Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Bruised Silence

The mission was supposed to be over by now.

The sun had dipped behind the mountain, dragging shadows across the trees like black ink spilled over paper. Mist hung thick between the pines, clinging to damp soil and the ruins of the village behind them. Blood still soaked into the wooden beams of one collapsed house. Giyuu could smell it in the air, metallic and cloying.

He didn’t say anything. He rarely did.

Sanemi, on the other hand, was pacing — boots crunching through gravel, eyes sweeping the treetops like he expected something else to leap from the branches. His blade hadn’t left his hand.

“Tch. That thing wasn’t alone,” Sanemi muttered, mostly to himself.

“It was.” Giyuu’s voice came low, calm. “It’s over.”

Sanemi whipped around. His glare wasn’t new, but it landed heavier today. “You didn’t even see the way it moved, Giyuu. There’s no way something that size lives out here without something else feeding it. Something worse.”

“I saw everything I needed to.”

Sanemi stared at him for a long second. Giyuu didn’t blink. His silence wasn’t defiance, but it always got mistaken for it.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” Sanemi muttered, sheathing his blade with a sharp click. He turned back toward the slope, stalking toward where the crows had said the nearest inn was. “I’m not done here. You can go sit in a hot bath and sulk if you want.”

Giyuu followed, wordless.

⸻

The inn was barely standing. No other guests. The old woman who greeted them looked startled to see anyone alive, and even more startled to see two Hashira covered in demon blood, both scowling — one at the world, one at nothing in particular.

They were given one room. One futon.

Sanemi didn’t protest. He kicked off his boots and collapsed against the wall with a groan. “Damn place better not have mold. I’ll burn it down.”

Giyuu stayed standing, towel draped over his shoulder, still smelling like ash and iron. The silence stretched again, brittle.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” Sanemi’s voice cut through it, sharp.

“About what?”

Sanemi snorted. “Never mind. You wouldn’t know sarcasm if it bit you.”

Giyuu stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. He never looked angry. But his presence was heavy. Like water right before a storm. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Just a scratch.”

“You were limping.”

Sanemi finally looked up. His voice dropped, but it lost none of the sharpness. “You watching me now, Tomioka?”

Giyuu didn’t flinch. “You always run into danger like you’re trying to die.”

“Better me than someone else,” Sanemi snapped. “That’s the job, isn’t it? Or are you still stuck pretending we have the luxury to play it safe?”

Something flickered behind Giyuu’s eyes then — not quite anger, not quite sorrow. Something quieter. Something that stayed buried until someone like Sanemi scratched too deep.

“I just want you to stop throwing yourself away,” Giyuu said quietly.

Sanemi blinked.

For the first time that evening, the Wind Hashira had no retort.

⸻

They didn’t talk while they ate.

They didn’t talk when the wind outside started howling.

They didn’t talk when Sanemi dropped to the futon first and rolled to face the wall. Giyuu stayed awake longer, shoulders tense, mind louder than the storm outside.

He hated this part.

Not the silence.

The closeness.

The way Sanemi’s breathing changed when he was half-asleep — slower, but still sharp around the edges. Like he was afraid of relaxing. Like he never had.

Giyuu laid down, facing the ceiling. There was less than a foot between them. And yet it felt like a chasm he would never cross.

Because if he did, and Sanemi didn’t push him away — Giyuu wasn’t sure what he would do with that.

The wind hadn’t let up.

By morning, it was still groaning through the old beams of the inn, dragging cold air beneath the door. The fire had gone out sometime before dawn. Giyuu stirred first, quietly. He didn’t move right away—just listened to the rhythm of the room, the wind, Sanemi’s breathing.

Still asleep. But tense. Jaw clenched.

Giyuu sat up, careful not to disturb the blankets. The moment he shifted his weight—

“Tch.” A groan from behind him. “Don’t tell me it’s already morning.”

Giyuu turned slightly. Sanemi’s eyes were still shut, his face half-buried in the crook of his arm, hair messier than usual, white strands tangled across his cheek.

“You didn’t sleep,” Sanemi muttered.

“Neither did you.”

“Yeah, well.” Sanemi exhaled, voice still rough with sleep. “Place creaks like it’s haunted. You kept fidgeting.”

Giyuu didn’t argue. He stood slowly, stretching. “You should have your leg looked at.”

“I told you—”

“You were limping,” Giyuu repeated. Calm, steady. “Let me see it.”

Sanemi sat up finally, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re so damn persistent when no one asks you to be.”

“I’m not asking.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.

Sanemi looked at him—really looked this time—and something in his scowl faltered. Maybe it was the faint circles under Giyuu’s eyes, or the way his brow was furrowed without realizing it. Maybe it was the way his voice hadn’t once raised itself, not even in irritation.

“Tch. Fine. Just—don’t make a big deal out of it.”

⸻

The injury wasn’t a scratch.

It was a deep gash, high on his thigh, bandaged hastily in the field, still seeping through. When Sanemi peeled back the fabric, he hissed softly through his teeth, more from cold than pain—but Giyuu didn’t miss the wince.

“Hold still.”

Sanemi sat on the edge of the futon, bare-legged, arms crossed over his chest like he was being punished. Giyuu knelt in front of him, rolling up his sleeves, focused and precise. His fingers were steady, even as they brushed against Sanemi’s skin.

“You’re lucky it didn’t hit anything vital,” he murmured, cleaning the wound. “You need stitches.”

“I don’t need anything.”

Giyuu didn’t respond. Just kept working. Gentle, efficient.

The silence thickened again—but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly.

Sanemi glanced down at him. At the way Giyuu leaned in slightly, hair falling into his face, fingers brushing firm against muscle. He didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. His eyes were fixed on the wound—but there was something softer in the line of his jaw.

“You’ve done this before,” Sanemi said suddenly.

“Many times.”

“I mean… for someone else.”

Giyuu hesitated, just slightly. Then resumed. “Yes.”

Sanemi didn’t ask who.

He didn’t want to know.

⸻

By the time Giyuu finished stitching and rewrapping the wound, the tension had shifted into something else. Not comfort. But not hostility, either.

“Thank you,” Sanemi muttered under his breath, barely audible.

Giyuu met his eyes.

There was no teasing glint. No smug satisfaction. Just quiet understanding.

“You’re welcome.”

⸻

They left the inn just before noon, summoned by crows to another nearby village. Another strange death. Another demon lurking beneath the surface.

But the air between them had changed.

They didn’t speak much on the road. They never did.

But Sanemi didn’t snap this time when Giyuu walked too close beside him. He didn’t flinch when their shoulders brushed. And when they reached the ridge overlooking the village, both their eyes locked in quiet agreement—

We’ll watch each other’s backs this time.

And maybe, just maybe, they meant it.

The second village was worse than the first.

Not in blood — though there was some of that too — but in silence. Thick, suffocating, like the whole place was holding its breath. A row of empty homes. Lanterns unlit. Doors shut tight even in the middle of the day.

Giyuu felt it first.

The kind of wrong that sits under your skin. Too quiet. Too still.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Sanemi felt it too. He just pretended not to.

“You take the south end,” Sanemi muttered, checking his blade again. “I’ll sweep the graveyard.”

Giyuu hesitated. “We shouldn’t split up.”

Sanemi turned, one brow raised. “You’re the one always talking about efficiency.”

“There’s something here we’re not seeing.”

“Exactly why I’m not letting it breathe on both of us at once.”

Giyuu frowned. But Sanemi was already gone.

⸻

It was a trap.

Of course it was a trap.

Not a demon hiding in a house — no. It was a summoning circle buried beneath the old shrine steps, triggered when Sanemi stepped on it. A binding seal older than either of them had studied. He felt the curse energy hit him like a hammer, slamming him back through stone, into the dirt.

And then came the creature.

Massive. Crawling. Bone-white limbs stretching from the shrine, faceless, mouth stitched shut. It didn’t need to speak to kill.

Sanemi was already bleeding before he could swing.

⸻

Giyuu reached him in seconds.

The world went quiet as water. His blade moved faster than thought — cutting through limbs, through dark air, dragging Sanemi out of the creature’s grip like he weighed nothing. Blood hit Giyuu’s cheek. He didn’t stop moving.

Sanemi was still conscious — barely.

“Stupid…” he slurred, coughing. “Told you to go south…”

“You’re an idiot,” Giyuu said softly. He slid Sanemi down against the tree line, checking the wounds. “That thing would’ve crushed you.”

“Tch… wasn’t planning on dying today.”

“Then stop trying so hard.”

Sanemi grabbed his sleeve suddenly, breath ragged, eyes glassy. “Tomioka. If I don’t—”

“You’re not going to die.”

Sanemi stared at him.

And for once, Giyuu wasn’t calm. His hands were shaking. Just slightly. But it was enough.

“You don’t get to die first,” he said, quieter now. “I won’t let you.”

Then he stood.

And turned back to face the creature.

⸻

The fight was short. Brutal.

Giyuu didn’t hold back.

It was rare to see him truly angry — not loud, not violent, but precise. Cold. Water that drowns you slowly.

By the time the creature collapsed into ash, the wind had stopped howling.

⸻

Sanemi came to sometime near dusk.

The bleeding had slowed. His head was pounding. His leg was wrapped — again — and he was lying against Giyuu’s shoulder, something warm tucked around them both.

“…The hell happened?”

“You triggered a curse seal.”

“Of course I did,” Sanemi groaned. “You save my ass?”

“I always do.”

Sanemi turned his head slightly. Their faces were close now. Too close.

“…You were scared,” he said suddenly, voice rough.

Giyuu didn’t look at him. “You were dying.”

“You were scared.” Sanemi almost sounded surprised. “You don’t look like that. Not ever.”

A long pause.

Then: “Don’t die next time. I’m not ready to owe you.”

Giyuu finally looked at him. “Then don’t make me watch you bleed like that again.”

Sanemi blinked. His hand twitched once where it rested near Giyuu’s. Then stilled.

Neither of them moved.

They didn’t speak much on the way back.

Sanemi could barely walk.

Even with his arm slung over Giyuu’s shoulders, he was dragging dead weight with every step. His head lolled once or twice. At one point he muttered something like “I can walk by myself, dammit” — but Giyuu ignored him.

Not out of pride. Just out of instinct.

When someone was bleeding, you didn’t argue with them. You carried them home.

⸻

By the time they reached the Butterfly Estate, the sun was beginning to rise again. Pink light stretched across the sky like a wound trying to close.

Shinobu was already waiting at the gate.

Of course she was.

“My, my,” she said with that infuriating smile, hands tucked neatly into her sleeves. “Tomioka-san, I was beginning to think you were the dangerous one. But look at this poor thing…”

Sanemi growled weakly. “Bite me.”

“No thank you,” she replied sweetly. “But you will be staying for at least a week. Both of you.”

Giyuu tensed slightly. “I’m not injured.”

“You look like you haven’t slept in three days,” she said. “And I’m not in the habit of treating one reckless idiot just to send him off with another.”

⸻

They were given a room with two futons.

At first.

Then Aoi came in and calmly explained the wing Sanemi was supposed to recover in had just had a plumbing issue, and there were no spare rooms. She left before either of them could argue.

“Convenient,” Giyuu muttered, setting their swords down.

Sanemi scoffed. “You think she’s doing this on purpose?”

“She likes making people uncomfortable.”

Sanemi looked at him. “So do I.”

Giyuu didn’t answer. He was too focused on setting up the futons — close but not too close. And yet somehow, still not far enough apart.

⸻

Sanemi was stitched, cleaned, and drugged within an hour.

Giyuu stood near the window while it happened, arms crossed, face unreadable. He didn’t flinch when Sanemi winced. Didn’t blink when the pain hit.

But he didn’t look away either.

Shinobu noticed.

“Would you like to stay while he rests?” she asked, too casually.

“I’m not leaving,” Giyuu said, even more casually.

Sanemi didn’t open his eyes, but he muttered, “You’re such a damn mother hen.”

Giyuu just pulled a chair closer and sat beside him. “You’d die without one.”

⸻

That night, the wind was quieter.

But the room wasn’t.

Sanemi stirred restlessly, blanket kicked off, hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands. Giyuu watched him from his futon, arms tucked under his head, eyes half-lidded.

He didn’t sleep either.

The silence stretched between them — not uncomfortable this time, just full. Like something unsaid was sitting in the space, daring one of them to reach for it.

Eventually, Sanemi rolled to his side, eyes barely open.

“You meant it, didn’t you?” he rasped. “What you said. About not letting me die.”

Giyuu turned his head. Their eyes met in the dark.

“I did.”

A beat. Then another.

“…Why?”

Giyuu didn’t look away. “I don’t know.”

Sanemi snorted softly, bitter at the edges. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Then stop asking questions you don’t want answers to.”

Sanemi stared at him.

In the dark, with the moonlight sliding across Giyuu’s face, he looked… soft. Not weak. Just real. Human. And maybe a little haunted.

Sanemi hated that it made something in his chest ache.

“…Get some sleep,” Giyuu said gently.

Sanemi didn’t respond.

But a minute later, his breathing evened out.

And Giyuu kept watching.

Just to be sure.

The room was still.

Sanemi’s breathing had evened out at last, the tension in his jaw finally slackening under exhaustion. Giyuu remained awake, eyes fixed on the dark ceiling beams above them, hands folded over his chest.

He hadn’t meant to say it.

Not like that.

You don’t get to die first.

It sounded too much like he cared.

And he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not about Sanemi.

Sanemi didn’t care about anyone either. That’s what made him tolerable.

That’s what made it safe.

⸻

Sometime near dawn, Giyuu finally drifted off — just barely. Only to be pulled back again by a sound he hadn’t expected.

A sharp inhale. A ragged breath. Movement.

He blinked toward the futon beside his. Sanemi had turned onto his back, brows furrowed deep in sleep. His fingers clenched the blanket like he was bracing for impact. Jaw clenched. Chest rising too fast.

“No—get off me—”

Giyuu sat up.

It wasn’t loud, but it was panicked. Choked. Like whatever Sanemi was seeing in his dream wasn’t just memory — it was still happening.

Giyuu hesitated.

Then stood.

He stepped closer, crouching beside the futon. “Sanemi.”

The word came quiet. Careful.

Sanemi didn’t wake. His entire body jerked once—like he was being grabbed again. Like something had ripped him out of sleep before, and was doing it again now.

“…Sanemi,” Giyuu said again. Firmer.

A sharp gasp. Eyes snapping open.

And a fist swinging—

Giyuu caught it.

Reflex. Muscle memory.

He didn’t flinch.

Sanemi stared at him, chest heaving, breath ragged. His hand was still caught in Giyuu’s grip. His expression darkened instantly — not with fear, but with something colder.

Resentment.

“…The hell are you doing?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.” Giyuu let go of his wrist. “You said—”

“Shut up.”

Sanemi pushed himself upright, wiping cold sweat off his forehead with the heel of his hand. His whole body was tense again. Pulled in tight like a wounded dog ready to bite.

“You think I need you watching me sleep?”

Giyuu didn’t respond.

Sanemi scoffed, voice low and bitter. “Of course you do. You’re still playing protector.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You think I’m pathetic, don’t you?” he snapped. “That you’re better than me.”

Giyuu blinked.

Sanemi stood. Staggered a little from the wound. Refused help. “I’m not some damn charity case, Tomioka. Don’t look at me like that.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Save it.”

Giyuu watched him limp toward the window, hands shaking with quiet fury. The sunrise was just beginning to peek through the trees.

He didn’t understand it. Not fully.

But he knew better than to speak when someone was building a wall between their ribs.

⸻

Later that morning, Giyuu went to get fresh water from the hallway basin — and that’s when he heard them.

Shinobu and Aoi, murmuring just inside the garden alcove.

“—I’m only saying it’s strange,” Aoi whispered. “Sanemi never lets anyone treat him like that. He let Tomioka touch him.”

“Well, pain will do that to even the most prideful idiots,” Shinobu said breezily. “Still… He’s been quiet. Too quiet. They haven’t killed each other yet.”

“You think something’s happening?”

Shinobu laughed softly. “Oh no. Not yet. But he did let Tomioka sleep beside him all night. That’s a new record.”

Giyuu stepped back before they saw him.

His hand clenched around the water pail’s handle.

⸻

Back in the room, Sanemi didn’t look at him when he came in.

Giyuu set the water down. Quiet. Didn’t speak.

The tension wasn’t soft. It was bristling.

Sanemi sat at the edge of the futon, jaw tight, arm freshly bandaged, staring out the window like it had wronged him.

“You didn’t hear anything just now, did you?”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

Sanemi’s voice dropped. “I swear to god, if you did—”

“I didn’t.”

Sanemi looked at him — sharp, skeptical. Like he didn’t believe it. Like he didn’t care.

“…Whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

He stood. Grimaced. And this time, when his knee buckled, Giyuu stepped forward.

Sanemi shoved his arm away.

“I said I’m fine.”

Giyuu didn’t touch him again.

He didn’t say you’re not.

He didn’t say you’re being stupid.

He didn’t say I’m worried about you.

He just stepped back and let the distance stay.

The silence hadn’t lifted.

Sanemi had stopped trying to talk first. Not that he ever wanted to. Not that Giyuu ever responded when he did.

They’d spent the entire day in the same damn room, breathing the same air, not looking at each other.

Sanemi didn’t mind silence.

He minded this silence.

The kind where Giyuu made it feel like his presence was a burden. Like he wasn’t the one who dragged Sanemi out of a demon’s jaws three nights ago. Like he didn’t spend a whole night watching Sanemi sleep, only to wake up the next day acting like none of it mattered.

Sanemi wanted to punch a wall.

Instead, he just stared at the ceiling and waited for the next breath to stop burning.

⸻

A light knock came the following morning.

Shinobu entered, carrying a tray.

“Good news, Tomioka-san,” she said cheerfully. “You’re cleared to leave. No injuries. No excuses.”

Sanemi’s head snapped toward the doorway.

Giyuu just stood from his seat, slow and calm. “Alright.”

That was it.

No protest. No hesitation.

No is he cleared too? No maybe I’ll stay another day.

He moved like he’d been waiting to get away.

Shinobu smiled. “Your sword and uniform are in the next room. Aoi will see you out.”

Giyuu gave a small nod and stepped past her.

Sanemi sat up, ignoring the throb in his ribs. “That’s it? You’re just gonna leave?”

Giyuu glanced at him. “You want me to stay?”

The words weren’t teasing. They weren’t concerned. They were just… blank.

It made Sanemi’s skin crawl.

“Go to hell.”

“I’m not the one stuck in a futon,” Giyuu replied, quiet, matter-of-fact.

Sanemi’s glare could’ve cracked stone.

But Giyuu didn’t look back again. Just stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him like he hadn’t just left a storm behind.

⸻

The air outside was sharp with early morning.

Giyuu walked through the garden paths without hurry. The Butterfly Estate was quiet at this hour — patients still resting, Aoi yelling at someone in the distance, wind barely stirring the paper walls.

As he neared the front gate, a figure passed him.

Shorter than him. Broader in the shoulders.

Genya.

He was clutching something — maybe a wrapped food parcel — and walking like he didn’t want to be stopped. But when he recognized Giyuu, his steps faltered.

“…Tomioka.”

Giyuu nodded once. “Genya.”

“You, uh…” Genya scratched the back of his head, glancing toward the corridor Giyuu had just left. “You were here with… nii-san?”

“Yes.”

Genya shifted awkwardly. “How’s he doing?”

“Angry,” Giyuu said flatly. “But alive.”

Genya gave a breath of a laugh. “Yeah. Sounds right.”

They didn’t say anything else.

Giyuu stepped past him.

Genya kept walking.

⸻

Back in the room, Sanemi didn’t ask who had knocked on the door next.

But when he saw Genya step inside — arms full, trying not to look too concerned — something in his shoulders slackened for the first time in hours.

Still, his voice was sharp.

“Took you long enough.”

“You’re welcome,” Genya muttered.

He didn’t comment on the tension in the air.

He didn’t ask why the room still felt like it had something lingering in it — something heavy and sharp and unfinished.

Sanemi didn’t say a word about it either.

He just looked toward the spot where Giyuu had been sitting hours ago…

…and scowled.

Sanemi glared at the bowl in his lap like it had personally offended him.

Genya had brought food — rice, pickled daikon, miso soup — the kind of plain stuff he’d learned Sanemi wouldn’t refuse, even if he bitched about it the whole time.

“I said I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I don’t need you checking in on me like you’re my damn nurse.”

“I’m not,” Genya snapped. “I’m your brother.”

Sanemi looked at him.

And for a second, Genya thought he might say something real.

But Sanemi just shoved a bite of rice into his mouth with more force than necessary. “Whatever. Sit down before you drop something.”

Genya sat.

The silence wasn’t comfortable — but it wasn’t hostile, either. They sat on opposite sides of the room. Sanemi winced every time he shifted. Genya tried not to stare.

Then, casually—too casually—Genya asked:

“So. You and Tomioka.”

Sanemi’s entire posture stiffened. “What about him.”

“He was here a while. Did something happen?”

“No.”

“You sure? ‘Cause you’ve been brooding like someone insulted your sword.”

“I said, nothing happened.”

Genya didn’t buy it.

Sanemi stared out the window, jaw clenched, chopsticks held too tightly.

“…He acts like he doesn’t care,” Sanemi muttered. “Like none of it touches him. Like people are just numbers to him.”

“You mean the way he talks?” Genya asked. “Or doesn’t?”

“I mean the way he looks at people. Like they’re already gone.”

Genya was quiet for a long moment. “Maybe he just doesn’t know how to talk about it.”

Sanemi scoffed. “Not my problem.”

“…He stayed, though,” Genya pointed out, gently. “Didn’t have to. But he did.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe he just felt bad for me.”

Genya didn’t say anything.

And that silence — that pity — was somehow worse.

Sanemi flung the chopsticks down. “I don’t need that. I don’t want anyone’s damn pity. Least of all his.”

“You think that’s what it was?”

“What else would it be?”

Genya didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know either.

⸻

Meanwhile—

Giyuu’s had another mission it wasn’t difficult.

A simple village sweep — low threat. Quick and clean. He moved through it like water: quiet, invisible, efficient. By nightfall, the demon was dust, the villagers safe, and Giyuu was halfway back to the estate.

He didn’t think about Sanemi.

Not really.

He thought about the way Sanemi had looked at him. The way his voice sounded when he said, You think I’m pathetic, don’t you?

Giyuu didn’t think anything of the sort.

But it was easier not to correct him. Not to correct anyone.

⸻

He returned late the next evening — just past sundown — and was greeted not with rest, but with a crow.

Black wings, black scroll.

The message was brief:

“Two Hashira required. Multiple deaths in forest sector 3-K. Curse suspected.

Wind Hashira, Water Hashira — report immediately.

—Ubuyashiki”

Giyuu stared at it for a moment.

Then folded it neatly.

⸻

At the Butterfly Estate, Sanemi was sitting upright for once, trying to wrap a new bandage around his thigh without calling for help. He hissed through his teeth, cursing under his breath.

The door slid open.

Genya looked up from the corner.

Aoi stepped in with that same diplomatic expression she always wore when dealing with stubborn patients. “Sanemi-san,” she said. “There’s a mission.”

Sanemi didn’t even look at her. “Give it to someone else.”

“You’ve been requested by name.”

That got his attention.

He turned sharply. “By who?”

A pause.

“…The Master,” Aoi said. “You and Tomioka.”

Sanemi froze.

Genya stood up. “You can’t even walk right now.”

“Watch me,” Sanemi growled.

He rose to his feet — too fast. Grimaced. But didn’t stop.

He wasn’t about to let Tomioka get ahead of him again.

Sanemi didn’t flinch when the pain flared in his thigh.

Didn’t wince when the stitches pulled, or when his balance faltered for half a breath.

He grit his teeth and kept walking.

One foot after the other. Nothing in his posture said injured—just pissed off and charging ahead.

Aoi stepped aside.

Barely.

He was about to pass her in the doorway when another voice rang out behind them:

“Sanemi-san.”

Cold. Measured. And somehow louder than it needed to be.

Sanemi paused.

Shinobu stepped into view, sleeves folded neatly, smile razor-thin. “Where exactly do you think you’re going?”

“Mission,” he grunted. “From the Master. Urgent. I was summoned.”

“You’re still healing.”

“I’m not dead.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Sanemi narrowed his eyes. “I’m going.”

“No,” Shinobu said, still smiling. “You’re not.”

He moved to brush past her, chin raised like he dared her to stop him.

But she didn’t move.

She didn’t raise her voice.

She just looked at him. Gave him that look.

The one that made men flinch. The one that said, I will make your life hell if you keep pushing me.

For a second, Sanemi’s body tensed — something old, something instinctual — like he’d been caught doing something reckless by someone who actually had authority.

“I’ll talk to the Master,” she said. Calm. Absolute. “He wasn’t aware of your condition.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do now,” she said. “Because I’m about to tell him.”

Sanemi clenched his jaw, fists tight.

“Go sit down,” Shinobu added, already turning away. “Before I put something in your tea.”

Aoi tried to hide her smirk.

Sanemi growled under his breath and stormed back toward the futon like it was his idea.

⸻

Giyuu didn’t know.

Not yet.

He was already headed toward the transport station, traveling light. Sword strapped to his back. Crows circling high. He’d heard the mission was in a cursed forest — high concentration of negative energy, reported illusions, civilian disappearances.

He didn’t expect Sanemi to show up.

He didn’t expect anything, really.

⸻

Meanwhile—

Shinobu moved quickly through the estate.

It wasn’t often she spoke directly to the Master, but when she did, it was always with purpose.

Ubuyashiki sat in his quiet garden room, surrounded by warm light and the soft rustle of wind in the trees.

She bowed deeply.

“I apologize for the interruption,” she said gently. “But I wanted to inform you that Sanemi Shinazugawa is still recovering from injuries sustained last week. He’s in no condition to be dispatched.”

The Master’s brow furrowed.

“I wasn’t aware,” he said softly. “That message was sent before I received his latest report. I’m sorry for the oversight.”

“No apology necessary,” Shinobu replied. “I’ll make sure he remains at the estate until cleared.”

“Good,” Ubuyashiki said. “Thank you, Kocho. I’ll send another.”

⸻

The crows left shortly after.

The Mist Hashira was summoned in Sanemi’s place.

⸻

Back at the Butterfly Estate, Sanemi sat on the futon, glaring at the wall like it had insulted him.

Genya hadn’t returned.

Aoi had — with water, fresh bandages, and an unspoken threat to sedate him if he tried to leave again.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t react when the crows flew overhead.

But when one of them let out a loud Caw! Mist Hashira summoned in place of Wind Hashira!—he turned his head sharply.

His jaw locked.

Giyuu was going without him.

And that shouldn’t have mattered.

But somehow, it did.

The forest was quieter than expected.

Too quiet.

Giyuu stepped into the treeline just before dusk, water gourd clinking gently at his side, footsteps leaving no mark behind. The smell of blood had already faded, but the unease in the air hadn’t.

A presence moved beside him.

Barefoot. Light as breath.

“Muichiro,” he said, glancing sideways.

The Mist Hashira gave a small nod. “Hi.”

That was it. No explanation. No greeting. Just the faint cloud of his hair floating around his face as he followed without hesitation.

Giyuu didn’t ask why it wasn’t Sanemi.

He didn’t care.

Or he told himself that.

⸻

They moved in silence for nearly an hour, weaving through dense undergrowth, checking for lingering curse energy.

The mist thickened the deeper they went.

Then, softly:

“…How do you know if you like someone?” Muichiro asked.

Giyuu blinked.

Muichiro continued, voice thoughtful, expression unreadable. “Or if you just think they’re funny. Or interesting. Or you want to protect them a lot. But it’s not… annoying.”

Giyuu stared at him.

“…Is that really the most Hashira thing I’ve ever heard?” he asked aloud, mostly to himself.

Muichiro tilted his head. “Why?”

“No reason,” Giyuu muttered. “I’m just—confused.”

“Me too.”

Silence stretched.

Giyuu didn’t answer right away. Because truthfully… he didn’t know either. He’d never figured it out — whether wanting to protect someone meant something deeper, or if it was just a feeling that came and went. Like weather. Like rain.

Muichiro seemed unfazed.

He kept walking, eyes half-lidded. “He’s taller than me. Kind of loud. Not good at talking. But he’s always trying. And he makes me feel… like I want to stay awake.”

Giyuu blinked again.

“…Are you talking about Genya?”

Muichiro looked up. “Yeah.”

Giyuu didn’t know how to respond to that. For a long moment, he just watched the mist shift between the trees. Then finally:

“I’m not that good at this stuff,” he said honestly. “But if Genya makes you feel like that… it probably is a crush.”

Muichiro looked thoughtful. Then: “Oh.”

And that was that.

⸻

Meanwhile, at the Butterfly Estate—

Sanemi was losing his mind.

Not because of the wound. Or the boredom. Or the fact that his sword was currently locked away in the damn supply room.

No.

It was Genya.

Coming in. Again.

“Why are you back?” Sanemi snapped as the door slid open.

Genya shrugged, setting down another tray. “Brought food.”

“You brought food two hours ago.”

“Well, you didn’t eat it.”

Sanemi stared at the fresh tray. “I don’t want it.”

Genya ignored him and sat down anyway.

Sanemi glared. “You don’t need to keep doing this.”

“I want to.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want you to.”

“Tough.”

They sat in irritated silence.

Then Genya, like it meant nothing, said: “How do you know if you like someone?”

Sanemi squinted. “What?”

“You know. Like like. Not… just think they’re cool or whatever.”

Sanemi frowned. “The hell kind of question is that?”

Genya looked away. Shrugged.

Sanemi narrowed his eyes.

“You got a name, or are you just wasting my time?”

“It’s not important.”

“The hell it’s not.”

Genya didn’t answer.

Sanemi stood up, ignoring the way his leg nearly gave out again. “Spit it out.”

“No.”

“You little—” He took a step closer. “You don’t ask me that kind of question and then clam up like a coward. Who is it?”

“I’m not telling you!”

“Then I’m guessing.”

“Sanemi—”

Sanemi stared at him, piecing it together. Genya’s twitchy nerves. The way he’d been acting for weeks. Someone he wouldn’t name.

“…It’s not that Mist brat, is it?”

Genya flinched.

Sanemi reeled back. “Are you serious?”

“It’s not like that—he’s not—” Genya stood too, now defensive. “He’s not a brat!”

Sanemi gawked. “He doesn’t even remember what he had for breakfast!”

“Well, he remembered me,” Genya snapped. Then instantly looked like he regretted it.

Sanemi opened his mouth, stunned. Closed it. Opened it again.

“…You’re hopeless.”

“I didn’t ask for your help!”

“Good. Because you’re not getting it.”

They stared at each other.

Then Genya dropped back onto the floor with a loud sigh.

“…He makes me want to be better,” he muttered.

Sanemi didn’t have a response to that.

He didn’t like it. Didn’t get it.

Didn’t know what it was making his chest feel too tight.

But he didn’t say anything else.

He just sat down.

A little quieter than before.

The silence in the room wasn’t tense anymore.

It was just… still.

Genya had gone quiet after his accidental confession about the Mist Hashira. Sanemi hadn’t said anything since. The earlier argument fizzled into something else — not peace, not understanding. Just something unfinished.

Sanemi sat with his arms crossed, eyes on the floor. Genya chewed at a piece of pickled daikon like it might distract from the weight in the air.

Then:

“…So how’d it happen?” Sanemi asked, not looking up.

Genya blinked. “Huh?”

“You. Him. Whatever the hell this is.”

Genya flushed instantly. “There’s no thing. It’s not— We’re not…”

“You’re not anything yet,” Sanemi muttered. “But you want to be.”

Genya looked away. Shrugged. “It kind of just happened. He’s annoying. But he listens. And I… I feel like I can breathe around him.”

Sanemi grimaced. “Disgusting.”

“Shut up.”

Another pause.

Then Genya asked, without looking at him:
“…You really never felt like that toward someone?”

Sanemi didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know how.

The question made something coil tight in his chest — not irritation, not fear. Just… weight.

⸻

He thought of Kanae.

Briefly.

She had been kind to him, once.

Gentle in the way that made his skin itch — not out of discomfort, but because he didn’t know what to do with kindness like that. She was strong, smiling, a little too perceptive.

He might’ve liked her.

Maybe.

But then she died.

And whatever might’ve been never had a chance to become anything.

He told himself that was why it didn’t count.

But even now, thinking about her… that wasn’t the feeling Genya was describing.

That wasn’t it.

Not the way Genya talked about Muichiro.

Not the way Sanemi’s pulse used to twist sideways every time a certain quiet bastard with dark hair and a blank stare would show up unannounced and ignore him into a rage.

…

Sanemi’s jaw clenched.

Nope.

Not thinking about that.

He said nothing.

And the silence told Genya everything.

The younger Shinazugawa sighed, standing up and stretching. “I gotta go. Tanjiro wants to run drills with Inosuke and the others. I promised I’d show up.”

Sanemi didn’t respond.

Genya walked to the door, pausing only once.

“…If you ever do feel it,” he said softly, “you’ll know.”

Then he left.

⸻

Aoi returned an hour later, clipboard in hand.

“You’ve been cleared for light movement starting tomorrow,” she said. “No missions. No combat. Just supervised training on the estate grounds.”

Sanemi rolled his eyes.

“You’ll stay here one more day, then we’ll re-evaluate.”

“I’m not a damn child.”

“You’re worse,” she muttered. “Children listen.”

⸻

Meanwhile, deep in the cursed forest—

The mist grew thicker.

It clung to skin like cold fingers, curling around Giyuu’s neck and sinking into his sleeves.

Muichiro didn’t seem bothered.

Giyuu noticed, vaguely, that the boy’s expression hadn’t changed since they crossed the barrier an hour ago.

That… might’ve been a problem.

“Stop,” Giyuu said quietly.

Muichiro halted immediately. “What is it?”

“Something’s off. We’re walking in circles.”

Muichiro frowned. “You sure?”

“I don’t get lost.”

“…That’s kind of arrogant.”

Giyuu didn’t respond. He just stepped forward again — but the moment his foot touched the grass, something shifted.

Everything shifted.

⸻

The trees stretched too far. The fog grew so dense it blurred vision.

And then—

Voices.

Not from the present.

From memory.

“You were too slow. He died anyway.”

Giyuu’s breath caught.

He turned sharply.

A figure stood in the mist.

Not a demon.

A boy.

Younger. Laughing. Blood on his hands.

Sabito.

“Why weren’t you strong enough?” Sabito asked, voice low and even. “Why are you the one who survived?”

Giyuu didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

The fog pulled around his shoulders, thick like drowning water. His sword stayed in its sheath.

He couldn’t move.

He didn’t know if he wanted to.

⸻

Elsewhere, just out of sight—

Muichiro froze.

The mist took shape in front of him.

A single hand reaching forward.

Soft.

Warm.

“Don’t leave me behind again,” whispered a voice he couldn’t name — high, small, broken.

