Work Text:
Giyuu had learned how to ignore mirrors.
He had learned how to dress without looking too closely.
He had learned which layers made him feel most comfortable, which clothes made his silhouette feel more like his own, and which movements made him suddenly too aware of himself.
He had learned a thousand little tricks.
Most days, they worked.
Today, they didn't.
Giyuu stood in front of the mirror with one hand resting against the edge of the table.
He stared at his reflection.
His uniform was neat.
His hair was tied back.
His expression was as unreadable as ever.
He looked like himself.
And somehow, that hurt.
His gaze dropped.
Immediately, his stomach twisted.
He looked away.
"No."
The word came out quietly.
He closed his eyes.
Don't think about it.
He could leave.
He could go outside.
He could train.
He could find something else to focus on.
Anything.
He opened his eyes again.
The mirror was still there.
And the thoughts came rushing back.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
His throat tightened.
He hated this.
He hated that one glance could ruin an entire day.
He hated that he could know, rationally, exactly who he was and still feel like his reflection was arguing with him.
Giyuu had spent years trying to become comfortable with himself.
He had fought demons.
He had survived battles that should have killed him.
He had watched people he loved disappear.
He had endured grief until it became something permanently lodged beneath his ribs.
But somehow, standing in front of a piece of polished glass could make him feel smaller than any demon ever had.
His eyes stung.
He looked down at himself again.
His chest.
He immediately looked away.
His breathing became uneven.
"I hate this."
The words were almost inaudible.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
"I hate it."
His voice cracked.
Giyuu squeezed his eyes shut.
He knew he was Giyuu.
He knew he was a man.
He knew that his body didn't determine that.
He knew.
He knew.
He knew.
But knowing didn't make the feeling disappear.
And that was the part that hurt the most.
Because there was no argument he could make against his own mind.
There was no demon to defeat.
No sword to draw.
No enemy to strike down.
There was just himself.
And he was exhausted.
---
By the time Giyuu reached the Butterfly Estate later that morning, he had barely spoken.
He had gone through his duties.
He had answered questions.
He had nodded when appropriate.
Nobody seemed to notice anything unusual.
That should have made him feel better.
Instead, it made him feel invisible.
He wanted someone to notice.
He didn't want anyone to notice.
He wanted someone to understand.
He didn't know how to explain.
The contradiction made his head hurt.
He eventually returned home.
The moment the door closed behind him, his shoulders sagged.
Silence.
Good.
He could finally stop pretending.
Giyuu sat down.
He stared at the floor.
His eyes burned.
He hadn't cried all day.
He had refused to.
He was a Hashira.
He could control himself.
He had to.
But then he remembered the mirror.
His chest tightened.
He pulled his haori around himself.
"No."
His voice shook.
He stood abruptly.
He walked into another room.
Then another.
Anywhere except near the mirror.
He couldn't stand seeing himself.
He couldn't stand thinking about himself.
He couldn't stand feeling trapped inside a body that sometimes felt like it belonged to somebody else.
His hands began trembling.
Giyuu pressed them against his face.
"I just want to feel like me."
That was all.
That was the horrible simplicity of it.
He didn't want anything extraordinary.
He didn't want praise.
He didn't want attention.
He didn't want people telling him that he should be grateful.
He just wanted to look at himself without feeling that horrible disconnect.
A tear slipped down his cheek.
Then another.
He wiped them away angrily.
"Stop."
Another tear.
"Stop."
His voice broke.
"Please."
The room remained silent.
Giyuu sank down onto the floor.
He pulled his knees toward his chest.
He buried his face against them.
And finally, after holding everything inside for so long, he began to cry.
Not quietly.
Not neatly.
His shoulders shook.
His breathing came in uneven little gasps.
He hated every second of it.
He hated that he couldn't stop.
He hated that he felt so young.
So helpless.
So tired.
His thoughts began tangling together.
He couldn't sort them anymore.
He couldn't separate the sadness from the shame.
He couldn't figure out what he was supposed to do.
He just wanted someone.
Someone safe.
Someone who wouldn't ask him to explain.
Someone who wouldn't look at him differently.
His lips trembled.
"Rengoku..."
The name slipped out before he could stop it.
Then something inside him finally gave way.
The complicated thoughts became distant.
The adult part of his mind that could normally organize everything simply...
stopped working.
The world became too large.
The room became too quiet.
The feelings became too enormous.
Giyuu's mental state slipped backward.
He remained physically himself.
But his mind became very, very small.
One year old.
Too young to understand dysphoria.
Too young to understand gender.
Too young to understand why his body had made him so upset.
He only knew that he hurt.
And he wanted Rengoku.
---
Rengoku arrived not long afterward.
He had been planning to surprise Giyuu with dinner.
Instead, the moment he stepped inside, he knew something was wrong.
"Giyuu?"
No response.
Rengoku frowned.
He set the food aside.
"Giyuu?"
A tiny sound came from the next room.
Rengoku followed it.
He found Giyuu curled up on the floor.
His face was wet with tears.
His haori was wrapped around him.
His hands were curled tightly into the fabric.
Rengoku's heart broke.
"Oh, Giyuu."
He immediately lowered himself to the floor.
