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1
The rabbit was half-raw when Yoichi offered it to him.
Toshitsugu looked at the stick, then at the kid holding it. Pale, stringy meat sagged off the skewer, still leaking blood onto the dirt. The faint smell of iron hit him square in the nose, and his stomach turned. He didn’t need to take a bite to know it would end with them doubled over in the bushes, if not worse.
“Are you trying to kill us?” he said before he could stop himself.
Yoichi flinched. Just a twitch, so slight Toshitsugu might have missed it if he wasn’t watching closely. His fingers tightened around the stick like he was bracing for impact.
“I-I followed what you did last night,” Yoichi stammered. His voice was small, but hopeful, like he was trying to prove he wasn’t useless. “I thought-”
“You thought wrong.” Toshitsugu cut him off, sharper than intended. He snatched the stick from Yoichi’s hands, holding it up so the firelight flickered against the pink flesh. “This isn’t cooked, it’s bait. You’d get sick before you even had the strength to chew.”
The boy’s shoulders curled inward, his whole frame shrinking like he was trying to disappear. The air between them went thick. Toshitsugu pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn it. He hadn’t meant… well, he had, but not like that. Not to see Yoichi looking at the dirt like he was waiting for someone to grind him into it.
Toshitsugu crouched beside the fire, shifting the logs with the butt of his knife until sparks spat up into the dark. The flames roared higher, casting both their faces in orange. “Look. The trick isn’t just sticking it in the fire. You’ve gotta get the heat even. Rotate it slow, keep the juices in. Hold it too close, you char the outside and the inside stays raw.”
He demonstrated, turning the skewer steadily. The smell shifted with time. Less iron, more smoke, something edging toward edible. Yoichi crept closer, drawn in despite himself, eyes wide as if Toshitsugu was performing some impossible magic instead of the world’s most basic survival task.
“I never-” Yoichi’s voice cracked and he cut himself off. His hands twisted in his lap, fingers digging into one another. He swallowed and tried again, quieter. “I’ve never cooked before.”
Toshitsugu shot him a sidelong glance. “Figures. That bastard.”
The words came out too harsh. He meant it like an observation, but Yoichi flinched like it was a lash. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second Toshitsugu thought he’d snap back, or maybe retreat entirely. But Yoichi didn’t. He just sat there, silent, the weight of years of unspoken truth hanging in the air.
Toshitsugu didn’t push.
Instead, he finished cooking and pulled the skewer back. The meat was browned now, juices sealed in, steam rising from it in the cold night. He handed it over.
“Here. This one’s safe.”
Yoichi hesitated before taking it, careful not to let his fingers brush Toshitsugu’s. He held it gingerly, as if the warmth of the skewer itself might burn.
Toshitsugu leaned back on his hands, watching him. “Next time, you try again. And this time you’ll do it right.”
There was a pause. Then, soft and almost reverent, Yoichi said, “Thank you.”
It wasn’t just for the food, Toshitsugu realized. It was for the lesson, for the patience he didn’t deserve, for the fact that Toshitsugu hadn’t laughed at him or shoved him aside. The rawness in Yoichi’s tone sat heavy in the air, heavier than the smoke.
Toshitsugu grunted, pretending not to hear it. He turned back to the fire and fed it another branch.
But later that night, when he noticed Yoichi carefully turning a second skewer over the flames, repeating the exact motions Toshitsugu had shown him, he let himself feel a flicker of something fragile in his chest. Something dangerously close to hope.
2
Toshitsugu woke to the sound of shifting fabric.
Not the normal kind. Not people rolling over in their bedrolls, snoring through exhaustion. No, this was sharper. Jerky movements, like someone fighting to get comfortable and failing. He blinked the grit from his eyes and sat up, hand automatically brushing the knife at his belt.
Yoichi was sitting upright across the fire, knees drawn to his chest. His blanket lay crumpled around his ankles, forgotten. His eyes kept darting to the treeline as if something out there might lunge for him at any second.
“You planning to scare off the wildlife with those eyebags?” Toshitsugu muttered, voice low so the others wouldn’t stir.
Yoichi startled anyway. His head whipped around, hair falling into his face. “S-sorry,” he whispered. “Did I wake you?”
“You think you’re being quiet?” Toshitsugu snorted. He shifted closer, lowering himself onto a log beside him. The fire had burned down to embers, throwing more shadow than light. “What’s the problem?”
