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With the rushing river, crackling campfire, and star-lit sky, the Stone Hashira’s estate became undeniably peaceful. Over-exhausted slayers sprawled across the grass and soil, most asleep, finally relaxing, some staring at the sky and simply breathing. Their training had been grueling, but this calm reward was encouraging enough, so they relished the ease while they could.
The two lone slayers left sitting up certainly enjoyed it plenty. They sat shoulder to shoulder, heads occasionally craning up to see the flicker of a star, or bending down to watch the curling flames. They swapped occasional lines of conversation, pointing to a bird or cloud or whatever caught their fancy. Tanjiro especially had many comments to make, switching topics like he did breathing styles. Mostly though, they just relaxed in their shared presence.
Genya had yet to put a name to that feeling, the one that made his chest squeeze like a lost breath every time Tanjiro was around. It used to annoy him, used to anger him, but recently, he’d started to seek it, to crave it. Leaning against him now, listening to the random tidbits of information he thought to divulge, it grew stronger than it had ever before. It made his skin prickle and his mouth smile. It made him lean closer, made him tilt his head towards him, if just to be a little closer. It was weird, and new, but he liked it.
“Oh, and that reminds me!” Tanjiro perked up, his shoulder jostling Genya’s arm and his red eyes appearing seconds later. The moment those eyes met his, a rush of warmth flooded Genya’s face. He was inches away, centimeters, and he was grinning softly—that same grin he always gave before some heartfelt sentiment. “I wanted to talk to you about your brother.”
A twang of his heart sent a cold shock through Genya’s veins, washing away all the warmth Tanjiro had given him and leaving him to slump in his spot.
“What about?” He grumbled, not too pleased with the new conversation. Tanjiro pressed a little closer. Genya fought the urge to push back.
“I don’t know everything that’s going on between you two,” Tanjiro said. He spoke softly, gently, so before he even realized, Genya was leaning back towards him, turning his head to see his face again. He was still smiling. “I don’t want to get in the way or anything either, I just wanted to say: you don’t need his forgiveness.”
A beat of silence passed between them. Tanjiro kept on smiling, as was his way, but Genya felt his face go slack. His heart tripped and his muscles twitched, itching to say you’re wrong, desperate to prove his monstrosity—but Tanjiro wouldn’t want that. If he heard Genya say those things about himself, that smile would disappear. His spirit would fall and he would try to console him, try to expend himself for Genya’s sake. Genya couldn’t allow that. Still…he couldn’t accept those words.
“Huh?” He croaked, not really a reply, but something at least.
Tanjiro's brow curled with his smile, and he tilted his head. “You don’t need his forgiveness,” he repeated, still gentle, “you’ve done nothing wrong.”
You are wrong, Genya thought immediately, a hot spike piercing through his ribs and cutting off his breaths. I called him a murderer. I didn’t appreciate him. He needed me, and I hurt him. He couldn’t manage to say the words out loud, of course, not when Tanjiro could hear. Not when he’d never been further from redemption. God, he had been so close to earning forgiveness, so close to finally atoning—only to have it all blown away. Shattered. Dismantled and discarded, like Sanemi didn’t even care…
Was he wrong? Genya turned his head away, looking at the fire and trying to ignore the small noise of surprise Tanjiro made. The flames flickered peacefully, a stark contrast to how Genya felt. He’d been carrying that burden for years, for so long that he barely remembered what it felt like to live without it. For years he had been searching for Sanemi, fighting and clawing his way through the corps just for a chance to apologize, to plead for forgiveness. Then when he’d finally managed it, when he finally climbed high enough to reach out and grasp for him, he’d attacked. He’d attempted to blind him, then threatened to maim him. Worst of all, he hurt Tanjiro, attacking and abusing him for the crime of saving Genya. Naturally, Genya started carrying that shame too—but was the first one even worth clinging onto?
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, which earned another surprised noise from Tanjiro, “that my brother hurt you.”
“What?” Tanjiro leaned forward, his arm still touching Genya’s. He clearly tried to get into his peripheral, but Genya turned his head again, unwilling to see that sweet expression he surely wore. “It’s no problem, Genya! Really, I’m fine. I only got into a little trouble, and I wasn’t even hospitalized!”
