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a soft whine escapes the water-hashira’s lips as he shuffles on the stiff futon at his back, nose slightly scrunched with his eyes squinted at the glint of sunlight passing through the paper shoji, lifting a hand to gently rub at them. his eyes open to the familiar grain of the blank wooden ceiling above him, and for a moment, he simply lies there, breathing shallowly, like he doesn’t care to wake. he shuffles once more, head aching as the date settles into his thoughts.
february eighth. he was twenty-one today.
that thought didn’t bring him any warmth like it once used to in his youth, it didn’t bring him any pride nor joy of feeling like it was his day. it only brought a sense of unfamiliarity, and disorientation, like he’d stepped into another year he hadn’t planned to survive for. he gulps audibly as he stares up at his ceiling, letting the number repeat itself in his mind until it slowly began to blur into a muddle of unintelligible sounds.
he exhales finally, long and deep, and slowly sits himself up, resting his palm against the futon to maintain his balance.
giyuu lifts himself up, forcing his already-fatigued body to stand, despite the horribly deep urge in his limbs to just stay down, to sleep the day away like it never mattered, because to him, it didn’t, not anymore. his face contorted into something of a groggy, half-alive expression, his hands reaching out to where his body once lie, folding up his futon, before carefully storing it into a cabinet for until the night fell.
the room was rather ghastly, empty and devoid of anything that proved someone lived there— it was something giyuu has grown accustomed to. after all, he wasn’t the water hashira, and this estate was for that person. he only held the title until someone else came to take their rightful place instead. he wasn’t cut out for this, but he’d keep the place tidy until that person came by. he takes a moment to look around, before attempting to prepare for the day, and glancing down, his uniform is laid out in the same place it had been when he’d fallen asleep, his blade resting upon it like an oath.
even if it were a day of his own to celebrate, giyuu didn’t have it in him to ask for a day to himself. after all, even if he was a year older, and hence closer to death, giyuu had a job to withhold, a duty to maintain. it wasn’t like he had any reason to take the time off anyway, there was no-one he could stand by, no-one he’d spend it with.
it wasn’t that giyuu had purposefully withheld that information, but rather that the concept of knowing someone’s birthday usually came from conversations of familiarity, care and intimate relationships, platonic or otherwise. nobody had ever managed to break down the walls giyuu had forged around himself after sabito died, but it wasn’t like he cared. he didn’t find it necessary, to become friends with his coworkers. getting attached was far too risky anyway, it only ever got others hurt, while he remained intact. he’d learnt that the hard way, and he couldn’t let that happen again, not ever, not if his conscience would allow it.
he shakes his head, ridding his mind of that thought, before walking towards the senmenjo, hair tousled like it’d been ravaged, like a birds nest. he glared into the metal mirror above the sink, letting his fingers carefully trail around the bags that weighed down his eyes, dark and purple. sickly. he gulped. had he always looked so horrible? giyuu sighed, costing his hands in a cool sheen of water, splashing it against the pallid skin of his face, gently scrubbing and wiping the soft tissue with his palms.
eventually, he re-emerges from the senmenjo, reaching towards his uniform, slipping it on without much effort. he doesn’t bother brushing his hair this morning, only trying to smooth it out enough to tie it into his signature low ponytail. he fastens on his uwa-obi, securing the saya of his blade to it as he carefully fixes the katana into place there, preparing himself for whatever may come forward in the day.
he pauses there for a moment, hands lingering at his waist longer than necessary, fingers pressing briefly into the fabric as if to ground himself before anything else. the weight of his blade is settled against his hip, a reminder of his purpose that he can’t afford to let waver. he hums at that.
he slides the shoji open and steps out onto the engawa, the cold biting at his bare hands through the thick air. the wind was sharp this morning, clean enough to sting his lungs when he inhaled a little too deeply. the sky was as pale as february always made it seem, washed thin with early sunlight, clouds stretching long and soft like painted brushstrokes. the spring had always been this way, unwilling to be warm, but there nonetheless.
for a moment, absurdly enough as it is, giyuu expects someone to be out there, out there for him. to come by and wish him a good birthday, to be there, with him. perhaps, even as impossible as he knows it is, he expects tsutako to be there, dressed in her pretty burgundy yukata, hair braided loosely behind her back, held in place with a gently laced ribbon in a deep, crimson red. he gulped, trying to withhold the thought, but the memory forces its way into his mind, refusing to let him go.
tsutako standing just beyond the engawa, raven-black hair drifting in the morning wind without a care of anything else, her sleeves rolled up just below her elbows, eyes already tired despite the early hours, like he always remembered them being. she would’ve looked at him, and taken in his appearance with that soft, familiar scrutiny she did whenever he’d forgotten to look after himself, and sighed softly.