Yoichi’s shoulders rose and fell, but no words came. He looked back at the dark woods, chewing the inside of his cheek.
Toshitsugu followed his gaze. Nothing out there but the usual chorus: crickets, the rustle of leaves, an owl somewhere distant. Comforting sounds, to him. Meant the world was still alive. But Yoichi was trembling like they were signals of something hunting him.
“You hear that?” Toshitsugu asked. “That’s safety. If the woods go quiet, then you worry. Means a predator’s near. But noise?” He shrugged. “Noise means we’ve got company we can live with.”
Yoichi’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. His hands were white-knuckled around his knees.
Toshitsugu raised an eyebrow. “Never done this before either?”
A small shake of the head.
Figures. Locked in that vault All for One called a home, pampered but trapped, never touching dirt unless his brother allowed it. No wonder every snap of a twig had him wired like a cornered rabbit.
Toshitsugu sighed and yanked the blanket off the ground. He shook it out, then crouched and spread it properly, layering leaves and grass beneath it. “First rule of sleeping outside? Don’t lie straight on the ground. Steals your warmth faster than any draft.”
Yoichi blinked at him. “…I thought the blanket was enough.”
“It’s not.” Toshitsugu nudged him with a knee. “Lie down.”
Reluctantly, Yoichi obeyed. Toshitsugu pulled the blanket up over him, tucking the edges in with quick, practical movements. It felt stupidly parental, and he half-expected Yoichi to push him away. But the boy just lay stiff, eyes wide, until Toshitsugu gave the final instruction:
“Close your damn eyes. Nothing’s gonna get you. Not with me here.”
For a long time, Yoichi stayed frozen, chest rising too fast. Toshitsugu almost thought it hadn’t worked, until gradually, his breathing slowed. The tension leaked from his frame, replaced by something fragile and unfamiliar: trust.
Minutes later, Yoichi’s lashes fluttered shut. Sleep finally pulled him under, his face softening in the glow of the embers.
Toshitsugu stayed awake a little longer, knife resting across his lap, listening to the forest and the even breaths beside him.
It wasn’t the sounds of the night that weighed heavy on him. It was the knowledge that Yoichi had never been taught something as basic, as human, as how to close his eyes without fear.
And it was Toshitsugu’s job to fix that.
3
The first time Yoichi threw a punch, he nearly broke his own thumb.
Toshitsugu caught his wrist before the mistake connected, twisting it just enough to stop the angle from snapping wrong. “Stop. You’re about to cripple yourself.”
Yoichi froze, chest heaving. His eyes darted up, wide and uncertain. He looked the same way he had holding that bloody rabbit on a stick, the same way he had curled under his blanket at night, waiting for the noises in the woods to swallow him whole.
“Look,” Toshitsugu said, forcing his voice steady. “If you curl your thumb inside your fist, it’ll shatter the second you land a hit. Keep it outside. Here.” He adjusted Yoichi’s hand, guiding his fingers into the right position.
The boy studied his own knuckles like they were foreign objects. “I never had to…” His voice trailed off. He did not finish the sentence, but Toshitsugu already knew how it ended.
“Yeah, well, things are different now,” Toshitsugu muttered. He stepped back, raising his own fists. “Try again. Hit me. Hard.”
Yoichi hesitated. “I might…”
“You won’t hurt me.” Toshitsugu smirked, sharp and humorless. “But you sure as hell better learn how to hurt someone else when you need to.”
Yoichi sucked in a breath and swung. His fist connected clumsily with Toshitsugu’s palm. It had weight, but no aim. Toshitsugu absorbed it easily.
“Better,” Toshitsugu said. “Again.”
They repeated it, over and over. The strikes grew steadier. His form improved. But his body was still weak, all skin and bones from years of confinement. His arms trembled by the time they hit the twentieth attempt.
“Yoichi.” Toshitsugu lowered his hand. “Use it. Your Meta Ability. Just a little.”
Yoichi’s head snapped up. “Here? Now?”
“You think your brothe- All for One’s gonna wait for you to be ready?” Toshitsugu barked. “Call it out. Feel it in your muscles. And then throw.”
For a moment Yoichi hesitated, his lips pressing thin like he wanted to refuse. Then his eyes closed. His whole frame shivered as he reached inward, pulling at something invisible. Toshitsugu felt the air tighten around him, the faint crackle of energy sparking under Yoichi’s skin.
