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It had been five months since the Mugen Train tragedy when Akaza had realized that he could no longer bear the thought of Kyojuro’s mortal nature one day tearing him away. The idea of wandering these forested lands alone, without that radiant presence beside him, the world one day stealing from him the only warmth left in his endless, accursed existence, had become unbearable.
There was, by then, an unspoken agreement between them. Kyojuro’s hand no longer reached for his sword whenever they crossed paths, and Akaza had stopped provoking him just to feel his blade’s sharp bite against his fists. On nights when they traversed mountains and forests side by side, if their hands brushed in the dark, neither pulled away. When Kyojuro closed his eyes with Akaza’s presence only an arm’s length away, surrendering himself to the deepest sleep a slayer could afford, to a sleep that left him utterly defenseless, his back turned to a demon, he did so without hesitation.
By the time Akaza began to question what any of it meant, it was already far too late. Kyojuro was the sun, and without ever realizing it, without intent or resistance, almost innocently, Akaza had drifted past the Kuiper Belt and been caught in his gravity. From that moment on, he was doomed to remain in orbit, circling that blazing star until the day Kyojuro lived and burned and perished in all his radiant splendor. And when that sun finally dimmed and died, Akaza would become like a planet stripped of its star, robbed of all life it once sustained, left to wander through the silent darkness of space, aimless and lightless.
Kyojuro was walking beside him, shoulders held high, that familiar, sunlit smile resting effortlessly on his face as he spoke of some amusing memory with Kanroji. He looked as though death itself could never touch him. There was such vitality in him, such fierce, incandescent life, that it seemed even if death reached out its shadowed hand, it would disintegrate in his light; its darkness shattered, undone, rendered meaningless before the brilliance that was Kyojuro Rengoku.
Yet he had felt with his own hands just how fragile Kyojuro could be, how swiftly that blazing life could be extinguished, how easily his blood could spill, how his bones could shatter beneath Akaza’s fists.
In that fleeting instant, with panic, Akaza longed to make a promise, though perhaps it wasn’t to Kyojuro at all, but to the man he himself used to be. The words pressed against his throat, desperate for release, yet he knew they were not what Kyojuro sought. Still, somewhere deep within him—buried beneath centuries of blood and silence—something ancient stirred. A faint hints of the self that once knew care, now flickering weakly against the curse that had claimed him.
He wanted to say, I will protect you. Somehow, I love you, and this time, I will not let the world take you from me.
But he could not. He knew too well the weight of his cursed vows. Every promise he had ever made had ended in ruin, and every oath he’d spoken had summoned death. To swear such a thing now would be to invite the inevitable; to sign Kyojuro’s doom with the sincerity of his own heart. So instead, Akaza bit back the words and let them rot unspoken on his tongue, for love, in his hands, had always been a herald of destruction.
Then he wanted to beg Kyojuro, was he not the one who somehow always kept his promises? Who had honored his vow to his mother, his vow to himself, by becoming a slayer, a Hashira, and even on that night of their encounter, despite all his own pain, and suffering, had still shielded and protected everyone else?
Promise me, Kyojuro, he wanted to say, you will not die. You will stay with me for as long as you can. You will be selfish, for once. You will think of yourself, protect yourself, and you will not die, Kyojuro.
But perhaps the reason Kyojuro had managed to keep all his promises was simply because he only ever made the ones he believed he could keep in the first place. And Akaza knew, Kyojuro would never give him that promise, for he would never even try to keep such a vow. While every fiber of Akaza’s being longed to belong entirely to him, it was a curse in his blood that chained him back. Kyojuro, on the other hand, had given himself wholly—willingly, knowingly—to others, to the Corps, to all of humanity. He had welcomed Akaza into the space that remained in his heart with boundless warmth and compassion, but in that same breath, he had asked for understanding in return: Do not ask me to forsake the rest of the world for you.
He wanted to ask Kyojuro, if we can promise each other nothing, then what is there left to offer? What meaning lies within this closeness between us? Are we only to love each other within the narrow window allotted to us, to surrender our fates into the hands of others, and love, knowing all the while that time itself conspires to tear us apart?
But of course, he said nothing. They were treading a line far too fragile, too perilously delicate, to bear the weight of such words.
And yet, Kyojuro possessed that rare gift; the ability to speak without uttering a single word. With one glance, he could still the storm raging inside Akaza; with the gentle weight of a hand on his shoulder, he could draw him out from the depths of his melancholy; with a single smile, he could confess how dearly he held him, how effortlessly he loved Akaza.
For Kyojuro, words and feelings seemed to flow like breath; natural, unforced, radiant. But Akaza was not built of such grace. Every word tangled in his throat, every attempt at expression turned clumsy, jagged. Even his smiles felt kludgy, and wrong, his glances misfired, as if every gesture meant to bridge the space between them only deepened the distance instead.
He knew, with an aching certainty, that if the moment came when these feelings between them had to be sacrificed, it would be Kyojuro—Kyojuro alone—who could bear to do it.
Perhaps he should have been angry with him, felt betrayed, but all he truly felt was the gnawing ache of inadequacy, shame, and sorrow. The adventure Akaza had set in motion, the tangled emotions that had bloomed between them, now pressed like a weight upon Kyojuro’s shoulders. Akaza had added to the burdens Kyojuro already carried, and when the time came, it would be Kyojuro’s strength that would have to shoulder them all, forced by necessity, despite the fragility that tethered them both.
