Archive of Our Own ^beta

Change, as Giyuu has known, is always inevitable.

There are always the small changes: the turning of the tides, the changing of the seasons, the way a flower grows and blooms and withers. Noticeable changes, steadfast changes that happen like clockwork. There are the bigger changes, too, though Giyuu has learned that those are often on a personal level, the smaller, unnoticeable changes writ large: the deaths of friends, loved ones, the aging of the people around you. Those are the changes that stick out to him, each a highlight of grief, each a way for him to mark the way he ages.

The latest change he's been forced through is different than the others: it holds a louder kind of grief, a more physical, obvious mark on him than the other changes he's lived through. The loss of the comrades, of the friends, he lost in Muzan's endless castle weighs heavy on him, a physical thing lodged in his chest that he has to make an effort to breathe around. The other physical losses—his arm, part of his hearing—compound the grief he had felt before the sun had even risen on the carnage.

But these changes, like all changes, he has learned to live with. He has adjusted to the quiet of the world without Mitsturi's excited squealing and soliloquies about love, without Iguro's snide remarks murmured out of the side of his mouth, without the quiet steadiness of Gyomei. The world is much quieter without them, without the others that were lost on that battlefield and all of the battlefields that came before it.

He knows he was one of the lucky ones. That it wasn't talent or skill or experience that saw him through the night, but rather a few lucky breaks at critical moments. That he wouldn't have, couldn't have, survived on pure willpower and a broken sword alone.

In the aftermath, with so many dawns since the castle, he is still surviving in a way that he couldn’t manage on his own.

One hundred and twenty three sunrises after the destruction of all demons and three sunrises after Giyuu was released from the care of the Butterfly Estate, Shinazugawa Sanemi had moved himself into the Water Estate without a word.

Well—there were words. Words like, "Why is there no food here?" and, "When is the last time this window was opened?" and, "Why did you let Kanzaburo make a nest out of your Hashira Haori?"

Notably, none of the words that were even spoken to Giyuu were, "Is it alright if I'm here?" or "Can I stay?" or "What do you need?"

It was just an assumption. An assumption that Giyuu doesn't particularly mind, given that Shinazugawa is one of the last people he can talk to who understands what it was like being a Hashira; who understands what it is like devoting your life to someone for so long, only for them to die before victory is achieved; who understands that all of the grief and the joy of that night go hand in hand.

However, he can't help but feel that the assumption was made on the idea that Giyuu can no longer fend for himself. Sanemi hasn't said anything outright, but Giyuu's noticed a pattern: if something needs done, Sanemi does it. If something needs cut, Sanemi does it. If something needs washed, cooked, carried, changed, Sanemi does it. If something needs mended, Nezuko does it, but that one's a given since Giyuu never was very good with stitchwork anyway.

In the twenty one dawns since Shinazugawa Sanemi moved himself into Giyuu's home, Giyuu hasn't had to lift so much as a finger because Sanemi is doing everything for him. And Giyuu finds that he does, in fact, mind.

They are both different, now that the demons are gone. The mental differences are slower, still coming, popping up here and there in ways that Giyuu doesn't expect. The trauma, the grief—he and Sanemi carry twin burdens in those aspects. A kind of kinship he wouldn't wish on anyone. The physical aspect, on the other hand?

In the quiet of the morning, warm dappled sunlight on his cheeks, Giyuu laughs quietly to himself because he no longer has another hand to count on. He had expected to bear some scars as part of the end result, even the loss of his own life. It never crossed his mind that he would lose a limb.

Sanemi, for all of the scars he already bore, fared little better. New, still healing, rents in his skin and a few missing fingers here and there, he seems to be in slightly better shape than Giyuu and has spent the past twenty one days proving it.

It's starting to piss Giyuu off.

He breathes deep and pushes his frustration to the side, crisp morning air making his lungs burn as he watches Sanemi trudge up the small hillock towards him. He looks as though he may have just gotten out of the bath, hair damp and slicked back rather than standing up all over the place. There is an ever-present grief that hangs from his shoulders, the weight of it a force Giyuu can nearly see envelop him.

But for all of the grief, Giyuu can see even from afar that there is a peace settled into the former Wind Hashira's face that never used to be there. Not acceptance, exactly, or even resignation—peace, pure and simple.

He looks away from his approaching uninvited house guest (though, a traitorous voice slithers through his mind, he's not unwelcome, is he?) and to his lap instead, where Kanzaburo sleeps soundly. The old Kasugai crow spends most of his time sleeping now, either in a nest he built in Giyuu's room, or the nest Giyuu built him on the windowsill of the kitchen.

