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Giyuu clenches his jaw, grips the hilt of his blade so tight his hand aches—and lunges. He misses the chance of chopping this wretched demon’s head off by a hair’s breadth. “Damn it.”
The thing scuttles off like a cockroach in the foliage. He tracks blood on the forest floor from the stump of his amputated arm— Giyuu’s gift— and ducks behind a tree where another path opens up to the village’s nearby river. So fast he takes off, under the dim light of a crescent moon, that Giyuu has a hard time keeping track of this bastard’s swiveling movements. Just earlier, he’s taken a heavy blow to the sternum that almost caused his lungs to collapse. It was an amateurish mistake on his part, letting his guard down when he had this demon under the mercy of his blade. When the only thing left to do was to thrust in and rid them of the threat that has been ravaging the village for weeks. Alas, at the last second of his charge, something had paralyzed him; an odd heat that had flared up and seized him from the abdomen, spreading further through his branching veins, so deep the burn his eyes watered.
It could’ve cost him his life. But worse still, he could’ve failed the simple mission of eradicating a demon of such cowardly disposition. A shame to the title he bears, he can practically see a disgusted Sanemi sneering down his mutilated corpse between the golden wheat stalks; I’ve always known that he’s never had a place between us.
The path clears up before him, and he catches up to the demon in no time, tackles him hard to the ground, knees bracing his fall, wastes no time stabbing the point of his blade into the demon’s throat. He gurgles dark, viscous blood. Some of it strikes Giyuu’s face. Vile, stomach-churning.
The apprehended demon grins up at him, teeth sharp and cloyed with blood, marred black hair sticking to his tattooed forehead. He leers up at Giyuu, a manic look on glowing green eyes. “You—You smell delicious, human,” he croaks out, his throat pooling blood in rivulets, drenching the soil beneath. “Heavenly, d—delectable.”
Giyuu grits his teeth against another wave of sticky heat and buries his blade deeper into his target. “Shut up.”
The demon coughs up more blood, his grin a fixture on his face. “Hear my dying wish, gorgeous one.” He moves the arm that hasn’t met his blade to brush some hair strands off Giyuu’s face—Giyuu almost too stunned to react— then the same hand that finds a languid pace down Giyuu’s chest, grazing at his left pectoral, taunting and teasing like they’re engaged in a secret rendezvous, a maddening slow scratch of long nails over his heated skin. “I’d gladly put down my life if you’d allow me the pleasure of fucking yo—”
He doesn’t let that sentence end. The chopped head rolls down the light incline before it plunges in the river’s current.
Giyuu stands up, shaky and breathless. He smoothes down his horror with immense effort.
☾
It doesn’t get much better for him after that. His situation gets so dire he collapses on the perimeter of the Butterfly Mansion— the closest place he thought he’d seek refuge in— on his hands and knees heaving his guts out like he’s suffering from a horrid case of food poisoning. And frankly, that would’ve been a far easier ordeal to deal with. Giyuu doesn’t know what to do with the waves of painful heat crushing his insides, twisting them so far up his throat he’s half-convinced he’s about to retch his dying soul outside Kochou’s property. Kanzaburo caws worriedly over him in the dark sky, flies down to perch up on his shoulder, touching a cold beak to Giyuu’s tear stained cheek.
He should’ve expected that life would veer him towards a destiny of enduring, painful heats striking him in the oddest of times it feels like the wicked scheming of some malevolent deity. He’s got his own tragic tales tucked close to his chest, as do most everyone. But the heartbreak of losing control and autonomy over his own body is a tragedy of a different caliber. He’s been so damn naïve, and he’s got only himself to blame.
He spends long, cold minutes shivering and stewing in his misery until eventually someone emerges from the thick shadows. He needn’t look up to confirm it’s Shinobu; so light on her feet she blends in with the wheezing wind, something floral and sweet wafting to a crouching Giyuu.
Shinobu isn’t on a mission, which should be both a blessing and a curse. Or mostly a curse, as she opens her mouth to say, incredulous and faintly mocking. “Is that you, Tomioka-san?”
Giyuu does not answer her. Instead, he folds deeper into himself as new lances of pain and heat impale his organs, causing him to bite hard on a whimper, tasting iron on the inside of his cheek.