He didn't touch him.
Not yet.
"Giyuu, it is me."
Giyuu's eyes lifted.
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then his face crumpled.
"Ren..."
His voice was tiny.
Rengoku's expression softened.
"You are little."
A tiny nod.
"Mm."
"That is all right."
Giyuu's lip trembled.
"Bad."
"I know."
"Body bad."
Rengoku's heart ached.
He carefully kept his voice calm.
"Your body is upsetting you."
Giyuu nodded again.
His eyes squeezed shut.
"Don't like."
"I know."
"Wrong."
Rengoku moved a little closer.
"You are not wrong."
Giyuu looked at him.
"Not?"
"Never."
Giyuu stared at him with enormous, tear-filled eyes.
Rengoku held out one hand.
"You can come here if you want."
For several seconds, Giyuu didn't move.
Then he crawled forward.
Rengoku immediately gathered him carefully into his arms.
Giyuu clung to him.
His face disappeared against Rengoku's uniform.
A tiny sob escaped.
Rengoku wrapped his haori around him.
"There you are."
Giyuu trembled.
"Ren."
"I'm here."
"Stay."
"I will."
Giyuu's hands tightened around his uniform.
"Don't go."
"I am not going anywhere."
Giyuu sniffled.
"Promise?"
Rengoku smiled softly.
"I'll stay with you."
That seemed to settle something inside Giyuu.
He relaxed against him.
But the tears didn't stop.
---
Rengoku didn't try to make him talk.
He didn't ask Giyuu to explain his feelings.
He didn't say that Giyuu looked fine.
He didn't tell him that his dysphoria wasn't logical.
He knew none of that would help.
Instead, he simply held him.
Every so often, Rengoku gently rubbed his back.
Giyuu's crying gradually became quieter.
Eventually, he lifted his head.
"Ugly."
Rengoku's heart clenched.
"No."
Giyuu frowned.
"Ugly."
"No."
Rengoku carefully wiped a tear from his cheek.
"You are Giyuu."
Giyuu stared.
"You are kind."
A pause.
"You are strong."
Another pause.
"You are stubborn."
Giyuu's expression wobbled.
"Very stubborn."
A tiny, almost invisible smile.
Rengoku smiled back.
"And you are a man."
Giyuu's smile disappeared.
His eyes filled again.
"Man?"
"Yes."
"Me?"
"You."
Giyuu stared at him.
Rengoku's voice was unwavering.
"Nothing you see in a mirror can change that."
Giyuu looked down.
"Body..."
"I know."
"Not like..."
"I know."
Giyuu's little hands curled into Rengoku's uniform.
"Want different."
Rengoku's expression softened.
"Someday, perhaps things will be different in ways that help you feel more comfortable."
Giyuu didn't understand all of the words.
But he understood the tone.
"You don't have to solve everything tonight."
Giyuu's eyes grew heavy.
"You only have to be cared for."
A tiny nod.
---
Rengoku eventually carried him to the futon.
Giyuu immediately grabbed his sleeve when Rengoku tried to stand.
"No."
"I'm only getting your blanket."
"Stay."
"I'll be right back."
Giyuu stared anxiously.
Rengoku understood.
"How about this?"
He sat back down.
"I'll pull the blanket over both of us."
Giyuu nodded.
Rengoku arranged it carefully.
Giyuu curled against his side.
He was still sniffling.
Still tired.
Still hurting.
But he wasn't alone anymore.
Rengoku quietly hummed.
Giyuu listened.
His eyes slowly closed.
"Ren?"
"Yes?"
"Me?"
Rengoku looked down.
"Yes."
"Me."
"Always."
Giyuu relaxed.
A few minutes later, he fell asleep.
---
Rengoku remained awake.
He looked down at the tiny figure curled beside him.
His heart hurt.
Not because Giyuu was regressed.
Not because he was crying.
But because Rengoku knew this wasn't the first time Giyuu had felt this way.
There had probably been countless moments when Giyuu had stood in front of a mirror and silently hated what he saw.
Countless mornings when getting dressed had taken more courage than anyone realized.
Countless days when he had forced himself to continue because he thought being upset meant he was weak.
Rengoku gently adjusted the blanket.
Giyuu shifted in his sleep.
Rengoku whispered:
"You never have to earn your place beside me."
Giyuu didn't wake.
"You never have to prove that you are who you say you are."
His voice became softer.
"And you never have to be ashamed of needing comfort."
Giyuu's breathing remained slow and steady.
Rengoku watched him for another moment.
Then he smiled.
Tomorrow might still be difficult.
The mirror would still exist.
Dysphoria wouldn't magically disappear because someone loved him.
But Giyuu would not have to face it by himself.
When he woke up, Rengoku would still be there.
If he was big, Rengoku would be there.
If he was little, Rengoku would be there.
If he couldn't explain what hurt, Rengoku would listen anyway.
And if Giyuu looked into a mirror and couldn't recognize himself again—
Rengoku would remind him.
Gently.
Patiently.
As many times as necessary.
Because Giyuu was not the reflection staring back at him.
He was the person underneath it.
And that person was still there.
Safe.
Loved.
Still Giyuu.