His own voice.

From a memory he hadn’t let himself remember.

“I won’t,” he whispered, without meaning to.

And the hand turned to ash in the air.

The fog screamed when it broke.

One sharp cut — clean and precise — ripped the air in half as Giyuu’s blade cleaved through the illusion.

Sabito vanished.

The trees spun. The ground gave way.

Then there was nothing but the sound of Giyuu’s own breath — ragged and alive.

He turned on instinct.

Behind him, Muichiro’s eyes had gone wide — not in fear, but clarity. The mist around him had shifted, its grip weakening as his sword arm twitched, then slashed upward with devastating precision.

The illusion shattered like glass.

The real forest returned in a violent surge of light.

And standing between them, revealed at last, was the source.

A demon.

Skeletal. Crawling. Its eyes wide with too many lids and mouths stitched into its torso — it hissed as if surprised they’d seen through it.

“You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be awake yet…”

Giyuu didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

⸻

The fight was fast and suffocating.

The demon twisted the air, shifting the terrain, trying to drag them back under. But now that they’d broken the illusion once, they were fighting with eyes wide open.

Muichiro blurred past the creature, blade slicing one of its clawed arms clean off. Giyuu blocked the counterattack, water flowing from his movements like a silent current.

They moved without speaking.

Instinct. Coordination. Cold precision.

The demon howled and clawed at the illusion again — tried to conjure another hallucination. A new voice. A new face.

But Giyuu struck faster.

Water Breathing, Fourth Form: Striking Tide.

And Muichiro followed it instantly with Mist Breathing, Sixth Form: Lunar Dispersing Mist.

The demon didn’t even have time to scream before it was reduced to pulp and bones.

It hit the ground in pieces.

The fog cleared with it.

⸻

“…That was the source,” Muichiro said quietly.

Giyuu nodded.

But something still felt… wrong.

Not in the forest. In the air.

The light was different. Dimmer. Colder. Like too much time had passed.

Muichiro glanced up at the sky. “Wasn’t it earlier than this?”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

Because the wind smelled unfamiliar.

And when the crows finally descended — flapping hard, breathless, frantic — they came with a message that turned the ground beneath them to ice.

“WATER AND MIST HASHIRA REPORTED MISSING. NO RETURN FOR THREE DAYS. FUNERAL PREPARATIONS ON HOLD. ESTATE IN LOCKDOWN.”

Muichiro blinked.

“…Three days?”

Giyuu stared at the scroll. “That’s not possible.”

“We were only gone a few hours,” Muichiro muttered.

Giyuu’s jaw clenched.

Then quietly, as realization settled in:

“…The illusion didn’t just target our memories. It bent time.”

Muichiro frowned, hands tightening at his sides.

“It didn’t just trap us,” Giyuu said. “It stalled us.”

⸻

Back at the Butterfly Estate—

The gates opened just as a Hashira meeting had been called.

Tengen, Himejima, and Mitsuri stood in the garden clearing when the crows came screeching.

“They’re back!” one called. “Alive!”

Shinobu was the first to turn.

She was already on her feet when the gate slid open.

Giyuu stepped through first — face expressionless, but dirt-streaked, blood drying on his sleeve. Muichiro followed, clearly more confused than concerned.

“You’re three days late,” Tengen said sharply, folding his arms.

Giyuu blinked. “We left this morning.”

“You didn’t,” Shinobu said. Her voice was tight. Controlled. “We’ve been preparing to send search parties. Ubuyashiki-sama thought you were dead.”

Muichiro tilted his head. “…Oops.”

“You were caught in the curse,” Himejima murmured. “A distortion field.”

“No time passed for you,” Mitsuri added. “But it did for us.”

Giyuu didn’t speak.

Because the worst part was — he believed them.

Every breath in the mist felt long and heavy, but not days long. And now his body felt like it had been carrying something it didn’t notice before.

Shinobu sighed. “Go report to the Master. And then get cleaned up. I’ll want blood samples from both of you.”

⸻

Elsewhere, inside the estate—

Sanemi had only just stood up for the first time when the whisper of They’re back. Alive. drifted through the hallway.

He turned toward the voice without thinking.

Then scowled.

Because of course Giyuu made it back.

Of course he didn’t even get scratched.

He had no idea why that made him feel lighter.

Or why it pissed him off even more.

The messengers were already talking about it by the time Sanemi got back from his “light training session” — which had somehow become a nighttime demon sweep he wasn’t technically cleared for.

Shinobu had explicitly said one more day.

He made it zero.

And now, walking up the path back toward the estate, he heard it.

“Water and Mist Hashira — they just got back—”

“Three days missing—”

“Everyone thought they were dead—”

Sanemi stopped mid-step.

The words shouldn’t have made him feel anything.

But he froze. Just for a moment.

Three days.

Three.

Then the thoughts came faster:

It was supposed to be my mission.
Why didn’t anyone say anything?
Why the hell did it have to be him who got caught in a time-warp death trap—

He grit his teeth.

Turned sharply.

And stalked straight through the inner gardens.

He didn’t know where Giyuu was.

But he sure as hell was going to find him.

⸻

Muichiro found Genya first.

He always did, somehow.

They bumped into each other near the back training hall, just before sunset. Genya was lugging around a set of spare practice dummies, muttering something about how Inosuke broke three in one afternoon.

He froze when he saw him.

“You’re—back.”

Muichiro blinked. “Yes.”

There was a pause. Long enough to get awkward.

Then Genya cleared his throat. “What… happened?”

Muichiro tilted his head. “You mean in the forest?”

“Yeah.”

Muichiro thought for a second. “There was a demon.”

“…That much I figured.”

“It bent time. Trapped us inside memories. Made us feel like no time passed at all. But it had actually been three days.”

Genya stared.

Muichiro just shrugged.

“I saw my brother,” he said quietly. “He was small. He cried. And then he turned into ash.”

“…Jesus.”

Muichiro nodded. “Giyuu saw someone named Sabito.”

Genya looked away. “Did you get hurt?”

“No.”

Another silence.

Then—awkwardly:

“Thanks for coming back.”

Muichiro blinked. His voice softened, just slightly.
“I told you I would.”

Genya scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. You did.”

⸻

Elsewhere—

Giyuu had just returned from the Master’s house, clean and still somehow damp, like the forest never fully let go of him. He was stepping out into the courtyard, half-expecting a medical crow to tackle him about Shinobu’s tests—

When a hand slammed into his chest.

Hard.

He barely had time to blink before he was shoved back against the wooden porch beam.

“Three days?” Sanemi snarled.

Giyuu didn’t flinch.

Sanemi was standing way too close. Eyes wild. Breath ragged. The kind of posture that said I don’t know what I’m mad about, so I’m mad about all of it.

Giyuu blinked. “You’re not supposed to be out of bed.”

“You’re not supposed to be alive.”

That stopped him.

But only for a second.

“…Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Don’t twist it.”

“You’re the one twisting things,” Giyuu said calmly.

Sanemi shoved him again.

Giyuu didn’t move. Didn’t raise his voice.

“Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” Sanemi snapped. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“You left early.”

Sanemi’s jaw clenched.

He hated that that was true.

“Was I supposed to die instead?” Giyuu asked, voice steady.

Sanemi didn’t answer.

Because for a second—just a split second—he didn’t know.

He didn’t know if he would’ve rather been the one who nearly vanished for three days. Didn’t know if he was furious because Giyuu came back — or because the idea of him not coming back had twisted something cold in his gut and refused to let go.

“…I just don’t get you,” Sanemi muttered. “Why do you always look like nothing matters?”

Giyuu looked at him for a long moment.

Then said, “Because if I let it show… it doesn’t stop.”

Sanemi froze.

Something in that silence broke the tension — not by softening it, but by changing it.

Sanemi stepped back.

“I’m not doing this,” he muttered, already turning away.

But the way he stormed off?

Felt a lot more like running.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2: What You Don’t Say

Sanemi wandered the estate like he was searching for a fight and trying not to find one.

He ignored the glances.

He ignored Aoi scolding him for being “barely healed and extremely bad at pretending you aren’t limping.”

He definitely ignored Mitsuri, who paused mid-stroll, took one look at him and asked, too brightly, “Is your heart okay today?”

“What?”

“I meant—your injury!”

He scowled. “It’s fine.”

She frowned, eyes softening. “You’re… quieter than usual.”

“Then maybe I should yell more.”

She blinked, then smiled faintly. “No, you’re already good at that.”

He grunted and kept walking.

Didn’t mean anything.

He wasn’t thinking about Giyuu.

Or the illusion.

Or how his chest had twisted the second he found out the bastard had been missing for three days.

None of that mattered now.

⸻

Giyuu found an empty field just west of the Estate.

The air was clearer here. No voices. No fog. No eyes watching.

He unsheathed his blade and began moving through Water Breathing forms, one by one. Slow. Clean. Controlled.

He didn’t notice the footsteps until they were already near.

“…You’re still stiff in your left shoulder,” came a voice behind him.

Giyuu didn’t stop moving.

“Tanjiro.”

The younger swordsman stepped into view, hands folded behind his back like he was afraid of interrupting. “You’re still recovering, right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that when you’re not.”

Giyuu didn’t respond.

He finished the form, exhaled slowly, then finally turned to face him. “Why are you here?”

“Just finished drills. Saw you heading this way.”

Tanjiro paused. Then added: “You looked… a little more distant than usual.”

“I’m always distant.”

Tanjiro tilted his head. “Not like that.”

Giyuu raised an eyebrow.

“…Do you remember anything from the illusion?” Tanjiro asked, more gently this time.

“Yes.”

“Was it hard to see?”

A beat.

Giyuu’s voice was flat. “Yes.”

Tanjiro nodded, not pressing it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“But it still happened.”

They stood there for a moment, neither of them speaking.

Then Tanjiro said, softly:
“You don’t have to talk about it. But you also don’t have to keep carrying it alone.”

Giyuu looked at him.

Something flickered behind his eyes — not gratitude. Not even acceptance. Just a moment of stillness.

“…It’s not that simple,” he said.

“I know,” Tanjiro replied. “But maybe it doesn’t have to stay complicated.”

⸻

Elsewhere—

Muichiro tapped Genya on the shoulder with his bokken.

“Do you want to spar?”

Genya turned around, surprised. “Now?”

“Unless you’re busy.”

Genya glanced down at his hands, still bandaged from yesterday’s strength training. “I mean—sure. I guess.”

They stepped onto the edge of the garden where the practice mats had been laid out. Muichiro adjusted his stance carefully. Genya still looked nervous.

They clashed only twice before Muichiro broke form and paused mid-movement.

“…Do you think,” he said slowly, “that it’s normal to want to be around someone even when you don’t have anything to say to them?”

Genya blinked. “What?”

Muichiro didn’t meet his eyes. “Like… you don’t mind just sitting near them. Or watching them train. Or listening to their voice.”

Genya’s brow furrowed. “That sounds kinda like…”

Muichiro looked up. “Like what?”

Genya hesitated. “I mean—it could be…”

Muichiro waited.

Genya scratched the back of his neck. “Wait—who are you talking about?”

Muichiro blinked.

“…Does it matter?”

Genya froze. “Uh—well, yeah. Maybe.”

Muichiro tilted his head. “You’re acting strange.”

“I’m not—! I just—!” Genya tripped over his words, then huffed. “You’re weird.”

Muichiro smiled faintly.

Genya’s heart did something he didn’t like.

“…Let’s just spar,” he muttered.

Muichiro nodded. “Okay.”

They stepped back into position.

But neither of them really focused after that.

The sound of bamboo swords cracking against each other echoed across the back garden.

Muichiro moved like mist—fast, barely audible, quick to adjust. Genya kept up through sheer force and stubbornness.

“Stop holding back,” Genya muttered, breath short.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m being considerate.”

“Don’t.”

Another sharp exchange of strikes. Genya backed up, huffing through his teeth.

Muichiro tilted his head. “Why are you mad?”

“I’m not mad,” Genya lied.

“You’re… flushed,” Muichiro noted.

Genya’s eye twitched. “That’s because I’m sweating.”

Muichiro blinked. “Oh.”

They resumed sparring — but Genya’s balance was off. His mind was somewhere else.

And then, during a pause between strikes, Genya asked without thinking:

“…Hey. When you were with Giyuu, what did he say about Sanemi?”

Muichiro raised an eyebrow. “Your brother?”

“Yeah.”

Muichiro took a moment to answer. “He didn’t talk about him much.”

Genya waited.

“…But when I asked him how you know you like someone,” Muichiro continued slowly, “he said something weird.”

Genya straightened slightly. “Weird how?”

Muichiro mimicked Giyuu’s tone with surprising accuracy:

“If someone makes you feel that much — frustrated, nervous, like you want to protect them even when you can’t stand them — then maybe it is something like that.”

Genya’s face flushed. “He said that?”

Muichiro nodded. “You didn’t think he could, did you?”

“No, I just—” Genya glanced to the side. “I didn’t think he noticed things like that.”

“He notices more than he lets on.”

Unbeknownst to either of them, just around the side of the garden wall—

Sanemi froze.

He’d been walking past. Just passing through. He wasn’t eavesdropping. He didn’t care.

Except now?

Now, he stood completely still. Fingers curled tightly around a rolled-up mission scroll, jaw tense.

Frustrated.

Nervous.

Like he wanted to—

Sanemi’s stomach twisted.

Bullshit.

He turned on his heel and left before he heard another word.

⸻

Back on the west training field—

Tanjiro picked up Giyuu’s rhythm again, matching footwork in a loose spar. Not competitive — just practice. Giyuu kept his movements clean, minimal. Controlled.

But Tanjiro was watching more than his technique.

“You didn’t answer the question earlier,” he said between movements.

“Which one?”

“About being the Water Hashira.”

Giyuu didn’t respond right away.

Tanjiro kept going. “You don’t like the title, do you?”

Giyuu’s eyes flickered.

“…I didn’t earn it,” he said.

Tanjiro frowned. “That’s not true.”

“I didn’t kill Lower Five. Sabito should have been—”

“You’re not him,” Tanjiro said gently. “But you are still strong. And you protect people.”

Giyuu’s grip on his blade tightened slightly.

Tanjiro lowered his weapon. “You don’t have to accept the title. But… I think you’ve been carrying it whether you wanted to or not.”

Giyuu stayed quiet.

Tanjiro tilted his head again.

“…You’re hiding something.”

Giyuu blinked. “What?”

“I can smell it. Not a lie. Just… something held back.”

Giyuu looked away.

Tanjiro didn’t push.

But quietly, to himself, he thought:

You’re thinking about someone. And it’s bothering you more than you’ll admit.

⸻

Back near the corridor that overlooked the gardens—

Sanemi stood alone now, staring down at the training fields from the balcony. The scroll in his hand had unrolled but gone unread.

Frustrated.

Nervous.

Like he wanted to—

He scowled.

What the hell is wrong with me.

Sanemi didn’t go back to the garden.

Didn’t go anywhere near Genya or Muichiro or anyone who might look at him like they knew something.

Instead, he walked aimlessly — half-heartedly patrolling the estate, steps too fast to look relaxed, too slow to be purposeful.

He tried not to think about what he’d heard.

Frustrated. Nervous. Like you want to protect them even when you can’t stand them—

Stupid.

It was a stupid thing to say.

And it didn’t mean anything. Not about him.

Except that now? That phrase was stuck in his head like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

He avoided the east wing entirely, even though he’d overheard someone say Giyuu was headed there after training.

Just in case.

Just in case he saw something he didn’t want to feel.

⸻

Down by the main hall, Giyuu wiped his blade clean before sheathing it again. Tanjiro stood nearby, hands on his hips, brow furrowed like he was still thinking about their conversation.

“I meant what I said,” Tanjiro added softly. “You don’t have to explain anything. But maybe it’d help if you did.”

Giyuu nodded once.

A quiet thank you passed between them — not spoken, just understood.

Tanjiro smiled and bowed slightly. “See you later, Giyuu-san.”

He walked off toward the recovery wing, humming faintly under his breath.

Giyuu turned.

And froze.

Because there, halfway across the main courtyard, heading in the opposite direction—

Was Sanemi.

They locked eyes for the briefest second.

Sanemi’s expression didn’t change.

Didn’t flare with anger. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t glare.

He just looked at him — and then turned away like he hadn’t seen anything at all.

Like Giyuu wasn’t even worth acknowledging.

Which, to be fair, was entirely on brand.

Giyuu didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just let him go.

Because whatever that was — whatever had just passed between them in silence — it wasn’t for him to chase.

Not yet.

⸻

Sanemi didn’t exhale until he was back behind the corridor walls.

His hand was clenched into a fist and he hadn’t even realized it.

He could still feel Giyuu’s gaze on him, even though it hadn’t lingered.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

And yet—

He just let me walk away.

Of course he did.

Sanemi bit the inside of his cheek, jaw set hard, like that would stop whatever was tightening in his chest from pushing any higher.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like any of it.

So he shoved it down, shoved it deep, and went looking for a sword to sharpen.

Or a demon to fight.

Or a thought loud enough to drown this one out.

The crow came just after sunrise.

It landed softly outside the small garden gate, fluffed its feathers, and called out in its usual clipped tone:

“Tomioka Giyuu — summoning requested. Immediate presence required. Lord Ubuyashiki requests your attendance.”

Giyuu didn’t ask questions.

He never did.

⸻

The Master was seated quietly in the inner garden room, soft rays of morning light slanting through paper walls. His condition was steady — frail but focused — and his daughters stood silently nearby.

“Thank you for coming, Giyuu,” he said gently. “I have a matter that requires your presence alone.”

Giyuu bowed. “Of course.”

“A cursed village has requested aid. Reports are minimal, but the presence of a demon is likely. You’ll go alone.”

Giyuu nodded once.

“Keep your crow with you,” the Master added. “It should not take more than a day.”

No further explanation was offered.

None was needed.

⸻

Back at the Water estate, Giyuu packed efficiently — traveling haori, short-blade, field rations, bandages. His crow perched quietly nearby as he moved.

He didn’t overthink it.

He didn’t think about the look on Sanemi’s face yesterday.

Didn’t think about how it had felt to be looked through.

Didn’t think about how quiet that moment had been — or how something in it lingered.

He left before noon.

Didn’t say goodbye to anyone.

Not that anyone expected him to.

⸻

The crows began calling the mission an hour after he’d vanished.

Across the Butterfly Estate, across Hashira corridors and training grounds, the message echoed like it always did:

“The Water Hashira has been dispatched on a solo assignment—”

“Expected return: within one day—”

“Current location: classified—”

Most people didn’t react.

But Genya glanced up when he heard it. And for a reason he didn’t want to examine, he looked for Muichiro.

He found him again near the koi pond, alone, quietly feeding the fish.

Genya lingered awkwardly.

Then cleared his throat. “Hey.”

Muichiro turned. “Hello.”

“You, uh…” Genya rubbed the back of his neck. “You meant it, right? What you said the other day? About… being around someone. Even when you don’t know why.”

Muichiro tilted his head. “Why wouldn’t I mean it?”

Genya shrugged. “I just—wasn’t sure. Who you were talking about.”

Muichiro blinked.

Didn’t answer right away.

Then, with no shift in tone, said: “Some people don’t need names.”

Genya stared.

“That’s not an answer.”

Muichiro looked at him, soft and unreadable.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But it’s still true.”

Then he stood, brushed off his haori, and walked past him without another word.

Genya remained frozen where he stood.

More confused than ever.

More aware, now, of every time Muichiro had looked at him without saying anything at all.

Sanemi didn’t flinch when the crow passed overhead. But his steps slowed.

“The Water Hashira has been dispatched on a solo mission—”

“Estimated return: by nightfall—”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Of course he has.”

It wasn’t jealousy. It was the principle of the thing.

He’d been the one benched. Forced into light training. Babysat by Aoi like some wild mutt with a sprained paw.

And now Giyuu was out again — quiet, competent, and conveniently not healing from a demon ambush.

Sanemi clenched his jaw.

I’m just pissed because I’ve been grounded while he’s out there doing what I should be doing.

That was all.

That’s what he told himself.

Even as something low in his gut twisted.

⸻

Butterfly Estate. Final checkup.

Shinobu hummed as she pressed gently against the edge of his ribs. “No sharp pain?”

“No.”

“No blurred vision? Dizziness?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re never fine,” she replied, smiling sweetly.

Sanemi scowled.

She pulled back with a final, satisfied nod. “Alright. You’re cleared for full return to regular training. You are to check in weekly. Don’t test me, Sanemi.”

He grunted his thanks. Already moving.

But the silence between her words lingered.

“The Water Hashira has been dispatched—”

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t mention it.

Didn’t need to.

⸻

The village wasn’t as abandoned as the crow’s report had implied.

Giyuu stepped through overgrown brush as the sun dipped low, mist clinging to the trees.

The air was wrong.

Too quiet.

Too still.

A scream cut through it — sharp and high, somewhere just ahead.

He was already moving.

Sword drawn.

By the time he reached the clearing, the demon had already torn through two villagers and thrown a third into the river.

It was waiting for him. Grinning.

Eyes etched with a twisted kanji.

“Lower Six.”

Giyuu didn’t blink.

Didn’t hesitate.

He moved first.

Form One: Water Surface Slash.

The demon dodged — fast — ducking low and twisting around him with unnatural speed. A claw grazed his shoulder, ripping cloth and skin alike. He didn’t cry out.

Form Four: Striking Tide.

The demon laughed, eyes gleaming. “You’re the one they call Water, right? Don’t look like much.”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

Didn’t give it the satisfaction.

Form Six: Whirlpool.

He used the terrain, the slope of the hillside, forced the demon’s feet to slide in the mud as the attack whipped water into its eyes. The creature shrieked and lunged.

Claws met steel.

Form Eight: Waterfall Basin.

This time he caught its arm — severed clean through — but it reformed with a hiss, laughing again even through its pain.

“Not bad,” it sneered, lunging again. “But not enough.”

A scratch landed across his ribs. Deep. Bleeding now.

Giyuu’s breath shortened — but his stance didn’t waver.

He didn’t need perfect strength.

He just needed the opening.

The demon bared its teeth — and in the same moment, Giyuu dropped low—

Form Ten: Constant Flux.

The momentum built.

Water wrapped around him like a tide pulled by the moon. His blade struck once. Twice. Again—

The demon howled.

Tried to retreat.

Too late.

Final strike: Eleventh Form — Dead Calm.

Everything stopped.

Then the demon’s head fell to the grass.

Giyuu stood still, blood seeping through the side of his uniform.

His hand trembled once.

Then steadied.

⸻

Back at the training grounds—

Genya swung hard, his wooden sword smacking cleanly against the practice post.

Again.

And again.

Tanjiro stood nearby, watching quietly.

“You’re tense,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re Genya-fine or real fine?”

“Shut up.”

Tanjiro smiled. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

(Yes.)

Tanjiro waited.

Genya let out a breath and wiped sweat from his brow.

“…Muichiro’s confusing as hell.”

Tanjiro blinked. “Oh?”

“He says stuff that sounds like—like maybe he likes me, but then he just—leaves.”

Tanjiro tilted his head. “Well… do you like him?”

Genya choked. “Can you not say that so loud?!”

“I didn’t!” Tanjiro said innocently. “I just asked.”

“You said the word—!”

Tanjiro laughed. “Genya.”

“What?!”

“You’ve been training for twenty minutes and haven’t looked at anything but your sword and where he’s not.”

Genya paused.

Then muttered, “That doesn’t mean anything.”

Tanjiro’s smile softened. “You sure?”

Genya didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t.

Tanjiro leaned against the fence with a wide grin. “You know… you could just tell him.”

Genya groaned. “Drop it.”

“But it’s obvious!”

“It’s not!”

Tanjiro counted on his fingers. “You blush around him. You get angry when he doesn’t make sense. You look for him when he’s not there—”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

Tanjiro blinked. “You also smile when he talks to you.”

Genya turned his back on him. “I’m going to die of embarrassment.”

“You’re going to die from repression.”

“Can I punch you?”

“You can try!”

Genya sighed, loud and dramatic, and sank onto the grass. “It’s just… he says stuff. Weird stuff. Not like, normal ‘I like you’ things. It’s always stuff like… ‘your voice sounds different when you’re not yelling’ or ‘you’re easier to spar with when you’re not mad.’ What does that even mean?”

Tanjiro smiled, softer now. “It means he’s watching. And he doesn’t know how to say the rest.”

Genya went quiet.

After a long moment, he muttered, “I don’t like him.”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure.”

“…Shut up.”

They sat in silence for a while longer, the air cooling with evening. The sky had gone streaked with navy and violet.

“Crap,” Genya muttered. “It got dark.”

“We should head back,” Tanjiro said, stretching.

“…Don’t tell anyone what I said.”

Tanjiro grinned. “Not a word.”

⸻

Meanwhile—

Sanemi stood just outside the main corridor, arms crossed, scowl deeper than usual.

He hadn’t meant to wait around. That would be stupid.

He just… hadn’t left yet.

That’s when he saw it — a shadow sweeping through the clouds, wings fluttering in a familiar rhythm.

Giyuu’s crow.

It landed not far from the path to the Master’s estate and shook itself before squawking, “Urgent report—mission completed—Water Hashira returning from assignment—!”

Sanemi didn’t move at first.

But then his mouth opened before his pride could stop it:

“What was the mission?”

The crow tilted its head.

Sanemi added — gruffly, as if the question had weight — “Just out of curiosity.”

The crow recited:

“Demon presence confirmed. Classified threat: Lower Six. Target eliminated. Casualties: five villagers. Water Hashira sustained medium-to-severe lacerations. Estimated blood loss: 30%. No retreat. Returned on foot.”

Sanemi’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.

30%.

“Where is he now?”

The crow fluffed its feathers. “En route. Approximately three kilometers from estate.”

Then it bowed once and flew toward the Master’s house.

Sanemi stayed rooted to the ground.

He could picture it too clearly — the bastard, limping through the forest, bleeding alone.

Stupid.

Stupid, quiet, stubborn son of a—

He was halfway to the gate before he realized what he was doing.

And then he stopped.

No.

No. That wasn’t his job.

He wasn’t—

He’ll be fine.

He always is.

⸻

The gates creaked open nearly an hour later.

The first to spot him was Aoi, who let out a small gasp.

“Someone get Shinobu—he’s bleeding—!”

Giyuu stepped through the entrance, silent as always.

Blood stained his side, dried across his wrist. His uniform was torn at the collar, and his breathing was shallow — but he was still upright. His eyes unfocused but steady.

He didn’t fall.

Didn’t say a word.

He simply walked, as if the pain didn’t matter.

And across the field, leaning against the side wall, arms crossed —

Sanemi watched him.

Expression unreadable.

Chest tight.

Something burned behind his ribs and he crushed it before it could take shape.

Instead, when Giyuu passed him without looking, Sanemi scoffed and muttered, loud enough to hear:

“Took you long enough.”

Giyuu didn’t react.

Didn’t even glance his way.

Sanemi pushed off the wall, turned sharply, and walked the opposite direction.

Like it didn’t matter.

Like none of it ever did.

Giyuu sat on the edge of the infirmary cot, arm wrapped in fresh bandages, expression unreadable.

His haori — torn at the seams from his last encounter — lay folded on the table beside him, still damp with blood near the shoulder.

“Can I get a needle and thread?” he asked, voice flat.

Shinobu raised an eyebrow. “To sew up yourself?”

“My haori.”

“…Why not let someone else—?”

“I’ll do it.”

Shinobu hummed. “You’re insistent. As usual.”

She turned to leave the room. “I’ll get it. Don’t try to sneak out while I’m gone.”

“I won’t.”

“…That wasn’t very convincing.”

⸻

Out in the hall, Shinobu made her way toward the storage room — only to see a familiar, brooding figure walking by with his hands in his pockets and a permanent scowl stamped across his face.

“Sanemi,” she called, sing-song.

He stopped.

Didn’t look thrilled. “What.”

She stepped closer, pausing with her usual smile. “You were by the gates last night.”

He frowned. “So?”

“You saw him return, didn’t you?”

Sanemi grunted. “Tch. Didn’t even notice me.”

“Mm. But you noticed him.”

He crossed his arms. “The whole damn courtyard saw him.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She cocked her head, gaze sharp behind the smile. “You looked… relieved.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Worried, then?”

“Hell no.”

She stepped closer still, voice softening. “You should tell him.”

Sanemi scoffed. “Tell him what?”

“That you were glad he came back in one piece.”

He glared. “Why the hell would I care if he came back in one piece?”

Shinobu’s smile didn’t waver. “I never said you did.”

Sanemi scowled harder. “I’ve got better things to do than listen to your mouth, Kocho.”

And just like that, he pushed past her, storming off down the corridor.

But not before she added, too quietly for him to respond:

“Mm. That’s not what your face said.”

⸻

Back in the infirmary, Giyuu sat with the needle in hand, pulling black thread through thick fabric. The stitches were steady — not elegant, but functional.

His fingers trembled just once.

He paused.

Then kept going.

⸻

Elsewhere, in the shaded side yard where some of the younger slayers sparred, Genya spotted Muichiro again — alone, brushing the petals off a bench before sitting beneath the tree.

Genya hesitated.

Then walked toward him.

“Hey.”

Muichiro glanced up. “Hello.”

“I, uh—” Genya scratched the back of his neck. “I was just wondering if you… ever wanted to maybe… not spar. I mean, not just spar.”

Muichiro blinked. “So you don’t want to spar anymore?”

“No, I mean, yeah, I still want to spar, I just meant—” Genya inhaled sharply. “I was just asking if you… ever wanted to… talk. Or like. Not be quiet.”

Muichiro tilted his head. “Are you trying to ask something?”

“Yes—I mean—no, maybe.”

Silence.

Muichiro stared at him, expression unreadable.

“…I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Forget it,” Genya mumbled, turning red. “I’m being stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Muichiro said simply. “You just don’t say things clearly.”

That didn’t help.

At all.

“…Yeah. I’ll go.”

Muichiro didn’t stop him.

But as Genya walked off — face burning, hands clenched — Muichiro watched him longer than usual.

And for the first time, he wondered:

Why do I feel like I missed something? Did I forget something?

It was nearly sundown again.

Genya had spent the last three hours swinging a training sword at the air and trying to not think about how terribly his last interaction with Muichiro had gone.

It hadn’t even been an interaction.

It was… a failure of language.

He found Tanjiro wiping down one of the training dummies, smiling like he’d been expecting him.

“Hey, Genya.”

“Don’t,” Genya warned.

Tanjiro tilted his head. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to. I saw it on your stupid face.”

“My face is very kind,” Tanjiro replied calmly.

Genya dropped onto the grass beside him, arms crossed, fuming.

Tanjiro waited.

Genya lasted all of ten seconds before blurting out, “What if he doesn’t like me? What if he’s just—like—detached from all human emotion and I’m projecting like a goddamn idiot?”

Tanjiro blinked. “You think Muichiro’s emotionally broken?”

“I don’t know! He talks like a poet but looks at me like I’m a piece of the wall! He doesn’t react. Ever.”

“Didn’t he say you’re easier to spar with when you’re not mad?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a reaction.”

“It’s a Muichiro reaction.”

Tanjiro laughed gently. “Look… I can’t tell you what he feels. But I can tell you he acts different around you.”

Genya raised a brow. “How?”

Tanjiro looked at him. “He stays longer.”

That shut Genya up.

“…Oh.”

They sat there quietly as the wind stirred through the trees.

“You’re not projecting,” Tanjiro added.

“I might be.”

“But you’re not.”

“I still might be.”

Tanjiro just smiled.

⸻

Meanwhile, inside the infirmary, Shinobu finished inspecting Giyuu’s stitched bandages with precise fingers.

“You did these yourself?” she asked.

Giyuu nodded once. “Didn’t want to wait.”

“They’re uneven.”

“They’re closed.”

Shinobu gave a hum. “And your haori?”

Giyuu glanced down at the fabric beside him. “Mending it later.”

“You’ve been mending that same spot for over an hour.”

“I like doing it slowly.”

“You like doing it yourself.”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

Shinobu took a seat beside the window, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “You never say no, do you?”

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

“Not with the Master. But in general.”

Still no answer.

“You let people send you into danger because you assume it’s your role,” she continued. “And when you come back bleeding, you act like that’s just how things are.”

Giyuu shifted slightly. “I’m still here.”

“Yes, and it seems that annoys Sanemi.”

Giyuu’s eyes flicked to her.

“I saw his face,” she added. “He looked like he didn’t know whether to yell at you or breathe easier.”

Giyuu didn’t respond.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Shinobu stood with a graceful sigh. “I’ll go tell the Master you’ll be ready for missions again soon.”

He didn’t ask her to stay.

She didn’t expect him to.

⸻

It was already dusk by the time Shinobu arrived at the Master’s estate.

The garden was quiet. The twins led her inside, and Ubuyashiki greeted her with his usual soft smile.

“Kocho,” he said, voice like mist. “Thank you for coming.”

“I won’t take much of your time,” she replied, bowing politely. “I’ve just completed Tomioka’s examination. He’ll recover.”

The Master nodded gently. “And Sanemi?”

“He’s physically fine. But…” she tilted her head thoughtfully, “…they’ve both been injured more than usual on recent assignments.”

A pause.

“Perhaps pairing them more regularly would help.”

Kagaya’s eyes crinkled faintly. “You believe so?”

Shinobu’s smile curled. “Not because they like each other.”

That earned a soft laugh.

“But because,” she continued, “they won’t allow each other to fail. Even if it’s out of spite.”

“And spite,” Kagaya said quietly, “is still a form of protection.”

“Exactly.”

He folded his hands. “I trust your judgment, Kocho.”

“I’ll draft the request.”

“And I’ll approve it.”

As she turned to go, Kagaya added softly behind her:

“Perhaps, with time… they will protect each other for reasons beyond duty.”

Shinobu didn’t reply.

She didn’t have to.

The morning air was clear and warm, sunlight flickering through the trees in patches.

Tanjiro and Muichiro circled each other in the grass behind the training hall, wooden swords in hand. Their movements were smooth, clean — a contrast to the chaos unraveling on the other side of the courtyard.

“YOU CHEATED!”

“I DID NOT—MY TECHNIQUE IS JUST SUPERIOR!”

“That’s not a technique! You bit the target board!”

Zenitsu and Inosuke were locked in another screaming match near the targets — one that had already drawn three passing trainees, a panicked crow, and a small raccoon to spectate.

Muichiro blocked another strike from Tanjiro with calm precision.

“…Should we stop them?” he asked flatly.

Tanjiro sighed, lowering his sword. “Probably.”

Muichiro stepped back, expression as neutral as ever, and Tanjiro jogged across the lawn to where Zenitsu was trying to wrestle Inosuke out of a tree.

Left alone, Muichiro watched the scene for a moment — then turned and quietly walked back into the sparring hall.

Inside, the floorboards creaked gently underfoot. Sunlight slanted through the slatted windows, and there — alone at the far end — was Genya, rolling his shoulder as he swung at a practice post with focused frustration.

