Senjuro meets his unwavering confidence with wide-eyed perplexity. “What do I do then? Isn’t that going to make matters worse? ”
Uzui strikes a pose, beams and winks. Its a motion that’s made leagues more alarming with his impressive stature and the pair of decorated blades strapped to his back. “You could crucify them to lightning rods!” He steals a glance back at Kyoujuro, currently thoroughly engaged with scattering handfuls of fish feed over the surface of the pond. “Hypothetically, of course. Hypothetical lightning rods! Bing-bam-boom! Flashy solutions, that’s what a young man like you needs if you don’t want to stunt your growth even more!”
He’s about to say that he’s growing at a perfectly adequate rate for his age when Uzui reaches into his bag to uncover and deposit a heavy bundle into Senjuro’s arms. His knees buckle from the weight and his spine creaks with protest, mercifully cutting their discussion short. With his potential elbow and knee avulsions aside, Uzui’s decision to spare him from what is quickly becoming a shared line of catechism amongst the visiting Hashira more a reflection of the man’s graceful nobility than Senjuro’s own questionable merits. There’s something overly judgemental and disapproving in Uzui’s ensuing gaze which seems particularly geared towards making plain that these are very few indeed, and Senjuro finds himself fighting a losing battle against the burning impulse to crawl into a hole and despair.
Rather than disparage himself any more, Senjuro gives in and spills the bundle onto the ground. There’s a resounding metallic clank that’s only faintly muffled by the fabric wrappings, and this peeled away reveals a grandiose three-jointed staff, each bar hewn of polished wood dyed red and capped with gold. The heavy pieces are each inscribed with kanji- all some distinctive variation of promises of great slaughter, and linked with thick chains studded with thorny spikes. It’s exactly the kind of superfluous and excessively ostentatious thing that Uzui would wield cheerfully into battle. As it stands, Senjuro can barely lift it.
“Ta-da!” Said Hashira flaunts proudly. “When the master said the Rengoku estate needed- and I quote ‘watching over’, I thought from the get-go that it’d be a teensy bit embarrassing- not to mention overkill, ha! - for my sterling comrades to be babysitting the esteemed Flame Hashira’s precious little sibling.” The tail end of this is spoken with a sheer level of endearment that only manages to come across as patronizing. Uzui chortles.
“So of course I thought- why not let dear Senjuro protect himself? Everyone goes on and on about enablement and self-confidence these days- what’s more productive than giving the youth the skills to make money, vanquish their enemies and build a career? Hell- I was killing demons at your age, and I sure was killing people too! Though I wasn’t doing it for the money persay, and with my siblings… well , Obanai would probably have you believe that I was doing it solely for kicks- anyways!”
Senjuro wisely refrains from interrogating him, having since directed a considerable portion of his intellect to upholding his own fallacious narrative. The meticulous attention the task demands spares little for further maneuvering and engaging in mental gymnastics, especially when subtly conveyed allegations of murder and fratricide come into play.
“Swing that around and you’ll have every demon in four ri scrambling for cover!” He says with all the sanguine assertion of a self-confessed charlatan. “Now that you’re all set, I promised Makio that I’d pick up a box of sakura mochi from that shop by the riverside. Ta-ta!”
“Actually… there’s something else I wanted to ask you about.”
The difficulty which presents itself in bringing up a topic which he’s spent the past week wilfully trying to ignore is unexpected, considering he’s only recently managed to deliver a s piel on the topic of the significance of memory in relation to death. Akaza seems more attentive tonight, and there’s a resounding splash with each pebble he tosses into the river.
“So… hypothetically speaking, let’s say there’s a boy who’s got a brother.”
Akaza has yet to cut him off. Senjuro continues quickly in fear of losing his nerve, knotting his fingers and fighting the stammer from his words. “The problem is that this hypothetical brother thinks that the boy is engaging in unscrupulous activities- the kind that maybe he’s a little too young for. Hypothetically. So this hypothetical older brother is possibly having a little-”
A little- by which he sincerely meant to an aneurysm-inducing degree.
“-a little trouble letting go.”
“Charming.”
Senjuro feels considerably mollified. “Right? So now the hypothetical boy finds himself in a bit of a hypothetical pickle. He doesn’t quite know how to fix his hypothetical brother, and the only advice he’s gotten so far is to either give him multiple hypothetical stab wounds, poison him, or to rid himself of all his hypothetical suitors in the most flamboyant way known to man.”
There’s a long pause. Akaza looks like he’s drifting in the figurative equidistance between genuinely contemplating the overly convoluted narrative and the far more attractive notion of resigning himself to being indisputably lost in the cryptic riddle posed. “He’s having trouble letting go?” He finally frowns, scratching his head and regarding him with owlish disregard. “Break his fingers.”
Senjuro’s face falls, all his hope for counsel instantaneously dispelled. “But if I broke all his fingers, we’d have a whole new problem. How would he go back to slaying demons?”
“With some difficulty I’d expect.” Akaza yawns, his dismissal clear. “We’ve wasted enough time haven’t we? Let’s see if those kicks have gotten any better.”