“God.” To her credit, she sounds genuinely concerned, falls even to one knee near him, touching what feels like a frigid hand to Giyuu’s boiling forehead. Kanzaburo hops on to her shoulder. “Have you been taking any of the medicine I’ve given you, Tomioka-san?”
He has. All of it. And none of it lasted for long.
“That’s because you’re countering this problem with the wrong solutions,” she says, having replaced her hand with a handkerchief, daubing at the sweat on Giyuu’s forehead. “The meds are here to alleviate your symptoms and nothing more. This has been your fifth time in the past two months. It’s insanity.”
“Kochou—”
“What? It’s true. The root of your problem cannot be solely addressed by drugs and sedation. You need to find someone who’d be willing to take the heat off of you. Even a beta would be able to help, why must you be so damn stubborn?”
Giyuu is on the verge of sincerely begging her to spare him the tirade. His insides are liquefying; the hairs at his nape are standing up. His body is one aching mass.
Taking pity on his soul, Shinobu merely sighs the rest of her dissent, then slings Giyuu’s arm around her thin shoulders—Giyuu’s crow flying up into the sky. Even though he’s taller and heavier, she’s still able to haul him up to his feet, shouldering most his weight. “We’ll be taking the back entrance so try to keep conscious and steady till then.”
“Are the kids resting in the estate?” he manages a question, his voice hoarse.
“No, they’re not,” she says. “They’ve left for their mission early this morning.”
Giyuu breathes deep in relief.
Only to freeze into a stone sculpture as she next says, “There’s Uzui-san, though. And Rengoku-san. But no Shinazugawa-san, you’ve lucked out this time.”
☾
Shinobu dumps him unceremoniously on a laid out futon in a secluded room of the vast estate, disappears back into the hallway, then reappears with incense, a medical kit and a jug of water the size of her torso. She closes the shoji doors firmly behind her, lights up the incense, thick and heady the scent of burning wood in the small space— though the window remains wide opened— and kneels back on the soft futon. She urges him to sit up so she’d be able to tear his haori off his back, almost manhandling him in the process.
Giyuu hasn’t made a sound of complaint.
“You’re making it seem like I’m taking care of a corpse, Tomioka-san.” She produces a simple, navy blue yukata and drops it on his shivering frame. “Your uniform is worsening your condition, help yourself change, I’m not doing you the honors.”
Giyuu peels an eye open and gazes blurrily at where Shinobu has gone to sit by a low table in the corner of the room, her back facing him, working on some concoction as she uncovers more vials from the small kit in her lap. He gathers his breaths, undresses from his sweat-soaked uniform, wincing all the while at the deep ache in his head, in his guts and joints. The soft fabric of the yukata is cool and soothing when it slides over his flushed skin. He lies back down and prays for unconsciousness.
For a moment, it seems like God is genuinely listening to his pleas, diminishing some of the heat consuming his flesh from the inside out, wrapping a thin veil of darkness over his eyes so he’d finally drift to an uncomfortable, fever-laden sleep.
For a moment, it seems like the fates might just smile down at him and allow him to burn it all out before the new sunrise, unlike his last heat where he had to disappear for three consecutive days as if in exile, the worst his condition has gotten, he remembers, the worst he’s felt about living.
For a moment, he believes in hope again, but Shinobu shreds all threads of serenity beginning to envelop him with the harsh strike of truth. “You’re a mere liability on the battlefield and you’re going to get yourself most horribly killed by the hands of some perverted demon.”
Giyuu laments his existence. “Kochou, this is not the time.”
“When will it be, then?” she never raises her voice, never needed to. The winds would simmer down in their howling whenever she had something smart to say. “As much as it displeases me to have you around, I still wouldn’t wish for your demise.” She gets close again, and Giyuu has to force his eyelids open. He’s almost shocked to witness the sincerity displayed in her irises. “I wouldn’t wish to see you ensnared under a demon in your most vulnerable, so you better wake up and get something done before misfortune befalls you.”
She brings in the concocted medicine. Giyuu offers his thanks and downs it without preamble, though the bitter, acrid taste does sting his tongue.