Muichiro didn’t call out.

Just watched for a moment.

Then said softly, “You look calmer today.”

Genya startled slightly, catching the movement in the corner of his eye. He lowered the training sword. “Oh—hey.”

Muichiro stepped closer. “You’re not mad.”

“I’m not always mad,” Genya muttered.

“You were yesterday.”

Genya flushed faintly. “Yeah, well—sometimes words don’t come out right.”

“They came out wrong?”

Genya exhaled. “Yeah.”

Muichiro stood still, gaze drifting to Genya’s hands. “I like how you hold your sword.”

Genya blinked. “What?”

“It’s steady. Like you’re not thinking about it.”

“…I guess?”

“I think I like that.”

Silence stretched between them.

Genya fidgeted with the sword handle. “You think you like how I hold a sword?”

“I think I like watching you fight,” Muichiro clarified, still in that same even tone — like he was talking about the weather, or the clouds.

Genya stared at him.

“…Okay,” he managed, after several seconds of internal screaming.

Muichiro tilted his head. “Is that strange?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

More silence.

Muichiro stepped a little closer. “I’ve been trying to figure something out.”

Genya’s voice was cautious. “What?”

The Mist Hashira looked at him like he was searching his face for something.

“How do you know the difference between liking someone… and just wanting to keep them close?”

Genya’s brain short-circuited.

“I—uh—what—” he took a step back, nearly tripping over the floorboard. “That’s—why are you asking me that?”

Muichiro blinked slowly. “You talk about people differently. You yell, but you don’t mean it.”

Genya’s face was rapidly approaching volcanic levels of red.

“I don’t yell all the time—!”

“You do,” Muichiro said calmly. “But it doesn’t sound angry when you talk to me.”

That stopped Genya cold.

His mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then opened again. “Is this—are you—what are you trying to say?”

Muichiro just stared at him, blinking slowly.

“I don’t know yet.”

Then, without another word, he turned and left the training hall.

Genya stood there, mouth still open, wooden sword still dangling in his hand, feeling like the ground had dropped out beneath him.

“…What the hell just happened?”

⸻

Outside, Inosuke was chasing a squirrel.

Zenitsu was yelling about broken rules.

And Tanjiro, finally giving up, turned toward the hall just as Muichiro stepped out again.

The Mist Hashira walked past him without a word — as calm as ever — eyes distant.

Tanjiro blinked.

“…That’s the most emotion I’ve ever seen on Genya’s face,” he muttered, watching Genya from the doorway.

Genya, inside, looked like a lightning strike had personally insulted him.

 

Tanjiro blinked as Muichiro walked calmly out of the training hall, hands folded, expression unreadable.

“…What happened?” he asked.

Muichiro didn’t even pause. “We talked.”

“That’s it?”

Muichiro nodded. “Yes.”

Then he turned and walked across the courtyard — passing Zenitsu and Inosuke (still yelling about tree branches and “biting isn’t a real counterattack”) — and disappeared toward the mess hall.

Tanjiro stared after him.

Then slowly turned and walked into the sparring hall — where Genya was still standing in the same spot, training sword limp in his hand, pupils wide like he’d seen a ghost.

“…Genya?” Tanjiro said cautiously.

Genya turned to him slowly.

“I’m losing my mind.”

Tanjiro stepped forward. “What happened in here?”

“I don’t know.”

Tanjiro blinked. “You were alone.”

“Yeah.”

“With Muichiro.”

“Yes.”

“Did you talk?”

“Yes! No! I mean—he talked. And I tried.”

Tanjiro sat on the edge of a training platform. “Start from the beginning.”

Genya flopped down next to him with a groan. “Okay. So first, he says I look calmer today. Which—what does that even mean? And then he says I’m not yelling. Which I was not. Then he says I hold my sword like I don’t think about it. Which, again, what?”

Tanjiro frowned. “That’s… weirdly specific.”

“Right?! And then he says he thinks he likes that.”

Tanjiro’s eyebrows rose. “He said that?”

“Word for word. Then he says he likes watching me fight. Then he asks me if I know the difference between liking someone and just wanting to keep them close.”

Tanjiro stared at him, eyes wide.

Genya spread his hands. “And then he left. Like it was nothing. Like he didn’t just drop the weirdest, softest, most confusing sentence I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Tanjiro was silent for a beat.

Then slowly said, “…So are you going to die now, or later?”

“I’M SERIOUS.”

“I know. I just—wow.” He blinked. “Genya, I think he might actually like you.”

“NO, HE DOESN’T.”

Tanjiro held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”

Genya buried his face in his hands. “I’m losing it. I hate this. I can’t tell if he’s like… emotionally stunted or just messing with me.”

Tanjiro tilted his head. “What if he’s just bad at being honest?”

Genya groaned again. “I’m gonna have to ask him, aren’t I?”

Tanjiro grinned. “You could. Or you could wait for him to say something confusing again and just hug him.”

“I WILL KILL YOU.”

⸻

Meanwhile—

Sanemi sat on the edge of the veranda outside the barracks, picking at the edge of his sleeve with a scowl when he heard it: the flutter of wings.

A crow dropped a mission scroll right into his lap.

“New assignment—Wind Hashira deployment—paired mission—coordinates attached!”

Sanemi opened the scroll lazily—

—and froze.

His eye twitched.

“No,” he muttered. “No no no.”

He stood up so violently the crow flapped backward in alarm.

“WHO PUT THIS TOGETHER?!”

He stormed straight to the Butterfly Estate, shoulders tense, expression thunderous. The entire walk he muttered to himself:

“Unbelievable—after all this time—she did this on purpose—I swear—”

He reached the infirmary, slammed the door open, and snarled, “KOCHO.”

Shinobu, across the room preparing medicine, didn’t even flinch. “Ah. Sanemi.”

She smiled.

He stormed up to the desk, waving the scroll in front of her face. “What the hell is this?!”

“A mission,” she said pleasantly.

“With him?!”

“He’s available.”

“I’M available!”

“You’re both available.”

Sanemi pointed at the scroll. “This is a death sentence. For him.”

She tilted her head. “Then don’t kill him.”

“I’M NOT GONNA KILL—!”

She raised a hand. Calm. Serene.

“Sanemi. He just returned from a mission. You’ll be leaving in two days. You’ll have time to prepare.”

“I want a reassignment.”

“Denied.”

He stared at her.

She stared back.

And then—quietly, just barely audible—she added: “Maybe you’ll even learn to work together.”

He let out an enraged, exasperated groan and stormed out of the room.

⸻

Meanwhile—

Giyuu sat by the koi pond just outside the east garden, reading his own scroll.

It read:

“Paired mission. Depart in two days. Assigned partner: Wind Hashira.”

He blinked.

Closed it.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t even sigh.

Just folded it neatly and set it aside.

⸻

Later, Sanemi passed Giyuu in the hallway — fully intending to brush past him like usual, scowl etched deep into his face — and paused only long enough to growl:

“Don’t get used to this.”

Giyuu looked at him once, blank as ever.

Then said, “Okay.”

Sanemi stared at him like he’d just been insulted without knowing how.

Then stomped away harder.

Sanemi didn’t slam the door when he got home.

He kicked it.

The poor wooden frame groaned in protest as he stormed into his estate, still fuming from the nerve — the gall — of that blank-eyed bastard not even blinking at their new mission assignment.

“Okay, he says,” Sanemi muttered, tossing his travel bag onto the floor. “Like we’re going on a goddamn walk.”

He paced the room in short, angry lines.

He’d spent the last several weeks healing, sulking, dodging his brother, avoiding people, and not thinking about Giyuu, and now — now that bastard was back in his life with the same blank stare and calm voice, like nothing had happened.

Sanemi yanked open a drawer. “No one wants to partner with me, right? That’s what you said. That’s what everyone says. But now all of a sudden, ‘let’s send Sanemi and Giyuu off into the woods together’ like that’s a great idea—”

He threw a pair of gloves into the bag with force.

“…like I won’t gut him if he so much as breathes weird.”

His own haori was next, folded tightly. Then his water canteen. Then his spare sandals.

Everything packed with a heavy hand and heavier breathing.

He didn’t stop moving — didn’t let himself.

Because if he stopped, he’d start thinking.

And Sanemi didn’t want to think about Giyuu’s voice. Or the fact that he didn’t react. Or the way he’d looked at him like—

Nope. Not thinking about that.

He’d rather stab his own foot.

⸻

Meanwhile, across the compound, Giyuu was sitting neatly on the floor of his room, placing folded clothes in his own bag like a civilized person.

He wasn’t angry.

He wasn’t annoyed.

He wasn’t even worried.

He was… mildly confused.

“Maybe I should try being friendly,” he murmured to himself.

After all, Sanemi hated him.

Giyuu didn’t know why. He’d considered asking once or twice, but Sanemi always looked like he was about to commit a crime when they locked eyes, so he hadn’t.

“He might hate me less,” Giyuu thought slowly, “if I made him something he liked.”

Cooking wasn’t hard. He liked the quiet of it. The rhythm. The measuring.

The problem was: he didn’t know what Sanemi liked.

So he stood up, grabbed his haori, and headed out to ask the one person who might know.

⸻

Genya found Muichiro first.

Which, honestly, surprised him.

The Mist Hashira had a weird habit of showing up unannounced, talking like a riddle, and then vanishing into thin air — but for once, Genya caught him in the gardens, sitting under one of the willow trees with a small sketchbook open in his lap.

“Hey.”

Muichiro looked up. “Oh. Hello.”

Genya crossed his arms. “Can we talk?”

Muichiro nodded once and set his pencil down. “Are you still confused?”

Genya let out a long breath. “Yes. I am still confused. You said some weird stuff and then left and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Muichiro tilted his head. “Which part?”

“The whole part!”

Muichiro blinked. “That’s a lot.”

“I know!”

There was a beat of silence. The breeze ruffled the edge of Muichiro’s sketchbook.

“…I just wanted to know if it’s normal,” Muichiro said softly, “to want someone to stay around even when you don’t have anything to say to them.”

Genya’s brain blue-screened.

“That’s—uh—what?”

Muichiro frowned. “Was that not clear?”

“No. No, it was too clear.”

Muichiro looked at him, eyes very, very serious. “I’ve never really liked anyone before. I’m trying to figure out if I’m doing it wrong.”

Genya made a sound that wasn’t human.

“I—what—that’s not a normal thing to say!”

“Why?”

“Because it sounds like—!”

“Genya,” a voice interrupted from behind.

He turned around so fast he nearly tripped over the willow root.

“G-Giyuu-san?!”

The Water Hashira stood there in his usual silent posture, expression blank, arms at his sides.

“I need to borrow you.”

“Borrow me?!”

“Just for a moment.”

Muichiro stood. “It’s alright. I don’t need Genya right now.”

Genya looked like someone had pulled the ground out from under him.

Giyuu turned and walked away. Genya scrambled to follow.

⸻

They didn’t speak until they reached the path behind the mess hall.

Then Giyuu stopped.

“I need your help.”

Genya blinked. “What kind of help?”

“What food does Sanemi like?”

Genya stared.

“I—excuse me?”

“I want to make him something before the mission.”

“Why?”

“I think it might help.”

Genya had never been more emotionally whiplashed in his life.

“One second I’m talking to Muichiro about maybe-liking people and now you’re asking about my brother’s favorite food?!”

Giyuu blinked. “Yes.”

Genya squinted. “Are you trying to bribe him?”

“No.”

“Is this a peace offering?”

“Sort of.”

“…It’s Ohagi.”

Giyuu nodded once. “Thank you.”

Then turned and walked away.

Genya stood in the path for a long, long time.

Then muttered: “What the hell is going on today.”

The afternoon light had thinned, the heat softened by clouds rolling in from the west.

Shinobu was walking back toward the herb garden when she noticed Giyuu quietly approaching from the side path, hands at his sides, posture as calm as ever.

She smiled. “Water Hashira.”

“Kocho.”

“Are you lost?”

“No.”

“…Looking for medical attention?”

“No.”

She tilted her head. “Ah. Then it must be something far more dangerous.”

Giyuu hesitated. “I want to cook something.”

She blinked once. “A recipe?”

He nodded. “Ohagi.”

Her smile widened. “For yourself?”

“…No.”

“Ah.” Her expression sharpened, amused. “You’re trying to make peace with someone?”

“Yes.”

“Well. You’re in luck,” she said lightly, turning toward the edge of the garden. “I’ve made it before.”

From several feet away, someone’s footsteps faltered.

Giyuu didn’t notice.

“But I thought you disliked sweets,” Shinobu added.

“I do.”

She looked at him, eyes amused. “You’re doing this for Sanemi, aren’t you?”

He nodded.

“Even after he yells at you?”

“Yes.”

She tilted her head. “You’re either brave… or stubborn.”

“I’m not sure which,” Giyuu said honestly.

A few feet away, behind the garden wall, Sanemi froze like a wild animal.

“…What the hell?”

He hadn’t meant to hear anything.

He’d just been walking past. Just minding his business.

And then that voice. That infuriating, emotionless voice.

He’d paused instinctively. It wasn’t eavesdropping, he told himself. It was tactical assessment.

And now he was stuck, crouching behind the hedge like a criminal, listening to Giyuu talk about cooking for him.

“He’s doing what?!”
“Ohagi—he’s making me—my favorite—what the hell does that mean?”

Sanemi’s brain began spiraling instantly.

“Is this a prank? Is this pity? Does he think I’m lonely? Is he trying to—what the hell kind of peace offering is food?! That’s childish! That’s so—”

He stood up abruptly.

Stormed off.

Tried not to scream.

⸻

Back in the courtyard, Giyuu gave Shinobu a short nod. “Thank you.”

“Try not to set the estate on fire,” she said gently, already walking away. “And don’t use too much sugar.”

Giyuu returned to his home with calm, quiet resolve.

Set the ingredients out like weapons on a battlefield. Read the directions twice.

Prepare the red bean paste. Form the rice. Shape by hand. Dust with kinako.

He moved slowly, carefully — hands steady.

It didn’t mean anything.

It was just… a gesture.

That’s what people did when they wanted to get along, right?

Still, as he rolled the sweet bean paste between his palms and pressed the warm rice into shape, he found himself thinking:

“Why does he hate me?”

“And why do I care?”

⸻

Elsewhere—

Genya stared at the same willow tree he’d found Muichiro under before.

This time, he came prepared.

Well, sort of.

His heart was pounding and he wasn’t sure what he was going to say — but he wasn’t going to leave without saying something.

Muichiro was there again. Sitting with his sketchbook, legs folded beneath him, eyes half-focused on the scenery.

Genya stepped forward. “Hey.”

Muichiro looked up. “Hi.”

“Can we talk again?”

Muichiro closed his book. “Yes.”

Genya sat down across from him — tense, awkward, trying not to stare.

“…About earlier,” he started.

Muichiro waited, blinking slowly.

“I’ve just been… thinking,” Genya muttered. “And I wanted to ask… what you said, about wanting someone around even when there’s nothing to say…”

Muichiro nodded.

Genya fidgeted. “Did you mean that about—”

“GENYA!”

Both heads snapped up as Tanjiro’s voice came echoing across the garden.

The boy jogged over with a smile. “Oh! There you are! We were looking for you.”

Genya blinked, flustered. “What? Why?”

“Zenitsu thought you stole his snacks again.”

“I didn’t—!”

Muichiro stood slowly. “We’ll talk later,” he said quietly.

Genya’s heart leapt into his throat. “…Yeah. Later.”

Muichiro walked away before Genya could say anything else.

Tanjiro raised an eyebrow. “Did I interrupt something?”

“YES,” Genya snapped, ears burning.

Tanjiro blinked. “Oh.”

“…I hate everyone,” Genya muttered, and stomped off.

⸻

Meanwhile—

Sanemi had returned to his estate and proceeded to pace the length of his room approximately thirty-seven times.

“Why is he doing this. Why now. Why me.”

“Is this some sort of weird guilt thing?”

“He doesn’t even like me. He doesn’t like anyone. What’s his angle?!”

He threw himself into his chair.

Scowled at the wall.

“Ohagi. Why the hell is he making ohagi. What kind of grown man makes sweets for his enemy?”

He rubbed his face, then slammed his head back against the wall behind him.

“That bastard’s gonna hand it to me, too. Calmly. Like he’s not planning to ruin my life.”

“I swear to god, if he’s smiling when he gives it to me—”

Sanemi groaned into his hands.

“…I hate this.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3: Something That Wasn’t Supposed to Matter

Sanemi didn’t sleep well.

Not that he ever did — but last night had been worse.

He kept waking up to the same vague feeling of something crawling under his skin. Like a weight behind his ribs. Like someone was about to say something and never did.

And worst of all?

He kept dreaming about ohagi.

Waking up pissed off about rice balls was a new low. Even for him.

By the time morning light cracked through his window, Sanemi was already up and out of bed, dressed, and pacing.

Again.

He’d trained. Sharpened his blades. Cleaned his estate twice.

He’d even washed his uniform, even though it hadn’t needed it.

And still — still — the thought of tomorrow wouldn’t leave him alone.

“He’s going to hand it to me. Just walk over and say something awful like ‘I hope this helps’ or something equally stupid.”

He groaned.

This was Giyuu’s fault. Somehow.

That bastard did nothing and still managed to rearrange Sanemi’s whole damn mood.

⸻

Meanwhile, at the Water Estate—

Giyuu had risen with the sun, quiet as always. He had gone for a short walk, watched the koi in the garden, and returned to find the ohagi still sitting neatly wrapped where he left it on his table the night before.

He looked at the package.

Then at the mission scroll on his desk.

Then back at the package.

He picked it up carefully. Thought about how to deliver it.

Do I just walk up to him and hand it over?

Giyuu stared at the wall.

That seemed logical.

He considered writing a note. A quiet, short message. But every time he thought of what to write, his brain returned the same blank page.

“Hope you don’t hate me as much after eating this.”

“Please don’t yell.”

“I’m not good at this.”

All bad options.

He wrapped the ohagi in cloth again and tucked it carefully into his bag, deciding he’d figure it out when he saw Sanemi.

(He would not. But he believed he would.)

⸻

Across the estate, Genya was trying to train.

The keyword being trying.

He’d dragged a practice dummy out into the sun, sword in hand, ready to go through his drills. But five minutes in, he hadn’t swung once.

Instead, he was pacing.

Muttering.

Scowling at nothing.

“Why would he say that and then leave?”

“Why does he talk like that’s normal?!”

“Why is he—”

“—still mad at yourself?” a voice called lightly.

Genya nearly jumped out of his skin.

He turned — and there stood Muichiro, hair swept back gently in the breeze, face unreadable.

“…You keep doing that,” Genya mumbled, face heating.

Muichiro blinked. “Doing what?”

“Showing up like a ghost.”

“I live here.”

“…Not the point.”

Muichiro tilted his head. “Were you trying to ask me something again?”

Genya’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

Say it. Just say it. You’re a Demon Slayer, not a coward.

“…Did you mean it?” he blurted out.

Muichiro blinked. “Mean what?”

“What you said. About wanting someone around. Even if you’re not talking.”

There was a pause.

Muichiro looked at him for a long moment, eyes distant, thoughtful.

“…I think I meant it more than I thought,” he said softly.

Genya’s chest did something weird.

“…Oh.”

Muichiro looked at him again. “Does that answer your question?”

Genya swallowed. “Almost.”

“Then you should ask the rest.”

But before he could—

“GENYA!” came a sudden call from the distance — this time, Aoi’s voice, sharp and unrelenting.

Both boys turned.

“IF YOU’RE SKIPPING LUNCH AGAIN I SWEAR TO THE GODS—”

Genya flinched. “I’m going! I’m going!”

Muichiro blinked once. “She’s scary.”

Genya muttered, “You’re scarier,” and jogged off before he could say something stupid.

⸻

Back at the Butterfly Estate—

Shinobu stood in the hallway near the infirmary, writing idly in her small notebook.

When she turned the corner, she spotted Sanemi walking by. Again. For the third time that morning.

She didn’t say anything.

Yet.

But she smiled to herself and made a small note in the margin.

Pacing again. Worried? Angry? Both?

Still refuses to admit he’s curious.

Giyuu still carrying that ohagi like a mission scroll. He’s going to forget to give it to him, isn’t he.

She clicked her pen shut.

“Boys,” she murmured.

⸻

Sanemi caught sight of Giyuu that afternoon.

It was brief — just a glimpse from across the courtyard. But enough to see that blank expression. That same quiet, unreadable stillness.

And he knew.

He knew the food was still in that bastard’s bag.

Waiting to be handed off like some kind of emotional time bomb.

Sanemi grit his teeth and turned sharply on his heel.

“I swear if he smiles when he gives it to me I’m burning the whole estate down.”

⸻
Giyuu had rehearsed it three times.

He would walk over.
Say Sanemi’s name.
Hand over the wrapped ohagi.
Say: “This is for you.”
Nothing more, nothing less.

That was it.

That was the whole plan.

Simple.

Straightforward.

Uncomplicated.

And now he was standing behind Sanemi in the courtyard, staring at the back of his head, completely frozen.

Say it.

Just hand it over.

Just say his name.

Sanemi hadn’t noticed him yet. He was pacing again — storming back and forth like he was ready to throw hands with a ghost.

Giyuu blinked.

Waited.

Opened his mouth—

Sanemi turned. Froze. And locked eyes with him.

For one split, endless second, neither of them moved.

Sanemi’s expression twisted into that face again. The one Giyuu had grown used to — the deeply offended, jaw-tight rage that seemed to say “How dare you exist in my line of sight.”

Giyuu reached into his bag.

Held the ohagi.

Now.

Now, say it.

Sanemi’s eyes dropped to the small wrapped bundle in Giyuu’s hands.

His stomach dropped instantly.

Oh, hell no.

It’s happening.

He’s really going to—

Giyuu took one step forward.

Sanemi immediately took a step back.

“Don’t,” Sanemi snapped.

Giyuu blinked. “Don’t…?”

“Whatever the hell that is,” he growled. “Don’t give it to me.”

Giyuu looked down at the ohagi, then back at him. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want it.”

That was a lie. It smelled amazing. Damn it.

“I made it for you.”

WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT OUT LOUD.

Sanemi flinched.

He hated that sentence.

He hated how calm it sounded.

He hated how genuine it was.

He hated how it made his chest twist like something unfamiliar was crawling out of it.

And most of all?

He hated that he didn’t have a comeback.

“…I’m not a charity case,” he muttered.

“I didn’t say you were.”

Sanemi exhaled sharply. “Then what the hell is this supposed to mean?”

Giyuu looked at the ohagi.

Then back at him.

“…I don’t know yet.”

That was worse.

Sanemi’s mind imploded.

“You don’t know?!”
“You DON’T KNOW?”
“Then WHY DID YOU MAKE IT—”

He didn’t say anything else.

He just turned on his heel, muttered something too low to catch, and stalked off like the building was on fire.

Giyuu stood in place, holding the ohagi in both hands.

He blinked.

“…He didn’t say no,” he said to no one in particular.

⸻

Elsewhere—

Genya had not known peace in three days.

He was now reasonably sure Muichiro had meant what he said.

He was also reasonably sure Muichiro didn’t realize what it meant.

Which made things a thousand times worse.

Because if Genya confessed now — if he even tried to clarify — and Muichiro hadn’t meant it that way…

He’d never recover from the embarrassment.

So instead, Genya just watched from across the sparring field again, arms folded, eyes narrowed, trying to figure out what the hell to do with himself.

“He said he meant it more than he thought.”
“What does that MEAN.”
“Who says stuff like that and then goes to lunch like nothing happened?!”

He scowled harder.

From a few feet away, Tanjiro watched him suffer in silence, clearly restraining himself from intervening.

“…You should just ask him,” he finally said.

Genya looked like he might bite him.

“I’m serious!” Tanjiro said, hands up. “Just… ask directly. He’s not trying to mess with you.”

“He might be,” Genya hissed.

Tanjiro gave him a flat look. “Muichiro couldn’t mess with someone on purpose if he tried.”

“…You’re not helping.”

“Then go ask him.”

“I hate this.”

“Go.”

Genya groaned loudly and stood up, pacing in a circle like he might physically combust from nerves.

“This is fine,” he muttered.
“I’ve fought demons. I can do this. This is fine.”

He turned to look across the field again.

But Muichiro was gone.

Genya slumped.

“…This is not fine.”

⸻

Back at the Water Estate—

Giyuu sat alone on the engawa, the untouched ohagi beside him.

He didn’t feel bad.

He wasn’t sure what he felt, actually.

Confused, maybe. Or thoughtful.

Maybe proud that he hadn’t completely fumbled the interaction. Or maybe he had.

“He didn’t throw it at me,” he said aloud.

That had to count for something.

⸻

Back at the Wind Estate—

Sanemi had kicked his door open so hard it bounced off the wall and nearly shut itself again.

He was fuming.

Pacing. Muttering. Throwing a pillow across the room.

“He doesn’t know why he made it. What the HELL is that supposed to mean?!”

He yanked off his coat, ran both hands through his hair.

“It’s just food. It doesn’t MEAN anything. He said that himself.”

He sat down.

Then stood up again.

Then sat down again.

“He’s trying to make peace. That’s it.”

“That’s all it is.”

“…Right?”

He stared at the floor.

“…Right?”

The sun rose early.

Too early.

Sanemi was already up, boots laced, coat half-thrown over his shoulder. His sword was on the table, polished and ready. His bag packed tight with precision.

He wasn’t nervous.

Not at all.

This was just another mission.

Another assignment.

Another painful reminder that he’d somehow become paired with the one person who could unhinge him just by existing in the same hallway.

He glanced at the door.

He better not try to give me anything this time.
He better not even look at me funny.
He better—
…He better not be late.

Sanemi sighed through his teeth and reached for the hilt of his sword again, checking it for the third time that morning.

⸻

Across the estate, Giyuu was sitting quietly in the main corridor, fastening the clasp of his uniform with methodical ease.

His haori sat beside him, neatly folded. His bag, light but efficient. No wasted space.

He hadn’t slept much.

But he never did before missions.

His mind had been quiet, but not empty.

He thought about what Shinobu had said — or hadn’t said — when she handed him a travel pack of medical herbs. She hadn’t smiled like usual. Just nodded.

“Come back in one piece,” she said.
“You both should.”

He hadn’t said anything in return, but she seemed to understand that was the best he could offer.

Now, he looked out at the morning haze and tried to ignore the knot somewhere behind his ribs.

Sanemi will be angry.
But that’s… normal.

He stood up. Picked up the ohagi he hadn’t thrown out.
And quietly placed it on the table behind him.

Maybe later.

⸻

At the training field, Genya was waiting.

Again.

He had been there for nearly half an hour, bouncing between pacing and absolutely not pacing. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, heart pounding like he’d just sparred with someone twice his size.

And then—

Muichiro appeared.

Not silently this time. He walked up the path like any other person. Quiet, yes — but not drifting.

Just… there.

“Hey,” Genya managed.

Muichiro blinked at him. “You’re early.”

“You’re late.”

“That’s true.”

They stood there for a beat. The wind moved.

Genya shifted. “I, uh—”

Muichiro tilted his head.

“You said something before,” Genya said. “About… liking someone.”

Muichiro didn’t respond.

Genya pressed on. “Did you mean it?”

This time, Muichiro nodded. Slowly. Deliberately.

“…Yeah,” he said.

Genya’s breath caught. His voice dipped, rough and too hopeful.

“Do I… know them?”

Muichiro hesitated. Then, softly:

“You see them a lot.”

And that was it.

No name.

No confirmation.

But Genya’s ears went red.

Muichiro turned away, already walking toward the edge of the field.

Genya stood rooted in place, absolutely wrecked.

“You see them a lot.”

He meant that. He meant that.
Oh god. I’m gonna die.

⸻

Back at the main gate—

Sanemi was waiting. Sword at his hip, glare already locked and loaded.

Giyuu approached in silence.

They didn’t say anything.

Not at first.

Just two men, standing a few feet apart, like they weren’t about to travel side by side into another cursed corner of the country.

Sanemi finally said, “Try to keep up this time.”

Giyuu blinked. “I’m faster than you.”

Sanemi’s eye twitched.

Do not punch the Water Hashira before the mission. Do not punch the Water Hashira before the mission. Do not—

“Let’s just go,” he muttered, already turning on his heel.

Giyuu followed without a word.

No one said goodbye.

No one needed to.

⸻
The sun rose early.

Too early.

Sanemi was already up, boots laced, coat half-thrown over his shoulder. His sword was on the table, polished and ready. His bag packed tight with precision.

He wasn’t nervous.

Not at all.

This was just another mission.

Another assignment.

Another painful reminder that he’d somehow become paired with the one person who could unhinge him just by existing in the same hallway.

He glanced at the door.

He better not try to give me anything this time.
He better not even look at me funny.
He better—
…He better not be late.

Sanemi sighed through his teeth and reached for the hilt of his sword again, checking it for the third time that morning.

⸻

Across the estate, Giyuu was sitting quietly in the main corridor, fastening the clasp of his uniform with methodical ease.

His haori sat beside him, neatly folded. His bag, light but efficient. No wasted space.

He hadn’t slept much.

But he never did before missions.

His mind had been quiet, but not empty.

He thought about what Shinobu had said — or hadn’t said — when she handed him a travel pack of medical herbs. She hadn’t smiled like usual. Just nodded.

“Come back in one piece,” she said.
“You both should.”

He hadn’t said anything in return, but she seemed to understand that was the best he could offer.

Now, he looked out at the morning haze and tried to ignore the knot somewhere behind his ribs.

Sanemi will be angry.
But that’s… normal.

He stood up. Picked up the ohagi he hadn’t thrown out.
And quietly placed it on the table behind him.

Maybe later.

⸻

At the training field, Genya was waiting.

Again.

He had been there for nearly half an hour, bouncing between pacing and absolutely not pacing. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, heart pounding like he’d just sparred with someone twice his size.

And then—

Muichiro appeared.

Not silently this time. He walked up the path like any other person. Quiet, yes — but not drifting.

Just… there.

“Hey,” Genya managed.

Muichiro blinked at him. “You’re early.”

“You’re late.”

“That’s true.”

They stood there for a beat. The wind moved.

Genya shifted. “I, uh—”

Muichiro tilted his head.

“You said something before,” Genya said. “About… liking someone.”

Muichiro didn’t respond.

Genya pressed on. “Did you mean it?”

This time, Muichiro nodded. Slowly. Deliberately.

“…Yeah,” he said.

Genya’s breath caught. His voice dipped, rough and too hopeful.

“Do I… know them?”

Muichiro hesitated. Then, softly:

“You see them a lot.”

And that was it.

No name.

No confirmation.

But Genya’s ears went red.

Muichiro turned away, already walking toward the edge of the field.

Genya stood rooted in place, absolutely wrecked.

“You see them a lot.”

He meant that. He meant that.
Oh god. I’m gonna die.

⸻

Back at the main gate—

Sanemi was waiting. Sword at his hip, glare already locked and loaded.

Giyuu approached in silence.

They didn’t say anything.

Not at first.

Just two men, standing a few feet apart, like they weren’t about to travel side by side into another cursed corner of the country.

Sanemi finally said, “Try to keep up this time.”

Giyuu blinked. “I’m faster than you.”

Sanemi’s eye twitched.

Do not punch the Water Hashira before the mission. Do not punch the Water Hashira before the mission. Do not—

“Let’s just go,” he muttered, already turning on his heel.

Giyuu followed without a word.

No one said goodbye.

No one needed to.

The silence between them was worse on the road.

At least back at the estate there were doors to slam, walls to separate them, people to glare at instead.

But out here, on the quiet mountain path leading toward their next mission, it was just them.

Sanemi kept walking ahead, steps clipped and sharp, like he was daring Giyuu to fall behind.

Giyuu didn’t. He moved with the same smooth, unbothered pace he always did. Not too fast. Not too slow.

Sanemi could hear his footsteps, soft in the grass, like they were matching his rhythm on purpose.

“He’s doing it again,” Sanemi muttered under his breath. “He’s always following.”

“Like a shadow.”

“Like he doesn’t care.”

That last thought shouldn’t have bothered him.

But it did.

Especially when he remembered that damn ohagi — still wrapped, still not handed over — still lingering in his thoughts like a stone in his shoe.

He gritted his teeth. Focused forward.

They didn’t speak the entire first half of the journey.

⸻

They reached the outskirts of the town just after nightfall.

It was a small village — tucked between two wooded ridges, quiet and dark, with only a few lanterns glowing in the windows of the houses.

There was one inn.

Of course.

Sanemi’s jaw clenched when he saw it.

The woman at the front desk looked up and smiled politely. “Oh, Hashira-sama. We have two rooms left.”

Sanemi exhaled through his nose, barely hiding the relief that passed through his body like a jolt of lightning.

He didn’t say thank you. Just grabbed his key and disappeared upstairs.

Giyuu stood in silence for a moment longer, then took the other room.

Neither said goodnight.

⸻

That night, the inn served a simple meal — steamed rice, simmered vegetables, miso soup with mushrooms.

Sanemi showed up late. Sat down with a scowl. Ate like the food had personally insulted him.

Giyuu was already at the far end of the table, silent, chewing slowly.

For a few minutes, they sat on opposite sides of the room.

A server refilled their cups of tea.

Sanemi glanced up once.

Giyuu wasn’t looking at him.

Somehow, that made it worse.

“Just say something, you bastard. Say something stupid so I can yell at you.”

But Giyuu didn’t.

He just drank his tea, nodded politely to the server, and finished eating.

Sanemi shoved the rest of his rice into his mouth with aggressive silence.

⸻

Meanwhile—

Back at the Corps’ training grounds—

Genya was trying not to make a fool of himself. Again.

He spotted Muichiro in the garden this time. Alone, seated under a tree with a small paper booklet in his hands.

Genya cleared his throat as he approached.

Muichiro looked up.

“You came,” he said simply.

“You’re not hiding this time.”

“I wasn’t hiding before.”

“You disappeared.”

Muichiro tilted his head. “I had lunch.”

“That was hours ago!”

A pause.

“Do you want to sit down?” Muichiro asked.

Genya blinked. “Oh. Uh. Sure.”

He sat on the grass, a little too quickly, and spent the next thirty seconds pretending his heart wasn’t thudding like a war drum.

“…So,” Genya started, voice lower than usual, “what you said before…”

Muichiro closed his booklet.

“I meant it,” he said softly.

“…Yeah?”

“I don’t talk like that with everyone.”

Genya nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“I thought you knew.”

Genya looked at him. Really looked at him.

The softness around Muichiro’s eyes.

The way he leaned slightly forward when he spoke.

The way he didn’t say it outright, but didn’t seem to want to hide it either.

“…I think I do now,” Genya muttered.

Muichiro’s lips curved — not quite a smile, but something close.

It left Genya completely wrecked.

He’s gonna kill me. This is gonna kill me.

⸻

Back at the inn—

Sanemi lay in his room, staring at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head like he was bracing for an attack.