‘you need to look after yourself more, ‘yuu.’ she would’ve told him, like she was starting up small talk about the weather, calm and gentle.
his throat tightens.
it’d been ten years since he last heard her voice. ten years since eleven felt so much older than it was, yet so achingly small all at once. ten years since blood soaked into the tatami beneath his knees, while the night glinted on around him, since tsutako was gone. some days, it felt like a lifetime ago, and others, it felt as though he could turn a corner and see her again, whole and breathing and alive, there, for him to run towards and lunge at, to grab onto her and embrace her like nothing else mattered, to crumble and cry into her shoulder like he had when he was smaller.
he swallows finally, and looks away from the empty space.
he forces his gaze downwards, to the creaking wood beneath his feet, to faintly worn planks smoothened by years of passing zōri. the space where he wished she stood remains empty no matter how long he looks away and hopes. that absence, he’d learned, would never truly abandon him, it wasn’t something faded away when ignored.
the cold seeped further into his fingers, and he curled them loosely, clenching and unclenching them once, twice, as if that repetitive movement would help to shake that thought away, even though he knew it wouldn’t. tsutako’s memory had always lingered that way inside him, slipping into the edges of his awareness whenever his guard was lowered, mornings being the worst, and his birthday worse still.
he finally steps fully onto the engawa, allowing the shoji to slide shut behind him with a muted sound. the wood creaked softly beneath his weight as he walked, wind whistling in his ears like it didn’t mimic the sound of her voice the more he tried to ignore it.
somewhere distant, he can hear the others laughing, talking, though muffled. giyuu didn’t turn towards it. he kept his eyes forward, fixed on the path ahead of him, on the thin veil of morning mist that clung to the ground like a second skin.
when he was younger, tsutako used to walk ahead of him like this.
not far, she was never far from him, just ahead enough to lead without dragging him along. she would glance back every few steps, checking to make sure he was still closely behind her, that he hadn’t fallen behind or wandered off like the curious child he used to be. sometimes she’d catch him staring at the passing market stalls, and smile, small and reassuring as she trailed off to take him to what he seemed so interested in, like it was all that mattered.
sometimes, when she’d walk ahead and giyuu would fall behind, when he worried she wouldn’t wait up for him, she would turn around, and gently reach for his hand, clasping hers around it.
‘i’m not going anywhere,’ she’d say. ‘you don’t have to worry, i’ll never leave you behind.’
he’d believed her then, naive and undoubting. if that had been the case, why wasn’t she here with him now? he silenced that thought almost as quickly as it emerged. he knew she’d never meant to disappear from his life, to leave him behind in a world he hasn’t caught up to yet, but somewhere deep in his heart, he felt lied to.
his chest tightens once again, sharper this time as he sucks in a breath that sounded more like an attempt to remain composed, and he slows his pace without meaning to. his breath fogs faintly in the cold air, and he presses his lips together, swallowing down the painful lump in his throat that threatened to rise into something more visible. he couldn’t risk that emotion now, it wouldn’t fix anything for him anyway.
today was just another day. another normal day, it didn’t mean anything.
he repeated that to himself as he walked. just another morning, just another early patrol. the date meant nothing beyond the simple passage of time. people were born everyday, and died everyday all the same. there was no reason for him to drag out this one, no reason for it to matter more than any other day.
except, deep down, it did. for him, and only him.
he eats alone again, later, seated on a low step the sun reached through the shoji screen just enough to slightly warm his hands. the rice was plain, slightly dry, but it filled the hollow in his stomach well enough for him to not care. he ate slowly, gaze unfocused, watching the breeze carry dust that drifted lazily through the air, the silence pressing into him, thick, almost suffocating.
tsutako used to sit with him while he ate.
she would pretend to be occupied with something else, mending the fabric of one of their garments, sorting through their few belongings, but she’d always kept an eye on him. if he slowed too much, she’d clear her throat pointedly, if he tried to leave food behind, she’d nudge the bowl closer to him with the tips of her fingers.
