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The rain began as a whisper, a soft rustle against the paper screens of the Butterfly Mansion. Giyu sat on the veranda, the steady patter growing louder, a rhythmic drumming against the roof tiles. He often sought this spot, drawn by the cool air and the scent of wet earth. Rain used to bring him a familiar, quiet solace. Now, it felt… different. He watched the droplets bead on the leaves, tracing their path as they rolled to the ground. A familiar ache settled in his chest, a dull throb that had become a constant companion since the final battle.
A faint click of sandals broke the rhythm of the rain. Kanao stood at the edge of the veranda, a tray in her hands. She moved with a quiet grace, her gaze distant, yet attentive. She placed a steaming cup of tea beside him, the ceramic warm against his fingertips.
“You’ve been out here for hours,” her voice, soft as the rain itself, barely carried above the downpour. “The air is cold.”
He didn't respond, his eyes fixed on a distant wisteria branch, heavy with moisture.
“Aoi worried you might catch a chill.” Kanao’s voice held a gentle concern. She shifted her weight, her gaze following his. “She thinks you spend too much time in the rain.”
He finally turned, meeting her eyes. “It’s peaceful.” The words felt rough, unused.
Kanao’s lips curved into a faint, sad smile. “Shinobu-sama never thought so.”
The statement hung in the air, heavier than the rain-soaked atmosphere. Giyu’s breath hitched, a faint tremor running through him. He hadn’t expected that.
“She hated it,” Kanao continued, her eyes now fixed on the swirling tea leaves in his cup. “The cold, the damp… she always said it made her bones ache. Made the wounds throb.”
A jolt went through him. He had never known. Never even considered. Rain was just… rain. A part of the world. A constant.
“She’d cough more, too, after a rainy mission.” Kanao’s voice dropped to a near whisper, a memory unfolding. “She’d come back shivering, even with a warm haori. I remember her complaining to Aoi about the way her hair got plastered to her face, how the water made her feel heavy. Not loudly, of course. Never loud. Just… to us. When it was just us.”
The image bloomed in his mind, sharp and vivid.
Rain lashed down, a relentless curtain of grey. Their mission had stretched into the night, the demon proving more resilient than anticipated. Giyu stood under the meager shelter of a gnarled pine, his haori soaked, water dripping from his hair. Shinobu emerged from the darkness, her movements fluid despite the slippery terrain. Her uniform clung to her, dark with moisture. Water streamed down her face, mingling with the blood smeared across her cheek. Her smile, even then, was unwavering.
“Tomioka-san, you look like a drowned rat,” her voice, though strained, held its usual lilt. “Perhaps you should try to keep up? The demon is gone, you know. Or did you simply decide to become one with the scenery?”
He merely grunted, pulling his sword free from its sheath, wiping the blade on a patch of moss. He’d expected her to complain about the cold, the exhaustion. Instead, she’d just shivered once, a subtle tremor he’d almost missed, before launching into her usual banter.
“Really, you’re no fun at all,” she’d sighed, though her eyes held a spark of amusement. “Come on, let’s get back. I’m quite certain Aoi has a warm bath waiting, and perhaps a cup of something wonderfully hot. Unless you prefer to stand here and commune with the puddles?”
She had turned, her small frame disappearing into the gloom, leaving him to follow. He had dismissed her shivering as a natural response to the cold. He had seen her smile, heard her jokes, and believed she was fine.
Giyu’s grip tightened on the ceramic cup, the heat a sudden, sharp sensation against his palm. He had been so blind. So utterly, completely oblivious.
“She always made sure we had dry clothes ready for you,” Kanao continued, pulling him back to the present. “A hot meal. Even if she was soaked to the bone herself, she’d be fussing over everyone else. Saying, ‘Don’t catch a cold, now. We can’t have our brave demon slayers falling ill over a little rain.’ But her own lips would be blue.”
Another memory surfaced, unbidden.
They were walking back from a particularly brutal mission, the rain having just begun to ease into a persistent drizzle. The air was heavy, damp. Giyu felt the familiar chill seep into his bones, but it was nothing he couldn’t endure. Shinobu walked beside him, her steps growing slower, her usual brisk pace faltering. He glanced at her. Her face was pale, a faint flush high on her cheekbones. Her eyes, usually so sharp, seemed a little unfocused.
“Are you alright?” he’d asked, the question feeling clumsy on his tongue. He rarely initiated such exchanges.
She offered him a weak smile. “Perfectly fine, Tomioka-san. Just a little… weary. This damp weather always seems to cling, doesn’t it? Makes everything feel heavier.” She had shivered then, a full-body tremor she couldn’t quite hide. “I do believe I’m looking forward to a nice, warm futon. And perhaps a cup of ginger tea.”
