Chapter Text
Although all her fellow Hashira had quite unique personalities, Mitsuri had learned to read them. Their patterns, their languages, each affectionate action, no matter how small. They were filed away, in the back of her head, and when she saw love, she knew right away what it was.
After all, what kind of Love Hashira would she be if she couldn’t recognize the feeling, when it was written all over one’s face?
It wasn’t the same each time, of course—love rarely was. There were a million different ways to show it, to speak it—Mitsuri had learned the motions by heart, to best express her own affections.
She saw. Uzui’s hand rested on Rengoku’s back like it belonged there, whenever they stood close enough together. The Flame Hashira never moved away, or even seemed to notice it after the first few times. Uzui leaned down to listen better, to show he was attentive to Rengoku’s words. He casually presented Rengoku with an eyepatch to cover his blind eye after his encounter with Upper Moon Three, a flame pattern hand-embroidered on it with care.
She saw. Shinazugawa’s strict reprimand when Rengoku pushed himself too far, too long. Calling him stupid, without a drop of venom in his voice. His smile, so sharp around the edges, softened into something easy, lighter. His eyes followed each step, each sway, each form. He was eager to spar before Rengoku’s retirement, keen on studying the flow of his body. Even after the Mugen Train incident, Shinazugawa’s stare never left the Flame Hashira for long, and his barbed tongue always had something to say, as if desperate for any sort of response, for that bright voice to speak to him.
She saw. Tomioka had an unreadable face most of the time, even to Mitsuri, but his body gave him away. The tension always carried in his shoulders eased the moment Rengoku sat by his side. He was lighter, brilliant blue eyes more focused, fixated on Rengoku’s face. Tomioka no longer drowned in his own sea of thoughts. Rengoku was his life raft, a blazing flame to light his darkest moments. He pressed sweet potatoes into the blonde’s hands, remembering that he liked them, his face warmed by the tiniest of smiles when Rengoku devoured them.
Mitsuri knew that eventually, one of them would confess. Her bet was on Uzui, a man not threatened by more than one partner, confident in his ability to charm Rengoku straight into his lap. That flashy personality worked on anybody and everybody, except perhaps Shinobu.
But what about the two who didn’t say anything? Her heart ached for them. Rengoku would say yes to Uzui, and the other two would be left unrequited. How dreadful, she lamented, that Shinazugawa and Tomioka would be subjected to seeing Uzui’s unfiltered pride and joy upon claiming Rengoku as his lover. Would they be jealous of how his arm, instead of theirs, wrapped around Rengoku’s waist like he was a precious jewel? Ah, if only she could soothe the suffering of a bruised ego and a broken heart.
Or maybe Rengoku would have second thoughts. Regrets, moments where he looked back and wondered what could’ve happened if he had made a different choice. Or maybe he’d never accept any love at all, refusing to choose. She knew what it was like to be torn between potential lovers. Mitsuri was faced with the problem herself, in the current moment. And although she watched Rengoku, hoping his situation would provide some sort of enlightenment, he seemed oblivious to the three pairs of eyes on him, longing for his undivided attention. Or perhaps, she hoped, just like her, he felt deep adoration for them all, and was unsure of what to do.
She would never ask him his thoughts, though. Revealing her greed was embarrassing, unfathomable.
Iguro and his mismatched eyes, his creased brow smoothing when he saw her. His soft, delicate petals of hands, smaller and more slender than hers. The green socks he so graciously gifted her. The smile hidden by his bandages, but visible in his pink cheeks as he watched her eat, without once commenting on her unladylike appetite, her weight, or her diet.
Shinobu and her tight-lipped smile, relaxing into something more genuine. Long lashes casting shadows on her flawless cheeks as they sat in the sun, sharing sakura mochi and tea. The fish tank she kept in her office and tended with great care. The flowers in her windowsill, one of the pots labeled “Mitsuri” in neat handwriting.
Oh, her heart, with all its room, vainly begging to be filled. Oh, her desires, too ravenous and too selfish.
If love was supposed to be straightforward, why did the path split into two? Why could she not choose a way to go?
Rengoku had called her big heart her greatest gift, not a weakness, and she had embraced that aspect of herself ever since. But for the first time in her entire life, Mitsuri, the Love Hashira, was ashamed of her love.