He hadn’t taken his uniform off.

The sword was by the door, within reach. He was tense, wired, too aware of the person in the room next to his.

“Bet he’s already asleep. Doesn’t even care.”

He shut his eyes.

“It’s just a mission.”

“It’s just Giyuu.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

Somewhere across the hallway, Giyuu sat on the floor by the window, eyes half-closed.

He hadn’t touched the ohagi.

But he had set it out on the windowsill.

In the moonlight, it looked like a silent offering. Or maybe just a reminder.

Morning arrived with fog still clinging to the trees and damp air hanging like breath across the quiet village. The sky was heavy with gray clouds, and somewhere in the branches above, a crow called once, sharp and distant.

Sanemi was already outside, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at a group of villagers gathering nearby. He looked like he’d been awake for hours.

Giyuu joined him without a word.

They didn’t acknowledge each other, but somehow moved in tandem — matching pace, shoulders aligned, an unconscious rhythm that shouldn’t have worked, but did.

And Sanemi noticed.

He hated that he noticed.

They began asking around.

Door to door. Face to face. Softly questioning farmers, fishmongers, a few elderly women with bowed heads and shaking hands. Had anyone gone missing? Any strange sounds at night? Anything… off?

Most shook their heads. A few murmured about whispers in the woods.

But no one knew for sure.

And still, somehow — without discussion, without eye contact — Sanemi and Giyuu moved together like they’d done this a hundred times. One spoke while the other watched. One listened while the other looked for patterns.

They never tripped over each other.

Never got in each other’s way.

And Sanemi hated it.

“Why is this easy with him?”
“Why is it easier than it should be?”

By late afternoon, they returned to the inn, no closer to a clear answer. But both of them knew — this wasn’t just paranoia. Something was hiding. Waiting.

They didn’t talk about it.

But they both stayed awake.

⸻

Elsewhere—

Genya sat beneath the same tree again, arms crossed, trying not to look as flustered as he felt.

Muichiro had taken his spot beside him with the usual weightlessness of someone unaware he had any effect on the people around him.

He had leaned just slightly too close again. Not enough to be obvious. But enough that Genya was staring forward like a soldier at attention.

“…So,” Genya muttered. “You still haven’t said anything.”

Muichiro tilted his head. “I said I meant it.”

“No, I mean—”

Genya paused. Cleared his throat.

“…You meant it like what?”

Muichiro blinked at him slowly.

Genya could feel the heat in his face crawling up his neck.

“I’m just trying to figure out if you’re—if I’m—if this is what I think it is, or if I’m just reading into things because you’re… you.”

Muichiro didn’t speak right away.

Then, softly, “You’re not wrong.”

Genya turned fully to him. “So you do—?”

But Muichiro only offered a small nod and looked away, toward the sky through the trees.

And that was it.

Genya didn’t know whether to pass out or scream into his hands.

“What the hell does ‘you’re not wrong’ MEAN?”

⸻

Back in the village—

As the sun dipped below the trees and the shadows deepened, Sanemi and Giyuu returned to the edge of the woods. They didn’t need to speak to know this was where it would happen.

They could feel it.

The village was too quiet. The fog too thick.

A low sound drifted through the trees — like breathing. Slow. Heavy.

And then—

It stepped out.

Not a large demon, but fast. Arms elongated, claws dragging like blades in the dirt. Its mouth opened in a smile that split its face in half.

“Two Hashira?” it rasped. “Lucky me.”

It moved too fast to track.

Sanemi lunged first, blade out, eyes alive with fury.

Giyuu cut across from the left — Water Breathing, Second Form: Water Wheel — slamming the demon back just as its claws nearly sliced through Sanemi’s side.

They moved together again.

Strike and parry.

Spin and dodge.

Breath and blade.

Giyuu’s voice came low behind him: “Left.”

Sanemi adjusted without thinking.

It pissed him off.

The demon screeched and vanished in a blur.

A beat of silence.

Then pain — white-hot — across Giyuu’s arm.

He staggered. Slid back.

Sanemi saw red.

Wind Breathing: Third Form.

The wind split the trees in half.

He caught the demon mid-dash, sliced through one of its legs, and drove it backward.

Giyuu was back at his side in seconds, bleeding but calm.

They didn’t speak.

Just moved.

One breath.

One rhythm.

Until the demon screamed, staggered — and Sanemi brought his blade down in one final, ruthless arc.

It was over in a heartbeat.

The head hit the ground. Rolled once. Stopped.

Blood soaked the forest floor.

Sanemi stood over the body, chest heaving.

Giyuu wiped the blood from his jaw and said nothing.

“…You’re hurt,” Sanemi muttered, refusing to look at him.

Giyuu looked at his arm. “Just a scratch.”

Sanemi’s jaw clenched.

“Why does it feel worse than that?”

“Why did I notice before he said anything?”

He exhaled sharply and turned away.

“Let’s get back to the inn.”

⸻

That night—

Sanemi didn’t sleep again.

Giyuu didn’t knock.

But he left the ohagi by the door.

Wrapped.

Warm.

Sanemi woke before dawn. Again.

He hadn’t really slept, just stared at the cracked ceiling of the inn’s tiny room until the moon shifted and the air changed and the weight in his chest made lying still unbearable.

His hand found the sword at his side before he even sat up.

Old habits.

He stretched once, cracked his neck, and stood with a grunt.

That’s when he saw it.

Wrapped in cloth.

Sitting just outside his door like some kind of cursed shrine offering.

The damn ohagi.

“What the hell…” he muttered under his breath, narrowing his eyes like it might explode.

It looked warm.

“When did he even—?”

He picked it up with the same expression he used for handling live explosives.

And then—

He put it down on the nearest table and stormed off down the hallway, shoulders stiff, muttering to himself the entire time.

“I don’t care if he’s bleeding out.”

“I don’t care if he’s passed out.”

“I’m just checking to make sure he’s not dead, because then there won’t be a Water Hashira and I’ll have to deal with even more missions and I’m not dealing with that shit—”

He stopped at Giyuu’s door.

Stared at it.

Did not knock.

“…Just checking.”

He opened it without announcing himself.

⸻

Giyuu was sitting at the edge of the futon, shirt off, back turned to the door.

His arm was wrapped badly — not bleeding anymore, but the bandage looked uneven, and there were still faint red streaks near his shoulder.

Sanemi froze.

Because Giyuu didn’t hear him at first.

He was murmuring to himself, eyes half-lidded, uncharacteristically quiet in a way that wasn’t his usual silence.

“Too shallow,” Giyuu said quietly, pulling at the wrap with one hand. “Too loose…”

There was something about the way he said it.

Not frustrated.

Just… tired.

Like he didn’t care if it was done right or not.

Sanemi took one step back.

The floor creaked.

Giyuu turned — startled just enough to widen his eyes.

Sanemi scoffed, defensive before Giyuu could even speak.

“I wasn’t checking on you,” he snapped. “I was just—”

Giyuu blinked. “…I didn’t say anything.”

Sanemi clenched his jaw. “Well, don’t.”

Giyuu nodded once.

“Okay.”

And that infuriated Sanemi more than anything.

“You’re bleeding like an idiot and you just—what, okay? That’s it?”

“Say something. Start something. Be annoying.”

“Just—do something.”

He didn’t.

And Sanemi turned sharply and left, slamming the door behind him.

The ohagi was still on the table when he passed it.

He didn’t throw it out.

But he didn’t take it with him, either.

⸻

Back at the Corps grounds—

Genya was, for once, not under a tree or at the training field.

He was hovering awkwardly near one of the main courtyards, arms crossed, pacing slightly.

Waiting.

Because Muichiro said he’d be there.

And Genya had questions.

But before he could step forward—

A voice. High-pitched. Soft.

“Oh, Tokito-sama, can I ask you something about your Mist Form?”

Genya turned his head and saw her — a slayer-in-training, probably sixteen or seventeen, eyes bright, standing way too close to Muichiro.

Muichiro was answering. Calmly. Patiently. Not smiling, but not moving away either.

Genya’s spine straightened.

Something unpleasant flickered in his stomach.

“Okay.”

“Okay, what the hell is this?”

He waited.

Waited longer.

Then, finally — the girl bowed and left with a polite smile.

Muichiro turned, saw Genya, and blinked once.

“You look upset.”

“I’m not,” Genya lied, visibly upset.

“You’re frowning.”

“I always frown.”

“That’s true.”

A pause.

Muichiro walked over, stopping a bit too close again. Genya didn’t move back.

“I was waiting,” Genya said.

“You found me.”

“You didn’t say anything yesterday.”

“I said you weren’t wrong.”

“That’s not the same thing!”

Muichiro blinked. “…Do you want me to say who?”

Genya turned red.

“I—don’t—yes? Maybe? I don’t know!”

Muichiro looked thoughtful.

“I like someone who makes me feel like I’m still here,” he said softly. “Even when I forget myself.”

Genya’s breath caught.

“And…?” he asked, voice low.

Muichiro leaned forward just slightly, as if to say more—

—and then someone called out from across the field.

“Tokito! You’re needed for a sparring demo!”

Muichiro glanced over, then back at Genya.

“I’ll tell you next time.”

And just like that, he walked away.

Genya stood in stunned silence, brain completely fried.

“What the hell is happening.”

⸻

Back at the inn—

Giyuu finished wrapping his arm.

Slower this time.

Careful.

He looked down at his bandaged fingers.

Then toward the door Sanemi had slammed minutes earlier.

And finally—at the table near the window, where the ohagi should have been.

Still missing.

But maybe not gone.
They started the walk back late in the afternoon.

The sun hovered low behind scattered clouds, and the path wound through stretches of thinning forest and overgrown fields. Neither of them spoke much — though that was nothing new.

But for once, the silence wasn’t just hostile.

It was something else.

Something Giyuu couldn’t name, and Sanemi refused to look at too closely.

Giyuu walked a little slower than usual — either because of the injury or just taking his time — and Sanemi kept matching his pace without meaning to. A few times, he almost sped up on purpose just to stop doing it.

They were halfway through the second stretch of forest trail when Giyuu finally spoke.

“…You didn’t eat it.”

Sanemi blinked. “What?”

Giyuu didn’t look at him. “The ohagi.”

There was a long pause.

Sanemi’s stomach tightened — with guilt? Annoyance? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t like the fact that he didn’t know.

“…You just left it,” Giyuu added, quiet. Not upset. Just stating it.

And that was somehow worse.

Sanemi bristled.

“I didn’t ask you to make it.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want you to make it.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Sanemi turned his head sharply. “Then why’d you—?”

“I thought you’d like it.”

That made Sanemi fall completely silent.

His fists clenched at his sides.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t look back at Giyuu.

He just kept walking — faster now, like he could outpace the awkward, unbearable weight of that tiny sentence.

And Giyuu… didn’t follow.

At least not right away.

⸻

Back at the Corps, earlier that day—

Tanjiro blinked. “Wait—Muichiro, you want to confess to someone?”

Muichiro nodded, utterly calm. “Yes. I don’t think Genya is understanding it.”

Tanjiro looked like he might combust.

“Waitwaitwait—Genya? As in—my friend Genya? That Genya???”

“Yes,” Muichiro said, still deadpan.

Tanjiro’s hands fluttered like panicked wings. “Oh—wow—okay—do you want to confess?”

“Yes.”

“Okay—okay—okay,” he breathed, crouching slightly. “Then you should say it. Use your words. Say something kind. Direct. Something that can’t be misunderstood.”

Muichiro stared at him.

“Like… what?”

“Like…” Tanjiro paused. “Like, ‘I like you.’ Or, ‘You make me happy.’ Or—something simple. Just enough that Genya knows. Don’t be confusing.”

Muichiro nodded once.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do that.”

Tanjiro exhaled, proud.

“…Right after my backup plan.”

“…What backup plan—?”

⸻

That evening—

Genya was pacing again.

Trying not to.

Failing.

Muichiro was across the training field. Again. Sitting beneath a tree. Again. Not doing anything.

Again.

“Okay. One more time. Just one more time. If he avoids the question again, I’m done. I’m moving to Mt. Yae.”

He stomped across the grass and stopped just short of Muichiro’s boots.

Muichiro looked up.

Genya crossed his arms. “Alright. Listen—”

Muichiro tilted his head. “I am listening.”

“No, like—really—listen. This time. I’ve asked like five times.”

“I answered all five times.”

“You did not! You dodged! You said things like ‘I’m not wrong’ or ‘you feel like I exist’—like, what does that mean?! Just—” Genya huffed, scarred cheeks pinking in frustration, “—just tell me! Who is it?”

Muichiro blinked slowly.

Then stood up.

And without a word—leaned forward and kissed Genya on the cheek.

Genya froze like a kicked scarecrow.

It was barely a kiss.

Soft. Quick. Gentle.

But it short-circuited his brain like a thunderclap.

“I forgot what Tanjiro said,” Muichiro added calmly. “So I used the backup.”

“W-What the hell—”

“You’re red,” Muichiro observed, blinking.

Genya sputtered. “You—*you can’t just—*is this a yes?! Are you saying yes?!”

Muichiro tilted his head again. “Do you want it to be?”

Genya physically shut down. “I—I—I don’t know!”

“Okay.”

Muichiro sat back down like nothing happened.

Genya had to walk away before he exploded into steam.

⸻

Elsewhere—

Sanemi and Giyuu finally arrived back at the Corps gates.

They said nothing as they passed the patrol guard. Nothing as they walked along the dirt path toward their respective estates.

But just as Sanemi turned down the corridor toward the Butterfly Estate for his report-in—

He heard it.

Voices from the side garden. A few younger slayers chatting quietly over water.

“Did you see Tomioka on that mission last month? Took down three in one night. Barely bled.”

“Yeah. And they say he’s never even been injured before. Not seriously.”

“I heard the Master says he’s one of the best strategists they’ve had in years.”

Sanemi’s brow twitched.

He clenched his jaw and kept walking.

“Tch. They don’t know anything.”

“He’s reckless. He’s a pain in the ass.”

“He gets hurt more than he says.”

“…He didn’t even stitch that bandage right the first time.”

And suddenly he couldn’t remember why he was so annoyed.

Just that he was.

And it had everything to do with Giyuu.

Sanemi made it halfway through the Butterfly Estate gates before realizing that if he took one more step, Shinobu would catch him and probably ask him how the mission went, and he did not have the patience for that right now.

So instead, he veered off the path and into one of the side courtyards, where the koi pond was, where no one usually went this time of day, and where he could sit and yell into his own mind without interruption.

Because what the hell was that walk back.

And why was Giyuu acting like—

“No. Nope. Don’t start.”

“It was just food. That’s it.”

“He probably didn’t even mean it like that.”

“He probably—”

His own thoughts cut him off.

Because the truth was, Sanemi didn’t know what the hell it meant.

And that was exactly the problem.

He rubbed the back of his neck aggressively, like he could scrub the entire past few days off his skin.

Meanwhile—

Giyuu stood frozen near the central courtyard, gaze scanning the branches of the closest cherry tree as if Sanemi might drop out of it.

He had meant to catch up to him. Really.

But Sanemi had moved faster than expected — stormy footsteps and white hair vanishing around a corner — and Giyuu wasn’t the type to run after someone shouting.

Which left him standing in the middle of the path, a crumpled bit of regret in his chest and no idea what he’d even say if he found him.

“You didn’t eat the ohagi.” Stupid.

“I thought it would help.” Worse.

“I wanted to do something nice for you.” Immediate death.

Giyuu sighed and began walking again.

He had never been good with words.

And Sanemi, of all people, made them even harder.

⸻

Elsewhere—

“Tanjiro.”

The name came out like a gunshot.

Tanjiro flinched and turned — only to find Genya standing behind him, flushed and wide-eyed and vibrating like he’d just fought a thunder demon.

“Uh—Genya?”

Genya walked up, grabbed both of Tanjiro’s shoulders, and shook him lightly.

“He kissed me.”

Tanjiro blinked.

“He—who—”

“Muichiro.”

Pause.

“Wait. He what—”

“ON THE CHEEK,” Genya clarified loudly, then hissed and glanced around. “I think.”

“You think??”

“I don’t know anymore, man! I asked him again and he did that, and he said he forgot what you told him so he used a backup plan, and now I don’t know if it counts or if I imagined the whole thing and I’m going insane.”

Tanjiro was trying his best. Really. But he had been emotionally prepared for demons, not this.

“Okay,” he said calmly. “Let’s just breathe—”

“I am breathing!”

“Okay, okay—did he say anything afterward?”

“No! He just sat down again! Like it was a Tuesday or something! I left before my soul could fly out of my body!”

Tanjiro patted him on the shoulder. “Genya, you have a crush.”

“I know that! What I don’t know is if he knows, or if I’m the one losing it!”

Tanjiro looked genuinely sympathetic now. “You’re both emotionally stunted. This was always going to be confusing.”

Genya groaned and dragged his hands down his face. “So what do I do?”

“You wait until he brings it up again.”

“What if he doesn’t?!”

“Then you bring it up. With words. Like a human being.”

Genya made a noise like a dying deer and collapsed onto the bench next to Tanjiro.

“I’m going to die.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“Just bury me under the sparring grounds. Let me be fertilizer.”

“Genya.”

“I’m serious—”

“GENYA.”

⸻

Back at the koi courtyard—

Sanemi heard the rustle of footsteps behind him.

He didn’t turn.

“You really suck at sneaking,” he said flatly.

Giyuu stood at the edge of the courtyard, slightly out of breath.

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

Sanemi scoffed. “Then what do you want?”

There was a long pause.

“I wanted to know… if you’re mad.”

Sanemi turned his head slightly. “Why the hell would I be mad.”

“Because you didn’t eat it.”

“I don’t owe you a damn explanation.”

“You don’t.”

Giyuu stepped forward, stopping just a few feet behind him.

“I just… thought maybe I’d done something wrong.”

Sanemi blinked, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“That’s stupid.”

“Maybe.”

More silence.

The breeze shifted.

Sanemi finally stood, spinning on his heel to face him. “What do you want from me, Tomioka?”

Giyuu looked him in the eyes.

Sanemi hated that. Hated how quiet they were. How patient.

“I don’t know.”

Sanemi stared at him. Open-mouthed. Eyes burning.

And then—

He walked away again.

Not storming this time.

Just… leaving.

Because if he stayed, he might start thinking too hard about things he didn’t want to feel.

And he’d rather be angry than confused.

⸻

Later that evening—

Muichiro sat on the edge of the training field, staring up at the sky.

Genya watched him from a distance, hands in his pockets, face still vaguely pink.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But right now?

Right now he couldn’t stop thinking about that one moment. That one kiss.

And whether it meant everything—or nothing at all.

The moon was higher now, pale and cloud-split as it drifted above the trees. The training grounds were mostly empty—most of the younger slayers having long since called it for the night.

But Genya couldn’t sleep.

He’d tried. Really.

He’d laid on his side. On his back. On his stomach. He’d paced. He’d yelled into a pillow. He’d even tried doing push-ups until his arms stopped working.

None of it helped.

Because every time he closed his eyes, all he could think about was Muichiro.

The way he said “backup plan” like it was completely normal.
The way his lips had felt—barely there, barely anything, but still something.
The way he sat back down afterward like nothing happened.

“I’m gonna explode,” Genya muttered into the dark. “I’m actually gonna blow a fuse.”

Which is exactly why, at half-past midnight, he was back on the training field again.

And, because fate had no chill, so was Muichiro.

Perched on the low fence bordering the field, gazing upward, feet swinging gently in the air. The faint light of the moon made his pale eyes look almost translucent.

Genya stood at the edge of the clearing and stared.

“You gonna run away again?” he muttered to himself.

Then forced his legs to move.

“Hey.”

Muichiro didn’t startle. Just turned his head, like he already knew he was there.

Genya swallowed.

“I, uh—can we talk?”

Muichiro blinked. “We are.”

Genya sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“No, like—actually. For real. You remember what happened yesterday?”

“Which part?”

Genya made a noise of frustration. “The part where you kissed me!”

Muichiro tilted his head. “Oh. That.”

“Yes, that. You can’t just do that and not explain it!”

“I thought it was self-explanatory.”

Genya almost pulled out his own hair. “It’s not! You said it was your backup plan! That doesn’t explain anything!”

Muichiro turned toward him now, feet still swinging.

“I didn’t know how to say it.”

“Say what?”

Muichiro blinked again. Then said, simply:

“That I like you.”

The words dropped into the air like a stone in a still pond. No drama. No big wind-up.

Just fact.

Soft, steady, matter-of-fact.

Genya’s brain stuttered to a stop.

“I—You—What—”

Muichiro swung his legs a little slower.

“You look surprised.”

“Of course I’m surprised! You—do like me?!”

Muichiro nodded once. “Yes.”

“Then—why didn’t you say anything!?”

“I did. You weren’t listening.”

“When did you—!?”

“That time I said I liked being around you. And when I said your voice sounded like it belonged in my memories. And also when I said you make me feel like I exist in a good way.”

Genya stared at him like he’d just recited the Demon Slayer Corps’ tax code.

“Those don’t count!!” he hissed. “That’s not—normal person talk!”

Muichiro blinked. “You’re not a normal person.”

“Neither are you!”

Muichiro shrugged. “Then maybe it was clear after all.”

Genya was starting to visibly smoke.

His whole face was red, his hands were fists, and his knees had locked up in defense against the flood of emotion.

Muichiro slid off the fence and stepped forward.

Genya stiffened.

And then—

Muichiro reached up, gently touched the fabric of Genya’s sleeve.

“Why do you look like that around me?”

Genya blinked hard. “Like what?”

“Like your heart’s too loud.”

Genya short-circuited completely.

“…You—you can’t just say that!”

“Why not?”

“Because—because—!”

Muichiro tilted his head again, but there was something softer in his expression now. Something thoughtful.

“I meant it in a good way,” he said, voice low. “It makes me feel… steady.”

Genya had officially melted into soup.

He couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t even breathe right. His legs were jelly and his ribs were made of fireworks.

“Okay,” he mumbled, hands twitching. “I need to go punch a wall or something.”

“Don’t hurt your hand.”

“I won’t.”

“Do you want to sit here instead?”

Genya paused.

Then, slowly, he nodded. Face still flaming, he stepped over and slumped down beside Muichiro, staring at the grass like it held the secrets of the universe.

They didn’t talk again for a while.

But Muichiro stayed close.

And for once—Genya didn’t run away.

⸻

Elsewhere, back at the Butterfly Estate—

Sanemi stood with his arms crossed outside the training hall, trying to burn holes in the walls with his eyes.

Giyuu wasn’t around. Not yet.

He wasn’t waiting for him.

Definitely not.

He just happened to be near the front corridor where the evening patrol passed through. And where most slayers entered. And where Giyuu might walk past.

Not that he cared.

Not at all.

“What does he mean by asking if I was mad.”

“What does he care?”

“He’s always been weird. Too quiet.”

“And what the hell was that ‘I thought you’d like it’ bullshit—”

His thoughts were thankfully interrupted by Shinobu appearing in the corridor.

She stopped next to him, glancing over, clearly unimpressed.

“You know,” she said, voice light, “for someone who claims not to care, you do an awful lot of standing around where he might show up.”

Sanemi grunted. “Shove it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said pleasantly.

Then she turned toward the door.

“Oh, by the way,” she added, “I’ve requested a new report on shared missions. You and Tomioka might be seeing more of those soon.”

Sanemi choked. “What.”

She smiled sweetly over her shoulder. “Teamwork is very important.”

And with that, she disappeared into the hallway, humming softly.

Sanemi stared after her, murderous and confused and—he would never admit it—maybe just a little flustered.

The mess hall was mostly quiet in the late afternoon.

The clatter of bowls and chopsticks had died down to a gentle hum, the rush of midday training having thinned out the crowd. Just a few slayers lingered in the corners, finishing their meals, sharing soft conversations or nodding off in their seats.

Giyuu sat in his usual spot near the far end, alone, quietly eating. His left arm was bandaged, shoulder to wrist, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He picked up a piece of grilled fish with deliberate care and placed it into his mouth without reaction.

He was halfway through his meal when the temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees.

Sanemi Shinazugawa had entered.

The doors creaked shut behind him, and every slayer who hadn’t noticed already suddenly did. A few bowed. Some ducked their heads. But most—most—just scooted the hell out of his way.

Sanemi walked with purpose.

Angry purpose.

Not because he was mad, of course. That would mean he cared.

Which he absolutely did not.

Even if he was about to walk directly past Tomioka’s table for no reason other than “that’s the way to the rice pot.”

Giyuu didn’t look up.

Which infuriated Sanemi more than he could logically justify.

“You eat like a ghost,” Sanemi muttered when he was close enough to be heard.

Giyuu glanced up, blinked. “Hello.”

“That’s it? No snark?”

“Do you want snark?”

Sanemi squinted. “No.”

Giyuu blinked once, then returned to eating. “Okay.”

A vein pulsed in Sanemi’s forehead. “Why are you like this.”

Giyuu looked up again, slower this time.

“I could ask you the same.”

Sanemi opened his mouth to reply—then realized he didn’t actually have anything coherent to say. His brain had been reduced to ash somewhere between “hello” and “okay.”

So instead of replying, he scoffed and stalked over to the rice pot, which—annoyingly—was in the same direction he’d walked in the first place.

Giyuu watched him go, unreadable as ever, then quietly picked up the next piece of fish.

And for the first time in a while, he wasn’t thinking about being alone.

⸻

Meanwhile—

Genya stared at the ceiling of the training hall like it had personally betrayed him.

He was flat on his back, breathing hard from drills, his wooden sword discarded somewhere off to the side.

“I’m losing it,” he mumbled to himself. “I’m actually gone.”

Tanjiro was nearby, working on forms. “Still thinking about the kiss?”

“Yes, Tanjiro. The kiss. The confession. The emotional bombshell he dropped like a feather and then just walked away from!”

Tanjiro hummed sympathetically. “He smiled when you left.”

Genya blinked. “Huh?”

Muichiro was seated on the steps a little ways off, his haori draped loosely around his shoulders, hair slightly tousled. He looked… softer than usual.

And sure enough—

As Genya finally looked his way, Muichiro glanced up.

And smiled.

Not his usual empty, cloud-soft smile.

But something smaller.

Realer.

It lasted maybe a second.

But it landed in Genya’s chest like a meteor.

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

He scrambled to his feet.

“I have to go walk into a lake.”

Tanjiro caught his sleeve. “Or you could just talk to him?”

Genya made a noise that sounded like a screech and a whimper combined, then escaped down the corridor, face on fire.

Muichiro watched him go, head tilted.

And then—

He smiled again.

Just a little.

⸻

Back in the mess hall—

Sanemi stood at the rice pot for a full minute longer than was necessary.

He wasn’t hungry anymore. Not really. But leaving without a plate would mean Giyuu would think something.

Not that he cared what Tomioka thought.

Obviously.

He finally scooped some food, turned back toward the tables—

—and saw that Giyuu was now looking directly at him.

Expression unreadable.

Chopsticks paused midair.

And in that moment, Sanemi was struck by the strangest realization:

Tomioka always looked like that around him.

Not bored. Not cold.

Just…

Watching.

And suddenly, Sanemi had no idea what to do with his hands.

Or his plate.

Or anything.

So he turned and walked out.

Too fast. Too stiff.

He missed the way Giyuu’s eyes lingered for just a few seconds longer than usual.

Sanemi didn’t stomp out of the mess hall.

He walked.

Like a normal person.

Like someone who wasn’t being watched.

Like someone who definitely hadn’t just locked eyes with Tomioka Giyuu and immediately gone into fight-or-flight mode, only to choose flight.

He marched down the corridor, jaw tight, hands clenched, thoughts a blur.

“He was staring. Why the hell was he staring?”

“What the fuck does he want from me?”

“I swear to the gods, if Shinobu puts me on one more mission with that brooding wet sock—”

“Sanemi!”

His spine locked up.

He turned—too fast, too defensive—and caught sight of a very pink blur barreling toward him.

Mitsuri Kanroji.

She stopped just short of crashing into him, clasping her hands behind her back and blinking up at him with wide eyes that did not belong to someone innocent of scheming.

He narrowed his eyes. “What.”

“You didn’t even eat your rice.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You looked like you were about to punch someone.”

“Yeah. You, if you keep asking questions.”

Mitsuri beamed at him. “You always say the sweetest things.”

Sanemi scowled. “What do you want, Kanroji.”

“You were looking at him.”

“I was not.”

“He was definitely looking at you.”

“I don’t care.”

“You stormed out, Sanemi. You stormed out like someone wrote a tragic love poem on your rice.”

“I don’t—” He cut himself off, voice rising. Lowered it through gritted teeth. “—care. About him. Or anything he does. He can stare all he wants, it’s not my problem.”

Mitsuri gave a small, exaggerated sigh. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not.”

“Mhmm.”

She started walking again, gently steering them both toward the outer walkway that bordered the training fields. The evening air was cooler now, a breeze drifting through the wooden hallways.

Sanemi followed, mostly because she was in his space and refusing to leave.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “you could just say thank you.”

He scowled. “For what?”

“For the ohagi. He made it for you.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Still. He thought about it.”

Sanemi crossed his arms. “So what? That’s not friendship. That’s guilt. He probably feels bad for me.”

Mitsuri looked at him sharply. “Is that really what you think?”

Sanemi didn’t answer.

She tilted her head, more serious now. “You think everything nice someone does has strings attached, don’t you?”

He looked away.

“…Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not. I just… know what it’s like.”

Something in her voice made him glance at her again.

But she smiled before he could ask, bright and pink again.

“Well! I’m off. But you should stop glaring at people who try to feed you.”

And with that, she flounced off into the dusk, her braid swinging behind her.

Sanemi exhaled through his nose and leaned on the wooden railing.

His arms were still tense.

His thoughts worse.

He hated this.

He hated the tight feeling in his chest. The way his brain spun in circles.

The way Giyuu had looked at him like he understood something.

Like they shared something.

He hated—

“Sanemi.”

His whole body flinched.

And of course.

Of course.

Tomioka Giyuu had appeared in the walkway, quiet as a ghost, just behind him.

Sanemi whipped around. “What.”

Giyuu blinked. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I wasn’t startled.”

“…Okay.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Sanemi stared. Giyuu stared back.

Neither moved.

“You left the mess hall fast,” Giyuu said eventually.

“Wasn’t hungry.”

“I thought you might want the ohagi.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

Giyuu nodded. “I know. I made it anyway.”

Sanemi clenched his jaw.

“Why.”

Giyuu tilted his head. “Because I wanted to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

“I don’t like pity.”

“It wasn’t pity.”

Sanemi scoffed, stepping back. “Then what the hell was it?”

Giyuu paused.

Then, evenly: “You looked tired. And you hadn’t been cleared for full missions yet. I thought it would help.”

Sanemi opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Something in Giyuu’s voice sounded… careful.

Like he wasn’t saying everything.

Sanemi hated that even more.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” he snapped.

Giyuu blinked. “Like what.”

“Like I’m some kind of wounded dog. Like you’re doing me a favor.”

“I don’t think that.”

“You’re quiet all the time and then you start doing things, and now you’re showing up in places like—”

“I came to check the mission roster.”

Sanemi went still. “Bullshit.”

Giyuu didn’t deny it.

He just looked at him.

Soft. Calm. Unmoving.

Sanemi’s chest felt like it was going to burst open.

“I don’t need anything from you,” he snapped.

“I didn’t say you did.”

“Then why—”

“I wanted to.”

That silenced him.

Giyuu held his gaze.

Not challenging.

Not pitying.

Just… steady.

And it threw Sanemi completely off balance.

He took a breath—sharp, uneven—and turned away.

“I don’t want it.”

“You didn’t throw it out.”

Sanemi stopped.

Tensed.

He turned back. “You checked?”

Giyuu nodded. “You left it in the training hall. Wrapped up. Untouched.”

Sanemi gritted his teeth. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does to me.”

Sanemi exhaled—shaky, involuntary.

Giyuu stepped forward. Just once. Not close enough to crowd. Just near enough to be heard.

“If you don’t want anything from me,” he said softly, “you can tell me. But you haven’t yet.”

Sanemi stared at him.

Every part of him wanted to lash out.

To punch. To snarl. To drive him away again.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Not this time.

“…I don’t know what you want,” he said instead, low.

Giyuu tilted his head again.

“I’m not sure either.”

And somehow, that was worse.

Because Sanemi had no defense for honesty.

So he turned.

And walked away.

Fast.

Because if he didn’t, he might stop.

And if he stopped, he might say something he couldn’t take back.

Sanemi didn’t go back to his estate right away.

He couldn’t.

His legs carried him down a different path entirely, instinct dragging him to the training grounds like they always did when he couldn’t breathe right. His hands twitched for the hilt of a sword that wasn’t even at his side — left in his room hours ago.

Too many things were rattling around in his chest.

Giyuu’s voice.

Giyuu’s face.

That stupid, unbearable softness that came with no warning and even less explanation.

“You didn’t throw it out.”

“It does to me.”

Sanemi scoffed to himself, grinding his palm against the nearest tree trunk until the bark bit his skin.

What the hell did that mean?

Why would anything mean something to Tomioka?

He was always blank. Always silent. Always alone. That was supposed to be his whole deal. Not… making desserts for people who didn’t ask for them. Not noticing if something was touched or not.

“I don’t know what you want.”

“I’m not sure either.”

Sanemi bit down a frustrated noise and yanked his arm back, shoving both hands into his pockets like he could bury the thoughts under calluses and stubbornness.

The moon had risen by the time he made his way back to the old sparring hall.

It was mostly empty now, save for a few weapons left out for cleaning, and—

That box.

Still there.

Still wrapped.

Still on the same bench where he’d left it after training.

The ohagi.

Sanemi stood in the doorway, unmoving.

He stared at it like it might explode.

He didn’t throw it out.

He could’ve.

Could’ve kicked it across the floor. Could’ve handed it off to Genya. Could’ve ignored it entirely.

But he hadn’t.

He’d wrapped it back up.

Tied the string again.

Set it down carefully.

Even now, the damn thing looked like it was waiting for him.

Sanemi swore under his breath.

And crossed the room.

He sat down with a thump, dropped his elbows on his knees, and stared at the box like it had personally insulted him.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he muttered.

The box did not respond.

Grimacing, he pulled the string loose.

The scent hit him first.

Sweet. Warm, somehow, even cold.

Red bean paste. Glutinous rice. Sugar. A hint of something else — maybe the kind of leaf it had been wrapped in.

He stared at it for a long moment.

And then, before he could stop himself —

He picked one up.

And bit.

…

…

Sanemi froze.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

And slowly, very slowly, stared down at the remaining pieces.

“No way he made this.”

It was good.

Not passable. Not “edible.”

It was good.

Too good.

Sanemi picked up another.

Inspected it.

A little uneven. Slightly over-stuffed.

The rice was packed too tight in the middle, and the red bean was richer than it needed to be — probably because Giyuu didn’t know how to balance sweetness — but it worked.