“Since you’re the true savant around here,” he starts, his tone slightly derisive. “What would you suggest I get done?”
At that, she rears back, awash with such incredulousness that he might as well have called her an unkind name. “You’re not actually this gullible, are you?”
Giyuu glares at her. “You’re gravely mistaken if you think I’d ever let a random stranger anywhere near me in this state.”
“I have never suggested that, Tomioka-san.”
“You might as well have.”
A sharp knock on wood makes them both jump. Shinobu’s eyes widen, an expression so rarefied on her usual tight-lipped face that Giyuu almost doesn’t notice the panic rising up to drown his own heart. It takes them all of five seconds, of intensely staring at each other in pure, unadulterated disbelief before their reflexes finally kick in as Shinobu scrambles up to her feet and Giyuu buries himself inside his covers, going so still he turns into an actual corpse.
Two more knocks follow in the immediate silence, softer sounding, then a familiar voice of mirth breaches the borders of the room when the doors slide open, then shut again. “There you are, Shinobu. You disappeared on us so suddenly we thought we dreamed you up.”
“Rengoku-san?” Though muffled, he can still hear the recovered composure in her voice. “Did something happen?”
“No, nothing in particular. Uzui refuses to start dinner in your absence, so I thought to find you before supper. But I do apologize if my timing is off.”
“No, it’s alright,” she says. “My work here is done.”
Alone, Giyuu finds himself under his blankets, after they disappear down the hallway, their voices growing faint and distant.
Alone, he finds himself, though Rengoku’s voice is a haunting, vicious tune. Fire roars in his stomach, and he shakes and perspires between the sheets with such ferocity that he’s almost frightened at his own design. The urgent call of his biological needs is deafening, but nothing has ever terrified him as much as the prospect of losing control over his own motors, of giving in to intense, temporary desires and curbing rationality to the side.
He mutters more prayers. There’s nothing to do but brave through this cursed night.
☾
It’s narcotics that Shinobu must’ve slipped him in the concoction, because Giyuu goes to sleep and never wakes again. He’s so wiped out that he doesn’t wake once under the duress of heat, and only resurges back to consciousness when painful and frantic jabs into his sides disturb his hibernation, tearing him away from the blissful arms of nothingness.
“Oh, my God,” comes Shinobu’s strained voice in the early morning. “You shouldn’t be this unresponsive. Tomioka-san?” she slaps his cheek insistently, panic-stricken. “Tomioka-san?”
“Shinobu,” he croaks gravely, throat scratched up, wincing at the brightness in the room. “Quit it, I’m alive.”
Her sigh is deep and audible. “Oh, thank God, I thought I murdered you by accident.” She pauses, then says. “My plans for murder can only be elaborate and intentional.”
The first thing he notices is this migraine stabbing a straight, fine knife into his right eye, into his brain matter, all the way to the cranium. The second thing he notices is the heavy fever that’s missing from his limbs entirely. Giyu’s head is hammering but his heart is light. He looks around the sunlit room, squints at where Kanzaburo is napping by the window sill. “What happened?”
Continuing on with her theme of rarely displayed kindness, she moves up to pour him some water from the torso-sized jug. “Nothing, you just went into a coma and refused to wake up no matter how hard I’ve jostled you. When’s the last time you had some decent rest?”
Giyuu would rather not ponder the question. But maybe he should; maybe he should look closer at the reasons behind his frequent heat cycles. Exhaustion and sleep deprivation must surely contribute to a certain degree to the mess that is his life. If he’s so diligent with taking his meds, so careful with masking the inherent weakness of his being, then this situation should’ve never seen the light of day, especially not so consecutively. Five times, was it? Five times he’s fallen ill in the span of two months when it should’ve been one cycle per month. It doesn’t take a scholar to declare his condition abnormal.
Shinobu waits for him to down two more cups of water before she says. “I can’t even begin to guess if it’s your huge pride condemning you to a loner’s life, or if it’s just plain social ineptness.”
There it comes, the distinctive haughtiness belonging to no one but her. Giyuu’s migraine sharpens, and he makes a pained face. “What are you talking about?”
Shinobu’s gaze falls hard on him. “I’m just wondering why you wouldn’t allow anyone to offer you help.”