‘finish it, ‘yuu-kun.’ she’d whisper, kindly, sweetly. ‘you’re a growing boy, you need your strength, okay?’
he finished the dish without complaint, out of reflex, even though there was nobody watching. when the bowl was empty, he held it for a moment longer, fingers tightening around its rim before he eventually set it aside.
the afternoon only stretched further ahead of him, long and uneventful. he occupied himself with small, unremarkable tasks; cleaning the sharp of his blade, checking over his supplies, reviewing his patrol route map even though he already knew them by heart, anything that kept his hands busy and his mind tethered to the present. it worked for a short while, the prowling memories dulled and retreating to the burrow in his mind where they usually did, away from his consciousness.
but they returned when the sun began to dip.
the light shifted then, softening into dragged shadows, growing longer across the floor. it reminded him too much of evenings past, of the way tsutako used to move slower at the hour, exhaustion finally catching up to her, paired with her attempts to lull the younger him to rest. she’d never complained about that fatigue, never blamed him for struggling to rest without her, but her smiles lingered thinner, ready to crack, like each one cost her more energy than she really had.
on one birthday, he remembers, she’d fallen asleep upright beside him. he had been much younger then, eight or nine, and the candle between them had burned low, ready to snuff itself out. he’d watched as her head tilted forward, breathing evening out, and for a long time, he’d simply sat there, afraid to move, incase it woke her.
he reached up now, rubbing at his face with the base of his palm, dragging himself back into the present afternoon, rather than the past.
he couldn’t allow himself to linger on that memory.
the evening filled the sky whether he wanted it to or not, lanterns flickering to life in the estate as he lit them, warm points of light in the gathering dark. it was quieter now, more so than the afternoon had been, calmer, besides the occasional louder voices, that remained relatively muffled somewhere distant from the estate. he ignored it all, walking to his room without any more than a glance to the shoji.
he unfolded his futon, carefully smoothing it out on the cold wooden floor, before kneeling down in the quiet, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft whisper. he lit a small candle and set it near the wall, watching the flame catch and steady itself, the same way tsutako would steady him whenever he grew too tired to sit up. it was a simple thing realistically, almost insignificant, but it meant more to him than he wanted it to, in a way he didn’t want to name.
‘happy birthday.’
the words roll out and echo from his own quiet mind, unbidden, spoken in that soft, almost silent voice of hers. he flinched slightly, and looked away from the flame, jaw tightening. he didn’t want to hear it. not tonight, and not ever again. not when the ache was already too close to the surface for a night.
still, giyuu sits there, kneeled on his futon, hands resting loosely in his lap, until the candle burns lower, and the room grows slightly colder.
when it finally staggers out, light snuffed out by the weakening embers, he exhales quietly, shoulders slumping like he released a weight from them. he settled down onto his futon now, turning onto his side, facing the wall. the darkness settles in again, heavy and familiar, still suffocating in its nature.
he keeps his eyes open a little while longer.
the wall infront of him is dim now, barely more than a subtle glimpse of a shape in the darkness. moonlight slips in through the narrow gap between the shoji and its frame, pale and cool, drifting itself across the floor in a thin, steady breeze. it didn’t reach him fully, but lingered close enough to feel atleast a little like company.
his breathing slowly evens out without him noticing it.
the memories of his sister don’t leave, they never did, but they softened, blunted by the quiet. tsutako’s voice no longer replayed in his mind, and her face no longer flashed up in the doorway. she was only still there in pieces, in a subtle warmth of a hand that wasn’t truly there at his shoulder, in the faint rustle of fabric when he shuffled on the futon, in the calm, spiritual certainty of her presence when the world felt too large.
they settled over him like the moonlight did, weightless and unbothering, no longer demanding for his acknowledgement, tucking him into rest.
his eyes finally flutter closed.
‘goodnight, giyuu. please, never forget how much i’ve loved you.’