When he swung again, it was like a different person had struck him. The punch slammed into Toshitsugu’s palm with force enough to sting, pushing him back half a step.
Yoichi stumbled too, his feet skidding in the dirt, unused to his own strength. His eyes flew open, terrified. “I… I didn’t mean-”
“Stop apologizing.” Toshitsugu shook out his hand, smirking despite the ache. “That was the first real punch you’ve thrown in your life. Remember what it felt like.”
Yoichi stared at his own fist, trembling. It was the same look he had given the cooking fire, the same mix of awe and fear. Like power was something forbidden, something he had been taught belonged only to someone else.
“Again,” Toshitsugu said firmly. “This time, aim like you mean it.”
They kept going until Yoichi was swaying on his feet, sweat soaking his collar, bruises already forming across his knuckles. Toshitsugu finally called it, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to sit.
Yoichi pressed his shaking hands into the dirt, still staring at them. His breath came ragged, but there was something new in his eyes. Not just fear. Determination.
Toshitsugu saw the flicker of it, fragile but alive. The same spark he had noticed when Yoichi managed a real meal, the same fragile trust that let him sleep under the trees. Step by step, Yoichi was learning.
And Toshitsugu was realizing just how much his survival depended on it.
4
The rebels were arguing again.
Food rations had run thin, and tempers burned hotter than the cooking fire. Toshitsugu had seen it before, too many times to count, but Yoichi sat stiff at his side, shrinking lower with every sharp word tossed across the camp.
It was only when someone turned on him that Toshitsugu realized how bad it was.
“You,” a broad-shouldered man snapped, pointing a finger at Yoichi. “You’re the reason we’re running low. We’re breaking our backs for this cause, and you just sit there like dead weight.”
Yoichi flinched. His mouth opened, then closed. His fingers knotted tight in his lap.
Toshitsugu’s jaw clenched. He was about to step in, blade-sharp words already forming on his tongue, when he saw Yoichi’s face.
The same look as when he had offered half-raw meat. The same look as when he had curled on the ground, too afraid to close his eyes. The same look as when his first punch had knocked him off balance, terrified of the strength in his own hands.
Toshitsugu forced himself to wait.
“Go on,” Toshitsugu murmured low, just enough for Yoichi to hear. “Say something. Don’t let him decide your worth for you.”
Yoichi’s breath hitched. His gaze flicked from Toshitsugu to the man towering over him. His lips moved silently before the words finally escaped.
“I… I am not useless.”
The camp went quiet. Yoichi’s voice shook, but he did not stop. “I am learning. I cook now. I can fight. I will fight. I am not a burden.”
The man sneered. “Big talk.”
Yoichi’s hands trembled at his sides. Then, with a visible effort, he dug them into the dirt until his nails caught on the stones. His next words were steadier. “I am here because I chose to be. And I will not apologize for existing.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then the man snorted and turned away, muttering under his breath. The argument shifted elsewhere, the tension bleeding off into other quarrels.
Yoichi sagged forward as though the strength had drained from him all at once. Toshitsugu caught his shoulder before he could fold completely.
“You did good,” Toshitsugu said quietly.
Yoichi looked up at him, eyes wet, lower lip trembling. “I thought… I thought he was right.”
“He wasn’t,” Toshitsugu said, firm enough to cut through the doubt. “You have the right to be here. You don’t need to earn it with apologies.”
Yoichi swallowed hard, then nodded, though the motion was small and unsure.
Later that night, Toshitsugu noticed him sitting by the fire, carefully rotating a stick of food just the way he had been taught. When a sound cracked from the woods, Yoichi’s shoulders jumped, but he forced himself to lie back down on his bedroll, pulling the blanket up and closing his eyes.
It was clumsy. It was shaky. But it was effort.
5
Toshitsugu noticed it before anyone else did.
Yoichi was limping, subtle at first, as if the motion itself could be hidden from the world. His hands shook slightly when he grabbed his bowl of stew, and there was a faint pallor under his skin that didn’t belong.
“Yoichi,” Toshitsugu said, voice low but sharp. “What the hell happened to your leg?”
Yoichi froze, eyes darting away. “It’s nothing,” he whispered.
“Nothing?” Toshitsugu’s tone cut through the night. “You can’t even stand straight and you call it nothing?”
Yoichi’s jaw tightened. He swallowed. “I can manage.”