In fact…

It worked better than it should have.

He ate the second one slower.

Less to savor.

More because he didn’t want to finish it.

There were only two more.

And as much as he hated to admit it —

He didn’t want it to end.

“…How many did you make, Tomioka.”

He looked up.

The hall was still empty.

Of course it was.

He rubbed a hand down his face, resisting the strange, irritating urge to laugh.

This is insane.

What is this.

What is he doing.

Sanemi wasn’t used to people doing things for him. Not without a catch. Not without a reason.

Not just because they wanted to.

And it left something sharp and unfamiliar in his chest.

He pushed the last ohagi to the side, not ready to finish it yet.

Instead, he sat in silence, staring at the open box, heart beating a little too loud in the quiet.

The moonlight spilled across the floorboards, silver and cool.

Somewhere in the distance, a crow called.

Sanemi didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t try to make sense of it.

He just stayed there — with the box, with the food, with the quiet hum of something dangerous and tender blooming in his chest.

Something he didn’t understand.

And maybe didn’t want to.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4: Tension in the Quiet Hours”

The next morning hit colder than expected.

Sanemi blinked awake in the dim quiet of his estate, lying flat on his futon, staring up at the wood beams overhead like they were personally responsible for the mess in his chest.

The box was still on his desk.

One ohagi left inside.

He hadn’t thrown it out.

He hadn’t even rewrapped it.

Just sat there, after midnight, quietly staring at it until he couldn’t anymore.

And now—

He gritted his teeth and shoved the blankets off, body jerking upright like inertia might kill the thoughts.

“It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

“He didn’t even say anything.”

But he had.

And Sanemi had listened.

And worse — worse than all of it — Sanemi had believed him.

That’s what made his stomach twist. Not the fact that Giyuu had made him food. Not that he’d tasted it. But the fact that when Giyuu had said it wasn’t pity, Sanemi knew he was telling the truth.

And that meant…

It meant something.

And Sanemi didn’t know how to put a knife through that.

So he got dressed, grabbed his coat, and stormed out into the estate grounds like a demon was waiting for him around every corner.

He needed distraction.

He needed—

“Tomioka-san!”

Sanemi stopped just behind a hedge lining the training field.

Of course.

There he was.

Tomioka.

Standing next to Tanjiro, who looked bright-eyed and eager despite the early hour.

Sanemi didn’t mean to eavesdrop.

But the hedge was thick, and his boots were already crunching gravel, and if he walked away now, it’d make a noise. And worse — it’d look like something.

So he stayed.

Just out of sight.

Tanjiro had his training sword strapped across his back. Giyuu stood beside him, arms folded, expression unreadable — as always. But something in his shoulders was a little tighter than usual.

“I think I finally understand the fifth form,” Tanjiro was saying, smiling with that quiet stubbornness that only came from someone who’d been through too much to ever give up.

Giyuu gave a slight nod. “Your posture’s improved.”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

Silence.

Then, softly:

“You’ve been tense lately, Giyuu-san.”

Giyuu blinked. “I always am.”

Tanjiro smiled gently. “Not like this.”

Giyuu didn’t answer for a long moment.

Then, low — like it was being dragged out of him:

“…You’re not going to be the next Water Hashira.”

Sanemi’s breath caught.

What?

Why the hell did he care?

Why did he sound… angry?

“I wasn’t expecting to be,” Tanjiro replied softly. “And I don’t think the others were either.”

“You should be.”

Another pause.

Giyuu’s voice lowered. “You’re better than I was.”

Sanemi’s jaw clenched.

He didn’t know why that hit so hard. He didn’t want to know.

“You’re still the Water Hashira,” Tanjiro said quietly.

Sanemi leaned just a little closer.

Waiting.

But Giyuu’s response was swallowed by a gust of wind.

Too soft.

Too low.

Sanemi only caught the sound of his feet shifting.

And he stepped back before he could be caught listening.

His pulse was too fast.

His hands tight.

“Why do you sound so fucking broken about it?”

“What the hell is going on with you?”

He didn’t want to know.

Except… he did.

He hated that more than anything.

⸻

Meanwhile, across the estate—

Genya Shinazugawa was losing his goddamn mind.

He was standing behind the Butterfly Estate gardens, pacing a thin path in the dirt with his wood sword slung over his back, mumbling to himself.

“He kissed me.”

No one was around to hear him.

“He kissed me and said it was his backup plan. What the hell does that even mean?!”

He tugged at his coat collar, face bright red. His whole body felt like it was vibrating.

“He asks me if I want to spar. He stares at me like I hung the moon. He says weird cryptic shit and then leans in and does that—”

“Genya.”

Genya let out a yelp and spun around, heart slamming into his ribs.

Muichiro stood there.

Hands in his sleeves.

Looking, as always, completely unbothered.

“Wh—what,” Genya said. His voice cracked. “What?!”

Muichiro blinked. “You’re talking very loudly.”

“I—I wasn’t—!”

“I heard my name.”

Genya’s soul left his body.

“Do you want to spar again?”

Genya nearly choked.

“I—I—I guess?!”

Muichiro stepped forward. “Okay.”

Silence.

And then, as casually as if they were discussing the weather—

“You’re cute when you panic.”

Genya let out an audible wheeze.

“Wha—what did—what—?!”

Muichiro tilted his head. “Tanjiro said I should confess with words. But I’m not good at that.”

Genya was now vibrating.

“You—you were confessing?”

“I thought that was obvious.”

“It wasn’t!”

“Oh.”

Another beat.

Muichiro took a slow step forward.

Genya’s back hit the tree.

Muichiro stopped a few inches away.

“I like you, Genya.”

The world spun.

Genya stared at him.

And for once—couldn’t find a single thing to say.

Muichiro just blinked, mildly curious.

“Are you going to pass out?”

Genya made a strangled noise.

And promptly fled.

⸻

Back near the practice hall, Sanemi stormed toward the master list of upcoming mission assignments. He wasn’t even looking for one, just trying to do something with his hands—

And caught sight of Giyuu again, walking away from Tanjiro.

Alone.

Quiet.

The same soft look on his face.

The same ridiculous silence that made Sanemi’s chest feel like it was collapsing in on itself.

He looked down.

Hands clenched.

“This isn’t what I thought it would be.”

“It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

He glanced toward the practice field again.

And for the first time, didn’t walk the other direction.

Sanemi didn’t know why he didn’t turn the other way.

He always did.

Avoided the damn hallways Giyuu used. Crossed the training grounds faster when he saw that infuriating, blank stare in the corner of his eye. Ignored every second of silence between them like it was a minor inconvenience, not a living, breathing thing taking up space between his ribs.

But today?

Today, he didn’t turn around.

Didn’t walk the other way.

Didn’t pretend the world didn’t shift, ever so slightly, whenever Tomioka was nearby.

He didn’t mean to follow him, either.

It just—happened.

A few steps behind. Enough distance to lie to himself. Not enough to lose him.

The hallway was quiet as Giyuu pushed open the door to his estate quarters. Sanemi paused around the corner, about to finally snap out of it and leave—

Until he heard something that made him freeze.

A pause. A rustle. A soft, barely-audible breath.

And then:

“…It’s gone?”

Sanemi tensed.

Another second passed.

Then the sound of Giyuu stepping further into the room.

The box.

The stupid box.

The ohagi.

Sanemi had put the lid back down after taking the last one. Not thinking it mattered. Not thinking it meant anything.

And now—

Giyuu was looking at it.

Realizing.

Sanemi couldn’t breathe.

He should go. Should walk away. Should pretend he never heard anything.

Instead, he took a step back—and his foot caught a floorboard.

Creak.

Silence.

Sanemi swore under his breath and turned—too late.

Giyuu was already standing in the doorway, staring at him.

Of course.

Of course he heard.

Sanemi bristled like a wild animal. “What?”

Giyuu didn’t answer right away.

His eyes dropped to Sanemi’s hands.

Then flicked back up.

“Did you like it?”

Sanemi’s body went rigid.

“…What?”

“The ohagi.”

It was so soft. So genuine. Like he didn’t understand how completely insane this entire situation was.

Sanemi’s jaw twitched. “Why do you care?”

Giyuu blinked, mildly.

“You ate it.”

“You say that like you expected me to throw it out.”

Giyuu tilted his head, still maddeningly calm. “I wasn’t sure.”

Sanemi took a step forward, suddenly too close.

“Why did you make it?”

Giyuu’s expression didn’t change.

“I wanted to.”

Sanemi scowled. “That’s not a reason.”

“It was for you.”

Sanemi’s heart kicked violently.

“You’re not answering the question.”

“I am.”

They stood there, staring.

The air felt like it was vibrating.

Sanemi’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“Say it.”

“Say what you’re thinking.”

But Giyuu didn’t. Just watched him. Not soft, not smug — just watching.

Sanemi wanted to shake him.

He also wanted to run.

So he did neither.

“I’m not gonna play guessing games with you, Tomioka.”

“I’m not playing.”

Sanemi’s breath left him like a punch.

They both looked away at the same time.

Another second passed.

Then Giyuu said — quieter this time:

“…You didn’t have to eat it.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you did.”

Sanemi grit his teeth.

Giyuu’s gaze flicked toward him again. “You don’t owe me anything. I wasn’t trying to get anything out of it.”

That made it worse.

That made it so much worse.

Sanemi’s voice was sharp. “You think I ate it because I felt bad?”

Giyuu blinked again. “No.”

Sanemi’s heart was thudding in his ears now.

“Then what?”

“I thought you might like it.”

Silence.

Sanemi didn’t have a reply for that.

Because he had.

He really, really had.

He turned without another word and walked off down the hallway.

Giyuu didn’t follow.

But Sanemi could still feel his eyes on him.

And it burned more than he wanted to admit.

Sanemi didn’t get far.

The stupidest thing was, he didn’t even know what he was running from.

Nothing had happened. Tomioka hadn’t touched him. Hadn’t said anything damning. Hadn’t even looked at him wrong.

And yet here he was — storming through the yard like he’d just been punched in the throat.

(He wished that were the reason. That would’ve been easier.)

What the hell was wrong with him?

Why was his chest tight?

Why was his head so loud?

He made it halfway to the training grounds before his body moved on instinct — a sword in hand, teeth clenched, muscle memory taking over.

Maybe sparring would help.

Maybe swinging steel at someone else would bleed this frustration out of his system.

He scanned the courtyard — but Mitsuri was already there. Smiling. Waving.

Goddamn it.

Too late.

“You’re just in time!” she called. “I was hoping someone would jump in.”

Sanemi nearly turned around. But she was already jogging over, wooden blade in hand, pink hair bouncing.

He didn’t have the heart to walk away.

(He also didn’t have the vocabulary to explain the weird, shaky guilt crawling up the back of his spine.)

“Alright,” he grunted, setting his jaw. “Quick match. That’s it.”

Mitsuri only nodded. “Okay.”

They squared up.

They moved.

Sanemi barely kept his focus.

And Mitsuri, of course, noticed.

“You’re slower than usual.”

Sanemi hissed through his teeth. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” she said brightly, parrying with ease. “You’re distracted.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Sanemi nearly tripped.

Mitsuri didn’t press. Not right away.

She let him breathe.

Then, softly, she asked:
“…Did you talk to him?”

Sanemi froze.

That was all it took — one little question, and his grip on the sword faltered.

Mitsuri lowered hers.

Her voice gentled. “You look like your brain is still catching up.”

“I’m not—” Sanemi growled, turning away. “—this isn’t anything.”

“Are you sure?”

He hated how her tone made it worse.

Kind. Soft. Safe.

“I ate something he made. That’s it.”

“That’s not nothing.”

He scowled. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Mitsuri didn’t argue.

She just smiled, in that damn knowing way of hers, and said:

“Sanemi… I think that’s what’s bothering you.”

⸻

Elsewhere — near the edge of the garden wall

Tanjiro blinked up at Giyuu, the midmorning sun casting shadows across the stone path.

“So… you’re not mad at me?”

Giyuu shook his head. “No.”

Tanjiro smiled, relieved. “That’s good. I thought I might’ve offended you, not wanting to be the next Water Hashira—”

“You didn’t.”

“But…” Tanjiro tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You still seem upset.”

Giyuu stayed quiet.

Tanjiro inhaled, subtly, searching for the feeling under Giyuu’s silence.

The scent of it was—complicated.

Frustrated. Confused. Unsettled. Not directed at Tanjiro at all.

“…It’s not just that, is it?” Tanjiro asked gently. “The Hashira thing.”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

So Tanjiro didn’t push.

He just nodded slowly, placing a hand over the hilt of his sword.

“I’m not ready,” he said. “But when I am, I’ll make sure Water Breathing is still alive. Even if I’m not the next Hashira. I promise.”

Giyuu’s eyes finally lifted.

Tanjiro smiled again.

Giyuu didn’t speak — but something in his chest loosened.

(He still hadn’t told Tanjiro about Sanemi.)

(And he didn’t think he would.)

Not yet.

⸻

Meanwhile — near the mess hall

Genya was pacing.

A little too hard.

A little too obviously.

Muichiro, leaning back against the shaded corridor wall, tilted his head.

“…You’re twitchier than usual.”

“I’m not twitching,” Genya snapped.

Muichiro blinked slowly. “You’re flustered.”

“I’m not—!”

“You are,” Muichiro said, still maddeningly calm. “Because of me.”

Genya froze.

Muichiro, for once, actually looked hesitant.

“Unless I’m wrong?” he added. “Did I read it wrong?”

Genya’s voice dropped. “You didn’t.”

Silence.

Then, abruptly:

“I thought I was being obvious,” Muichiro said. “Was I not?”

Genya made a strangled noise. “Y-You—what?! Obvious how?!”

Muichiro looked genuinely confused. “I like you.”

Genya made a louder strangled noise. “Wha—don’t—say it like that!”

“Why not?”

“Because!”

“Because why?”

“Because you can’t just say that!”

Muichiro blinked. “I thought we were being honest.”

Genya was red to his ears now, pacing again in a circle. “Y-You—you were supposed to be weirdly subtle about it forever—!”

“That sounds inefficient.”

Genya stopped walking.

Put his face in his hands.

“Okay,” he muttered into his palms. “I need to lie down. Or explode. Or—both.”

Muichiro just nodded serenely.

“I like that you panic. It’s cute.”

“STOP SAYING THINGS.”

Genya hadn’t stopped blushing since.

Muichiro, of course, hadn’t stopped following him.

They were walking now — well, Genya was walking. Muichiro was floating beside him like some mildly smug ghost, hands in his sleeves, face as unreadable as ever except for the slight tilt of his head whenever Genya got flustered again.

“I said I was going to lie down,” Genya muttered, speed-walking through the outer garden path.

“I’m walking you there,” Muichiro said simply.

“I don’t need an escort.”

“You do. You’re unstable.”

Genya shot him a look. “You’re the unstable one. Who says that kind of stuff out loud?”

“I do. I said it.”

“That’s not a defense!”

“Then stop acting surprised.”

Genya made a noise between a growl and a wounded animal. “You’re—you’re doing this on purpose—”

“Obviously.”

Genya stumbled. “What do you mean obviously?!”

“I’ve been obvious this whole time,” Muichiro said. “You just didn’t want to believe it.”

Genya stopped in the middle of the path.

Muichiro stopped too.

They stood in silence for a beat, summer wind rustling the trees above.

“I’m not good at this,” Genya said finally, almost too quiet.

Muichiro looked at him for a moment longer.

Then — even quieter — he said:

“Neither am I.”

⸻

Meanwhile — in the courtyard near the well

Giyuu saw him again.

He didn’t mean to.

He was just passing through, headed toward the training hall, when he caught a glimpse of silver hair and a violent stance through the break in the hedges.

Sanemi was sparring again.

Of course he was.

But he wasn’t focused.

(Again.)

Giyuu’s feet slowed on instinct.

His chest didn’t.

Sanemi moved like he wanted to hit something harder than air — like his own body was pissing him off — like nothing he did was enough.

Giyuu stopped completely.

Just for a second.

Then he looked away.

And kept walking.

⸻

Sanemi’s back was turned — but he felt it.

That shift in the air.

That spike of tension he’d started to associate with—

He turned.

And caught a glimpse of dark hair slipping past the hedge.

The back of a haori.

His hands clenched at his sides.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t call out.

But the moment stuck like a thorn in his ribs.

He turned back to his opponent.

Tried to refocus.

He couldn’t.

⸻

Aoi found him cooling off at the well ten minutes later — shirt off, shoulders heaving, water dripping from his face.

She stopped two paces away, arms folded, unamused.

“…Did you lose a fight or a thought?”

Sanemi blinked up at her, water still running down his jaw. “The hell does that mean?”

“It means you look like you’re losing a fight inside your own head,” she replied flatly. “Again.”

He scoffed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Sanemi narrowed his eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” she said plainly. “But you’re radiating so much tension, it’s making the air heavy. That’s annoying.”

Sanemi wiped his face with the edge of his sleeve. “If you’ve got something to say, Aoi, say it.”

She did not hesitate.

“You’re acting weird. Everyone’s noticed. You’re lashing out at training partners, you’re staring off into space, you’re going out of your way to avoid a certain person, and you keep brooding like you’re the main character of a bad romance novel.”

Sanemi stared at her.

She stared back.

“I—what—what the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not subtle.”

Then she turned and walked away.

⸻

Back near the west garden path

“…You weren’t even listening.”

Obanai’s voice was quiet, level — but cutting.

Giyuu blinked. “I was.”

“You weren’t.”

Obanai didn’t sound angry.

Just… observant. And annoyed about it.

“You kept looking past me,” Obanai said simply. “Every few seconds. And you weren’t reacting to what I was saying.”

“I’m tired,” Giyuu muttered.

“You’re lying.”

Giyuu frowned. “Why does everyone keep saying that today?”

“Because it’s obvious,” Obanai said. “You’re worse at hiding things than you think.”

Giyuu didn’t respond.

So Obanai took a step closer, gaze sharp behind his bandages.

“…You were watching him again. Weren’t you?”

Giyuu’s jaw tensed. “I wasn’t—”

“Don’t bother denying it,” Obanai interrupted, voice quieter. “I saw you. You froze when you noticed him. And then you walked the other way.”

Giyuu swallowed.

Obanai studied him for another long moment.

Then, dryly:

“Let me know when you’re done being a coward.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off.

 

Obanai’s words still echoed like a slap to the back of Giyuu’s skull.

“Let me know when you’re done being a coward.”

And Giyuu had almost turned around and gone back.

Almost.

But instead, he walked until the sun dipped behind the trees, shadows stretching long across the estate.

And that’s when he saw him.

Again.

⸻

Sanemi had just finished changing into a clean uniform, sweat still drying along his collarbone. He’d thought he was done for the day — thought he’d shaken the restlessness out of his system.

He hadn’t.

And when he turned the corner near the garden corridor and nearly collided with Giyuu—he didn’t know if he wanted to hit something or run.

Neither of them said anything at first.

They just stood there.

The wind picked up. A few leaves scattered.

Giyuu spoke first.

“…You spar like you’re trying to exorcise something.”

Sanemi’s jaw flexed.

“Got a problem with how I train, Tomioka?”

“It’s not training if you’re not focusing.”

Sanemi scoffed, crossing his arms. “Right. Because you’re the expert on engagement.”

Giyuu flinched. “That’s not what I—”

“What do you want?” Sanemi cut in, too fast.

Giyuu hesitated.

Sanemi waited.

And waited.

And when the silence stretched just a little too long—

“…Forget it,” Sanemi muttered, stepping past him. “I’m not doing this again.”

“You keep walking away,” Giyuu said suddenly.

Sanemi froze. “So do you.”

Giyuu looked up.

Sanemi turned back slightly, half his face caught in shade.

“You always act like I’m the one avoiding things,” he muttered. “But you’re just better at making it look like retreat’s your natural state.”

“…And you think rage is better?” Giyuu asked, too quiet.

Sanemi didn’t answer.

They stared at each other across five feet of space and five months of miscommunication.

No one moved.

Then someone called Sanemi’s name from down the corridor.

It broke the moment like a crack in glass.

Sanemi stepped away without another word.

Giyuu didn’t follow.

⸻

Elsewhere — by the outer shed near the training field

“This is not what I signed up for,” Genya muttered, eyeing the stack of crates like it had personally wronged him.

“You didn’t sign up for anything. You were assigned,” Muichiro said, already lifting one like it was weightless.

They were moving weaponry and supplies back into storage. Together.

Alone.

It was not going well.

Genya dropped his crate with a loud thud and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t see why they didn’t assign Inosuke to this.”

“Because Inosuke isn’t here.”

“You could’ve done this on your own.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“Then why are we—”

“Because Shinobu said ‘Genya needs more supervised movement and interpersonal reconditioning.’ Her words.”

Genya looked personally attacked. “She said what—?”

Muichiro blinked. “I think it means ‘stop brooding and learn to talk to people.’”

“I talk to people!”

“You yell at them,” Muichiro corrected.

“I—okay, that’s fair but—”

“And you keep avoiding me,” Muichiro added. “Which is rude. Especially after I complimented you.”

Genya flushed. “That wasn’t a compliment, that was emotional terrorism!”

“I meant it.”

“That doesn’t help!”

“You’re yelling again.”

“You’re impossible!”

“I’m consistent,” Muichiro said calmly.

Genya dropped the next crate with twice the force.

It didn’t help.

⸻

Meanwhile — inside the Butterfly Estate, near the kitchen

“Giyuu.”

He froze.

He’d only just stepped inside when Mitsuri appeared out of nowhere, eyes wide and full of questions she didn’t even bother to hide.

“You’ve been acting strange,” she said softly, voice kind but firm. “I’ve seen you walking circles around the same courtyard. You keep… looking at him.”

Giyuu blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” she said gently. “I think it hurts. And you’re not letting it out.”

“…It’s not like that,” he muttered.

“Then what is it like?”

He didn’t answer.

Mitsuri tilted her head.

“Do you want him to look at you too?”

That made Giyuu go stiff.

Mitsuri sighed, smiling faintly. “You’re not the only one who’s bad at this, you know. But that doesn’t mean it’s not obvious.”

Giyuu looked down.

She reached over, squeezed his shoulder.

“You don’t have to say it. But you should do something about it.”

Then she walked off, leaving him rooted in place.

⸻

Later that night — over dinner

“…He was barely listening to me,” Obanai said, picking at his rice with one hand. “I said five whole sentences and he only reacted to one.”

Mitsuri hummed thoughtfully. “Giyuu or Sanemi?”

Obanai didn’t answer immediately.

“…Exactly,” Mitsuri murmured. “Because it could’ve been either.”

Obanai gave her a sidelong look.

She was stirring her soup slowly.

“They’re both hopeless,” she said eventually. “But it’s almost cute.”

“It’d be cute if it wasn’t exhausting,” Obanai muttered.

Mitsuri giggled softly. “They don’t even realize how much they give away when they’re trying to be subtle.”

Obanai took another bite. “Sanemi looked straight past me. The whole time. Eyes locked on something else.”

Mitsuri smiled. “Or someone.”

Obanai nodded once.

They sat in companionable silence for a while.

Then Mitsuri sighed, dreamily. “If they ever do figure it out, I think the world might tilt.”

“…Or explode,” Obanai added dryly.

The moon was low and silver.

A few quiet crickets chirped in the grass, and the only real sound left in the compound was the rhythmic thunk of fists hitting wood.

Sanemi was outside again.

Shirtless, sweating, and punching a training post like it had insulted his entire bloodline.

He wasn’t counting hits. He wasn’t focused. His knuckles were red.

And no matter how many times he hit it, the knot in his chest wouldn’t budge.

“You always act like I’m the one avoiding things.”
“But you’re just better at making it look like retreat’s your natural state.”

His own words, now echoing like a curse.

He slammed his fist forward again—

—and flinched.

Not from the pain.

From the memory.

⸻

[FLASHBACK — Months Ago]

They’d been on a mission in the southern districts. A minor demon infestation, nothing high-risk, but enough to warrant two Hashira — mostly for training the newer recruits in formation.

It was late. They’d been forced to stop for the night.

Sanemi was pacing by the riverside, wound too tight to sleep, as usual.

And that’s when he noticed Giyuu.

Sitting by the water, head tilted back toward the stars, hair damp from the mist.

“…Don’t you ever sleep?” Sanemi had muttered.

“You’re still awake,” Giyuu said calmly.

Sanemi scoffed. “Yeah, well. Some of us don’t sleep easy.”

Giyuu didn’t look at him. “I don’t think ease has anything to do with it.”

And Sanemi had almost snapped back, but then—

Giyuu turned to him. Really looked.

And said softly:

“You only rest when someone else is watching.”

Sanemi froze.

He hadn’t realized anyone had noticed.

“…The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you only let your guard down when you think no one will take advantage of it.”

Giyuu’s voice wasn’t smug. Wasn’t even accusing.

It was gentle.

Knowing.

And that—that unnerved Sanemi more than anything.

He didn’t reply. Just looked away.

And when Giyuu had quietly added, “You can sit if you want,” Sanemi had hesitated…

…and then sat down.

Not close.

But not far.

And they’d watched the river together in silence.

That was the first time Sanemi had felt a strange shift in the way the night felt around him.

He hated how much he remembered that now.

⸻

[PRESENT]

He slammed his fist one more time.

Then let his head fall forward against the wood.

The post stood firm.

He did not.

⸻

Elsewhere on the estate…

“Are you going to his room?” a voice asked behind Giyuu.

He froze in the hallway.

Mitsuri was leaning against the paper frame, arms crossed loosely, eyes gentle.

“I wasn’t—” he started.

“You have his scent on you,” she smiled.

Giyuu blinked. “I—what?”

Mitsuri giggled softly. “Just go talk to him. Even if it’s awkward. Especially if it’s awkward.”

Giyuu hesitated.

Then nodded once.

But as he turned the corner, heart in his throat, he stopped.

Because the room was dark.

Empty.

And cold.

Sanemi wasn’t there.

Giyuu stood in the doorway for a long moment, like maybe the silence could give him answers.

It didn’t.

He closed the door gently.

And walked out into the night.

⸻

Elsewhere, again — near the main clinic

“—I’m telling you, it’s like he does it on purpose!” Genya groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Like he knows exactly what’ll piss me off and he just. Keeps. Going.”

Tengen sipped his tea, expression unreadable.

Shinobu glanced up from her clipboard. “And this is the Mist Hashira?”

“Yeah! I mean—yes, ma’am. Tokito,” Genya said. “And he—he complimented me! And then insulted me. And then acted like he was confused when I got mad!”

Shinobu hummed. “Sounds like he likes you.”

Genya made a choking sound. “That’s not—! He’s a menace!”

Tengen clapped a hand on his shoulder. “My young, tortured flame. You’re experiencing classic battlefield chemistry.”

Genya looked horrified. “That’s not a real thing—”

“Oh, it’s real,” Tengen said, eyes gleaming. “The tension. The bickering. The slow realization that you’d kill for each other if it came down to it.”

“I barely want to speak to him!”

“Exactly,” Shinobu said calmly. “It’s starting perfectly.”

Genya looked between them, utterly betrayed.

“I came here for advice,” he said.

“And you got it,” Tengen grinned.

“Terrible advice!” Genya snapped.

“Effective,” Shinobu corrected. “You’ll see.”

⸻

Back to the quiet field.

Giyuu found him eventually.

Sanemi was still by the training post, shoulders hunched, breathing uneven.

He didn’t notice Giyuu approach.

Not until he was a few steps away.

“…It’s late,” Giyuu said.

Sanemi didn’t look at him.

“Go away.”

“I will.”

“Then go.”

Giyuu stayed.

And said softly:

“Do you remember that night by the river?”

Sanemi went still.

“…No,” he lied.

“You said nothing,” Giyuu murmured. “But you didn’t leave.”

Sanemi exhaled through his nose. “And I should’ve.”

Giyuu waited.

Then took one step closer.

“You don’t have to keep running from whatever this is.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Giyuu said, voice quiet but firm. “But I am too.”

That made Sanemi pause.

For one flicker of a second, something vulnerable cracked through the anger in his eyes.

And then—

He turned away again.

“Go back inside, Giyuu.”

“I will.”

Still, he didn’t move.

Neither did Sanemi.

They stood under the pale moonlight — two silhouettes outlined in distance and everything left unsaid.

And neither of them knew how long they stayed like that.

The moon was still out.

The crickets still chirped.

And right outside a certain hashiras estate, Genya was pacing a hole into the ground.

“This is stupid,” he muttered under his breath. “This is so goddamn stupid.”

But he wasn’t turning back.

Because according to Tengen, he needed to “match the energy of the battlefield.”
And according to Shinobu, that meant he should “speak his mind and not run away.”

And according to his idiotic impulse control?

That meant he was now outside Muichiro Tokito’s estate, in the middle of the night, fists clenched, about to knock.

He paused.

What the hell was he even gonna say?

“Hey, remember earlier when you complimented me then acted like I was a moron? I liked that. Wanna emotionally destroy each other forever?”

He groaned quietly.
Then knocked.

Nothing.

He knocked again. A little louder.

Still nothing.

“…He better not be dead,” Genya muttered.

He reached for the door, heart hammering—and slid it open.

Moonlight spilled in.

And there, he could see a door that opened slightly and inside that room was curled under a soft pale blanket, it was Muichiro Tokito.

Fast asleep.

Genya blinked.

He hadn’t even taken his hair down. His breathing was slow. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful for someone who’d spent the day being a complete little menace.

Genya stood there, frozen, completely unsure what to do with himself.

“This is what battlefield chemistry feels like.”

Shut up, Tengen.

He hesitated.

Started to back away.

Then—

“…You’re bad at knocking,” Muichiro mumbled, eyes still closed.

Genya startled like he’d been caught stealing.

“I—I did knock—!”

Muichiro didn’t open his eyes. “You hesitated too long. It’s awkward now.”

Genya opened his mouth. Closed it. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“…Wanted to see if you’d leave.”

“You’re the worst—”

“I was wrong,” Muichiro interrupted, voice still half-asleep. “Your face is kind of cute when you’re mad.”

Genya froze.

Muichiro cracked one eye open.

Smiled.

Slow. Lazy. Smug.

Genya’s soul flatlined.

“I—You—! You—what the hell kind of thing is that to say?!”

“I thought it was battlefield energy,” Muichiro said drowsily.

Genya’s mouth opened. And stayed open. Because there was no way this gremlin was—

Wait.

Did Tengen talk to him, too?

“Did someone put you up to this?” Genya demanded, horrified.

“…No,” Muichiro said. Then tilted his head. “Unless you count Shinobu. Or Mitsuri.”

“Oh my god.”

Muichiro yawned.

“You talk loud when you panic,” he murmured, tucking one hand under his cheek. “It’s kind of endearing.”

Genya made a sound like a dying kettle.

“I—I came here to tell you that you were being confusing, not to—*to get—*flirted at!”

Muichiro hummed. “So you came to my room. Alone. At night.”

“I WAS FOLLOWING ADVICE!”

“Badly,” Muichiro said softly.

Genya stared at him.

Muichiro blinked once. Then added, “You didn’t have to do all that.”

“…Do what?”

“You could’ve just said you liked me.”

Genya short-circuited.

Then turned around.

And walked away.

Fast.

Too fast.

“You forgot to shut the door,” Muichiro called gently.

“SHUT IT YOURSELF!” Genya yelled from halfway of the mist hashiras estate, red from head to toe.

Muichiro sighed softly.

And smiled into his pillow.

Genya swore he wasn’t hiding.

…Except he absolutely was.

The corner behind the stack of spare zabuton cushions was not exactly subtle, but it was out of Muichiro’s immediate line of sight, and at this point, that was all he could ask for. He still hadn’t recovered from last night’s trainwreck of a “conversation,” courtesy of Tengen’s brilliant advice. His ears still burned just remembering the look Muichiro gave him — not angry, but unreadable, and somehow that was worse.

The breakfast hall was unusually loud for this early in the morning. Mitsuri was already halfway through a plate of steaming tamagoyaki, happily chatting to whoever was unlucky enough to be in arm’s reach. Today, that someone was Shinobu, who looked like she was politely tolerating the conversation while occasionally flicking a small, dangerously sharp kunai between her fingers.

Giyuu sat near the far end of the table, staring into his miso soup as if he could divine some kind of answer from it. Sanemi wasn’t there yet — which, given the way Giyuu’s eyes kept flicking toward the doorway, was probably a blessing. Mitsuri, of course, caught the glance immediately.

“Ohhh~ Giyuu! Are you waiting for someone?” she asked, voice carrying far too easily across the room.

Giyuu froze. “…No.”

Mitsuri beamed, as if that was the funniest and most obvious lie she’d ever heard. “Right, right. Totally not waiting for anyone.” She reached across the table for more rice and nearly knocked over Shinobu’s tea, earning a look that could strip paint.

Across the hall, Obanai had been quietly eating, but now his eyes were on Giyuu as well, narrowing like he was replaying some recent conversation in his head.

Genya ducked lower behind the cushions as Muichiro walked in, tray in hand, looking fresh, calm, and — unfortunately — like last night hadn’t even happened. He sat down with the same serenity he always had, right at the table closest to Genya’s hiding spot.

Genya swallowed hard and prayed Mitsuri wouldn’t notice him.

“Genya! There you are!”

Damn it.

Shinobu raised an eyebrow. “Why are you crouching like that? Planning an ambush?”

Mitsuri just tilted her head. “Ohhh, maybe it’s a romantic ambush!”

Genya’s soul left his body on the spot.

The first sound was the thud of the door.

It was heavy enough to make the tableware rattle and sharp enough to slice through Mitsuri’s latest sunny comment like a blade. Everyone’s heads jerked toward the entrance—everyone except Giyuu, who was already staring down at his tea as though he could disappear into it.

Sanemi stood there, backlit by morning sun, still smelling faintly of cold wind and steel. His eyes swept over the room once, landing unerringly on Giyuu. The room’s noise evaporated, leaving a silence that was somehow louder than the chatter had been.

Genya froze mid-chew, still halfway crouched behind Shinobu’s chair from earlier. Muichiro barely looked up, but the twitch of his eyebrow betrayed he was paying attention.

Obanai’s gaze flicked between the two men, then to Mitsuri. She wasn’t even pretending not to watch—chin propped in her hand, eyes bright and glinting with the unmistakable oh no, oh yes sort of excitement she usually reserved for sweets.

Sanemi didn’t move closer, but the set of his shoulders said he might. Giyuu finally lifted his head, meeting Sanemi’s glare with a steady, unreadable expression. It wasn’t exactly a challenge, but it wasn’t surrender either—just that maddening calm that Sanemi had never been able to stand.

The air between them felt like the split-second before a storm breaks.

Mitsuri leaned toward Obanai, voice low but still audible enough for anyone listening.
“Do you feel it?” she whispered.
Obanai didn’t look away from the scene. “Hard to miss. It’s like watching two weather fronts collide.”

