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Sometimes, Hakuri dreams.
In his dreams—he sees goldfish. A black one that circles him at a distance, a red one that swims close to his face before quickly evading any touch he gives—and then a tri-colored one, the one that always comes close to his cheeks and lips and eyelids, bumping against it in a way that Hakuri thinks is his brain conjuring manifestations of Chihiro comforting him.
It's all the reprieve he gets before he knows what's coming next.
Then—he hears that sound.
It's one of those dreams today, huh.
He can hear it—the pliers.
Then—
"Big brother! I'm s-sorry—"
"Sorry isn't enough, I need to correct you, my beloved little brother!"
Hakuri's falling.
Hakuri's on the ground.
Hakuri stares back at the blank space above him, nothing but pitch black staring back at him.
It's what Hakuri wishes he could see, if only to pretend that the hurt he feels only stays on his body in the form of scars, wounds, and bruises on his skin.
Unfortunately, everything will find a way—it always did—to follow him back, deep into his own head; even in the one place that he's made truly his.
Chihiro wakes.
He knows he's not somewhere in reality when he doesn't feel the comfy mattress he'd just recently bought with Hakuri, and his suspicions only solidify further when he feels an almost overwhelming thrum of spirit energy that isn't his that's almost begging to encase his body.
"…Hakuri?"
Chihiro turns to his left, and the sight he sees leaves his heart hurting almost a similar way three years ago.
Hakuri has his eyes tightly shut—wrinkles marring his head in places that he'd only seen in old people; his lips pursed in pain, as if trying to not let a single sound out. His hands repeatedly clench, his entire body shaking yet remaining unmoving all the same. His chest heaves up and down—even when Hakuri's mouth opens, there's no sound that gets out, no name that seeps out, not even a single whimper dared to escape.
Chihiro is far too familiar with all of this—ever since Hakuri had joined their team, at the very least.
He's seen what the Sazanami had done—what they'd done to human life—the disrespect for it, the way they all died for a cause that was never anyone's in the first place; the way of life no human should ever take up in the name of only duty.
Chihiro knows in that regard that he's a hypocrite—the only reason he wouldn't dare die for a cause he took up on out of a self-imposed duty was only because, well—
He's a Rokuhira.
Kunishige gathered the six Enchanted Blades for a reason, locked forever away until those bastards came and stole them from him.
It only makes sense for his son to be the one that gets it all back—and he can't do that dead now, can he?
It only makes sense that way.
Even then, it doesn't change the fact that the Sazanami are different from him and his father in a way. Here was Hakuri, the perceived failure, the untalented, the discarded. Here was Hakuri, the only one who'd bothered to change, like metal and datenseki melding together through hellfire to create a new sword never seen before. A sword that brought as much miracles as much as it had suffered before.
Hakuri was different from them, but it didn't mean that the ghosts and vengeful spirits of the Sazanami didn't latch onto him all the same. Chihiro could see in the ways he reacted to some objects—the pliers when Shiba needed them for some repairs, long cords used for tying knots for a holiday tradition; even the godforsaken peelers when Chihiro was scrapped for time in the kitchen and needed to go quicker, so many things he could list below that made him realize just how much he had hated the Sazanami's, and—
How cruel were they, to give Hakuri such scars? Char could heal them all away physically, but Shiba had verbalized it for him in late talks through the night when Chihiro was just too plagued with nightmares to get a proper rest—
Hakuri can't heal, not without help.
Chihiro wishes he could do more, sometimes, hating that same feeling of being reduced to a helpless witness—he'd swore that he'd never be that same fifteen year old kid ever again; never was he to watch on as the fire in front of him lay ablaze to everything he loved…
And yet—here Hakuri was, in a personal purgatory made by the others who were family in almost every single sense of the word. Here, Hakuri was an amalgamation of everything wrong, his own flames almost extinguished, if not for the samurai that lit his helpless existence on fire once again.
There's a moment of silence that stretches on for too long that Chihiro starts counting the seconds on when Hakuri will inevitably speak. He's done this song and dance before, gone through the process more times than he'd want to keep track of, but this time, even he's surprised when all he feels is the sorcerer's icy cold hands against his.
"…Hakuri," is all he says, before he gets enveloped by his body, arms wrapping around his back like a lifeline he's afraid to lose.
"…Chihiro," is all the boy says back, and then, his body shakes, a heaved sob wrangled out of his throat.
Chihiro lets the man sob in his arms, not a single sound escaping. Even the way Hakuri coughs is practiced, measured even—silent hacks and wheezes done in silence; like he'd practiced all of this a thousand times and more. His lip quivers, but no sound slips out.
Hakuri does everything silently, as if he's still Hakuri Sazanami from age twelve, and Chihiro really wishes he could've dragged out Kyora's death sometimes at times like this.
But that isn't important—Kyora is dead and Hakuri isn't, so, he chooses to hold Hakuri like the finest treasure there is, because it's all he can do now.
Chihiro can slay anyone their way. Chihiro can't do that with an enemy that's of Hakuri's own making.
"…Hey," Hakuri whispers, his voice gravelly as his lips move. Chihiro raises an eyebrow, squeezing his hand after.
"Thank you," he whispers. Chihiro glances to the ground, then inches closer to him, pressing their foreheads together. Hakuri's breath hitches—he's not used to Chihiro being this forward; even if he's done it so many times before, in the same exact situation, in the same exact way—
"I love you," Chihiro whispers, caressing his face, the loose strands of his hair encased through the cracks of his fingers—Hakuri thinks how good things are now, and he blinks, expecting all of this to be a dream again.
His eyes open to Chihiro still with that same gaze, and finally, a smile forms.
"I love you too," Hakuri breathes, and Chihiro goes in for a kiss.
"He had one of those days again?"
"Shiba-san—"
"Relax. I ain't prying. I'm just glad you're both back now," Shiba says, eyes glancing over to Hakuri's sleeping figure now, hands holding Chihiro's wrist.
"... Treasure him, would ya?"
Chihiro looks at him weird. "What do you mean?"
Shiba must've realized he said something out loud, so he waves it off, opting to walk away as he grabs for a stick to light up. "Nothin', kid. Go back to sleep."
Chihiro doesn't say anything, but he knows Shiba must have remembered something.
It's not the time to bring it up though—so he nods, lets out a noncommittal hum, and Shiba chuckles as he finally closes the door on them.
"Hey, Mashiro, am I doin' well enough to keep 'em alive? Hakuri's just like ya sometimes. Full of hope and believes that guy like it's as easy as breathin' air itself. Twerp even held out with the likes of Chihiro himself."
Silence. It's Shiba's one and constant friend.
"I miss you lots, y'know. I'm sorry I couldn't save ya back then, but I'll do my best to not let it happen again," Shiba mumbles to himself, then lights up his cigarette without a care in the world, closing his eyes, just to see if he still remembers Mashiro's cheery face one more time.