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He’s going to get his ass kicked for this, but why does he care?
A simple knife cut to the sideisn’t an issue. Sanemi has had plenty of those, the thick scars on his body telling. Sanemi isn’t even upset he’s hurt— it’s the fact he got bested by a regular fucking person. Just some jackass with a knife who thinks he can dig money from Sanemi’s pockets.
The town is somewhat lively after dark, but not in these back alleys where the lamps don’t shine. He’d already knocked the man out and left him there, definitely going to need to track him down in the morning so he can report him to the authorities.
His hand clutches his side as he grits his teeth and makes his way back to the room he’s rented for the night, spotting the familiar doors of the inn and shuffling inside.
Kanroji must be asleep, he thinks, with the way the lights are off. He does his best to shuffle across the floor quietly so as to not wake her, but a rustle sounds from the futon as pink hair falls over her shoulders.
“Shinazugawa, you’re back.” She rubs her eyes with a cute yawn. Blood drips audibly from his wound where his hand can’t quite cover it, and she seems to notice. “Oh my gosh, you’re bleeding!”
Sanemi huffs, “It’s fine, I can take care of it myself.” He says just as he begins to make his way towards the bathroom to grab stitches and bandages.
At the same time, Mitsuri rises from her futon, nearly colliding with the other man as she rushes for the first aid kit. It was typically customary for Slayers to carry first aid supplies on their person in the event of an injury, but Sanemi’s smartass forgot his own needle and thread at the last minute before he ventured two hours out from home.
Mitsuri beats him to the bathroom and he leans against the door with a grumble. He never much enjoyed her presence, considered her rather stupid, but she was a Hashira for a reason and a capable slayer so he doesn’t doubt her capabilities.
“Hnnng,” Sanemi groans quietly, “goddammit.”
“Just— hang on, let me find it!” She calls from the bathroom with a slight echo.
“I said it’s fine, Kanroji, I don’t need your help.”
Mitsuri comes out of the bathroom with gauze and a needle with stitching thread in her hand, and she looks at him with pleading green eyes.
Up close, he’s never noticed how beautiful they are.
“Go back to sleep,” he urges.
“Please.” She asks insistently, and with the look on her face, Sanemi can’t really refuse.
He concedes. “Fine,” he huffs, following her over to the futon on the floor where she flicks on the light and sits on her knees. She carries a small bowl of water with her, kicking the blankets out of the way.
“Sit.”
“Kanroji—“
“Sit, please.”
Sanemi drops, clutching the wound at his side with a muted huff. His knees ache from a gentle struggle with the assailant, and so does his abdomen.
Sanemi shrugs out of the top of his yukata where it was half-open. Crimson has colored the sage green and he mourns it for the slightest moment. Mitsuri’s cheeks flush as she takes in the open expanse of Sanemi’s body, scars accrued over his years of violence and misery in their line of work, filled with hard muscle that she could gaze at for days. Mitsuri’s hands are cool against his abdomen as she dips the cloth in the water, wrings it damp, and presses it against his abdomen.
He inhales with a hiss as the adrenaline wears off and the real sting of the wound flashes through his body.
“What happened?” She asks. Her voice is soft in the low light, hands small and diligent as she works on his wound. First she cleans the excess blood, washes the rag once or twice to get it all off. The water is cold.
“Some jackass thought it would be wise to sneak up on me, so I knocked his ass out. It’s fine. Doesn’t matter.”
Mitsuri hums. She drops the cloth in the bowl and lets the blood seep out into the water as she wipes her hands on her sleep clothes and takes the needle and thread.
“You aren’t screaming in pain, so that’s good.” Mitsuri smiles as her dainty fingers inch closer with the pointed tip of that needle, ready to pierce his skin. “I would ask if you’re afraid of needles, but…”
Her eyes sweep over the wide expanse of his body. “Just get it done.”
“Sorry.”