Mitsuri bit her lip, fighting the urge to sigh dreamily, and Obanai’s hand ghosted against hers under the table—a subtle squeeze, grounding her before she blurted something that would tip the tension from sharp to outright explosive.

Sanemi’s jaw flexed. Giyuu’s fingers tightened minutely on his teacup.

Nobody dared move.

Sanemi just scoffed at them and went to his seat and started to eat quietly. Some people glanced at him while eating and others just kept on eating like nothing had happened.

The silence between Sanemi and Giyuu was a blade drawn halfway from its sheath — gleaming, dangerous, and waiting for the first reckless move.

Giyuu didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. His gaze stayed fixed, calm and unreadable, but Sanemi could see the faint tightening around his jaw.

Sanemi’s fingers twitched at his side, every instinct telling him to just say something, to slice through the unbearable weight pressing down on the air between them. But his chest felt locked, ribs tight, as if any words he tried to force out would come out jagged and wrong.

Mitsuri glanced between them like she was watching a storm cloud roll in over a picnic. Obanai, seated beside her, quietly slid his tea cup out of the blast radius and leaned in close enough to murmur something only she could hear. She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a smile, but her eyes never left the two men.

The scrape of a chair leg across the floor snapped the tension just enough for Sanemi to move — but instead of stepping forward, he shifted back. A retreat.

Giyuu’s gaze followed him for a heartbeat too long before dropping to the table.

“Hmm,” Mitsuri hummed to herself in the deceptively bright way only she could manage, picking up her chopsticks again. “The weather today looks perfect for a little mission together…”

Sanemi shot her a look sharp enough to cut porcelain. Obanai, on the other hand, only raised a brow and fed her a piece of pickled radish without looking away from the scene.

The standoff wasn’t over.

It had only gone underground — waiting for the next crack in the earth.

Sanemi was the first to move.
No words, no sideways glance — just the scrape of his chair legs against the wooden floor as he pushed back and stalked toward the door, the mess hall air seeming to thin with each step he took.

Mitsuri’s eyes followed him like a cat watching a particularly interesting bird. She didn’t even try to hide the little giggle that slipped out, covering her mouth with both hands. Beside her, Obanai’s head tilted almost imperceptibly, as if cataloging the exact micro-expression Giyuu wore while watching Sanemi’s retreat.

Giyuu didn’t follow. He didn’t even twitch. But his gaze lingered until Sanemi’s broad shoulders vanished past the doorframe — that same heavy, unreadable stare that felt like it could pin a man in place if it wanted to.

Across the table, Genya frowned at his plate. He wasn’t sure what he’d just witnessed, but it was definitely… something. Maybe. He shoveled the last of his food into his mouth with an expression that screamed please do not involve me and stood, mumbling something about “training.”

Right as he stepped into the hall, Muichiro — who had spent the entire breakfast pretending the ceiling was infinitely more interesting than anything else — rose as well. His footsteps fell in with Genya’s, though his eyes never strayed from whatever distant thought was holding his attention hostage.

They didn’t say a word to each other.
But the quiet between them felt louder than anything that had been said at the table.

Sanemi didn’t look back as he stepped out of the mess hall. His boots crunched over the gravel path, the cool morning air biting against the exposed skin of his neck. He exhaled sharply, shoving his hands deep into his haori pockets.

The mess hall’s chatter still rang faintly in his ears — Mitsuri’s singsong voice, Obanai’s dry muttering, the scrape of utensils. And, somewhere in there, the quiet presence of him. Sanemi’s jaw tightened at the memory of Giyuu’s unreadable eyes locked on his for that one brief, stupid moment.

“Tch… whatever,” he muttered to himself, walking faster, like maybe he could outrun the tight coil in his chest. He told himself it was better this way — better to keep things unsaid, to keep space between them. Words had a way of making things messier.

He didn’t notice his brother lingering behind until the sound of footsteps caught his attention. Genya’s voice floated in from the doorway, low and distracted, speaking to someone else.

“…yeah, guess I’ll head out too.”

Sanemi didn’t turn. He kept moving down the path toward the training grounds. Whatever Genya was doing — whatever anyone was doing — was none of his business.

⸻

Genya stepped out into the morning sun, blinking against the sudden brightness. His stomach was full, but his head was still buzzing from the awkward mess inside. He let out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

Beside him, Muichiro also emerged — not looking at him, but clearly aware of his presence. The Mist Hashira’s expression was blank, his gaze drifting lazily toward the trees, but his steps matched Genya’s almost exactly.

“…You, uh, heading somewhere?” Genya asked after a moment, his voice hesitant.

“Maybe,” Muichiro said simply, without elaborating.

And then, as if by some unspoken agreement, they both started walking — the quiet between them stretching out, neither of them entirely sure where this was going.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5: Silent Confessions and Shadowed Steps

The sun had only just begun to scrape light over the horizon when Genya realized he and Muichiro were walking side by side again. Not on purpose—never on purpose, because Genya would rather chew glass—but somehow their steps had fallen into the same rhythm, boots scuffing at the dirt path leading away from the mess hall.

The silence stretched. Not the comfortable kind. More like the kind that pressed against Genya’s ribs until he thought he’d choke on it. He cleared his throat once, then again, harsher, like he could hack the words out if he forced enough gravel through.

Muichiro didn’t look at him. He never did, not at first. His gaze was tilted toward the trees, as though something more interesting lingered in the flutter of leaves than in the boy walking next to him.

Genya snapped first.
“D’you—” His voice cracked, and he hated himself instantly. He tried again, sharper. “Do you even care I’m always the one stuck with you?”

That got Muichiro to blink over at him. Not offended. Not even annoyed. Just faintly curious, like a bird cocking its head at a noise.
“You make it sound like a punishment.”

Genya bristled. “Well—it is.”

Muichiro hummed, unbothered. “I don’t mind.”

That made Genya stumble. He almost missed a step, because—what the hell was that supposed to mean? His chest burned hot, like he’d been caught off guard by a blade and didn’t know where the cut had landed.
“You—you don’t mind?!” he hissed, ears already burning red. “You—you’re sayin’ you like it?”

Muichiro tilted his head again, but this time his eyes were softer, almost kind.
“I like the way you stomp when you walk,” he said simply, as if it explained everything. “It makes it easier to follow the sound, so I don’t lose track of you.”

Genya froze. His entire brain stuttered to a halt. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again with a strangled noise that wasn’t words.
“Wh—what the hell’s that supposed to mean?!”

Muichiro’s lips curved—just slightly, not quite a smile, but close enough to make Genya’s pulse slam against his throat.
“It means… I notice you.”

And just like that, Muichiro drifted ahead, steps still light, still unhurried, as though he hadn’t just derailed Genya’s entire morning and maybe his whole life.

Genya stood rooted on the path for three long breaths before stumbling after him, muttering curses under his breath that sounded suspiciously like prayers he hoped no one overheard.

 

Genya hadn’t thought silence could feel so loud until Muichiro opened his mouth and dropped that… whatever the hell that was.

He could still hear it—like an echo that refused to leave his skull—so casual, so damn straightforward, like Muichiro was commenting on the weather instead of dismantling Genya’s ability to function as a normal human being.

Now he was walking two steps behind, desperately trying to keep his breathing steady, pretending like the world hadn’t just tilted sideways.

He didn’t mean it like that.
He couldn’t have meant it like that.
He’s… he’s just blunt. That’s all. He says weird things all the time—

But then Muichiro had looked at him right after saying it, as if checking his reaction.

Genya’s ears burned so hot he thought steam might actually come out of them. He shoved his hands into his pockets, muttering half-formed excuses to himself under his breath. Maybe Muichiro had meant training. Maybe respect. Maybe—hell—maybe Genya was just losing his mind because no one in their right mind would—

Muichiro tilted his head back lazily toward him, expression as unreadable as always. “You’re being loud again.”

Genya froze.
“I—what?”

“Your thoughts,” Muichiro said simply, like that explained everything. “They’re all over your face. You should probably learn how to hide them better. Someone might take advantage of that.”

Genya nearly tripped over his own damn feet.
Hide them better.
As if he could.

Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Mister I-Drop-Bombs-With-A-Straight-Face, he wanted to yell, but what came out was:

“I—I wasn’t thinkin’ nothin’ weird!”

The words exploded out of him too fast, too loud, too panicked. His voice cracked halfway through, sealing his humiliation.

Muichiro blinked slowly, then shrugged. “I never said you were.”

Genya’s stomach sank through the earth. His head spun. He wanted to throw himself into a pit, or maybe find the nearest demon to chew him up and save him the trouble of existing another second in this hell.

Muichiro didn’t push further. He just kept walking, serene and unbothered, as though he hadn’t just knocked the wind out of Genya’s entire nervous system.

Genya trailed behind, fists clenched tight in his pockets, muttering, I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m so screwed, until he nearly bit through his tongue.

“I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m so screwed…”

Genya’s voice faded into the distance as the two younger slayers disappeared down the path, leaving only the buzz of cicadas to fill the air.

Later that day, the compound had settled into that uneasy rhythm of routine—sparring fields alive with sharp thuds of wood against wood, low murmurs from messengers running reports, the scent of dust and rice drifting lazily on the summer heat.

Sanemi had been trying to burn it all out of his body again. Training dummies lay split and ruined, his knuckles raw from striking too hard without gloves. But it hadn’t worked. Nothing ever did, not when the real agitation came from a single direction across the yard.

Giyuu.

The man had stationed himself quietly beneath the shade of a tree, posture deceptively calm, though Sanemi knew better. Giyuu’s calm was never peace—it was silence sharpened into steel.

And Sanemi hated how he could feel those damn eyes on him without even looking.

He dragged his sleeve across his forehead, breath ragged, and for the first time allowed himself a glance. Sure enough, Giyuu was watching. Not openly, not like Mitsuri or Obanai with their too-knowing stares, but in that infuriating way of his—steady, silent, unwavering.

Sanemi’s jaw locked. His body all but screamed go over there, and yet his feet rooted to the ground.

He didn’t move. Neither did Giyuu.

The air between them was stretched taut, fragile as glass.

It might have stayed that way, another day of wordless stand-offs, if not for Mitsuri’s voice carrying over the field like a bell:

“Ne~ Sanemi! Giyuu! You two look so serious—don’t you ever relax?”

Sanemi’s stomach dropped. Giyuu’s head tilted the barest fraction toward her voice, then back again, eyes flicking to Sanemi’s.

Sanemi glared right back, daring him to speak first.

Giyuu didn’t.

The stalemate deepened, their silence somehow louder than Mitsuri’s chatter as she swept past with Obanai trailing behind, his narrowed gaze flicking between them both with a sharpness that cut deeper than any katana.

For a second, Sanemi thought he saw Mitsuri hide a little smile behind her sleeve. Obanai, though, said nothing—just let his serpent coil tighter around his shoulders as if it, too, was waiting for the inevitable snap.

Sanemi turned away first. Because of course he did.

But he knew Giyuu was still watching.

“I’m screwed, I’m screwed, I’m so screwed…”

Genya’s voice faded into the distance as the two younger slayers disappeared down the path, leaving only the buzz of cicadas to fill the air.

Later that day, the compound had settled into that uneasy rhythm of routine—sparring fields alive with sharp thuds of wood against wood, low murmurs from messengers running reports, the scent of dust and rice drifting lazily on the summer heat.

Sanemi had been trying to burn it all out of his body again. Training dummies lay split and ruined, his knuckles raw from striking too hard without gloves. But it hadn’t worked. Nothing ever did, not when the real agitation came from a single direction across the yard.

Giyuu.

The man had stationed himself quietly beneath the shade of a tree, posture deceptively calm, though Sanemi knew better. Giyuu’s calm was never peace—it was silence sharpened into steel.

And Sanemi hated how he could feel those damn eyes on him without even looking.

He dragged his sleeve across his forehead, breath ragged, and for the first time allowed himself a glance. Sure enough, Giyuu was watching. Not openly, not like Mitsuri or Obanai with their too-knowing stares, but in that infuriating way of his—steady, silent, unwavering.

Sanemi’s jaw locked. His body all but screamed go over there, and yet his feet rooted to the ground.

He didn’t move. Neither did Giyuu.

The air between them was stretched taut, fragile as glass.

It might have stayed that way, another day of wordless stand-offs, if not for Mitsuri’s voice carrying over the field like a bell:

“Ne~ Sanemi! Giyuu! You two look so serious—don’t you ever relax?”

Sanemi’s stomach dropped. Giyuu’s head tilted the barest fraction toward her voice, then back again, eyes flicking to Sanemi’s.

Sanemi glared right back, daring him to speak first.

Giyuu didn’t.

The stalemate deepened, their silence somehow louder than Mitsuri’s chatter as she swept past with Obanai trailing behind, his narrowed gaze flicking between them both with a sharpness that cut deeper than any katana.

For a second, Sanemi thought he saw Mitsuri hide a little smile behind her sleeve. Obanai, though, said nothing—just let his serpent coil tighter around his shoulders as if it, too, was waiting for the inevitable snap.

Sanemi turned away first. Because of course he did.

But he knew Giyuu was still watching.

Sanemi turned away first. Because of course he did.

But the moment his back was to Giyuu, the silence dug its claws in deeper. He could feel those eyes, steady as a blade tip at the nape of his neck, chasing him all the way to the far end of the yard.

He tried to shake it off. Focus. One more strike. Another. His fists slammed into the dummy until the straw split open, pieces scattering at his feet. But when the dust settled, when his breath burned his throat raw, that damn tightness in his chest only grew heavier.

And still—Giyuu hadn’t moved.

He was just… there. A fixed point. Watching. Waiting.

Sanemi spat in the dirt and shoved past what was left of the dummy, trying to make his exit look deliberate instead of desperate. The heat crawling under his skin said otherwise.

Across the yard, Giyuu’s posture didn’t shift. Not even when Mitsuri called a cheery goodbye over her shoulder, tugging a reluctant Obanai toward the mess hall. The serpent on his shoulders hissed once before they vanished from sight, leaving only the two men behind.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to cicadas and the faint crunch of Sanemi’s boots on gravel.

Then, at last, Giyuu moved—slowly, deliberately—turning his head just enough to track Sanemi’s retreat.

Sanemi didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

If he did, he knew something would break.

The tension followed him all the way to the barracks, clinging like smoke, unspoken words gnawing at the edges of his temper. And still, nothing was said. Nothing was done.

The stalemate held—for now.

Sanemi shoved the door to his barracks open so hard it rattled on its hinges.

He didn’t bother lighting a lamp. He didn’t need to see. The dark was safer anyway—hid the fact that his jaw was locked tight enough to ache, that his hands wouldn’t stop clenching and unclenching like they were looking for something to bleed.

“Pathetic,” he hissed under his breath, slamming a fist against the wall. The wood groaned but didn’t splinter.

It wasn’t the silence outside that had followed him in. No—what burned at the back of his throat was the silence between them. The way Giyuu just stood there, like a shadow waiting for Sanemi to give something—anything. And the worst part? For a second, Sanemi almost had.

He dragged a hand down his face, the frustration boiling too close to shame. Why couldn’t he just—say something normal? “Oi. Move your damn feet.” Or “Stop starin’ at me like that.” Anything to break that look off his skin.

But no. He’d just walked away. Again.

The cot creaked as he sat, shoulders heaving like he’d run a marathon instead of fought shadows in the yard. His chest still hurt, that familiar mix of anger and something softer he didn’t want to name.

And underneath it all—

That memory.

That night, months back, when it had started.

The faintest slip of Giyuu’s voice in the dark, when neither of them should’ve said a damn thing.

Sanemi swore and shoved himself off the cot before it could take root. He needed air. He needed a fight. He needed—anything that wasn’t this choking silence and the ghost of Giyuu’s eyes.

He grabbed his haori and stalked back out into the night, every step sharp enough to cut.

But no matter how far he went, the weight in his chest came with him.

Giyuu remained under the tree long after Sanemi had stomped off, the quiet of the compound settling around him like a heavy cloak. His hands were loose at his sides, fingers brushing the grass, yet he didn’t move. Didn’t follow. Didn’t call.

He watched the way Sanemi’s figure receded, shoulders tense, every step radiating defiance and frustration. And yet, Giyuu felt nothing—not the irritation Sanemi probably expected, not the warmth that might come from concern.

He felt… aware. A sharp, almost uncomfortable awareness that tugged at the edges of him, the kind that made him notice every twitch of Sanemi’s jaw, every impatient stomp of his boots, the clench of his fists.

Giyuu’s gaze drifted down to the patch of ground where Sanemi had stood moments ago. The ground was still disturbed—grass pressed into the dirt, tiny scuffs where his boots had dug in. He traced the lines with his eyes, almost counting them, almost memorizing the way Sanemi’s presence left a mark even when he walked away.

He didn’t understand why this was… heavier than usual. The field had seen dozens of battles, dozens of arguments, dozens of tense silences. But this—this was different. It lingered.

Giyuu exhaled quietly, shoulders sagging fractionally, and he shifted his weight. His hands flexed. His head tilted slightly, thinking. Not about what he should say, not about what he could say—because he didn’t know.

He only knew that the empty stretch between him and Sanemi felt longer than it should.

And that maybe, in some small, irrational corner of him, he didn’t want to fill it just yet.

The night pressed in on him like a vice, cold air scraping at his skin as he stormed past the empty training yard. Each step echoed too loudly, bouncing back at him like a reminder that he was still alone.

Sanemi kicked at a stray stone, watching it skitter across the gravel before vanishing into the shadows. He swore under his breath. The tightness in his chest hadn’t eased—it had grown sharper, coiling into something he refused to name.

He cursed himself for thinking about Giyuu. For replaying that damn stillness, that unnerving calm, that look. The way Giyuu just stood there, unshaken, untouchable, as if Sanemi’s every growl and stomp were insignificant.

“Pathetic,” he muttered again, fists clenching until his knuckles turned white. His own voice sounded foreign in the silence.

He paced, back and forth, over and over, trying to force the tension out, to train it away. Each swing at the dummy, each rapid cut through the air, felt hollow. Nothing was reaching the anger, the frustration, the… something else gnawing at him.

A flash of memory hit him—the ohagi. The taste he hadn’t meant to enjoy. The way he had actually… liked it.

Sanemi’s jaw tightened until it ached.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He stomped again, harder this time, as if the motion alone could drive out the confusing heat, the unwanted thoughts. The night air bit at his skin, but he didn’t notice.

Every breath was sharp, ragged, and yet… the tension wouldn’t leave. It clung, a silent accusation in the darkness, reminding him that the moment he wanted to ignore—the one Giyuu had created just by being there—wasn’t going anywhere.

Sanemi leaned against the wall of the barracks, pressing his forehead to the cool wood, muttering curses into the quiet. He’d walked away, he’d fought, he’d tried to shove it down.

But nothing could stop it.

And he hated that he couldn’t.

Giyuu lingered just beyond the lantern-lit edge of the compound, watching the shadows stretch across the barracks. He didn’t move forward. Didn’t call. Didn’t even breathe heavily. He simply observed.

Sanemi’s presence was like a storm in motion—restless, sharp, and unpredictable. The way he leaned against the wall, muttering under his breath, his fists clenched so tight the knuckles glimmered in the light—Giyuu noticed every detail, cataloged every tremor.

He didn’t understand why it mattered. Not in words, anyway.

The night was quiet, yet charged. The usual stillness that accompanied darkness felt heavier here, filled with the tension Sanemi carried, the tension Giyuu couldn’t touch or ease.

He shifted, just slightly, considering whether to approach. But something in the way Sanemi’s shoulders hunched, the way he muttered curses at nothing, told him that approaching would only make things worse.

So he stayed. Silent. Watching. Waiting.

Because he knew, as much as he refused to name it, that Sanemi needed the space to unravel on his own. And Giyuu… didn’t. Not really. But he stayed anyway.

A soft exhale escaped his lips, unnoticed. The wind rustled the grass at his feet, carrying Sanemi’s anger and confusion across the compound like a tangible thing. Giyuu’s eyes narrowed slightly.

He didn’t know what to do with it. He never did.

But he could at least witness it.

And somehow, that small, silent act felt… enough for now.

Sanemi hadn’t meant to end up back at the edge of the training yard, but his legs had carried him there before his mind could protest. The night was still, and yet it pressed against him like a living thing, shadows stretching unnaturally across the ground.

He kicked at another stray stone, sending it skittering across the gravel. His jaw ached from clenching it so hard. His fists were raw, knuckles scraped from earlier cuts, but he barely noticed.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Giyuu. About the quiet, the calm, the way he moved like he owned the world without ever raising a voice. And worse—how it got under his skin.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Sanemi muttered the words again, louder this time, letting them hang in the night air. He pressed his palms against his face, trying to shove down the heat crawling through him. But it only throbbed stronger, sharper, like some corner of his body refused to cooperate.

He thought of the ohagi. The taste, the stupid, tiny warmth it left behind. And that had been just food. Just a simple, inconsequential thing—and yet… it had done something. Something that made him feel small and annoyed and furious all at once.

He stomped again, letting the sound echo across the empty yard. The anger, the confusion, the unwilling acknowledgment of whatever this feeling was—it all collided inside him, making it impossible to think straight.

Sanemi leaned against the wall again, forehead pressed to the cool wood, breath ragged. He wanted to hate it. Wanted to push it down. Wanted to be Sanemi, untouchable and unbothered.

But he couldn’t.

And he hated that, too.

The hallways were quiet, almost eerily so, with only the faint echo of their footsteps breaking the stillness. Genya walked beside Muichiro, trying to steady his own racing thoughts. Every glance at the Mist Hashira made his stomach twist in a confusing knot he couldn’t quite name.

“So…” Genya started, voice lower than usual. “About earlier… what did you mean by that?”

Muichiro blinked slowly, tilting his head, as though the question required serious contemplation. “I wasn’t… meaning anything. I just said it.”

“Just said it?” Genya nearly choked on his own disbelief. “You don’t just say things like that!”

Muichiro hummed, unfazed. “Why not?”

Genya groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew it was useless to try reasoning with Muichiro when he was like this—so calm, so inscrutable, so impossibly frustrating. And yet, he couldn’t stop. He needed clarity. Needed some kind of sign that he wasn’t imagining it all.

“Look, I… I don’t even know if I’m overthinking this,” Genya admitted, voice quieter now. “But, like… I think maybe you… maybe you do like me?”

Muichiro paused, and for a moment, Genya swore the other boy’s entire face softened. But then Muichiro shrugged, casual and detached, yet with a faint trace of warmth lingering in his gaze.

“I might,” Muichiro said softly. “Maybe. But I’m not saying for sure. Not yet.”

Genya’s brain short-circuited. That was not the response he’d expected. Not calm, not reasonable, not something he could easily parse. His heart thumped in his chest, and he could feel his ears heat up.

“So… that’s it?” he asked, voice barely audible.

Muichiro nodded once, unbothered, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. “That’s it… for now.”

Genya blinked. Blinked again. Then, in a rush of panic and confusion, he mumbled something incoherent and bolted down the hall, leaving Muichiro standing there with that faint, infuriating, unshakable calm.

And just like that, the tension hung in the air, quiet, unresolved—but undeniably present.

Genya barely made it around the corner before stopping, heart hammering in his chest. He cursed under his breath, taking a deep breath to calm himself, but it only made his palms sweat more. He couldn’t just let it go—not when he might actually be feeling something.

He spun back toward Muichiro, trying to sound casual, though the pitch of his voice betrayed him. “I… maybe… maybe I… I mean—uh…” His words tangled themselves into a mess of frustration and embarrassment.

Muichiro’s calm gaze didn’t falter. “You’re flustered,” he said simply.

“Shut up!” Genya snapped, cheeks burning. “I… I just… it’s nothing!”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was definitely something, and Genya knew it, even if he couldn’t articulate it clearly. He opened his mouth again to try—really try—to say what he meant, but the words failed him, tumbling out in a flustered jumble.

Muichiro tilted his head, expression softening. “You’re not sure… but it’s okay. I think I—”

Genya froze. He couldn’t hear any more. Any attempt Muichiro made to clarify his own feelings only sent his brain into overdrive. He stammered, turned on his heel, and ran. Fast. Too fast.

From behind him, he could feel Muichiro’s gaze following, calm and unjudging, just… watching. When Genya disappeared around the corner, Muichiro finally exhaled and adjusted the strap of his bag, letting the night air settle around him. He started walking slowly toward his estate, hands tucked in his pockets, a faint trace of thoughtfulness in his eyes.

Even in the quiet, the night seemed heavier now, weighed down by unspoken words, half-realized feelings, and the awkward gravity of what had just passed.

Genya finally slowed his frantic pace, chest heaving, as the adrenaline from his earlier meltdown began to ebb. He wiped sweat from his brow and started walking again, trying to piece himself together. That’s when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement at the training ground.

Sanemi.

Panic surged immediately, and Genya pivoted instinctively, preparing to duck out of sight. But it was too late. Sanemi’s sharp eyes had already locked onto him.

“Hey! What are you doing here this late at night?” Sanemi’s voice cut through the quiet air, loud enough to make Genya’s stomach twist.

Genya swallowed hard, forcing a casual stride toward him, trying desperately to appear as normal as possible. “Uh… just… uh, taking a walk,” he muttered, voice tight.

Sanemi’s eyes narrowed, the suspicion immediately registering. “Taking a walk? At this hour? Don’t lie to me,” he said, stepping closer, crossing his arms. “You’re hiding something.”

Genya’s mind raced. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again, and failed spectacularly. Words didn’t come out right; his face burned hotter by the second.

Sanemi leaned in slightly, tilting his head, studying him. “I know you’re hiding something. What is it?”

Genya froze, caught between wanting to confess and wanting to vanish entirely. The tight knot in his chest made it impossible to form a coherent response. He swallowed, stammered, and then—without another word—bolted.

Sanemi’s voice echoed after him, frustrated. “Hey! Don’t think I’m letting you get away with that!”

But Genya was already disappearing into the shadows, leaving Sanemi standing there, hands on his hips, scowling. Somewhere beneath the annoyance, he couldn’t deny a flicker of curiosity—or was it something else?

The night returned to its quiet stillness, punctuated only by Genya’s hurried footsteps fading into the distance.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Unspoken

Sanemi remained on the training ground long after Genya had vanished into the shadows. The night air was cool against his skin, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside him. He kicked at a loose stone, sending it clattering across the empty field. His jaw was tight, his fists clenched, and yet… the tension wasn’t all frustration. There was something else gnawing at him, something he refused to name.

Footsteps echoed faintly against the wooden planks of the nearby estate, drawing his attention. Giyuu. Of course it was Giyuu. The sound made Sanemi’s chest tighten, and for a moment he considered turning away, pretending he hadn’t heard. But he didn’t. He never did.

Giyuu approached slowly, his hands tucked into his pockets, every step deliberate. There was no rush, no panic, but his calm only seemed to make Sanemi more irritable. He didn’t want Giyuu here. He didn’t want to care that he did. And yet, here they were, sharing the same space in the dead of night, two stubborn pillars of tension.

“Why are you still out here?” Giyuu asked quietly, voice neutral but carrying that subtle undertone Sanemi hated—one that always felt like it saw right through him.

Sanemi scowled. “I could ask you the same thing.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked another stone. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Giyuu’s gaze flickered briefly to the stone, then back to Sanemi. “I just…” He hesitated, a small pause that felt like it stretched too long. “…wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Sanemi’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” His voice was sharper than he intended, but he didn’t stop. “Watching me fume, thinking you’re all high and mighty.”

Giyuu’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not trying to.” His calmness, that unshakable composure, only made Sanemi’s irritation spike further. He took a step closer, chest rising with shallow breaths, trying not to let the underlying tension show.

“I don’t need anyone worrying about me,” Sanemi snapped, though even he could hear the edge of uncertainty in his own voice. “Especially not you.”

Giyuu tilted his head slightly, unbothered. “I’m not here to worry. I just…” He trailed off again, then straightened. “…I’m here.”

The words should have been simple. Neutral. But for Sanemi, they felt like a challenge, a spark he didn’t know how to handle. He gritted his teeth and looked away, kicking the stone once more. And yet, as Giyuu’s quiet presence lingered beside him, the night felt impossibly charged, and the air thick with things neither of them would say aloud.

Hours seemed to stretch between them, filled only with the sound of their breathing and the distant rustle of trees in the wind. Neither moved closer, neither spoke further—but both were acutely aware of the other’s presence.

Eventually, Giyuu shifted slightly, adjusting his stance. “I’ll leave soon,” he said softly. “Get some rest. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Sanemi said nothing, but the tightness in his chest eased slightly, just a fraction. Giyuu didn’t press, didn’t linger unnecessarily, and that small restraint—something so simple—hit harder than any argument could.

When Giyuu finally walked away, the shadows swallowed him, and Sanemi was left standing alone. His fists relaxed, but only barely. He kicked another stone, more absentmindedly this time, and muttered under his breath, “What the hell am I even thinking…”

The night remained silent, but it was heavier now, full of questions neither of them would answer tonight.

Morning came slowly, painting the estate in pale light that barely chased away the lingering shadows of the night. Sanemi moved like a storm contained, shoving his arms into his sleeves, pacing the wooden floors of his room while muttering under his breath. The events of the previous night replayed in his mind, and no matter how much he tried to shove the thoughts aside, the quiet presence of Giyuu at the training ground refused to leave.

Giyuu, meanwhile, prepared his gear with meticulous care, each movement precise and deliberate. There was no rush, yet his mind kept returning to Sanemi. He wanted to talk, to break the silence, to… clarify. Or maybe just to stand near him without triggering the usual explosions of irritation. Simple, he thought. But with Sanemi, nothing was ever simple.

The first encounter came on the main pathway leading to the training grounds. Giyuu spotted Sanemi from a distance, shoulders tense, strides long and purposeful. He stepped forward, keeping his pace slow so as not to startle him. “Hey,” he said quietly, voice carrying just enough to be heard.

Sanemi didn’t look back. His jaw was tight, eyes forward, and his pace never faltered. “Morning,” he muttered, deliberately curt.

Giyuu fell into step beside him, careful to match his speed without closing the gap too much. “I wanted to talk,” he said, voice low, trying for neutral, but there was that unyielding weight in it that always made Sanemi bristle.

Sanemi snorted. “Oh, great. I was just hoping to walk in peace.”

The subtle jab earned no reaction from Giyuu beyond a small tilt of his head. “I don’t want to disturb you. I just… thought maybe we could discuss the mission prep.”

Sanemi’s eyes narrowed. “Mission prep? Is that supposed to be an excuse to talk to me?” He glanced sideways, sharp as a blade. “I don’t need talking to.”

Giyuu hesitated, carefully choosing his words. “Not necessarily talking. Just—coordinating. Making sure we’re ready.”

Sanemi kicked at a small stone on the path, sending it skittering across the floorboards. “Coordination doesn’t require you shadowing me,” he muttered. His steps quickened, the distance between them widening, though not intentionally.

Giyuu adjusted his pace to keep up. “I’m not shadowing you. I just—” He trailed off, realizing Sanemi was already half a step ahead in mind and body. “I just wanted to… make sure you’re aware of the changes to the plan,” he finished softly.

Sanemi’s scowl deepened. “Plan noted. Not interested in commentary,” he said briskly, before pivoting sharply and breaking into a run toward the training grounds. Giyuu sighed, running after him effortlessly, keeping pace, though there was no anger or pursuit in his steps—only the quiet insistence that he stay near.

By the time they reached the training grounds, Sanemi had doubled back several times in his head, muttering curses at Giyuu under his breath while pretending he didn’t care. Giyuu fell into place a few paces behind, not speaking but letting the quiet tension build like a charged wire stretched taut.

Sanemi’s eyes flicked toward him briefly, then away. He kept his posture defensive, every muscle coiled, ready to snap. He didn’t know why the sight of Giyuu so close unsettled him so much, why his pulse raced even when his mind was screaming at him to ignore everything.

Giyuu, for his part, simply mirrored Sanemi’s movements from a distance, watching, waiting, allowing the silence to stretch. He wanted words, even just a small acknowledgment, but he knew that pushing too hard would only make Sanemi retreat further.

Eventually, Sanemi stopped at the edge of the training field, chest heaving from his own irritation more than exertion. He finally turned to Giyuu, eyes narrowed. “Say what you came to say and get it over with,” he spat, keeping his distance.

Giyuu approached slightly, slow and deliberate. “I… just wanted to make sure you’re ready. For today, and—” His voice faltered slightly, the rest unsaid. He wanted to add something about the previous night, the tension, the unspoken… everything. But he couldn’t.

Sanemi’s scowl only deepened. “That’s it?” he asked, voice sharp, exhaling in frustration. “That’s your big talk?”

Giyuu’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “That’s it. For now.”

Sanemi huffed, turned on his heel, and stalked off toward the equipment sheds, muttering under his breath about how infuriating Giyuu was. Giyuu watched him go, quiet, hands in pockets, letting the tension hang heavy in the air between them. Neither had said a name, neither had given in—but the unspoken charge lingered, electric and unavoidable.

By the time the first rays of sun cut across the estate, the two had gone through a full morning of preparation, barely speaking, yet acutely aware of every movement, every breath, every subtle glance. The tension didn’t dissipate; if anything, it thickened, bracing for the inevitable mission ahead.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the distant sound of birds awakening, but neither Sanemi nor Giyuu noticed. Both moved with the quiet, coiled intensity that had become their shared routine, preparing their gear in near silence. Sanemi’s hands were precise, almost violent in their efficiency, tightening straps and checking edges, while his jaw clenched in ways that would have worried anyone who knew him better. Giyuu, calm as always, mirrored him in precision, but every motion carried a subtle tension that only those close enough—or stubborn enough—could feel.

Once the preparation was complete, the two walked to the assembly hall to meet with the master. The path was deliberately quiet, each step measured, the silence stretching taut between them like a drawn bow. Giyuu kept a few paces behind, matching the rhythm of Sanemi’s strides, careful not to crowd yet unwilling to give space.

Inside the meeting room, the master was already gathered with several other Hashira. The room hummed with quiet authority, the kind that left little room for trivialities. Giyuu and Sanemi took their places, subtly aware of each other’s posture and the unspoken dialogue in the space between them.

“The mission is a priority,” the master began, his voice even but commanding. “You two have been assigned to work together for this operation. Coordination will be crucial.”

Sanemi’s eyes flicked to Giyuu, a mixture of irritation and reluctant acknowledgment. He wanted to argue, to assert that he could manage alone, but the master’s gaze was sharp, leaving no room for protest.

Giyuu said nothing, as always. He simply listened, processing the instructions, noting the changes, and subtly watching Sanemi’s reactions. Every flicker of frustration, every tightening of muscles, told him more than words could.

After the mission briefing, the pair was escorted to the larger Hashira meeting. Discussions flowed about broader strategies and overlapping assignments. Sanemi, ever the storm contained in a room full of composed figures, kept his distance from Giyuu, though he could feel the presence of the other’s gaze just slightly off to the side.

