Chapter Text
The air was thick with damp and decayed leaves, the mist waded around their feet.
Golden sun rays beamed across his porcelain face. Sabi’s fierce, steely eyes were illuminated - lit up.
“Hey, quit staring at me would ya?”
Sabito posed teasingly.
“I’m not staring”
Tomioka muttered nudging Sabito with his elbow.
His (Sabito) grin softened.
“Don’t mind me, i like the attention”
he winked.
Giyuu nudged his shoulder with a smirk and Sabito fell off of the log, into a kaleidoscope of peppery red , orange , and yellow leaves. Sabito’s
peach-tinted strands captured the autumn sun.
As the wind brushed against his haori, he pulled Giyuu down alongside him and together, they burst into laughter.
The golden sun on Sabito’s face flickered, turning into the cold, clinical grey of the Butterfly Mansion.
Giyuu’s eyes snapped open. No gasp, no shout-just a sudden, sharp return to a room that was too quiet and far too cold. He stared at his trembling hands, the half-patterned haori draped over the chair like a ghost. The silence of the Water Estate was a physical weight, pressing against his chest until it felt as thin as parchment. He waited for the echo of Sabito’s laughter to fade, but it didn't—it just twisted, morphing into the whistling wind outside his sliding doors.
He reached out, his fingertips brushing the coarse fabric of the haori. The patterned side—Sabito’s side—felt colder than the rest. It was a constant reminder: he was wearing a dead man’s legacy, a title he still felt he had stolen.
A soft thwack against the wood of the engawa made him go still. It was his Kasugai Crow, its dark silhouette a sharp contrast against the pale moonlight spilling into the room.
"CAW! TOMIOKA GIYUU! MISSION! TO THE NORTHWEST!"
Giyuu didn't move for a long moment, watching the way his breath misted in the frigid air. The warmth of the dream was a lie he couldn't afford to believe in. With a slow, practiced motion, he stood and pulled the mismatched haori over his shoulders, the weight of it settling like a penance. The Water Hashira was awake, even if the man inside was still drowning. He didn’t answer the crow, he never did.
“Oi. You planning on standing there until the sun comes up, or are you actually gonna move?"
Giyuu blinked, the mist in his eyes clearing to reveal the scarred, scowling face of Sanemi Shinazugawa. The Wind Hashira was leaned against the gate of the estate, arms crossed over his white uniform, his foot tapping a rapid, impatient rhythm against the dirt. The air around him seemed to vibrate with a violent energy that made the peaceful dream of moments ago feel like a lifetime away.
"Shinazugawa," Giyuu said, his voice flat, returning to its usual hollow depth. He adjusted his sword at his hip, his face settling into that expressionless mask that drove the other Hashira mad.
"I didn't realize we were departing together."
"Tch. Don't act like you're happy about it. The Crow said 'joint mission,' so keep up or get left behind,"
Sanemi spat, pushing off the gate. He didn't wait for an answer, turning on his heel and bolting toward the forest path with explosive speed.
Giyuu watched him for a fraction of a second—a blur of white and scars—before he followed. He moved like water, silent and flowing, trailing behind the man who clearly hated his guts. The silence between them was heavy, filled only by the crunch of frost under their sandals.
Sanemi’s temper was a physical heat, and Giyuu was the cold lake trying to contain it. This mission was going to be long.
The forest closed in around them, a wall of suffocating black and grey. Sanemi was a dozen paces ahead, a jagged white streak in the dark, but Giyuu felt miles away.
The burden on his shoulders wasn't a memory anymore; it was a physical weight, a leaden pressure that made every breath feel like he was inhaling silt. His mind was a dull roar of static.
You shouldn't be here. You’re taking up space. You’re a placeholder.
His left hand drifted to his right forearm, hidden beneath the thick fabric of his sleeve. He didn't think about it—it was a reflex now. He pressed his thumb hard into a specific spot, digging his nail in until the sharp, localized sting cut through the emotional fog. It was the only thing that felt real. The pain was a tether, dragging him back into his body when his mind tried to drift into the void.
He felt the jagged, raised lines through the cloth. They were his secret—a map of moments where the silence of his own head had become too loud to bear.
"Hey! Eyes up, Princess!" Sanemi’s voice barked, sharp as a whip.
Giyuu flinched, pulling his hand away from his arm and dropping it to his side. He didn't look up fast enough to hide the vacant, hollow stare.
Sanemi stopped dead, turning back. He scanned the scene ahead—a small village clearing that smelled of copper and rot—then his eyes flicked back to Giyuu. The Wind Hashira’s brow furrowed, his irritation morphing into something sharper, more suspicious.
"What’s wrong with you?" Sanemi hissed, stepping closer, his hand hovering near his own blade. "You look like you're already dead. If you're gonna freeze up, stay out of my way. I don't have time to carry your dead weight."
Giyuu didn't blink. He just stared at the blood-spattered dirt of the village entrance.
"I’m fine," he said, the lie tasting like ash. They moved through the village in a silence that was far from peaceful. Sanemi was a coiled spring of aggression, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of demon blood. Giyuu, meanwhile, felt like he was walking underwater. The air was too thick, the moonlight too cold, and the hollow ache in his chest was threatening to swallow him whole.
“Keep up, or get left behind.”Sanemi’s words echoed in his head, but Giyuu didn't see the point. Part of him—the part that had been screaming for years—wondered if being left behind wouldn't be such a bad thing.
His hand drifted back to his sleeve. He needed that sharp, grounding sting again. He needed to feel something other than this suffocating grayness.
“Tomioka! Look out!”
The shout was followed by a violent gust of wind. Sanemi had lunged across the path, his blade unsheathed in a silver arc. A grotesque, multi-limbed demon had been lunging from the rafters of a nearby house, its claws inches from Giyuu’s throat. Sanemi’s Dust Whirlwind Cutter didn't just parry the attack; it shredded the demon’s arm and sent it crashing back into the shadows.
Giyuu hadn't even flinched. He stood there, hand still half-tucked into his sleeve, staring blankly at the spot where he should have been gutted.
Sanemi skidded to a halt, his chest heaving. He didn't look at the demon; he looked at Giyuu. His eyes were wide with a mix of genuine shock and a rising, dangerous fury.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?!” Sanemi roared,
stepping into Giyuu’s space. He grabbed the front of Giyuu’s mismatched haori, bunching the fabric in his fist and jerking him forward.
“You didn't even draw your sword! You just stood there like a damn statue!”
Giyuu looked down at Sanemi’s hand, then up at his face. He saw the scars, the rage, and the flickering hint of something that looked almost like fear—fear that a fellow Hashira was actually empty inside.
“I saw it,” Giyuu lied, his voice a ghost of a whisper. “I knew you’d reach it first.”
“Don't give me that crap!” Sanemi’s grip tightened. His other hand went to Giyuu’s arm—the one Giyuu had been clutching.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Your head isn't in the game. If you’re looking for a graceful exit, do it on your own time, not when I’m the one who has to watch your back.”
As Sanemi’s hand squeezed Giyuu’s forearm, he felt the uneven texture through the cloth. He paused, his brow furrowing as he felt the tell-tale ridges of scars that shouldn't have been there—scars that didn't come from a demon’s claws.