Genya’s jaw clamped shut, agitating his molars and sending a shock through his spine. Wasn’t even hospitalized. Of course Tanjiro saw that as a win. It’s no problem.
“He could have killed you,” Genya insisted. His hands turned to fists against his pants, clutching to the fabric to hide how they shook, to hide his horror, to hide everything. “All because you were protecting me. You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Genya.”
Surprising him more than anything—more than his nonchalance or good natured attitude or freakishly durable body—Tanjiro laid a hand over Genya’s and squeezed. It was such a small gesture, it could even be seen as familial, but it made Genya’s entire body flush hot and his head snap back, finally meeting Tanjiro’s eyes again. Naturally, Tanjiro was smiling that usual, gentle smile, his eyes twinkling somewhere between fondness and sorrow.
“I would never leave you to be hurt like that,” he assured quietly. His fingers squeezed tighter, callouses rubbing against callouses, and before Genya could even decide to do so, he was turning his hand over, exposing his palm for Tanjiro to hold onto. Tanjiro didn’t hesitate when presented with the opportunity; he simply wrapped his hand around Genya’s and held tighter. “We really don’t have to talk about it,” he continued, “but I just wanted you to know that. Whatever you think you did wrong, it’s in the past, and he clearly doesn’t want a part of your future. You don’t need to be forgiven. You don’t have any sins to absolve.”
Was he about to cry? His eyes were burning, and Tanjiro was turning to a haze before him, blurry, out of focus. His throat grew taut and his chest clenched. He clamped his hand around Tanjiro’s, forgetting to watch his own strength and turning back to the fire. The flames did little to ease the stinging in his eyes, but they did encourage the tears to actually fall. So, yes, he was about to cry. He was crying. Was that stupid? It felt stupid.
“Uh, Genya?” Tanjiro prompted, audibly worried. “Are you okay? Did I say something—”
“No,” Genya interrupted, shaking his head. A smile started to creep on his face, though the tears kept welling. “Thank you, Tanjiro.”
“Oh…yeah!” Tanjiro’s hand squeezed again, tight enough that Genya forgot what it felt like without that grip. “Anytime, really. I hope you know, I—”
“TANJIRO-O-O-O!”
Genya grit his teeth at the same time Tanjiro began to laugh. The voice was most unmistakably Zenitsu Agatsuma’s, begging for his friend to aid him in whatever crisis he’d found himself in. Annoying. Didn’t he know Tanjiro was busy? He probably didn’t care, even if he did know.
Tanjiro obviously didn’t mind either way. It was with a sullen stare that Genya watched him stand, felt him slip his hand away, watched him separate his body from him. He stretched his arms and yawned, and Genya’s heart did an odd little skip, reminding him of that feeling he still couldn’t name.
“I’ll be going,” Tanjiro said cheerily, smiling down at Genya. “I’ll see you later. And remember: be kind to yourself.” He reached out one hand, placing it firmly on Genya’s shoulder and squeezing, before turning and jogging off towards wherever the hell Zenitsu had gotten himself.
Is it need? Genya wondered, watching Tanjiro disappear, fighting to remember the feeling of Tanjiro’s hand over his, on his shoulder, against his arm. Is it friendship? He’d never really had friends. The closest he got was Mr. Himejima, but he was a mentor, and never made Genya feel this way. What is it then? Loneliness? Happiness?
Desire?
Genya didn’t know. A part of him didn’t want to know. Giving it a name would make it real, and Genya never got to keep real things. Better to let it remain nameless, unknown. Better to let himself hide inside of it, to indulge it when he could, but otherwise treat it like a fantasy. He worried enough about Tanjiro disappearing: he couldn’t cope with losing this feeling too.
That would be it, he decided, standing from his seat and marching off to his bedroom. He’d keep it silent, he decided, he’d keep it secret. It didn’t need a name, and no one needed to know. It would be Genya’s dream, and he’d cling to it like one. Like a cloud—something he could never quite grasp. That would be it. That would be all. It would never be anything more. It would never be anything at all. And Genya was fine with that.
Wasn’t he?