He matched his pace to Kyojuro’s, their steps falling in quiet harmony as a tender breeze brushed past them. Yet within Akaza’s mind, thoughts coiled and slithered like a serpent in tall grass; silent, deliberate, venomous. With every breath, it sank its fangs deeper. Every word he could not speak twisted in his throat, a knot tightening with each heartbeat, until he felt the wild urge to seize Kyojuro’s nichirin blade and press it to his own throat, desperate for release, for even a single unburdened breath.
What was the purpose of all this strength, he wanted to ask, if he could not protect him, if nothing he desired would ever be his, then what worth did a century of battles hold? What meaning was there in all his striving, in every drop of blood shed to become strong, if in the end he stood powerless before the only thing that ever truly mattered?
He felt a warmth in his hand, Kyojuro’s skin pressed against his, sharing heat as if to wrench him from his spiraling thoughts. Their hands brushing while walking was ordinary enough, but the way Kyojuro’s fingers slipped delicately between his own, winding tenderly around them like a serpent so different from the one wandering around in his mind, was altogether new.
When he turned his head in startled confusion, he found those sunset-colored eyes fixed on him, and once more he faltered beneath Kyojuro’s power. Yet this strength did not come from swordsmanship, nor from fighting spirit, nor from the tempered edge of years of training. This strength belonged solely to Kyojuro, it was born of his very being. It was the quiet radiance of his soul, the kind of strength that made him shine even in the darkest night, that let him breathe warmth into even the coldest air.
Why do you mourn what you have not yet lost, Kyojuro seemed to say. Why torment yourself with the shadow of heartbreaks yet to come, instead of finding peace in the traces you leave upon another’s life—of knowing them, of being known—and simply living within the fleeting grace of the present moment?
Kyojuro’s hand tightened gently around Akaza’s. You are here, and so am I, he said without a sound. So let your mind be here, too, stay with me, in this moment.
But Akaza was far from as brave or fearless as he fancied himself; the mere thought of losing Kyojuro sent tremors deep down to his very marrow. Knowing how fleeting his mortal life could be, how easily he could slip through Akaza’s fingers like a grain of sand…
Akaza’s thumb traced the back of Kyojuro’s hand, a silent apology lingering in the gentle motion.
I can make you no promise, he was saying, for keeping it would lie beyond my power, and I am afraid. If I tie your life to my promise, you too will shatter and vanish like all the promises I have ever broken, and it will be my sin to bear.
Kyojuro’s hand slipped through Akaza’s, seizing his wrist to stop him. Akaza paused, a surge of curiosity and tension tightening in his chest, and turned to meet Kyojuro’s eyes, only to find them cast toward the horizon. Following that quiet, solemn gaze, Akaza understood. The sun would soon rise. Their moments together were slipping away like sand through fingers. It was time to say goodbye.
When Kyojuro turned his gaze back to him, his eyes held understanding, and on his lips was that gentle smile; the soft, unforced, yet meaningful smile that always emerged whenever they were alone together.
You need not promise me anything, his eyes were saying. And it was true. From the very beginning, Kyojuro had demanded nothing of him. Akaza had not been dragged from one servitude to another; the act of kneeling was not a forced worship to some merciless god, it was love that bent his knees. And what awaited him was not punishment, but understanding. Love. How foreign a feeling it was, and yet, how effortlessly it bound him.
It was so easy to get addicted to.
Kyojuro’s hand slipped once more along his wrist, fingers entwining gently with Akaza’s. Perhaps… if it’ what you desire… just one promise…
“The sun is about to rise,” Kyojuro broke the silence, his voice carrying its usual tone, yet underlined by a tremor, as if parting was difficult for him, too. It was as though he measured the weight of each word, pondering what they might mean for them both…
“Yes, Kyojuro,” Akaza said, letting the words suffice, as if reciting lines learned by heart, filling the silence to give Kyojuro the space to speak what needed to be said.
Kyojuro looked down at their hands, Akaza’s inked fingers blending into the darkness of the night between his own. His thumb traced Akaza’s tattoos thoughtfully, as if reading them like whispered secrets. Then he lifted his gaze to meet Akaza’s. One single promise.
“Tomorrow, I’ll be heading toward Asakusa,” Kyojuro said, his voice lifting with a note of hope, as if sharing a secret of great importance, and, in a way, he was. It was an invitation. A simple opening for a simple promise.
“I will be there,” Akaza said, for at least this promise he could keep, even if his hands were soaked in blood, he could honor it. Mountains, lakes, rivers; none of it could hold him back.
Kyojuro squeezed his hand, as if to remind him. Ah. This bond was different, it was not one-sided. He did not have to give years of his life for a drop of blood; every promise carried its own return. If this was what Kyojuro desired, Akaza would take his word. “Wait for me?”
“I will!” Kyojuro said, eyes shining, fingers entwined with Akaza’s as if unwilling to let go. Soon, they would turn their backs and follow separate paths: Kyojuro would slowly make his way to a nearby town, spending the first hours of dawn asleep in an inn; Akaza would leap from branch to branch, finding a refuge and occupying himself until the sun sank.
And tomorrow evening, they would meet in Asakusa.
For the grand promises Akaza had longed for held no meaning, they were nothing but dreams.
But this… this was a promise he could give. If he could offer no future, no protection, he could at least promise tomorrow.
Tomorrow. He would be there.
Even when Kyojuro’s fingers slipped from between his own, even as he moved through the forest with inhuman speed and control, Akaza could still feel the warmth of his skin lingering on his fingers. Like the heat left behind by the sun. Like the mark a promise leaves upon the soul.