Finally, with the meetings concluded, the two parted silently to prepare for departure. Sanemi stormed off to gather his pack again, muttering under his breath about the absurdity of teamwork and the sheer audacity of Giyuu remaining unbothered. Giyuu followed a few minutes later, calm, collected, yet carrying that subtle insistence that they would cross paths again soon.

Meanwhile, across the estate, Genya had been pacing nervously in the training hall courtyard. He hadn’t intended to wander this far, but curiosity had pulled him toward the quiet pathway where Muichiro often practiced. And there he was—Muichiro, hair slightly mussed, eyes clear but contemplative, sword balanced in his hand as he ran through a series of motions.

“Muichiro,” Genya blurted, voice shaking slightly, “I—I need to ask something.”

Muichiro stopped mid-strike, lowering his blade, expression patient yet faintly amused. “Go on.”

Genya’s face flushed scarlet. “You—you said something the other day, and I think—maybe I don’t… understand it. I mean—did you mean it?” His words tumbled over themselves, a mix of nerves, embarrassment, and genuine curiosity.

Muichiro tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “What I said?”

“Yes! That! About… you know… liking someone.” Genya’s hands fumbled, clenching and unclenching. “I mean… I don’t know if I imagined it or—”

Muichiro chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You didn’t imagine it. I do like someone.”

Genya froze, eyes wide. “Y-you… you like someone? And—you mean it?”

Muichiro nodded, still calm, gentle even. “I do. I wasn’t lying.”

Genya’s brain short-circuited. His face burned hotter than any sun, and he stumbled over words. “I—I… oh… okay… I mean… that’s… that’s—”

“You’re flustered,” Muichiro observed softly, almost teasingly. “It’s fine.”

“F-fine? No! This is—what—this is a lot!” Genya shouted under his breath, spinning on his heels, only to stop awkwardly and lower his voice. “I… I don’t even know how to—what do I say—”

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” Muichiro said, stepping closer, voice quiet. “It’s enough that you heard it. That’s enough for now.”

Genya blinked, trying to process. “I… I guess…” He chewed the inside of his cheek, unsure whether to run or collapse on the spot. “…I just… okay. I accept it. I think. I—yeah.”

Muichiro’s faint smile broadened slightly. “That’s good.”

Genya nodded stiffly, still red-faced and nervous, muttering under his breath, “Good… right… I’m fine… no, I’m not… I—”

Muichiro didn’t respond, simply letting him process, a quiet anchor amidst Genya’s internal chaos. Slowly, Genya’s panic eased just enough to walk beside Muichiro without tripping over his own thoughts. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was gentle, patient, allowing space for both of them to settle into what had just happened.

Even if neither said much, something shifted. Genya’s mind was still in turmoil, but the weight of Muichiro’s honesty had carved a small, clear path through it.

And somewhere else, far from both of them, the early stirrings of Sanemi and Giyuu’s mission loomed, each step drawing them closer to inevitable tension, challenges, and the unspoken that would hang between them through every wordless glance.

The road stretched long and uneven, dust rising in small clouds with every step. Sanemi walked a pace ahead, shoulders tight, every line of his body screaming with irritation he couldn’t voice—not without giving something away. Giyuu followed quietly, unreadable, but for once his silence wasn’t empty. There was something sharper in it, something Sanemi refused to acknowledge because if he did, he might lose his grip entirely.

They had arrived in the small mountain village by late afternoon, greeted by wary eyes and whispers of disappearances. The headman led them to the center of town, speaking of villagers who had gone missing near the forest. Giyuu listened carefully, noting every detail, while Sanemi stood stiff at his side, arms crossed, impatient with the drawn-out explanations.

When the headman finished, Giyuu asked calm, precise questions—where the bodies had last been seen, how many nights apart the vanishings had occurred. Sanemi scoffed but said nothing, watching the villagers shrink under Giyuu’s flat gaze. He wanted to mock the way Tomioka’s voice made them nervous, but he couldn’t—not when he needed to admit, silently, that the bastard’s efficiency saved them time.

“South edge of the forest,” the headman finally muttered, bowing. “That’s where the disappearances started.”

Sanemi grunted and turned away, already marching in that direction. Giyuu stayed a moment longer to thank the man before following.

The forest greeted them with a heavy silence, branches crowding overhead, the smell of damp earth and something faintly metallic lacing the air. Sanemi’s hand rested loosely on his sword, steps sharp and steady, while Giyuu moved like water beside him—quiet, inevitable, impossible to shake off.

They hadn’t been walking long when Sanemi snapped over his shoulder, voice a harsh whisper.
“You’re too quiet. Even for you.”

Giyuu blinked once, expression flat. “We’re hunting. Should I be loud?”

The response, infuriatingly logical, set Sanemi’s teeth grinding. He spun back around, muttering curses under his breath, but his senses stayed sharp. And that was when he caught it—the faint sound of something shifting ahead, unnaturally fast.

“Here we go,” Sanemi growled, sword sliding free.

The demon lunged from the shadows—thin, long-limbed, its face a grotesque parody of a fox, with claws glinting in the dim light. Sanemi moved first, reckless and fast, blade flashing as he struck down. Giyuu flanked silently, cutting off its retreat with a fluid, perfect arc.

The creature screeched, staggering back under the twin assault. For a moment, the two Hashira moved as one—Sanemi’s raw ferocity countered by Giyuu’s calm precision, their strikes interlocking in a rhythm that neither would ever admit felt right.

Sanemi realized it mid-swing, and the thought nearly made him stumble. He covered it with more rage, snarling as he landed a blow that sent the demon crashing against a tree.

“Don’t just stand there, finish it!” he barked.

But Giyuu was already moving, his blade cutting a clean line through the creature’s neck. The head hit the forest floor with a thud, body dissolving into ash before either could catch their breath.

Sanemi clicked his tongue, furious at how smoothly it had gone. Furious at how easily they’d fallen into step. Furious at himself, most of all.

⸻

Elsewhere, Genya leaned against the training hall wall, face still burning from earlier. Muichiro stood in front of him, unbothered, his gaze steady in that disarming way that always made Genya forget how to breathe.

“You’re still thinking about it,” Muichiro said softly.

Genya’s head jerked up. “W-what? No—I mean, yes—I mean… I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“I told you I like someone.” Muichiro’s tone was simple, as if it were the most natural fact in the world. “That someone is you.”

Genya froze. His breath caught, chest tight, mind scrambling for purchase. “M-me?!”

Muichiro nodded, stepping closer until there was barely space between them. His eyes softened, and for once his usual aloofness gave way to something warmer. “You didn’t believe me before. So—”

And before Genya could react, Muichiro leaned in, pressing a kiss just at the corner of his mouth. Not quite on his lips—just close enough to make the world tilt sideways.

Genya went scarlet from his neck to his hairline, hands trembling as he stumbled back against the wall. “Wh—what—why did you—what are you—”

Muichiro tilted his head, still calm. “To show you. It’s real.”

Genya couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. His whole body was fire, his brain screaming and stuttering through every half-formed thought. But what shocked him most wasn’t the kiss—it was the fact that, despite the panic, he didn’t run. He stayed. He stayed right there, shaking and red-faced, but rooted in place beside Muichiro.

⸻

Back in the forest, Sanemi wiped his blade with furious strokes, refusing to look at Giyuu. The silence between them roared louder than the wind.

“You didn’t need me,” he snapped finally.

Giyuu’s voice came quiet, even. “We needed each other.”

Sanemi’s grip on his sword tightened. He wanted to scream, to deny it—but the truth of the words dug deep, inescapable as the scar on his chest.

And for the first time that night, he had no idea how to fight back.

The forest had gone still again—eerily so, as if the demon’s death had sucked the life from the air. A few thin wisps of ash drifted upward, glowing faintly in the moonlight before vanishing altogether.

Sanemi stood motionless for a long while, knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. His breathing was ragged, the remnants of battle still scraping raw through his chest. Giyuu, silent as ever, sheathed his blade in a single smooth motion and crouched to examine what little was left of the demon’s remains.

“Mid-grade,” Giyuu said quietly. “But it was starving. Probably desperate enough to get careless.”

Sanemi grunted, still catching his breath. “Yeah, well, desperate or not—it’s dead.”

He turned away before Giyuu could answer, raking a hand through his hair. The forest’s shadows pressed close, and the night felt heavier than it should have. It wasn’t exhaustion—not the kind that came from fighting. It was something else.

They both knew they couldn’t travel back until dawn; it was too dangerous to move through demon territory at night, even for Hashira. So, as practicality dictated, they followed the dirt path leading out of the forest and back toward the quiet little town.

The streets were dark now, shutters drawn tight, only a few paper lanterns still burning. They passed the shuttered storefronts in silence, boots echoing faintly against the cobblestone.

Finally, they reached the single inn at the end of the main road—a humble, creaking place that smelled faintly of rain and smoke. The old woman behind the counter blinked up at them in surprise but said nothing when Giyuu explained they needed rooms for the night.

“Ah—rooms,” she murmured, rummaging through a set of keys. “I’m sorry, young masters. There’s only one left. The festival travelers—”

Before she could finish, Sanemi slammed a hand down on the counter. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” she said meekly. “It’s all that’s left.”

Giyuu only nodded once, accepting the key without hesitation. “It’s fine.”

Sanemi glared at him. “The hell it is.”

But Giyuu had already turned toward the stairs. “We’ll be gone at dawn.”

Sanemi muttered something vicious under his breath but followed, his boots heavy on the creaking steps. The hallway upstairs was narrow, lit by a single dim lamp. The room they entered was small—too small—with a single futon folded in the corner and another stacked beside it.

Sanemi crossed his arms, scowling. “You take the floor.”

“I’ll take the futon,” Giyuu replied simply, setting down his sword.

“I said—”

“You fought first,” Giyuu interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “You’re injured. You should rest properly.”

“I’m not—”

Giyuu’s eyes flicked down, and Sanemi followed his gaze—only then noticing the faint smear of blood seeping through the tear in his sleeve. He hissed through his teeth, annoyed more at being caught than at the wound itself.

“Don’t make it a big deal.”

Giyuu didn’t answer. He just moved closer, kneeling without ceremony and reaching for Sanemi’s arm.

“Hey—what the hell are you—”

“Stop moving,” Giyuu said, low and even.

Sanemi froze. The air between them thickened. Giyuu’s hands were steady, deft as he tore a strip from his own sleeve and pressed it to Sanemi’s arm. The fabric was warm, the touch clinical—but there was something underneath it. Something that made Sanemi’s heartbeat falter, quicken, stumble again.

“Hold still,” Giyuu murmured, wrapping the makeshift bandage tight.

Sanemi could feel the brush of Giyuu’s fingers—cool, unhurried, gentle in a way that made his throat go dry. He wanted to pull away, to curse, to shove the man back—but he couldn’t seem to move.

“There,” Giyuu said finally, tying the last knot. “You’ll need a salve tomorrow.”

Sanemi jerked his arm back, trying to regain some ground. “You done playing nurse?”

Giyuu met his glare with quiet indifference. “You’re welcome.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“I know.”

The answer disarmed him more than any argument could have. He turned away, muttering curses as he kicked off his boots. The silence that followed stretched long and taut, filled only by the faint sound of the rain beginning to patter against the roof.

Giyuu unrolled one futon and then the other. He didn’t speak again, didn’t look at Sanemi, didn’t do anything to acknowledge the tension buzzing between them. And somehow, that made it worse.

When the lamps were finally blown out, the room settled into soft darkness. Sanemi lay on his side, back turned, staring at the wall. Giyuu’s breathing was slow and steady a few feet away. The sound of it was maddeningly calm—like he could just sleep after that. After everything.

Sanemi shut his eyes, jaw tight. But even in the dark, he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Giyuu’s hand had lingered just slightly too long when he tied the bandage. The way his voice had softened—barely perceptible, but there.

It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t.

Except it did.

⸻

Meanwhile, back at the estate, Genya was doing what could generously be described as spiraling.

He sat cross-legged on his futon, face buried in his hands, mumbling incoherently into the night. His heart hadn’t stopped hammering since the moment Muichiro’s lips brushed the corner of his mouth.

“Wh—what the hell was that?” he whispered to no one. “He didn’t—he couldn’t have meant—he did, didn’t he?”

He flopped backward dramatically, groaning into his pillow. His brain kept replaying it, over and over—the calm certainty in Muichiro’s eyes, the gentle tone, the warmth that still lingered on his skin.

It was like being haunted, but in the most confusing way possible.

He jolted upright when he heard a knock. “Wha—uh—come in?”

The door slid open just enough for Muichiro to peek through. His expression was the same—quiet, unreadable, but softer now, almost expectant.

“Still awake?”

Genya nearly choked. “Awake?! Yeah, yeah, totally awake! Who—who sleeps after something like that—uh, after training, I mean—hah—”

Muichiro blinked once. “You’re acting strange.”

“I’m fine!” Genya lied at full volume.

Muichiro stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. “You didn’t answer me earlier.”

Genya’s pulse stuttered. “About what?”

“About what I said.”

“I—uh—yeah, I… I heard you, I think—”

“I like you,” Muichiro said again, plain and unbothered, as if repetition would make the truth easier to process. “You don’t have to say it back. But I wanted to tell you twice, so you’d know I meant it.”

Genya made a strangled sound. His brain short-circuited. He stared at Muichiro like he’d just been handed a live grenade.

“You—you can’t just say stuff like that twice!”

Muichiro tilted his head. “Why not?”

“Because it—it makes people—uh—think about it!”

“That’s the point,” Muichiro said, sitting down beside him, close enough that their knees brushed. “I want you to think about it.”

Genya looked ready to combust. His ears were red, his hands were fidgeting wildly, and yet… he didn’t move away.

Muichiro, quiet and calm as ever, looked out the window toward the moonlight. “You’re loud when you’re flustered,” he said softly. “But that’s okay. I like that about you, too.”

Genya let out a weak noise that might have been a laugh or a cry—it was impossible to tell.

He didn’t know what to say, and for once, that seemed okay. Muichiro didn’t need an answer yet. He just stayed there beside him, close enough to share the silence.

⸻

Back in the inn, the storm outside had grown heavier. Sanemi shifted on the futon, unable to sleep, his mind replaying every second of the fight, every word Giyuu had said afterward. Every look.

He rolled over once, twice, and cursed softly.

Across the room, Giyuu’s voice came quietly through the dark. “You’re still awake.”

Sanemi froze. “And?”

A beat of silence. “You shouldn’t dwell on it.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Sanemi turned toward him, barely visible through the dim moonlight. “You always this damn annoying at night, or am I just special?”

Giyuu’s lips twitched—so small it could’ve been missed, but it was there. “Maybe.”

Sanemi’s breath caught for just a second, the word hanging between them like the space of a blade’s width.

Maybe.

He lay back again, eyes on the ceiling, pulse unsteady.

Neither of them slept much that night.

And in another room, miles away, neither did Genya.

The first pale slice of morning bled through the paper shutters, soft and gray. Rain still whispered outside the inn, the kind that soaked into the earth instead of washing it away.

Sanemi had been awake since before dawn. He sat by the low table, elbows on his knees, eyes distant. The room smelled faintly of wet wood and smoke. Giyuu, ever unhurried, was still methodically tying his haori.

Neither of them spoke.

There was too much unsaid between them now — and neither man knew how to start carving through it.

Sanemi had spent half the night turning over on the futon, trying to erase the memory of Giyuu’s voice in the dark. The quiet “maybe.” The soft steadiness of it.

He didn’t know what it meant, and worse, he didn’t know why it bothered him so damn much.

“You should eat,” Giyuu said finally, breaking the silence.

Sanemi blinked. “What?”

“There’s rice downstairs. Before we leave.”

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.”

Sanemi glared at him. “You keeping track of my meals now, too?”

Giyuu didn’t flinch. “You look like you’d forget otherwise.”

That shouldn’t have stung. And yet—

“Tch. Whatever.” Sanemi pushed up to his feet, the tatami creaking under him. “Let’s just go before you start telling me to drink water too.”

Giyuu’s faint exhale might have been a sigh. It might have been a laugh. Either way, it followed Sanemi down the stairs like a shadow.

⸻

The inn’s dining room was small and quiet, occupied only by a few travelers huddled over steaming bowls. The smell of grilled fish and rice filled the air.

Sanemi sat as far from Giyuu as possible, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the rain outside. He didn’t even touch the food. Giyuu, meanwhile, ate quietly, every movement precise.

For a long while, neither said a word. The clatter of chopsticks, the murmur of conversation from the other tables, the steady patter of rain—all filled the silence that pressed thick between them.

When they finally left, Giyuu walked ahead. Sanemi followed a few steps behind, eyes trained on the slick cobblestones. He didn’t realize until they reached the edge of the road that Giyuu was waiting—just waiting—for him to catch up.

It shouldn’t have felt like an invitation. But it did.

He swallowed hard and muttered, “You could’ve gone ahead.”

Giyuu didn’t look at him. “I know.”

And then, as if that explained everything, they started walking together.

⸻

Back at the Demon Slayer estate, the morning was less heavy — though no less chaotic.

Genya was pacing outside the training yard like a man possessed. His hair was still half-wet, his haori thrown on wrong-side-out, and his entire face looked like someone had painted embarrassment across it.

He’d tried to eat breakfast. Failed. Tried to meditate. Failed harder. Every time he shut his eyes, all he could see was Muichiro — calm, steady, saying those three words like it was nothing.

I like you.

Genya groaned into his hands. “He—he didn’t even blink! Who says stuff like that like it’s no big deal?!”

“Uh,” said a familiar voice behind him, “someone honest?”

Genya froze mid-groan and turned to see Tanjiro standing there, carrying two bento boxes and smiling like the morning sun itself.

“T-Tanjiro!” Genya squawked, nearly tripping over his own feet. “I—I wasn’t talkin’ to myself—uh—much!”

Tanjiro blinked, perfectly unfazed. “I didn’t say you were.”

Genya rubbed the back of his neck, flustered beyond saving. “I just—uh—there’s this—thing—uh—never mind.”

Tanjiro offered one of the bento boxes. “You look like you haven’t eaten. Want this?”

“I can’t eat!” Genya groaned. “I’m—uh—my stomach’s—” He made a vague circular motion. “Complicated!”

Tanjiro tilted his head. “Does this have to do with Muichiro?”

Genya nearly dropped the box. “H-how the hell did you—”

Tanjiro smiled softly. “You were mumbling his name while pacing. Also, your aura’s… kind of exploding.”

“My what?”

Tanjiro waved a hand. “Never mind that part. What happened?”

Genya covered his face. “He—he said he liked me. Like, liked liked me.”

Tanjiro blinked once. “That’s great!”

“No, it’s terrible!”

“Why?”

“Because I—I didn’t say anything back! I just—stood there! And then I ran away like an idiot!”

Tanjiro tried not to laugh. He failed a little. “That does sound like you.”

“Shut up!” Genya snapped, but there was no bite behind it. He sighed, sinking to the ground with his hands in his hair. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?!”

Tanjiro sat beside him. “You like him too, don’t you?”

Genya hesitated. “I—yeah, I mean—I think I do. He’s—he’s weird, and calm, and kinda scary sometimes—but he’s also really… gentle.”

Tanjiro smiled knowingly. “So, what’s stopping you from telling him?”

Genya threw his hands up. “Because he’s Muichiro! He says whatever he wants, and he looks all serene while doin’ it, and I—I can’t even form sentences!”

Tanjiro hummed, tapping his chin. “So what if you didn’t tell him with words?”

Genya frowned. “What, like—mime it?”

Tanjiro chuckled. “No, but… sometimes action says more than words. Maybe you can show him.”

“Show him what?!”

“That you like him too.”

Genya stared blankly, then buried his face in his hands again. “Tanjiro, you make that sound easy, but it’s not!”

Tanjiro’s grin softened into something patient and warm. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just honest. That’s what he did.”

Genya sighed, defeated. “You think he’ll even listen?”

“He’s probably waiting for you,” Tanjiro said simply.

That thought alone made Genya’s heart stop for a full second.

⸻

By the time he worked up the courage to try, it was already mid-morning. The estate buzzed with quiet activity — slayers coming and going, the faint clang of training swords, sparrows calling from the eaves.

Genya stood outside Muichiro’s estate for ten full minutes, psyching himself up.

“Okay. You’re gonna do this,” he whispered to himself. “You’re gonna walk in there, and you’re gonna say it. Just like Tanjiro said. Be honest. Easy.”

He took a deep breath. Straightened his haori.

Then immediately turned around and started walking the other way.

Coward! he hissed at himself.

He stopped halfway down the path, groaning into his hands. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not with how his heart was beating so loud he could hear it in his ears.

“I’ll just—uh—catch him later,” he muttered. “Yeah. Later.”

From behind him, a quiet voice said, “Catch me doing what?”

Genya jumped about a foot in the air. “GAH—!”

Muichiro stood a few paces away, sunlight falling softly across his hair. His expression was calm, but his eyes were curious.

“Were you… looking for me?”

Genya went bright red. “NO—I mean YES—I mean—uh—I was just—uh—training! Nearby!”

Muichiro tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re terrible at lying.”

“I—I wasn’t lying!”

“You’re sweating.”

“I always sweat!”

Muichiro just looked at him for a long moment, then smiled faintly — that small, genuine one that made Genya’s knees feel unreliable. “You can tell me when you’re ready,” he said softly. “I’ll wait.”

Then, just like that, he turned and walked back toward the garden, sunlight glinting off his pale hair.

Genya stood frozen for several seconds before letting out a strangled groan. “Why is he like this?!”

⸻

Meanwhile, on a narrow road a few villages away, Sanemi and Giyuu walked side by side through the fading mist.

Neither spoke, but the silence between them had shifted—less sharp now, less like a wound, more like something that was trying to heal despite them.

Every few steps, their sleeves brushed. Neither acknowledged it. Neither moved away.

The rain had stopped. The world smelled clean again.

And though neither of them would ever admit it, it felt like the beginning of something neither could yet name.

By the time they reached the gates of the Demon Slayer Corps estate, the rain had finally burned off into pale sunlight. Morning mist still clung to the trees, a thin silver film over the stone path.

Sanemi adjusted the strap of his weapon bag, jaw tight. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the inn. Neither had Giyuu. But the silence this time wasn’t the same as before—it was loaded, quiet like the moments before a storm breaks.

At the entrance, a Kakushi bowed low. “Welcome back, Shinazugawa-sama, Tomioka-sama. The Master has requested your presence immediately.”

Of course he had.

Sanemi muttered something that could’ve been “great” or “damn it,” depending on how you heard it, and stalked ahead. Giyuu followed, the faintest shadow of amusement flickering over his face.

⸻

The walk through the corridors was painfully formal. Paper doors slid open in gentle succession, revealing the central room where the Master waited.

Kagaya Ubuyashiki sat serenely on his cushion, the morning light falling in soft lines across his pale face. Beside him, Amane knelt quietly, and two of the younger attendants lingered near the back, still and respectful.

“Sanemi. Giyuu.” The Master’s voice was low and calm, as always. “Welcome back.”

They both bowed.

“I trust your mission was successful?”

Sanemi hesitated, then nodded curtly. “Yes, Master. The demon’s been dealt with. Village safe.”

Giyuu added, “Minimal casualties. The curse was lifted.”

Kagaya smiled faintly, turning his head slightly toward the sound of Giyuu’s voice. “Good. You both worked well together, then.”

Sanemi froze.
Giyuu, of course, didn’t answer.

Kagaya’s blind eyes seemed to glint faintly in the light. “You don’t need to speak, Shinazugawa. I can hear the quiet between you two.”

Sanemi’s throat tightened. He wasn’t sure whether to take that as an observation or a warning.

The Master continued gently, “When two pillars stand too far apart, the wind cannot protect the water—and the water cannot soothe the wind. I’m glad to know you found a way to balance each other.”

Giyuu inclined his head slightly, his voice steady. “It was… a learning experience.”

Sanemi muttered under his breath, “That’s one way to put it.”

Kagaya only smiled, as though he’d heard that too. “I see. Then please rest, both of you. There will be another mission assignment soon, but not before you recover your strength.”

They both bowed once more.

“Thank you, Master,” Giyuu said softly.

“Yeah,” Sanemi muttered, eyes averted. “Thanks.”

As they turned to leave, Kagaya’s voice followed them like a quiet wind.
“Remember—understanding does not always come through words.”

Sanemi didn’t look back. But he heard it. And it followed him all the way down the corridor.

⸻

The Hashira meeting that followed was, predictably, chaos.

By the time all nine of them gathered in the courtyard, Tengen was already leaning back on his hands, grin wide, whispering something to Mitsuri that made her giggle behind her hand. Obanai stood a step behind her, clearly unimpressed but saying nothing.

“Glad you two made it back alive,” Tengen said lazily, tilting his head toward Sanemi and Giyuu. “We were starting to think you’d eloped.”

Sanemi’s eye twitched so hard it was almost audible. “What the hell does that mean, Uzui?!”

Tengen just smirked. “You tell me, Wind Boy.”

“I’ll show you wind if you don’t shut your—”

“Sanemi,” Rengoku interrupted cheerfully, his voice booming through the courtyard. “It’s good to see your spirit still burns brightly after the mission!”

“Burns brightly? He almost burned the village,” Obanai muttered, deadpan.

Sanemi turned on him. “Say that again, snake boy.”

“Enough.” Giyuu’s tone was quiet, but it carried enough weight to make Sanemi pause.

Everyone blinked.

Mitsuri looked between them, eyes wide, pink hair falling over her shoulder. “Ohh! Giyuu, you spoke up for him!”

Sanemi’s ears went red. “He didn’t speak up for me, he just—shut up!”

Tengen leaned toward Rengoku, whispering, “You seeing this tension? They’re vibrating.”

Rengoku nodded sagely. “The flames of conflict often mask the warmth of understanding!”

Sanemi gaped at him. “What does that even mean?!”

By the time the meeting ended, Sanemi was one sharp comment away from losing it completely. Giyuu left without saying a word, calm as ever, and somehow that just made it worse.

⸻

Meanwhile, at the training grounds—

Genya was dying. Emotionally, anyway.

He’d been pacing again, muttering under his breath about timing and words and why the hell am I like this.

Tanjiro had been following him patiently, smiling like a saint, holding a small notebook filled with “practice lines.”

“I don’t need a script!” Genya snapped, face already red.

“You said you freeze up,” Tanjiro said kindly. “So I thought we could practice!”

“I ain’t rehearsin’ a confession!”

“You rehearse for battles.”

“That’s different!”

Before Genya could storm off, Mitsuri appeared out of nowhere, eyes wide and bright as spring petals. “Oh my gosh, is this about a confession?”

Genya nearly jumped out of his skin. “Wha—NO—uh—yes—NO!”

Tanjiro sighed softly. “Mitsuri…”

But Mitsuri was already clasping her hands together, beaming. “I knew it! You’ve been so flustered lately, Genya-kun! Who is it, who is it, who is it?”

Genya turned the color of a tomato. “I ain’t tellin’ you!”

“Oh, come on!” she sang. “I’m great at helping with confessions! Obanai always says I talk too much, but that’s perfect for advice!”

Tanjiro, trying not to laugh, murmured, “She’s actually not wrong.”

“Don’t encourage her!”

Mitsuri pouted. “But I’m just trying to help! Is it someone here? Is it a slayer? Someone from training? Someone with dark hair—”

Genya’s face twisted. “STOP GUESSING!”

“Someone quiet?” she gasped, eyes widening. “Ohhh, it’s someone quiet, isn’t it?!”

Tanjiro tried valiantly to intervene. “Mitsuri, maybe let him—”

“Is it Shinobu?!”

“NO!”

“Is it Aoi?!”

“NO!!”

“Wait—oh, my goodness—it’s not—Giyuu, is it?”

Genya choked so violently that Tanjiro had to pat his back. “WHAT?! No! No, it’s not—why would you—no!!”

Mitsuri gasped dramatically. “Then who?!”

Genya buried his face in his hands. “I’m not tellin’ you!”

Tanjiro laughed softly. “Maybe let him say it when he’s ready, Mitsuri-san.”

“But it’s so romantic!” she squealed, clasping her hands to her chest. “A secret crush, and he’s too shy to confess! I love it!”

Genya groaned, “This is literally hell.”

Mitsuri tilted her head. “You know, sometimes a gesture says more than words—oh! You could bake something! Or give them a flower! Or write a poem!”

Genya stared at her, horrified. “Bake?! Mitsuri-san, do I look like someone who can bake?!”

She gasped. “You could learn! I’ll teach you!”

Tanjiro, barely containing laughter now, added gently, “Maybe just start by… talking?”

Genya sighed, defeated. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Mitsuri hummed, already spinning in excitement. “No, it’s the start of something beautiful! I can feel it!”

Tanjiro smiled knowingly. “He’ll get there. Eventually.”

Genya muttered something unholy under his breath, face buried in his hands.

But even as he grumbled, a small, stupid part of him was already wondering what kind of flowers Muichiro might like.

⸻

Back in the Hashira quarters, Sanemi was sharpening his blade in silence when Giyuu passed by in the corridor.

For half a second, their eyes met.

No words. Just that same quiet recognition — the kind that lingered, heavy and uncertain, in the space between them.

Sanemi exhaled slowly, dragging the whetstone down the blade with a hiss.

For all the noise in his head, he still couldn’t find a single damn thing to say.

The sound of the whetstone was rhythmic, steady—the only noise cutting through the silence of the Hashira quarters.
Sanemi leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, letting the scrape of metal fill the space that words couldn’t.

He could feel Giyuu’s presence before he saw him.
Quiet steps. That calm, steady breathing that never gave away what he was thinking.

The bastard was impossible to read.

Sanemi didn’t lift his head, but he could feel the weight of his gaze hovering somewhere near the door.

“Something you want?” he muttered without looking up.

There was a pause, long enough that Sanemi almost thought he’d imagined him—until Giyuu said, evenly,
“You’re loud.”

Sanemi snorted. “Yeah? And you’re nosy. Don’t see me complainin’.”

He expected Giyuu to leave.
He didn’t.

Instead, he stepped into the room and shut the door quietly behind him.

Sanemi’s jaw tightened. “You stayin’ or what?”

“I thought we should talk.”

“Talk?” Sanemi looked up then, eyes narrowing. “Since when do you wanna talk?”

“Since you’ve been avoiding me all morning.”

“I wasn’t—” Sanemi started, then stopped. “…Okay, maybe I was. You happy now?”

Giyuu just stared at him.
It wasn’t even judgmental. Just calm. Too calm.

Sanemi grit his teeth. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re tryin’ to understand me.”

“I am trying.”

That caught Sanemi off guard. His grip faltered for half a second.
He stared down at the blade, then set it aside with a sharp clatter.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” Giyuu said softly, “I know what it’s like to push people away because it’s easier than being honest.”

Sanemi went still.

The silence that followed was heavy—like something fragile balancing between them.

He could feel his pulse in his ears.
Could feel the burn of words he didn’t know how to say.

Finally, he muttered, “You think you got me all figured out, huh?”

“No,” Giyuu said simply. “But I know enough to see when you’re angry at yourself more than at anyone else.”

Sanemi blinked, once.
His throat tightened.

“Don’t,” he said lowly. “Don’t start analyzing me like some kind of—”

“I’m not analyzing.”

“Then what the hell are you doing?”

“Listening.”

Sanemi’s breath hitched before he could stop it.
That calm tone. That patience. That damn softness.

It got under his skin in the worst way.

“Stop doin’ that,” he snapped, standing abruptly. “You don’t get to just—act like you know me!”

“I never said I did.”

“Then stop talkin’ like—like you see me or somethin’!”

Giyuu looked up at him slowly. “But I do.”

Sanemi froze.

His heart stuttered—then pounded, violent and unwanted, against his ribs.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Sanemi looked away sharply, grabbing his sword just to have something to do.

“You’re a pain in the ass, Tomioka.”

“I know.”

“Always gotta say somethin’ that makes everything weird.”

“That’s not my intention.”

“Yeah, well, you suck at intentions.”

Giyuu almost smiled. Almost. “You’re one to talk.”

Sanemi turned on him, glare sharp enough to cut stone—but the look on Giyuu’s face wasn’t cold.
It was… something else.
Something Sanemi didn’t have the words for.

He swallowed hard. “You done?”

“Not really,” Giyuu said quietly. “But I’ll stop if you want me to.”

Sanemi blinked at him.
And for the first time, didn’t have a comeback.

The silence between them wasn’t empty this time. It hummed—low and alive, like heat gathering in still air.

When Giyuu finally turned to leave, Sanemi found himself saying—too quickly, too rough,
“Hey.”

Giyuu paused.

Sanemi’s voice dropped. “You uh… did good. On the mission. Yesterday.”

A beat.

Then:
“So did you,” Giyuu said softly, and left before Sanemi could see the way that made his chest tighten.

The sound of the door closing lingered longer than it should have.
Sanemi stared at it for a long moment, jaw clenched, pulse still thudding in his ears.

What the hell had that even been?

He ran a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath. “Stupid… calm… smug bastard—”

The words died somewhere halfway out.
He could still hear Giyuu’s voice in his head—soft, steady, too damn knowing.

“But I do.”

Sanemi swore under his breath again, rubbing the back of his neck hard enough to sting.
He hated that it echoed.
Hated that Giyuu said it like it wasn’t a challenge. Like it was just true.

He leaned back against the wall, exhaling through his teeth. His chest felt tight, and it wasn’t from exhaustion.
That look—whatever was in Giyuu’s eyes—had gotten under his skin.
Not the usual irritation, not even anger. Something worse. Something that felt like being seen and stripped down at the same time.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

⸻

Elsewhere, in the training courtyard…

Genya was pacing. Again.

“I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I can’t—”

“Genya,” Tanjiro interrupted gently, “you said that ten times this morning.”

“That’s because it’s true!” Genya groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Every time I think about sayin’ something, my brain just—shuts off!”

Tanjiro tilted his head. “Then maybe you shouldn’t think about it.”

“That’s terrible advice!”

Tanjiro smiled. “It works for Zenitsu.”

“That’s even worse!”

Before Tanjiro could respond, a very familiar, singsong voice chimed in from across the courtyard.
“Genya-kun~! Tanjiro~!”

They both turned to see Mitsuri bounding toward them, her pink-and-green hair bouncing behind her like a ribbon.

Genya immediately stiffened. “Oh, no—no, no, no—”

Mitsuri waved cheerfully, beaming. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you two!”

“Morning, Mitsuri-san,” Tanjiro said politely, already bracing himself.

Genya muttered, “You don’t gotta look for us, we’re right here every time…”

“Oh, hush!” she said, grinning. “Now! How’s the love confession plan going?!”

Genya choked on air. “THE WHAT?!”

Tanjiro coughed, covering his mouth to hide a smile. “Ah, well—um—he’s… thinking about it.”

“Thinking?!” Mitsuri gasped, clutching her hands together dramatically. “No, no, no, that won’t do at all! You have to feel it, Genya-kun! You have to let your heart burst out!”