This morning, Kanzaburo had ridden on Giyuu's shoulder to the top of the hillock before promptly nesting into Giyuu's lap and dozing off. He weighs next to nothing, all hollow bones and old feathers, a weight that has supported Giyuu so long that he recognizes it as part of himself. He knows that Kanzaburo will become another water line in Giyuu's to mark the passage of time, another change that Giyuu will have to contend with. The Kasugai crow that has seen him through thick and thin and thinner is old, aging.

He has a hope that when the time comes, Kanzaburo's death will be a natural one; that he will be the first one in Giyuu's life to die a natural death, one brought on by age rather than violence or illness.

His thoughts are pulled from darker things as Sanemi lowers himself onto the ground next to him, smelling of fresh pine soap and saying nothing. Giyuu has noticed in the last twenty one days that every time Sanemi is around him (and Sanemi is around him almost always, these days), the Wind Hashira takes up a post on his right side. Always on his right; always on the side that Giyuu's arm is missing.

Or—not missing. Stolen, perhaps, but even then that word implies that there is a glimmering possibility of getting it back. But he is not a demon, cannot regenerate limbs between one heartbeat and the next. He is human, with all of the joy and the grief, and his arm is gone and will not return.

Anger, sharp and biting, fills his mouth with the taste of copper. It's a taste he's all too familiar with, ever present in his mouth for years, growing sharper and sharper with every passing dawn. It is a taste he cannot rinse from between his jaws, no matter how hard he tries.

So many assumptions on the Wind Hashira's end, and Giyuu with his leaden tongue.

In his lap, Kanzaburo lets out a rip of a snore, wings fluttering for a moment as he makes himself more comfortable. Sanemi lets out a sound underneath his breath, something that almost sounds like a laugh, though the full noise is snatched away by the wind. Perhaps he heard nothing.

He glances over at Sanemi, tanned now by the time he's spent in the sun instead of highlighted by the light of the moon. There is a kind of peace on his face that Giyuu never thought either of them would live to see, the angry gleam that lurked in his eyes gone.

Giyuu has always known that Sanemi is handsome, in a rugged kind of way. There's something magnetic about him, something that draws people in while his personality pushes people away. But now, Sanemi does not appear to be trying to push people away. Not outright, not the way he did before.

Instead there is a peeled orange in Sanemi’s lap, half-covered by one of the cloth napkins they use for meals. The peel is nowhere to be seen, likely in the compost bin kept just under the kitchen window.

Wordlessly, Sanemi picks up one of the slices and holds it out to Giyuu. Giyuu used to see the offering of food (of everything, really, that Sanemi has done for him in the past twenty one days) as more of a peace offering, a branch extended in an effort to bridge the gap between them. He's not sure what it is anymore with Sanemi constantly in his space.

He takes the orange slice from Sanemi's mangled hand, the juice welling out of the flesh with the barest hint of pressure and covering his fingers. The smell of the citrus fills his nose, but he does not bite into it.

Giyuu watches quietly as Sanemi bites into his own slice, carefully tearing off a chunk with a mouth that's slower to anger these days. There's a small chunk of orange left in his fingers, the juice from it bright on his lips.

It takes quite a bit of willpower for Giyuu to make himself follow the arc of Sanemi's hand into his lap where Kanzaburo slumbers, waving the piece of orange before the old crow's nose. Something about the ichor of the orange on Sanemi's lips warrants his utmost attention; Giyuu just isn't sure why.

In his lap, Kanzaburo stirs, one eye opening just enough to see what's being offered. The old crows eye slides, just for a moment, past the orange to see who is offering it. When he sees it’s Sanemi, Giyuu can feel Kanzaburo’s whole body relax further into his lap. The Kasugai crow accepts the offering almost lazily, beak opening to gently take the piece of orange from the former Wind Hashira’s fingers.

Giyuu, who has been perched, teetering on the knife-blade of his anger, feels the emotion swell in him like a tide. Kanzaburo is his Kasugai crow, his responsibility. He may lack an arm now but that doesn’t mean he can’t feed his crow an orange.

The swell of his anger knocks him from the knife-edge and into the abyss.

He throws the orange slice Sanemi had given him, hitting the other man square in the face with it. It is the most childish thing he’s done in years, and it doesn’t make him feel any better.