She pricks his skin, drawing the faintest pinpricks of blood. These things aren't exactly made for poking through human skin, neither is the thread as it becomes stained with crimson as Kanroji stitches his wound closed.
“I used to sew my brothers’ clothes.” She says. He appreciates her for trying to keep conversation, breaking the silence; it distracts him from the pain. Her voice is less annoying when it’s soft than it is during the day when she blabbers on about nothing. “They would play outside and in the mud all the time during the rainy seasons and they always inevitably ended up tearing their kimonos.”
Sanemi hums, indicating he’s listening. But the only thing he can think of are her hands on his abdomen, so gentle, so tender as she patches him up gingerly. Blood stains the tips of her fingers, but she doesn’t seem to care all that much.
“Okay, now let me get this on,” she mumbles to herself as she snaps the thread on the final stitch and grabs the roll of gauze sitting beside her. She shuffles closer on her knees, pushing herself right into his personal bubble that ticks him off only slightly.
He leans back a little, the hairs on her scalp tickling his chin as she gets in close to wrap the bandages around his body. She does them tight, secure, like she’s experienced and practiced in this, despite her only being a Hashira for a little over a year.
“Alright,” she tucks the end of the bandage in and leans back, admiring her handiwork. “I’ll go clean this up and… you should get some sleep.”
“Thanks.” Sanemi grumbles, “you too. Sorry for waking you.”
“I-It’s fine!” Mitsuri smiles as she picks up the blood-water bowl, marching over to the bathroom. “We’re supposed to look out for each other, right?”
“...sure.” He slips out of his yukata and takes advantage of her presence in the bathroom to dress into something a little more comfortable. Soft on the inside, loose over his shoulders and forest green in color that looks black in the dark of the room.
He turns onto his right side—the side that isn’t injured—and does his best to not irritate the wound as he shuffles under the thick blanket of his futon. Kanroji comes back, redoing the braids in her hair that must have gotten pulled while she tossed and turned, and she smiles at him as she slips into her own futon.
“Goodnight, Shinazugawa.” She smiles, pulling at the apples of her cheeks where the two moles under her eyes lay. They almost look like smiley faces.
“‘Night.” Sanemi says.
When he closes his eyes, he dreams of pink hair and green eyes.
———
The marketplace is bustling in the late afternoon. People clamor together among the streets talking amongst themselves, buying, trading, trying their best to make a buck. Sanemi watches rather boredly as he tries to find any clues among the thrall of the crowd.
It’s not the smartest move, looking for a hidden demon within the throes of an extremely crowded marketplace. But, if there’s anything he’s learned while being a Demon Slayer, it’s that these fuckers can hide anywhere, and in plain sight seems to be their favorite spot.
He’d needed to switch into a different yukata provided by the inn, considering his previous one was so dutifully ripped by the assailant from the previous night. He feels fine enough to walk, even though Kanroji herself was fretting over him when they woke up.
Speaking of the woman, Sanemi has had to drag her away from several shops multiple times. The glamor and galore of the central-district cities has enraptured many the fine eye, including Kanroji’s.
Though, he’d advised her to stick close, and even still, she’s still lingering towards the shiny trinkets. Sanemi himself has looked up plenty of times, the fine gleam catching his own, dull eye. Perhaps he cannot find the same vibrancy and color in eighty percent of the objects she keeps pointing a manicured fingernail at, but it’s enough to make her smile.
“How is your wound?” She asks halfway through the midday when most of the shopkeepers are vacant for their lunch breaks. Sanemi is almost surprised; he usually runs missions alone, or with other slayers who are too piss-scared to even talk to him.
But she isn’t. She speaks to him like they are friends, even with a little hesitancy in her voice.
“‘S fine.” He says calmly, shrugging. “Are you going to ask me to rate it on a scale of one to ten?”
“No!” She says, waving her hands in a half-apology. He sighs, exasperated, blowing a lock of hair from his face. “I just wanted to check in. You’re quiet.”