Giyuu almost winces. What Shinobu doesn’t know is that he can’t imagine himself so vulnerable and willing, overtaken with instincts in the presence of another soul. He’s only ever known himself to be distant, reserved, aloof. A shadow blending into the dark, silent as a whisper. “It can’t be anyone.” He settles on saying because it’s true. It can’t be anyone. Ever.
“Oh, surely,” she says after a while. “A fellow demon slayer won’t be just anyone.”
☾
Giyuu uncovers her plans for matchmaking belatedly, when he’s still out of it from the lingering effects of the drug, leaning against a wooden post near the main entrance, looking out to where some kids in crutches are going through physical rehabilitation in the open gardens. A small girl with twin braids manages four steps without aid before she falls back between the overgrown grass, her smile such a bright, sweet thing. Two attendants rush in to her side, frantic, but she’s now drowning in loud and clear laughter. ‘I thought I was never going to walk again—’
He’s so out of it that he barely registers the looming fire by the edge of his vision, creeping in slowly into his space, warm and crackling.
“Tomioka?”
Giyuu jumps. His heart leaps to his throat. He has barely any time to brace himself against the oncoming mortification that rushes up his neck, having been caught so off guard, so out of sorts, his untied hair long and curling down his back, covering decently his reddening ears, but not doing much for his flushed cheeks.
Rengoku Kyojurou bears the sight of him with kindness and a glint of something else in his fiery eyes. Amusement, perhaps. Or mockery. The Water Hashira startled in broad daylight.
“Good afternoon,” his voice quiets down like a gentle tide. “My apologies, I never meant to infringe on your peace.”
Giyuu, ever the professional, has pulled himself together just enough to settle back into an expression of neutrality. He turns around to fully face him— and almost flinches at the onslaught of light and life shimmering all over this man’s person. He’s so vibrantly alive, he’s brimming with it, and Giyuu, with his killer migraine and withering soul, is almost envious. “Good afternoon.”
Instead of launching unprompted into a new tangent, Rengoku merely settles on a small, honest smile.
Giyuu has thoroughly checked himself for any lingering traces of heat in his system, making sure he has burned it all out before emerging from his tomb to the land of living. But the way Rengoku’s smile goes softer still around the edges has him standing straighter, an inkling of doubt crossing his mind. It’s as innocuous as it gets, barely a cause for concern; still Giyuu’s hackles remain raised, and he unconsciously moves his arms to cross them over his chest, somewhat withdrawn.
Never one to misread the nonverbal cues, Rengoku catches on, and he puts some distance between them. “I sincerely apologize if it’s not the right moment. Kochou has mentioned you’ve taken ill the night before, and I thought to check on your well being before leaving for my mission.”
Giyuu blinks. “No, that’s—fine. I’m doing very well, thank you,” and then, “What has she disclosed, exactly?”
He catches his pause. He catches Rengoku’s pause, and Giyuu’s palms turn into dams of sweat. For a second, he thinks he’s going to faint. Yes, he’s never held Shinobu up to some secrecy; he simply never thought to do so, not when common sense dictates that private matters should remain private. Especially when it’s something so crucial to—
“She said you were bedridden because of some terrible fever, that’s why you weren’t able to join us for dinner.”
The cool breeze caressing his skin helps release some of the tension gripping his shoulders. He breathes in deep. “Yes, I was indeed quite sick—still am, in a sense, but I’m alright now.”
Because he is practically incapable of suppressing it, Rengoku’s smile springs up a second time, sunlight heightening the shock of his yellow hair. “Well, I’m glad to see you doing well, Giyuu,” then his smile widens, and he is fire again. “Take care.”
It isn’t until Rengoku has disappeared around the corner of the mansion that Giyuu’s brain tries to work through some theories to uncover the mysteries of this interaction. What on earth just happened? Where did this flustered awkwardness stem from? Rengoku, though a bit hard to handle sometimes, is never bad news. Giyuu never dreads when they’re paired together for some grotesque mission. The man knows how to wield the sword just like he knows how to fill silence with idle chatter. He’s never made a fuss over Giyuu’s affinity for speaking a maximum of two words a day.
