Chapter Text
In the heart of a distortion, there are no maps. Only threads.
And not every puppet knows who is pulling its strings.
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Mist curled through the trees like a whispered secret, the early morning light pale and still.
In the center of the quiet training field stood Hotarumaru—small, round-cheeked, and serene, his oversized ōdachi resting gently against his shoulder. He hummed a soft tune under his breath—simple, wandering, like something half remembered. Not quite a melody, but close.
The same drifting tune, quiet as a breath. He didn’t know where he’d heard it before—only that it always came to him on mornings like this, when the world felt like memory more than sky.
He tilted his head at the butterflies drifting lazily near the grass.
“Mm… the light’s pretty today,” he said softly, smiling to no one in particular. “I think today will be gentle.”
A soft footstep broke the quiet.
Akashi Kuniyuki stepped out from behind the trees, shoulders slightly slouched, expression unreadable. His tachi hung loosely at his side, and his eyes held the fog of someone who hadn’t quite shaken off sleep—or perhaps didn’t care to.
Hotarumaru blinked slowly. “Oh… Kuniyuki. You’re awake.” He offered a small, sleepy smile. “I’m glad.”
Akashi rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Not sure I’m actually awake.”
He moved with the lazy grace of someone perpetually half-bothered by reality—but every step was silent, every movement exact, the air around him still.
“Not a bad morning,” he mumbled, settling nearby. “If I don’t have to do anything.”
That peace lasted all of five seconds.
A gust of wind preceded a blur of motion as Aizen Kunitoshi leapt into view, tantou flashing, boots skidding slightly on the dirt as he landed between them like a spark catching fire.
“There you are!” he barked. “Honestly, how are you both the slowest swords to move but the hardest to catch?”
Hotarumaru blinked at him. “I was just waiting.”
Akashi sighed. “I didn’t ask to be caught.”
Aizen narrowed his eyes and jabbed a finger at Akashi. “You’ve got the fastest feet in the entire citadel, and you use them to run from everything that matters. Pathetic.”
Akashi stretched lazily. “Fast doesn’t mean eager.”
“Ugh,” Aizen muttered. “You’re wasting your talent.”
Akashi looked over with half-lidded eyes. “You’re wasting breath.”
Hotarumaru swayed side to side, unconcerned. “Don’t fight… unless it’s sparring.”
Aizen’s eyes lit up. “Great idea. Let’s spar.” He shot Akashi a wild grin. “Time to prove you still know how to move.”
With a shrug, Akashi drew his tachi in one smooth motion. The blade flashed in the mist.
“You’ll regret waking me up for this,” he said.
Aizen dashed in—quick, fiery, relentless. But before his blade could land, Akashi was already gone, a blur of motion too fast for the eye to follow. He reappeared behind Aizen in an instant, tapping him lightly on the shoulder with the flat of his blade.
“Too slow,” Akashi yawned.
Aizen spun, flustered. “Tch—! You’ve been holding back!”
“Obviously,” Akashi replied.
Hotarumaru clapped gently, his expression bright. “Yay. Kuniyuki’s dancing again.”
The spar intensified—Aizen’s energy fierce, darting and sharp. Akashi met it with ghostlike speed, effortless dodges, flickering strikes, all with the air of someone barely trying. Not cocky—just tired.
But his eyes, faintly, began to sharpen.
Aizen grinned despite himself. “There you are. That’s the Akashi I remember.”
Akashi didn’t answer—but for the first time, his stance shifted just a little forward.
The clash of steel rang through the mist—quick, sharp, and fleeting. Aizen darted in, all fire and bite, while Akashi flowed like water, sidestepping, parrying, striking with a lazy grace that made it look like he wasn’t even trying.
Hotarumaru sat a few feet away in the grass, knees tucked to his chest, chin resting on them. His large sword lay beside him, too heavy to carry far, but never far from reach. He ceased his tune as the older two sparred. He could watch his brothers all day.
Akashi didn’t move much—but when he did, he vanished, a blur of speed that blurred the edges of the fog. Aizen chased him anyway, stubborn and relentless, like thunder chasing lightning.
Hotarumaru tilted his head, murmuring soft and thoughtful.
“Mm… Kuniyuki always looks so sleepy. But when he moves, it’s like the wind forgot how to stand still.”
He smiled a little, then glanced at Aizen.
“And Aizen… he gets loud when he’s worried. He yells when his heart’s too full.”
A particularly fast exchange made the air crackle—Aizen nearly clipped Akashi’s shoulder. Akashi retaliated with a flicker of movement that left a light red thread across Aizen’s sleeve.
Aizen didn’t stop—just grinned wider, more alive.
Hotarumaru’s fingers curled in the grass. He spoke again, voice almost dreamy.
“I think… they miss each other. Even if they won’t say it. They fight because they want to be closer, even when they’re far apart.”
He leaned back until he was lying in the grass, staring up at the pale sky.
“I wonder if I’ll ever be strong enough to stand between them—not to stop them, but to keep them together.”
A leaf drifted down and landed on his nose.
Hotarumaru giggled.
“I like when we’re all together.”
He closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of their spar—the dance of friction and familiarity. He didn’t need to move fast. His strength was something else. Gentle. Constant.
Watching and remembering what the others might forget.