The slice hits Sanemi high in the cheekbone and sticks there, just for a moment, before peeling itself off of the man’s skin and landing in the napkin where it originated. A sticky residue is left behind, glittering and glistening in the mottled sunlight. And Sanemi—

Is staring at him, mouth slightly agape. The anger comes a second later, a delayed response, though it’s muted compared to how it flickered, hot as a bonfire, months ago. Giyuu can see the anger in him come to life from the curve of his mouth, the spark in his pale eyes.

And yet, Sanemi almost sounds calm when he asks, “What the ever loving fuck did you do that for?”

Giyuu has never enjoyed talking. He’s never enjoyed explaining himself. He’s never enjoyed speaking up, especially when something is bothering him. And yet, when he looks at Sanemi, he can’t help but feel his mouth open.

“You need to stop treating me like I’m some—some invalid who can’t take of themselves. Like I can’t do anything for myself. Like I’ll never be able to do anything again.” There’s an edge to his voice, raw with anger and hurt, that surprises even him.

The anger in Sanemi’s face retreats, replaced by surprise. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about?”

In his lap, Kanzaburo shifts, rolling from his back to his stomach in case he needs to make a hasty retreat.

Giyuu makes a frustrated noise before he speaks. “All of this! Everything!” He motions first to the orange, then down to the house. “You just—you just showed up! And you’re doing everything for me, without asking, as though you think I’m somehow incapable of taking care of myself! Just because I lost an arm. A single, stupid arm. I can cut wood! I can cook! I can still feed my own fucking bird without your help!”

There is mirth in Sanemi’s eyes now, sparkling like twin stars.

It makes Giyuu madder, so he keeps going.

“I don’t need your help! I can still do all of the things I was doing before! I don’t need you to—to—I don’t need you to constantly be on the right side of me, as though I need protected on that side. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself!”

There’s motion in Sanemi’s lips, a soft tremble that takes Giyuu a moment to interpret as the other man trying to hold back a laugh.

It makes him angrier, but he’s run out of words.

Instead, with no warning to Kanzaburo, he launches himself at Sanemi with a shout.

Sanemi doesn’t have a chance to defend himself, Kanzaburo shooting in the sky with a squawk and a flurry of flapping feathers. Giyuu’s torso slams into Sanemi’s chest, his fist finding the other man’s ribs once, twice, three times.

Sanemi’s fingers—what’s left of them, at least—dig into the fabric of Giyuu’s clothing, pulling him closer. (And isn’t it silly, Giyuu manages to think through his anger, that he pulls danger closer when he fights?)

The movement upsets their center of gravity, and Sanemi flails backwards in an effort to regain it, taking Giyuu with him. They tumble down the hill together, a pile of limbs and raised voices, Kanzaburo in the sky above them shouting, “VIOLENCE! VIOLENCE!”

Rocks and twigs bite into Giyuu as they roll, though he’s still focused more on punching the other man in the ribs. Sanemi’s grip doesn’t loosen on him even as they tumble, but he's not fighting back.

They stop at the bottom of the hill, breathless, most of the fight but none of the anger gone from Giyuu as he lays in the grass with what he's positive is the sharpest rock in the world digging into his left hip. Sanemi lies on top of him, cheek to cheek, one leg wedged between both of Giyuu's.

As Giyuu fights to get air back in his lungs, Sanemi speaks. Giyuu does not hear the words, but feels the vibration of Sanemi's voice against his chest, the movement of Sanemi's jaw brushing against his own.

Fully defeated, Giyuu finds enough breath to ask, "What?"

He feels Sanemi laugh more than he hears it as the other man lifts his face away from Giyuu, only to move his head to press his cheek against the opposite side of Giyuu's head, lips grazing the tip of Giyuu's nose as he does so.

"I said," he says, directly into Giyuu's ear with laughter in his voice, so much clearer than he was before, "I stay on your right because you can't hear out of the left side of your head."

Most of Giyuu's anger dissipates at the confession. He had thought—well.

He digs his hand into the fabric near Sanemi's ribs, almost sorry he had punched him more than once. "I didn't—"

"Yeah, yeah," Sanemi says, brushing him off while making no movement to get off of the top of him. "You were too busy moping, and I thought you were smarter than that."

They lie for a moment, cheek to cheek; Giyuu can feel the thud of Sanemi's heart as though it were in his own chest, the tacky juice of the orange that had been thrown at Sanemi's earlier drying on both their skin.

"As for the other stuff," Sanemi says, rumble of his voice like thunder against Giyuu's sternum, "that's just. What you do when you care about someone."

The knife of Giyuu's anger sheathes itself.