Work Text:
Back then, Tomioka Giyuu carried his hair long. Not the styled kind of length that fashionable people liked, but rather due to neglect from his part, from a life too isolated and lonely for him to even bother with some scissors. The dark strands fell heavily down his back, thick enough that one couldn’t help but wonder how it never tangled into a mess during battle. Up close, Shinobu could see the variation between strands, shifts of charcoal and ink that only appeared when light slid across the surface.
More than once, a lock slipped forward when he leaned toward her, brushing against the wooden table between them. His hair was soft, so soft, as if her fingers were pushing into thick silk.
At first, she would only sweep his hair aside so that it did not fall into the medicine she was applying, or tuck a strand behind his shoulder if it got caught in a bandage. But over time, Shinobu found her hand slipping easily through the thick strands near the nape of his neck even when there was no reason to do so. Giyuu never said anything, but his shoulders would loosen, and he leaned closer so that her hand could reach more easily.
When they kissed - and made love, which happened more and more often, these days - her fingers slid into the dark strands again and again, curling as she drew him flush against her body. The thickness of his hair gave her something to hold onto, something grounding and real whenever the intensity of his touches and kisses threatened to sweep her away.
Later, when they lay side by side in sweat, she would twist a strand around her finger, watching it coil and uncoil in the lantern light. Sometimes she gathered several locks together and let them slip slowly through her hand.
“You really should cut it,” she often told him just for the sake of it, but in reality, she liked his hair exactly the way it was. Even now and then, when he visited the Butterfly Mansion during daylight hours, Shinobu would retrieve one of her butterfly hairpins and slide it into the long strands behind Giyuu’s ear.
Giyuu would sit there in confusion while Shinobu leaned back to admire her work.
“I do not think this suits me,” he said once, after catching sight of himself in a reflective surface.
Shinobu tilted her head. “I disagree,” she replied.
He obviously did not think so, but he left the hairpin in place nonetheless, fragile, purple butterfly wings resting among the dark strands.
*
Months after the final battle, winter arrived sooner than they expected. The morning Shinobu noticed the snow, the world outside their small home had already turned white overnight. Snow fell in slow spirals, covering rooftops and bare branches in thick blankets.
Demons were gone, and yet the peace that followed their victory still felt so unfamiliar.
Behind her, the futon shifted softly: Giyuu had woken. Even without turning around, she could feel him approaching, and then his arms wrapped around her from behind. She smiled and leaned into the comfortable warmth of his body right away.
Giyuu’s hair brushed her shoulder - or rather, the shorter strands that remained did. He had cut his hair not long after the war ended. The long weight that once fell down his back had gone, replaced by a much shorter length that barely reached the nape of his neck.
Their lives had changed, after all, so some habits naturally died with them.
If Giyuu’s hair had grown shorter, her own had grown longer. Shinobu no longer wore the tightly bound bun of the Insect Hashira; instead, she allowed it to fall freely down her back and across her shoulders, soft waves swaying against her collar whenever she moved.
For the first few weeks, it felt so strange: years of discipline had trained her to keep everything about her restrained and controlled. However, Giyuu seemed to like it very much; she saw the way his hand always reached for it unconsciously whenever they were together. Even now, standing beside the window while snow drifted past outside, his fingers still slid into the loose strands resting over her shoulder, like he could not help it.
Giyuu’s hands were rough from years of swordsmanship, the skin along his palms carrying thick calluses and scars that spoke of years of hardship. One might say they looked like hands built only for violence – and yet whenever they touched her hair, the gentleness of it all almost made her cry.
His fingers threaded through the dark waves lovingly, like they somehow fascinated him. Sometimes he gathered a small lock and let it slide slowly through his grasp. Sometimes he would trace the slight curl near the ends, twirling it once before releasing it again. It was soft, strangely soothing, and Shinobu closed her eyes, allowing herself to lean against his chest even further.
Outside, winter continued to rage over the town. Shinobu allowed herself to stay exactly where she was, standing in his arms, feeling his fingers wander through her hair, as if that endearing, heart-warming tenderness was the greatest victory she had ever won.