Its with an unhappy jolt of reality that he comes to the realization that he is alone in his struggle. He’s made the bed he’s fated to lie in, and it’s only with great difficulty that he resigns himself to having to face the consequences of his own actions.
Self-accountability. The audacity of life to force that upon him is unfathomable.
His own lenient disposition and the acknowledgement of his own guilt makes it impossible to harbor any grudge towards Mitsuri- even if she had perpetuated this hell and left him to stew in it with only a jolly wave and the offhand reassurance that ‘he’ll get over it!’. Contrary to her optimistic projection, it’s been a week since their fateful meeting and Kyoujuro has still pointedly not ‘ gotten over it.’
The sun creeps beneath the line of the horizon as Senjuro busies himself with rinsing out a substantial portion of rice to steam. His father’s afternoon foray into the market has amounted to a generous stock of sake, a few bundles of komatsuna, a choice side of fresh beef and a basket of onions and enoki mushrooms to boot. With Kyoujuro so frequently imposed upon by his obligations to the Corp in the past and with Senjuro coming of a more sensible age, the duty of obtaining necessities from the nearby township had alternated between the two left occupying the lonely estate. Today, the relative vacancy of his schedule has been remarkably conducive to self-reflection, and Senjuro spends much of his day uncomfortably vacillating between his options.
Honesty and forbearance are as much of a family trait as the distinctive golden colouration of their hair. This prolonged act of subterfuge opposes every instinct, and he resolutely settles on the decision to come clean. Kyoujuro is sitting quietly at his desk, looking thoroughly engrossed in writing letters when Senjuro knocks and enters. His guise of focus is belied by the way his attention flicks to him without delay, and Senjuro belatedly registers the capped pen and the sheet of paper before him- occupied with only a few paltry lines of halfhearted scrawl.
“Senjuro!” His face immediately brightens and reignites the guilt gnawing at the insides of his ribs. “Have you made dinner? It smells delightful.”
Senjuro manages a shaky smile, and sets a plate of sweet and savory gyūmeshi in the empty space that Kyoujuro clears with a sweep of his hand. He tugs a chair over for himself and balances his own portion on the edge by a pile of notebooks, mindful of making too much of a mess. They eat in serenity- a relative measure of the term with Kyoujuro loudly singing his praises between bites of food as Senjuro picks morosely at the edges of his own.
“Aniue…” He starts- when Kyoujuro has finished half his plate. His own remains largely untouched, and only after a beat does he lift his eyes to punctuate the address with weight.
“Yes?” The sincerity in his voice is partially offset by a grain of rice clinging to the corner of his mouth.
“I’m sorry about everything. I know you were really worried.”
Kyoujuro doesn’t answer right away, tongue darting out to remove said grain from his cheek. It’s with insurmountable difficulty that Senjuro remains unflinching under the combined pressure of his own self-reproach and the pinpoint attention of Kyoujuro’s unmoved gaze. Then his entire form is crumpling as he releases a long, drawn out sigh.
“I admit that I might… have overreacted.” He winces in a way that does nothing to assuage Senjuro’s discomfort. “I know what Mitsuri said, but it’s really not the romance that’s been bothering me.”
The certainty directed towards what he knows intimately as falsehood makes him cringe, but it seems to go unnoticed as Kyoujuro averts his eyes and begins poking at a piece of beef.
“Senjuro I can’t protect you like this!” He blurts suddenly, his face wrought with despair. “And after last time! You could have been killed!”
“But I wasn’t- !” He soothes, forcing serenity after a moment of stunned silence. Kyoujuro surges forwards around the desk and envelopes him in a hug. Senjuro is lax as he allows himself to be squeezed tight and close, his face tucking neatly into his chest. His heartbeat is loud, a stolid reminder of life, rhythmic as the ocean waves in its reverberations.
It’s deep, it’s warm, it’s comforting. Senjuro awkwardly brings his arms around the broad flat of his back just as Kyoujuro exhales shakily around him, his voice trembling, close to tears.
“You must be more careful. You must! Promise me!”
“I will aniue.” He says, small and muffled into his chest. He pulls himself away, just enough to look him in the eye. “But I don’t need you to protect me. You have enough to worry about as is.”
He looks bewildered. “Is this about the Corps? Being a Hashira is a lot of commitment, but I would never relinquish any obligation to you or father… no, I-I didn’t mean it like that - ”
His voice rises. “Demons are terrible but the two of you will always come first!”
“I know.” He steels himself around the feeling of nestling his fingers into Kyoujuro’s haori, grounding himself in the tickle of hair across his knuckles before he reluctantly draws away.
“… but I… I haven’t been entirely truthful myself.”
Kyoujuro holds up a hand. “It’s not about the romance, Senjuro.”
“That’s what I was going to talk about- I-I’m not seeing anyone! I mean, I am- but not like that!” His cheeks are turning a ruddy shade. His admission suddenly feels somewhat akin to having flung himself over a snowbank and across the glacial surface of a nearly vertical cliffside.