Genya made a noise that could only be described as pure panic. “Why are you like this?!”

Mitsuri ignored him completely, already circling him like a whirlwind of pink silk. “So! Tell me—how are you going to do it? With a letter? A gift? A serenade?!”

“I—I ain’t serenadin’ anybody!”

Tanjiro, trying his best to sound supportive, offered, “Maybe you could just… start by telling them how you feel when you’re around them?”

“I feel like I’m gonna pass out, that’s what!”

Mitsuri gasped again, clutching his shoulders. “Ohhh, that’s so romantic!”

“It’s not!” Genya barked, face burning bright red. “It’s humiliatin’!”

She looked absolutely delighted. “So you do feel something!”

“Stop twisting my words!”

Tanjiro was trying so hard not to laugh that his shoulders were shaking. “You’re doing great, Genya. That’s progress.”

“How is THIS progress?!”

“It means you care,” Tanjiro said, voice warm and patient. “That’s a start.”

Genya blinked at him, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Care,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I—”

He stopped abruptly when he saw movement at the far end of the courtyard.
A slim figure walking quietly through the garden path, sunlight catching the faint sheen of his hair.

Muichiro.

Genya’s throat went dry.

Tanjiro followed his gaze and immediately brightened. “Oh! There he is! Perfect timing!”

“Wait—what?!” Genya hissed, panic shooting through him. “No, no, no, don’t you dare—”

“Muichiro!” Tanjiro called, waving.

Genya looked like he might drop dead on the spot. “I’m gonna kill you—!”

Muichiro turned, eyes faintly curious, and drifted closer.

Mitsuri squealed softly under her breath. “Ooooh, is he—?”

Genya cut her off immediately. “Don’t say it.”

Muichiro stopped a few paces away, tilting his head. “Don’t say what?”

“Nothing!” Genya said too fast, too loud.

Muichiro blinked, unfazed. “You’re acting strange.”

“He’s just nervous!” Mitsuri said brightly, elbowing Genya in the ribs.

Genya hissed. “Stop HELPING!”

Tanjiro, ever the peacemaker, smiled at Muichiro. “We were just talking about something important.”

Muichiro’s expression didn’t change much, but his eyes softened slightly as they flicked to Genya. “Important?”

Genya swallowed. “Uh… yeah.”

“About what?”

“Uh—training! We were talkin’ about training.”

Mitsuri groaned quietly. “Oh, come on, you can do better than that.”

“Shut up, Mitsuri-san!” Genya whispered, red-faced.

Muichiro blinked again, that faint, dreamy confusion still there. “You look nervous.”

Genya forced a laugh. “Me? Nah, I’m fine!”

“You’re sweating.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s hot!”

“It’s cloudy.”

Tanjiro had to look away to keep from laughing. Mitsuri clasped her hands under her chin, whispering, “He’s so cute when he’s flustered.”

Genya thought about melting into the ground.

Muichiro tilted his head, voice quiet but steady. “Did you want to tell me something?”

Genya froze.

Every ounce of his courage vanished instantly. He could hear Tanjiro’s earlier advice echoing in his head—just be honest—but his mouth refused to move.

He opened it once. Nothing came out.
Twice. Still nothing.

Mitsuri leaned in and whispered far too loudly, “Just say it, Genya-kun!”

“I can’t!” he hissed.

Muichiro blinked. “Can’t what?”

Genya’s voice cracked. “I can’t—uh—can’t—remember what I was gonna say!”

Muichiro’s brows furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across his calm face. “Oh. I thought you wanted to talk about yesterday.”

Genya’s heart did a full somersault. “Yesterday?!”

“You were acting different after I kissed you,” Muichiro said simply.

Mitsuri’s jaw dropped so fast it was almost audible. “You WHAT?!”

Tanjiro froze, eyes wide, halfway between panic and laughter. “Ah—um—Mitsuri-san—maybe—”

“YOU KISSED HIM?!” she practically screamed.

Muichiro blinked at her, completely calm. “Not on his mouth.”

“MITSURI-SAN PLEASE STOP TALKING,” Genya yelled, covering his face.

Tanjiro was shaking with silent laughter now, trying to salvage the moment. “Muichiro, maybe we—um—give Genya a second—”

But Muichiro was still watching him, eyes softer now, voice quiet enough that only Genya caught it.
“I thought you were upset.”

Genya’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt. “I—uh—wasn’t—upset! I was just—uh—confused!”

“About what?”

“You—you can’t just kiss people like that!”

Muichiro tilted his head. “Why not?”

Genya opened his mouth—then closed it again. “Because—it—it—it means something!”

Muichiro blinked. “It does?”

“Yes!”

“Oh.” A faint pause. “Then… what does it mean to you?”

Genya felt like his brain exploded. “WHAT—WHAT DOES THAT—WHY WOULD YOU—”

Mitsuri squealed again, nearly hopping in place. “Oh my gosh he’s asking you back!”

Tanjiro, trying and failing to keep order, clapped his hands once. “Okay! Okay! Let’s all breathe!”

Genya groaned, dragging both hands through his hair. “This is a nightmare.”

Muichiro, unbothered, took a small step closer. “You never answered me.”

Genya blinked. “Answered what?”

“I like you,” Muichiro said plainly. “I told you that yesterday.”

Genya’s whole face went red. “Y-you can’t just say that out loud!”

“Why not?”

“Because Mitsuri’s right there!”

Mitsuri gasped dramatically. “Wait—you like him back?!”

“No!! I mean—yes—NO—maybe—STOP ASKING!!”

Tanjiro tried to help. “He’s processing!”

Mitsuri squealed again. “He’s BLUSHING! Oh my gosh, this is so cute!”

“I’M GONNA DIE,” Genya groaned, covering his face.

Muichiro blinked, faint amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re strange.”

“Yeah, well, you’re—worse!” Genya blurted, voice cracking halfway through.

But the look Muichiro gave him then—soft, gentle, a little bit smug—made his heart do something traitorous again.

“Strange,” Muichiro said quietly, “but… cute.”

Genya froze. “Wh—what?!”

Mitsuri squealed so loudly that even the crows scattered. “HE SAID CUTE!!”

Tanjiro was laughing helplessly now. “Genya… you’re kind of doomed.”

Genya groaned into his hands, face burning. “I hate all of you.”

Muichiro smiled faintly. “You don’t hate me.”

Genya glared up at him through his fingers, eyes wide and panicked and soft all at once. “…yeah, well. Shut up.”

Muichiro just hummed quietly. “You didn’t deny it.”

⸻

That night, as the sun fell and the courtyard emptied, Sanemi sat outside the Hashira quarters again—this time not sharpening anything.
Just sitting, staring at the distant horizon.

He caught sight of a familiar silhouette passing through the courtyard.
Giyuu again.

Neither of them spoke this time.
Just a glance. A flicker of acknowledgment in the fading light.

And for reasons he didn’t understand, Sanemi didn’t look away first.

The night fell slow and soft over the Demon Slayer Corps, the kind of stillness that carried every sound — the creak of wood, the rustle of wind through the trees, the faint hum of cicadas tucked in the grass.

Sanemi sat outside long after the courtyard had emptied.
The air was cooling, and the stars had begun to sharpen above him, but he barely noticed.

His mind was still running laps around what Giyuu had said — “I know what it’s like to push people away.”
Damn idiot. Damn quiet, perceptive, impossible idiot.

He leaned back, scowling at the sky as if the stars were personally offending him.
He hated that he could still hear that calm voice. Hated that he didn’t have an answer for it.

He should’ve said something — anything.
But instead, he just… froze.

Now, even the silence felt too loud.

When he finally dragged himself to his room, he didn’t bother lighting the lantern.
He just lay there, staring up at the dark ceiling, jaw tight.
Every time he closed his eyes, that look Giyuu gave him replayed in his head — steady, patient, unshakable.

He turned over with a muttered curse, as if he could shake the thought loose.
But it stayed.

It always stayed.

⸻

Across the grounds, the training courtyard had long gone still, except for one restless heartbeat — and a set of uneven footsteps pacing along the garden path.

Genya tugged at his collar, muttering to himself. “Why’d I even open my mouth? Why’d I have to say anything? I could’ve just—pretended—kept it cool—nah, I had to go and—ugh!”

He raked both hands through his hair, exhaling hard. The night air was cool against his flushed skin, but it did little to calm him.
His whole body was wired — too much adrenaline, too much embarrassment, too much everything.

He didn’t even realize where he was walking until the moonlight caught the edge of the koi pond ahead — quiet, silver, rippling with every passing breeze.

He sighed, crouching near the edge.
The reflection that looked back at him was a mess: face red, expression torn somewhere between mortified and dazed.

“…Pathetic,” he muttered. “Can’t even talk right without makin’ an idiot of yourself.”

“About what?”

Genya nearly fell into the pond. “—HOLY—don’t sneak up like that!”

Muichiro stood a few feet away, barefoot on the stones, hair pale under the moonlight.
He blinked slowly. “I didn’t sneak. You were just loud.”

“I wasn’t—” Genya started, then sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Forget it.”

Muichiro tilted his head. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

Genya grunted. “Guess not.”

“Me neither.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time. Just quiet — soft, like the hush after rain.

Genya sat down on one of the flat stones near the pond, legs crossed, arms draped loosely over his knees.
Muichiro stood for a moment longer, then quietly sat beside him — close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed.

Neither of them spoke for a while. The crickets filled the space between heartbeats.

Finally, Genya muttered, “You always walk around like this at night?”

“Sometimes,” Muichiro said. “It’s quiet. I like the stars.”

Genya glanced up. The sky was scattered with them — bright and sharp, framed by the dark outline of the trees.
“…Yeah. Guess it’s kinda nice.”

Muichiro looked at him sidelong. “You still look nervous.”

Genya stiffened. “I ain’t nervous.”

“You’re clenching your fists.”

“I’m—” He looked down. Sure enough, his hands were tight on his knees. “…Okay, maybe a little.”

“Why?”

Genya hesitated. “You really wanna know?”

“Yes.”

He took a deep breath. The words got stuck somewhere between his chest and throat.
He’d spent all day trying not to think about what happened. Now, sitting here under the stars, with Muichiro right beside him — it all came rushing back.

“That thing you said earlier,” he muttered finally, voice rough. “About… likin’ me.”

Muichiro blinked, calm as ever. “What about it?”

“You can’t just say things like that so easy, you know? It—it messes with people.”

Muichiro turned to look at him fully, eyes reflecting faint light. “Did it mess with you?”

Genya groaned softly, running a hand through his hair. “You’re doin’ that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Askin’ questions that make my brain explode.”

Muichiro’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile. “You didn’t answer.”

Genya let out a shaky exhale. “…Yeah. It messed with me.”

Muichiro’s expression softened slightly. “Because you don’t like me?”

Genya looked up sharply. “What? No! I mean—yeah—no—dammit—stop askin’ stuff like that!”

“Then why?” Muichiro asked, voice still quiet, steady.

Genya’s words came out before he could stop them. “’Cause I do like you, alright?!”

The sound startled even the night birds from the trees.
For a moment, the only sound was the distant ripple of water.

Muichiro blinked once. Twice. “Oh.”

Genya immediately turned bright red. “Oh?! That’s all you’re gonna say?! I just—I just said—ugh, forget it!”

He started to stand, mortified, but Muichiro caught his wrist — gently, not enough to hold him back, just enough to stop him.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said softly. “I just… didn’t know if you really did.”

Genya swallowed hard. “…Well, I just told you, didn’t I?”

Muichiro’s grip didn’t loosen. His voice was quieter now. “Then why do you look like you want to run?”

“‘Cause I always say things wrong,” Genya muttered. “I ain’t good with words, and you—” He glanced away, face still red. “You’re hard to read, y’know that?”

Muichiro’s gaze softened, calm as moonlight. “You don’t need words.”

“…Huh?”

And before Genya could ask, Muichiro leaned in just enough to rest his head lightly against his shoulder.

Genya froze. His heart forgot how to function.

“I like when you’re honest,” Muichiro murmured. “It feels warm.”

Genya swallowed thickly, his entire face burning. “…You’re killin’ me, y’know that?”

Muichiro didn’t move. “You said that before.”

“‘Cause it’s still true.”

A quiet pause. Then, awkwardly, Genya shifted — hesitated — and leaned forward just enough to brush a quick, nervous kiss against Muichiro’s cheek.

Muichiro blinked, eyes wide for half a second. “That was…”

“Dumb?” Genya muttered, rubbing his neck. “Yeah, probably was.”

Muichiro shook his head slightly. “Nice.”

Genya looked at him, startled. “Yeah?”

Muichiro nodded once. “Warm.”

Genya’s throat went dry. He looked away quickly, mumbling, “You’re weird.”

“You like that I am.”

Genya huffed, but there was a small, helpless smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, maybe I do.”

They stayed like that — side by side, knees brushing, eyes tilted toward the sky.
The stars shimmered above them, soft and endless.

Muichiro’s voice was almost a whisper. “Do you ever think about how small we are?”

Genya blinked. “Huh?”

“In the sky,” Muichiro said. “We’re tiny. But we still find each other.”

Genya stared at him for a long second — then, slowly, smiled.
“…You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

Muichiro tilted his head toward him. “So are you.”

The night hummed gently around them, cicadas murmuring like a distant heartbeat.
Genya leaned back on his hands, exhaling slow, and for the first time that day — that week — he felt something ease in his chest.

“Guess this ain’t so bad,” he murmured. “Star-watchin’, I mean.”

Muichiro’s eyes traced the constellations. “It’s better with you here.”

Genya turned red again instantly. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

Genya sighed, grinning despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

Muichiro hummed faintly. “You like that too.”

Genya laughed quietly — low, soft, genuine. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

They sat there long after that — saying nothing, listening to the breeze and the quiet ripple of the pond.
The world had gone still, but not empty. Just full — of small, quiet things that mattered.

And for once, neither of them tried to run from it.

The crickets had quieted by the time the two of them finally stood. The garden was still silver with moonlight, koi gliding under the surface like ghostly ribbons.

Muichiro turned, hair catching the dim light. “It’s late,” he said softly. “You should come back with me. It’s a long walk to the dorms.”

Genya hesitated. “I don’t wanna intrude—”

“You’re not,” Muichiro interrupted simply. “It’s fine.”

The words left no room for argument — calm, final, in that soft way of his that somehow always felt absolute.
Genya rubbed at the back of his neck, flustered. “…Alright. If you say so.”

They walked the short trail back toward the Mist Estate. The path was lined with wind chimes — hundreds of them, faintly clinking in the night air. The sound was delicate, almost ethereal, like breathing made of glass.

Muichiro walked barefoot, quiet as always. Genya followed a step behind, clutching at his coat like it could shield him from the silence.
Every time their hands brushed accidentally, his heart jumped hard enough to make him curse under his breath.

When they reached the small house, Muichiro slid open the door without a word. The faint scent of cedar and clean air drifted out.

He gestured for Genya to come inside. “Wait here,” he said, disappearing briefly down the hall.

Genya stood awkwardly in the doorway, too aware of everything — the quiet creak of the floorboards, the gentle way Muichiro’s presence filled the room even when he was gone.
He looked down at his dusty uniform and grimaced. “Great,” he muttered. “Real classy, Shinazugawa. Real—”

Muichiro returned before he could finish, holding a folded set of pale blue sleep clothes in his arms.

“They might be small,” he said simply, “but they’re clean.”

Genya blinked. “You… just keep extra ones?”

“I wash them often,” Muichiro said. “Sometimes I forget which ones are mine.”

“…Right.” Genya rubbed at his neck again, cheeks warming. “Thanks, I—uh—appreciate it.”

Muichiro nodded, then pulled an extra futon from the storage chest and spread it neatly beside his own, the motions fluid and practiced.
“Here,” he said. “This side’s warmer.”

Genya stood there for a moment too long, staring at the two futons side by side, until Muichiro glanced up, head tilted slightly.

“Are you going to change?”

“Huh? Oh—yeah—yeah, I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Genya stammered, nearly tripping over his boots in his rush to duck behind the screen.

The sleep clothes really were small — the pants stopped just above his ankles, and the sleeves cut halfway down his forearms — but they were soft and smelled faintly of pine.
He caught his reflection in the window: broad shoulders stuffed into fabric clearly meant for someone smaller. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” he muttered under his breath.

When he stepped out, Muichiro was already lying down, eyes half-lidded, hair fanned out across the pillow like spilled ink.

“Too small?” Muichiro asked quietly.

Genya sighed, flopping onto the futon beside him. “You think?”

Muichiro hummed faintly. “It suits you.”

Genya turned red instantly. “Wh—”

But Muichiro had already closed his eyes, breathing steady, a faint smile still ghosting at the corner of his mouth.

Genya exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling. The futon felt too close, too warm, and yet — he didn’t mind.
He listened to the sound of Muichiro’s breathing, even and soft, until the rhythm pulled his own heart into calm.

“Night,” he mumbled, voice low.

Muichiro murmured something — maybe a response, maybe just a breath — and Genya finally let sleep pull him under.

⸻

Morning came gentle and gold.

The first thing Genya noticed was warmth — sunlight spilling through the paper screens, the faint chirping of sparrows outside, and the realization that he was still wearing clothes too tight in the sleeves.

The second thing he noticed was that Muichiro was already awake, sitting neatly beside the window, folding things into his travel pack.

Genya blinked blearily, propping himself up on an elbow. “You—uh—been up long?”

“A while,” Muichiro said without turning. “I like mornings.”

Genya yawned. “Yeah, you would.”

He rubbed his eyes and sat up, hair sticking out in every direction. Muichiro glanced back once, expression unreadable — but his gaze lingered for a fraction longer than usual before he turned back to his pack.

“You can use the washroom first,” he said. “There’s a towel by the door.”

“Uh—thanks,” Genya said, standing too fast and nearly tripping over the futon. “Man, I’m smooth as sandpaper.”

Muichiro hummed in quiet amusement.

The morning passed in an odd rhythm — not cold, not distant, just awkwardly new.
Every time Genya tried to say something, his words came out either too loud or too fast.
Every time he glanced up, Muichiro was looking at him with that calm, faintly curious expression that made his stomach flip.

By the time they left the estate, the tension had softened into something quieter — the kind that hovered between nerves and fondness.

Muichiro walked a step ahead, holding his haori folded over one arm.
Genya followed, hand brushing the edge of the sleeve by accident, and both of them pretended not to notice.

⸻

The training grounds buzzed with early morning light.
Hashira, Tsuguko, and Slayers of every rank moved through drills and chatter, the usual blend of chaos and discipline that filled the Corps headquarters.

Sanemi was already there — arms crossed, expression carved from impatience.
Giyuu arrived moments later, silent as a shadow, taking his usual place across the field.

Their eyes met for half a second.
Neither spoke.

Sanemi looked away first — a sharp click of his tongue, pretending to focus on the nearest group of trainees.
Giyuu’s gaze lingered a fraction longer before he, too, turned toward the sparring rings.

To everyone else, it looked like nothing. But everyone else knew better.

Mitsuri elbowed Obanai with a grin. “They’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Obanai muttered, though he didn’t bother denying it.

“That! The intense eye contact thing!” she whispered, eyes sparkling. “It’s so dramatic!”

Across the yard, Tanjiro caught sight of Genya arriving with Muichiro and jogged over, waving enthusiastically. “Genya! You’re alive! Did you sleep at all last night?”

Genya winced. “Uh—yeah—sorta.”

“Sorta?”

Muichiro spoke before Genya could answer. “He stayed over.”

Tanjiro froze mid-step. “Stayed—over?”

Genya’s face went crimson. “Don’t—say it like that!”

Mitsuri turned instantly, her eyes lighting up like festival lanterns. “He stayed over?!”

Obanai sighed. “Here we go.”

Tanjiro beamed, blissfully oblivious to the chaos he’d just unleashed. “That’s great! You two must’ve talked a lot, huh?”

Genya groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Kill me now.”

Muichiro, completely calm, adjusted his pack strap. “He was nervous, but it was fine.”

Mitsuri gasped. “Nervous?! Oh my goodness, that’s adorable!”

“Stop—talking—please,” Genya hissed through gritted teeth, already regretting leaving the house.

Meanwhile, a few yards away, Sanemi’s gaze flicked toward the group — sharp, assessing.
He caught sight of Genya’s flustered expression and immediately scowled.

Giyuu, standing beside him now, said quietly, “He looks happy.”

Sanemi grunted. “He looks like an idiot.”

Giyuu’s voice held a trace of humor. “Maybe both.”

Sanemi shot him a glare, but Giyuu didn’t look away.
For a moment, the tension stretched between them again — quiet, taut, and full of everything neither had said last night.

Mitsuri, whispering far too loudly, elbowed Tanjiro. “See? See! They’re staring again!”

Tanjiro blinked innocently. “Do you think they’ll talk this time?”

“No,” Obanai said flatly. “They’ll just glower at each other until one explodes.”

Mitsuri pouted. “But wouldn’t it be so romantic if—”

“Don’t,” Sanemi growled without looking over.

Mitsuri only giggled, entirely unbothered.

⸻

By late morning, the air had grown hot with training, tension, and a thousand unsaid things.
Genya kept his head down, pretending not to notice how everyone kept smirking when he passed. Muichiro, of course, was unbothered — as if the world’s gossip couldn’t touch him.

Sanemi and Giyuu remained silent shadows across the grounds, locked in their quiet stalemate of stolen glances and stubborn denial.

And above it all, the faint chime of wind bells echoed from the distant Mist Estate — a soft reminder of the night before, when everything had felt a little simpler, a little warmer, and just quiet enough to breathe.

The clang of blades and the soft rhythm of footfalls filled the air, until a crow swooped down from above with an urgent CAW!

“Hashira! Summons! Immediate attendance required at the Master’s estate!”

Heads turned all across the training ground. The message wasn’t unexpected — there’d been rumors of a new mission report filtering through the lower ranks — but the timing hit like a splash of cold water.

Sanemi’s shoulders tensed first. “Great,” he muttered under his breath, slinging his blade across his back. “Guess we’re all gonna hold hands and sing about teamwork.”

Beside him, Giyuu quietly adjusted the strap of his haori, tone even. “You could try not picking a fight before we even get there.”

“Don’t tell me what to do, Tomioka.”

“I didn’t.”

Sanemi’s eye twitched. “You implied it.”

Before Giyuu could reply, Mitsuri jogged up, her braid bouncing behind her, beaming. “Oh! You two are walking together! That’s progress!”

“We’re not—” Sanemi started, but Rengoku’s unmistakable voice boomed across the field, cutting him off.

“Ahh! Hashira meeting!” Rengoku declared, already halfway to them, sunlight catching in his wild flame-patterned hair. “A fine day for camaraderie and cooperation!”

He clapped both Sanemi and Giyuu on the shoulders with enough force to knock a lesser man flat. “I trust you two are on excellent terms after yesterday’s success!”

Sanemi choked on air. “Wh—what the hell gave you that idea?!”

Rengoku laughed, bright and unbothered. “The power of teamwork! The flames of mutual respect!”

Giyuu, calm as ever, adjusted his sleeve where Rengoku had nearly dislocated his arm. “…Something like that.”

Rengoku looked between them, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Marvelous! I can feel it! The tension of unspoken friendship!”

Sanemi glared. “You mean pain.”

“Ah, yes!” Rengoku said cheerfully. “That’s how most great partnerships begin!”

Mitsuri, who had been watching this entire exchange with barely restrained delight, clasped her hands together. “See, Sanemi! Even Rengoku thinks you two make a good team!”

“I’m surrounded by lunatics,” Sanemi muttered.

Giyuu didn’t say anything. But the faintest corner of his mouth twitched.

⸻

The walk to the Master’s estate was quiet — or, rather, as quiet as it could be with Rengoku filling the path with booming encouragements and Mitsuri humming under her breath.

Sanemi stalked several paces ahead, shoulders tight. Giyuu followed beside him, steady and wordless.
Every few minutes, Sanemi would glance over — just for a second — only to find Giyuu already looking back.

Each time, he looked away first.

By the time the group reached the Master’s garden, the other Hashira were already gathering — Shinobu sipping tea beneath a maple tree, Gyomei in calm prayer near the koi pond, and Tengen leaning lazily against a pillar with an amused smirk.

“Yo,” Tengen greeted, one eye glinting with mischief. “Well, if it isn’t the embodiment of awkward silence and the man who feeds it.”

Sanemi scowled. “You talk too much.”

Tengen grinned wider. “And you talk too loud. Balance, my friend.”

Shinobu’s laugh chimed softly. “Oh, leave them be, Tengen. Some people communicate better through… intense glaring.”

Giyuu exhaled through his nose, quiet but clearly done with everyone already.

Sanemi growled under his breath. “I’m gonna kill her.”

“Now, now,” Shinobu said sweetly, “I don’t think the Master would approve of murder before breakfast.”

Before Sanemi could snap back, a gentle voice drifted from the veranda.

“Sanemi. Giyuu. Everyone. It’s good to see you.”

They turned instantly — Ubuyashiki stood beneath the awning, sunlight haloing his frail form, his expression kind and patient as ever.

One by one, the Hashira knelt in greeting. The air shifted — solemn, reverent.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” Ubuyashiki said. “I’ve received reports of increased demon activity along the western routes. I will need two teams to investigate.”

As the conversation began, Sanemi’s mind barely focused on the logistics. He could feel Giyuu’s presence to his left — quiet, steady, impossible to ignore.
Every time the Master addressed them both, Sanemi’s pulse jumped like someone had caught him doing something wrong.

“Wind and Water,” Ubuyashiki said gently. “You worked well together in the last mission. I would like you to lead this next patrol as well.”

Sanemi’s stomach dropped.

He opened his mouth before he could stop himself. “With him again?”

“Is that a problem?” Ubuyashiki asked, tone mild but knowing.

Sanemi’s throat went dry. “No—no, sir. Just… surprised, is all.”

“I see.” The Master smiled faintly. “Then it’s settled.”

Across the courtyard, Mitsuri clapped her hands quietly in excitement. Tengen leaned toward Shinobu, murmuring, “This is gonna be entertaining.”

⸻

The meeting continued — strategy, border assignments, reports from other sectors — but the tension between Sanemi and Giyuu only grew.

Every time their names were mentioned together, Mitsuri’s grin widened. Shinobu’s amusement deepened. Rengoku’s approval radiated like sunlight.

When the meeting finally adjourned, Rengoku clapped his hands, booming, “A splendid gathering! Truly, our unity burns brighter than ever!”

“Speak for yourself,” Sanemi muttered.

“Oh, come now!” Rengoku laughed. “You and Tomioka are a picture of cooperation!”

Giyuu, deadpan: “We barely spoke.”

“Exactly!” Rengoku said proudly. “Efficient communication through silence!”

Mitsuri giggled behind her hand. “I think it’s sweet!”

Sanemi gave up on arguing entirely.

He turned on his heel, storming toward the outer path—only for Giyuu to follow him at a calm, steady pace.

“Why are you—” Sanemi started, then stopped himself, jaw clenching. “You know what? Never mind.”

Giyuu tilted his head slightly. “We’re assigned together. We should coordinate.”

“I don’t need to coordinate. I just—”

“Sanemi,” Giyuu interrupted softly.

The way he said his name — just his name — stopped Sanemi in his tracks.

No “Shinazugawa.” No rank. Just… him.

He turned slowly, eyes flashing with something between anger and panic. “What?”

Giyuu looked at him evenly. “Try not to run this time.”

Sanemi opened his mouth—then shut it again, throat tight.

“Yeah,” he muttered finally. “We’ll see.”

⸻

Meanwhile, down the hall, Genya stood outside the meeting room, nervously pacing.

Tanjiro had his hands on his shoulders. “Just breathe! It’s just Muichiro!”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Genya hissed. “You didn’t—kiss somebody’s face by accident last night!”

“Technically,” Tanjiro said cheerfully, “you kissed his cheek.”

“Not helpin’, Kamado!”

Before either could say more, Mitsuri emerged from the meeting, eyes shining. “Genya~! I heard you were staying with someone!”

Tanjiro’s expression turned horrified. “No, no—don’t—”

Genya groaned audibly. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

Muichiro appeared just then, serene as ever, walking past them with his usual unhurried calm. “Genya,” he said simply. “Are you coming?”

Genya froze, mouth opening, then closing again. “Uh—yeah! I—I’m comin’!”

Mitsuri clutched Tanjiro’s arm, whispering far too loudly, “They’re adorable!”

Down the corridor, Sanemi caught sight of the scene — his little brother tripping over his words and turning beet red — and muttered, “Oh, for—he’s got his own mess now.”

Beside him, Giyuu said quietly, “Seems like it runs in the family.”

Sanemi glared at him. “…You tryin’ to die today, Tomioka?”

Giyuu’s expression didn’t change. “No. Just observing.”

Rengoku, overhearing, laughed brightly. “Ah! A brother’s growth mirrored in his elder’s! How poetic!”

“Shut it, Rengoku!”

The courtyard rang with laughter, conversation, and the faint hum of things unspoken — quiet storms brewing under clear skies.

And though neither Sanemi nor Giyuu said it aloud, nor Genya nor Muichiro quite realized it yet—
the next mission would test all of them far more than any demon ever could.

The sun was gone by the time the estate grew quiet again.

The air smelled faintly of pine and rain that hadn’t come yet — the kind of stillness that hummed with waiting. Crickets sang somewhere beyond the walls, and the paper lanterns flickered along the path, throwing long, soft shadows.

Sanemi stood in one of them.

He hadn’t meant to linger this long after the meeting. But his boots had stopped moving somewhere between the main hall and the training grounds, and now he was just—standing there, staring at nothing, trying to breathe around the ache in his chest that refused to name itself.

The memory of Giyuu’s voice from earlier — “Try not to run this time.” — still burned under his skin.

He kicked at a loose stone. It skittered across the path, clattering into the dark.

“Think you’re so damn smart,” he muttered to himself. “Always talkin’ like you know somethin’ I don’t.”

But his voice sounded thin even to his own ears.

He thought about the way Giyuu had said his name earlier — Sanemi, just like that, quiet and steady and so damn simple — and it hit him harder than he wanted to admit. Nobody said his name like that. Not without anger or exasperation or pity.

Just—plain. Human.

He hated it.
He hated how much he didn’t.

Sanemi scrubbed a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Idiot,” he hissed under his breath. “Get it together. He’s just another damn Hashira. Just another—”

“—person who sees you,” something deep in his mind whispered.

He shut that down immediately.

With a rough exhale, he turned toward the training grounds, hoping a few hours of swinging a sword would burn it out of him.

⸻

On the other side of the compound, Giyuu sat in the quiet of his quarters, staring at the small cup of tea cooling beside him.

He hadn’t moved in nearly ten minutes.

The faint laughter of Mitsuri and Rengoku carried from down the corridor, soft and warm. Outside, the cicadas had gone silent — even they seemed to know when the night had shifted.

He thought of Sanemi again — the way he’d looked across the meeting hall when the Master paired them up, half defiance and half… fear, maybe. The flicker of something that wasn’t anger, though Sanemi would probably rather die than admit it.

Giyuu understood that kind of silence. The kind built from guilt and self-loathing and the quiet belief that you didn’t deserve to be understood.

He’d lived in that space for years.

Maybe that was why Sanemi unsettled him so much — because every time he looked at him, he caught a glimpse of himself, raw and unfiltered, before he’d learned how to hide behind calm.

He sighed, closing his eyes.
You’re not supposed to care, he told himself.
But the thought felt like a lie before it even finished forming.

⸻

Meanwhile, at the Mist Estate, the night was softer.

Muichiro sat cross-legged by the engawa, his hair unbound for once, moonlight painting it in shades of silver and blue. He watched the stars flicker faintly between drifting clouds, his expression calm — but not distant, not tonight.

Behind him, Genya was pacing.

“Okay, okay,” Genya muttered to himself, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re fine. You’re not freakin’ out. You’re just… bein’ normal.”

Muichiro glanced back. “You’re talking to yourself again.”

“I—uh—yeah. Maybe.”

“Do you want to sit down?”

Genya hesitated. “…Yeah. Sure.”

He sat — a bit too far at first, then awkwardly scooted closer when Muichiro tilted his head in confusion.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. It was just full — like everything Genya had been trying not to say was crowding his throat, waiting for the right second to burst out.

After a long minute, he said, “About last night—”

Muichiro blinked at him. “The kiss?”

Genya nearly choked on air. “Wha—! Don’t just say it like that!”

Muichiro tilted his head. “Why not? It happened.”

“That’s—yeah, but—you’re supposed to—” Genya groaned, burying his face in his hands. “You’re impossible.”

Muichiro smiled faintly, eyes soft. “You’re red again.”

“I wonder why,” Genya said, muffled.

The sound of crickets filled the quiet again, gentle and steady.

Finally, Muichiro said, almost to himself, “I liked it.”

Genya froze.

He lowered his hands slowly, eyes wide. “…Huh?”

Muichiro looked at him — really looked, with that quiet, unshakable calm that somehow made Genya’s pulse skip. “I liked it,” he repeated simply. “You make things… clearer.”

Genya opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Then, somehow, he managed, “You can’t just—say that kinda stuff so—so—”

“So?”

“So normal!”

“I’m not normal.”

“Yeah, no kidding—”

But then Muichiro leaned forward slightly, just enough that Genya could see the faint curve of a smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t have to say anything yet.”

And just like that — calm as a breeze — he stood, stretching lightly. “We should sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

Genya sat there for a long moment after he left, staring at the space where he’d been sitting, his heart beating like a trapped bird.

He was so doomed.

⸻

Across the estate, Sanemi was still awake.

The moon was high now, the air colder. He’d trained until his muscles burned and his hands ached, but it hadn’t done a damn thing to quiet the noise in his head.

Every swing of his sword just made the image sharper — Giyuu standing there, calm, unshaken, saying things nobody had any right to say.

By the time he stopped, his breath came in ragged bursts, sweat slicking his back. He dropped his blade into the dirt and leaned against the post, pressing a hand to his face.

“What the hell are you doin’ to me, Tomioka,” he muttered.

The whisper vanished into the dark.

Somewhere not far off, a crow cawed — sharp, urgent. Then another answered.

Sanemi frowned, lifting his head.

He knew that sound.

A crow’s cry at this hour wasn’t just noise. It was warning.

He straightened, every muscle going tense.

Across the compound, a door slid open — Giyuu’s door. He stepped out, eyes already scanning the horizon.

Their gazes met across the courtyard — just long enough for understanding to flicker between them.

Then the third crow screamed.

“Demon sighted—!”

Sanemi grabbed his sword. “Tomioka—”

“I know.”

And together — without thinking — they moved.

The night split open around them, the peaceful stillness gone in an instant.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of breaking wood echoed — sharp, violent, too close.

Genya and Muichiro both shot awake at the same time, the chill of danger settling in their bones.

⸻

And in the moonlit silence that followed, as the first scream cut through the air—
everything that had been simmering beneath the surface finally began to break.