He had simply nodded, accepting her explanation. Weary. Damp. He hadn't pressed. He hadn't asked if she was cold, if she was hurting. He had just walked on, assuming her discomfort was mild, manageable. Just like his own.
The tea in his cup had grown cold. He set it down gently. He never asked. She never complained. The truth of it, stark and painful, settled over him like a shroud.
“She’d always find the driest spot,” Kanao murmured, her voice laced with a quiet sorrow. “Under an overhang, behind a thick bush. Anything to avoid the direct downpour. Even if it meant waiting a little longer, she’d find a way to stay out of it.”
He saw her again, waiting. He had been sent ahead to scout, leaving her to guard their injured comrade. When he returned, the rain had intensified, turning the forest floor into a muddy swamp. He found her huddled beneath a massive, ancient cedar, its branches providing a surprisingly effective canopy. She had her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around herself, but her eyes were alert, scanning the darkness.
“Tomioka-san, you took your time,” she’d greeted him, her voice tight, but the usual teasing inflection present. “I was beginning to think you’d decided to elope with a demon. Or perhaps you simply got lost.”
He had merely grunted, taking his place beside her, the cedar’s shelter feeling surprisingly inadequate against the biting cold. He’d noticed the faint blue tinge to her lips, the way she kept rubbing her arms. But she’d been smiling. She’d been talking. So he’d assumed she was fine.
“She never wanted to be a burden,” Kanao said, her voice barely audible. “She’d always put on a brave face, even when she was hurting. Especially when she was hurting.”
He closed his eyes, the sound of the rain filling his ears, no longer peaceful, but a relentless, accusing drum. He had seen her smiles, heard her jokes, and interpreted them through his own lens. He had seen her shiver, seen her pallor, and dismissed it as a minor inconvenience, something she could easily brush off. He never once considered that her smile was a shield, her banter a distraction from the cold, the pain, the profound dislike she felt for the very thing he found solace in.
“She’d sometimes get a fever after a heavy rain,” Kanao continued, her voice unwavering, as if speaking these truths aloud was a necessary ritual. “Aoi would stay up all night, changing her compresses. She’d always make light of it, even then. ‘Just a little chill, Aoi-chan. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.’ But her forehead would be burning.”
He remembered a mission where she’d been uncharacteristically quiet on the journey back. He’d attributed it to exhaustion, to the severity of their battle. He’d offered her his haori, a rare gesture from him. She’d accepted it with a small, grateful smile, pulling it tight around her. He’d thought it was just the chill of the night. He hadn’t thought about the fever, the aches, the profound discomfort she must have been enduring.
He opened his eyes. The rain was blurring the edges of the garden, turning the world into a wash of greens and greys. The silence between them stretched, punctuated only by the relentless drumming of water.
“You know,” Kanao said, her gaze drifting towards the rain-soaked garden, “when she was really young, after… after her family… she’d often get sick. The cold, the hunger. Rain meant misery for her. It meant long, cold nights, shivering alone. It meant the damp seeping into everything, making her wounds ache. She learned to hide it, though. Learned to pretend it didn’t bother her. For Kanae-sama, for us.”
The words struck him with the force of a physical blow. Not just a dislike, but a deep-seated aversion, born from trauma, from suffering. And he, Giyu Tomioka, the water pillar, who found peace in the very thing that brought her pain, had never once noticed. He had never once asked.
“She was good at hiding things,” Kanao concluded, her voice tinged with a profound sadness. “Too good, sometimes.”
The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken regrets. Giyu rose slowly, the ache in his chest intensifying, spreading through his limbs. The veranda, once a sanctuary, now felt suffocating. He stepped off the shelter, onto the wet earth. The rain immediately plastered his hair to his face, soaked through his clothes. The cold seeped into his skin, chilling him to the bone.
He stood there, unmoving, letting the rain wash over him. It wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was cold. It was damp. It made his muscles stiffen, his old scars prickle. He shivered, a deep, involuntary tremor. He understood now. The cold. The bone-deep ache. The pervasive dampness that clung to everything. This was what she had felt. This was what she had endured, silently, with a smile.
He closed his eyes again, letting the memories flood him, no longer filtered by his own ignorance. He saw her, shivering under the pine, her lips blue, but still joking. He saw her, pale and flushed, pretending a fever was just a chill. He saw her, huddled under the cedar, seeking refuge from the onslaught she so deeply disliked. And he saw himself, always a step behind, always missing the subtle cues, the quiet sacrifices.
The rain continued its relentless descent. He stood there, alone in the downpour, not because he found solace in it, but because it was a tangible link to her. A reminder of what he had missed, what he had failed to see. A reminder of the quiet strength she possessed, to smile through the very things that caused her pain. He wouldn’t seek shelter this time. He would stand here, in her hated rain, and remember. For her.