“I’m-” He wrings his hands in frustration, feeling hesitation rise and clot his throat with the threat of tears. “He’s-“
“It’s Akaza isn’t it?”
Senjuro freezes, motionless in a way that can only be incriminatory. “Huh?”
The contrition which has been circling above him like an eagle over Prometheus finally settles with a grudge that feels multiplied tenfold. He had expected surprise, anger, fear- all on Kyoujuro’s part. On the contrary, he makes a sudden reacquaintance with a breed of shock which he knows intimately. He vividly remembers the descent of the crow who’d come to bring him news of the incident at the train crash site. That shock which had filled him had been so poignant and acerbic that it lingers even now in nightmares; in a passing scent, in a fleeting glimpse of stark color like wet blood, in a visceral feeling like his innards are being crushed, of a bloodied hand protruding from a sobbing demon’s back and tearing through what could so easily have been Kyoujuro, shredding ribbons of flesh and crushing delicate bone in fitful rage. There’s no doubt that he’s witnessed a generous encore of the instance of brutality which Kyoujuro had suffered firsthand; that he’s played the petrified bystander in an exhibit dedicated to a stage play written in violence.
This shock seeps into him like cold water, it chills his bones rudely. Its habitual approach is so obtrusive and brutish that it might be likened to stepping out into the courtyard on a sunny day and rather than meeting solid cobblestone underfoot, finding oneself plunging through an aberrant sheet of ice and into a frigid ocean churning beneath. Yet, Kyoujuro smiles. Patient and kind as the sun itself. Senjuro’s cheeks are wet. He sniffles and wipes at his eyes.
Kyoujuro doesn’t deserve any of this. Not the strife of becoming a slayer, nor that of keeping both their spirits up beneath the oppressive shadow of their father, nor every wound and scrape sustained in his journey of righteous faith. So it’s wrong that Senjuro had elected to go behind his back; worse still, it’s wrong that he who in his part showed no disposition to be anything but gracious and accepting of every act of mundane kindness, is so willing to forgive and forget, all in the name of unconditional love.
Is this some overt manifestation of determined avoidance? Senjuro scours his brother’s face for clues. Yet there is ultimately nothing that gives even the slightest indication of censure despite Senjuro knowing that his own position is an entirely untenable one. Needlessly, Kyoujuro continues, betraying no consciousness of the matter by neither word nor look, nor even in moderation of his speech; as if he could not bear to recognise such an egregious sum of wrongdoing on Senjuro’s part, and in turn must delude himself to its reality.
“Well then, perhaps my reaction was a warranted one after all!” Kyoujuro says finally, with a keen look in his direction. “I will admit that I had… suspected for some time. I have seen you practicing outside on multiple occasions, and it is rather difficult to forget the movements of someone who was trying to kill you!”
“Y-You knew?”
“That a mysterious savior of such strength had come to your rescue- the identity of which even the master could lay no suspicion towards, mind you; well, it was a strongly suggestive aid to confirming my suspicions!” He nods sagely, but his composure quickly fades to sheepishness. “It was rather irresponsible of me in retrospect, but I suppose I had gotten a feeling during our fight that Akaza does not kill without purpose.”
Senjuro gapes. It’s difficult to imagine that a Hashira might come to the conclusion of a demon harboring any degree of morality, especially when pertaining to one so intrinsically established in Kibutsuji’s counsels.
But then again, he has every faith in the notion that change is possible. The likelihood of it might vary considerably depending on the circumstances or subject of the object or individual in question, but he need only turn to the childhood version of himself for example- so opposed to that who he embodies now that the two have become almost impossible to reconcile.
“- has been months!” Kyoujuro is saying. “And I have yet to witness any indication of his ill will towards you. Would you tell me otherwise?”
“No! Not at all. He’s been nice, even. I didn’t understand it at first, but I think you’re right. He’s-”
‘He’s not like other demons.’ That felt like an unjustified self-consoling expression on his part. Akaza was a demon, and there was nothing that could be said with any concrete value towards nullifying that, nor towards proving that there might be some component- physical or otherwise that might discriminate him from the rest of the bloodthirsty and unthinking horde.
“He’s not what I expected.” Is what he settles on instead, thereby shifting the uncertain burden of satisfaction or disappointment onto his own shoulders.
“Yes! I will admit he was rather astounding. I had never met a demon quite of his like! Very enthusiastic, prone to talking too much, with strength that surpassed all my expectations.” The praise sounds entirely too odd coming from a victim of said demon, his words tinged with warmth that might be construed as fondness that Senjuro can only deduce as irrationally misplaced.
They lapse into momentary silence during which Senjuro contemplates the possibility that he’s dreaming. Meanwhile, Kyoujuro seems surprisingly mollified; to the point that whatever alternative fantasy he’d managed to conjure, something so quixotic as to make the truth seem relatively tame in comparison might warrant further questioning by someone less squeamish. “I presume he has been teaching you then?”
He nods rapidly in admission.
“You will have to introduce me. From what I have seen, he has done a fine job.” Kyoujuro says dryly.
“I must say, this is far preferable to Uzui’s suggestion that you were preparing to run off to the Entertainment district!”