“I’m focused.” He snaps. “We’re here to kill a demon, remember? Not to blow our yen on mindless trinkets.”
“Right.” She says. She leans uncomfortably into his space, her braids trickling over her shoulder. Sanemi looks over and follows the line of sugarcane-colored hair to her bright emerald eyes.
They are rather pretty.
What?
“What?” He snaps, “somethin’ on my face?”
“You have a lot of scars.”
“No shit.” He says, annoyed. He can’t blame her curiosity, however. She seems like she has a lot of questions about him, simply been keeping them inside for sake she doesn’t run her big mouth.
“Will that wound scar?” she gestures vaguely.
“Not likely. Wasn’t deep enough.”
“A-and I’m sure you know a lot about that!” she says, smiling. She’s so clearly trying to make conversation, even if it is giving him a headache. She doesn’t irritate him nearly as much as some of the other slayers, though.
“Alright, what are you playing at?”
“Oi, you two!”
Sanemi’s head snaps around quicker than he can process, eyes scanning for the sound of the voice. A woman with more gray hairs on her head than Sanemi’s own tufts waves her hand over, calling for the two of them. Mitsuri looks around, seeing if there is another source of the voice, but she finds only the elder woman.
“Can I help you?” Sanemi asks, walking over. His sword clinks against his thigh where it’s hidden underneath his yukata, reminding him of the possible threat.
“You look like a fine pair,” She says, reaching for one of the hanging ornaments above her, the kind of windchimes that clink together when the breeze blows far too high.
“Excuse me?”
“Here, take this. All the merchants around here are offering half off for the couples this season. I thought you two might be interested.”
The woman holds out the ornament kindly, and Mitsuri bumbles over like an excited puppy, too engrossed in the gleam of the ornament to properly realize or process what the woman has just said. Sanemi, in his shrewdness, catches on to her comment, and quickly grabs her hand before she can grasp onto the shining ornament.
“Woah, hold on.” Sanemi says sternly. He relaxes his grip against her wrist. “I think you misunderstand— we’re not a couple.”
The woman furrows her eyebrows, placing her hands on her hips.
“Well, you certainly don’t look the part. But I know true love when I see it!” She beams, “we get a lot of couples this time of year, and I can tell when two are truly meant to be.”
“…riiiight.” Sanemi drawls. “Yeah, okay, we’ll take our leave now.”
“Oh, but— Shinazugawa—“
“Just come on.” He says, and drags her down the marketplace. Kanroji turns behind them and waves the other woman goodbye with a joyful smile on her face.
A moment passes as they weave through the crowd. Mitsuri clears her throat.
“What?”
“Shinazugawa, um…. You’re still holding my wrist.”
Sanemi freezes. In the middle of the street. He looks between them, the way his scarred hand and gripping her delicate wrist with admittedly gentle force. He releases his hold and clenches his fist at his sides, grumbles something under his breath, but Mitsuri just giggles.
“I-I didn’t mind, you know!” Mitsuri squeaks, returning to his side. “Your hand is, um. Very warm.”
“… Shut up.” Sanemi grumbles, walking forward. “We have a mission to pay attention to.”
“Oh, come on! We can take a look at some of these stalls, right!?” Mitsuri says. Sanemi turns to look at her and she’s grabbed back onto his arm, instead slotting their fingers together with her teeth shining.
Sanemi gapes; he’s never seen such a beautiful woman before. The lady’s words from earlier ring through his head.
“I know true love when I see it!”
Dammit, Sanemi thinks.
“Oh, look over there!” Mitsuri points, and Sanemi is getting dragged away in that direction before he knows it.
Even if she can’t see it, Sanemi still smiles. Her boundless curiosity and joy is enough to make the corners of his mouth pull up with a gentle huff.
Looking down at their intertwined hands, the juxtaposition between smooth skin and scars all over, Sanemi can’t help but think he doesn’t mind the softness of her palms.