“You can manage, or you should manage?” Toshitsugu pressed, crouching so their eyes were level. “Because if you keep hiding this, it’s gonna get worse. You’ll take yourself out of the fight before anyone else can touch you.”
Yoichi’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I… I don’t want to be a burden.”
Toshitsugu’s breath hitched. He wanted to shout, to shake the boy, to make him understand. But instead he knelt beside him and carefully lifted the pant leg, exposing a deep bruise with faint abrasions. “Being alive isn’t being a burden. You think hiding it makes you stronger? It just makes you weaker. And weaker gets you killed.”
He dug into his pack and pulled out a small first-aid kit. “Sit. I’m showing you how to handle this. Then you do it yourself next time. Remember that stew we cooked? You learned by doing. Same rule applies here.”
Yoichi obeyed, hands hovering uncertainly over the bandages. Toshitsugu guided them, slow and precise. “Clean it first. Dirt breeds infection. Pat, don’t rub. Wrap it snug, but not tight. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” Yoichi whispered, voice cracking.
“Good. Now do it.”
The boy’s hands shook as he mimicked Toshitsugu’s movements. The first swipe of the cloth was clumsy, the wrap uneven, but Toshitsugu let him finish, correcting only when necessary.
When he was done, Yoichi leaned back, breathing heavy, pale face wet with sweat and faint tears. “I… I didn’t think I could…”
“You did,” Toshitsugu said softly. “Same way you learned to cook. Same way you learned to fight. You keep trying, you keep learning. That’s what matters.”
+1
The sewers reeked of rot and blood, every step echoing harshly off the stone walls. Yoichi’s hand clung to Toshitsugu’s, refusing to let go. He could not. Not now. Not ever.
Zen’s shadow stretched before them, immense and suffocating. “You are mine, Yoichi,” the voice hissed. Its tenderness would have deceived Yoichi once upon a time. “Come back to me. Stop clinging to this insolent child.”
Toshitsugu’s fingers tightened around his, steady and unwavering. Yoichi felt the subtle tension in his grip, the way he measured every motion, every threat… but he pushed all thought of fear aside. His mind narrowed to one truth: stay. Stay with him.
A faint memory stirred: the smell of smoke and browned meat from the fire he had almost ruined, the way he had rotated the skewer, learning the rhythm of heat, learning that he could create something sustaining with his own hands. The warmth of the fire seemed to pulse through him now, a fragile proof that he could hold on.
The brush of cold leaves against his skin surfaced next, the nights spent trembling under the open sky. He could almost hear the rustle, feel the earth beneath him, and the steadying presence of Toshitsugu’s voice guiding him to breathe, to endure, to exist even in fear.
The ache in his fists came after, the memory of the first punch he had thrown, clumsy and trembling, the sting in his knuckles, the way Toshitsugu’s hand had steadied his own. He remembered the moments he had learned to raise his voice, to plant himself, to be seen, to fight not just to survive but to matter.
Even the faint memory of his leg aching from a small injury reminded him now of how far he had come. How he had learned to care for himself, to feel the pain without letting it break him. Every scar, every bruise, every trembling hand had taught him one simple thing: he could act, he could choose, he could endure.
“I’m staying.”
Zen surged forward like a storm. Toshitsugu moved instinctively to shield him, but the blow tore through anyway. Yoichi did not flinch. He shoved himself forward, closing the space between them, and the world exploded in fire, heat, and pain. His legs buckled, his chest burned, but his fingers did not release Toshitsugu’s.
Pain blurred into nothing. Only the warmth of Toshitsugu’s hand remained, the pulse beneath his fingertips steady and grounding. Instinct took over. Every lesson he had absorbed - the rhythm of fire, the stillness under the stars, the weight of a fist, the clarity of standing firm, the care for his own body - flowed through him without thought.
I want to stay with Toshitsugu, he thought. A quiet, unshakable truth.
White light swallowed him. The world vanished, as did the echoes of Toshitsugu’s screams.
Even in the darkness, he felt it. A fragment of himself, forged in fire and fear, in trembling hands and steady breaths, flowing into Toshitsugu. Not all of him, but enough. Enough to leave a pulse, a spark, a quiet inheritance that would linger, a part of what he had learned and become.
Even in death, Yoichi remained. A part of himself had been reborn in the one he had refused to let go of. And in that rebirth, something once held by Zen had found a new home.