Any contemplative efforts come to a standstill when Shinobu’s guilty head pops up from behind the thick and luscious bushes of the garden, all fake smiles and devious intent.
☾
“So he knows? You’ve told him?”
“Believe it or not, I have not spoken a word about you. Rengoku-san has figured it out on his own, he is not a mule.”
Giyuu takes a moment to reset. “Oh, God.”
“What? It’s not hard to see why you’re trailing floral essence around the hallway.”
He closes his eyes. There’s pain taking spark on the right side of his skull. “What were the other signs?”
Shinobu considers, then she makes a grand gesture with her arms, mentioning at, well— all of him. “Just. You,” she says. “Something about your demeanor, or the way you carry yourself, like you might just leap from the window if someone looks at you wrong.” She hesitates, shrugs. “And your pretty face, I guess.”
The pain has evolved into relentless hammering. “That does not make any sense.”
“It might not to you, but if we’re going by stereotypes, then you surely fit the descriptor of the dainty yet guarded omega.”
Giyuu goes quiet, clutching his head.
“Be glad it’s Rengoku-san,” Shinobu continues, always so blind to his misery. “He is a kind person, so don’t hiss at him if he were to someday extend a helping hand.”
☾
The issue doesn’t arise again for a blissful time, and Giyuu regains some much needed normalcy back into his life. He retreats into the shadows and keeps a low profile around the other Pillars whenever the job has them huddled in the same territory, or under the same roof. His assassination efforts are easier to carry out now that his mind is no longer hindered by the senseless matter of his secondary gender. He’s haunting and efficient exterminating his targets, merciless when the demons are especially wretched and cruel. He goes through the motions, the brutality and futility of their world. Hangs around the kids when the fates allow them to cross roads. Wards off an excitable Inosuke by means of sparring and checks on little Nezuko in her wooden box. It’s familiar life with familiar pains.
He brandishes his blade, and in one swift move rends the demon’s head from its shoulders.
Rengoku adds another disintegrating corpse to the pile, and soon they’ve got a hive of demons wiped out on the mountainous outskirts of the nearest village.
“This should be it,” Rengoku is saying, but Giyuu’s eyes are looking at the heartwarming moonlight cast over the surface of the rushing stream. “I thought we would never get to the end of it.”
Giyuu lifts up his sword arm, finds his muscles shaking. It’s been a long battle, and he can feel the damning signs of a fast surging exhaustion. He tries to smother a yawn but instantly fails.
“Getting sleepy, Giyuu?”
He turns around, to expectant, bright summer eyes. Something always jabs him somewhere near the kidneys at the sound of his name in that rich timbre. He can’t recall a start to the feeling, or an origin to the way his chest tightens just the slightest when his space is all crowded by Rengoku’s large presence. He’s studied the feeling before, picked it apart trying to make sense of it, and it’s not irritation coloring his neck red, neither apprehension making him flush, nor exasperation. It’s just— a feeling, more pleasant than not, and he’s alright with its birth in the cracks of his bones.
There’s something hefty and weighted about this man, like you could make an anchor out of him and remain floating with your life over a world that deals death faster than it deals anything else. Like a Pillar, but in the true sense of the word; and maybe that’s Giyuu’s mistake. That he’s dropped all his guards around Rengoku when the night is still young.
The demon that bursts from the shrouding trees is wrong and gnarly, frothing at the mouth with bulging dark eyeballs. It happens so fast that Giyuu only feels it after the demon has been seized, then slaughtered most adamantly by Rengoku’s blade.
“Tomioka!”
Pain explodes where he got bitten, and Giyuu collapses to the ground, grunting. “It’s fine,” he begins to say, blood flowing down his neck. It’s not his worst hit. He’s suffered mutilation of the flesh before. “I’m fine.”
There’s raw panic to Rengoku’s voice, like Giyuu might actually be dying, when it’s just another injury, nothing outside the norm in their line of work. “I should’ve seen it coming—”
Me too. Giyuu would say, but he can’t confront the fact that he was so distracted with thoughts of Rengoku Kyojurou that he failed to detect oncoming danger from a mile away. The wound throbs in his brain, searing and terrible, his stomach churns. He thinks about putting some pressure to it, gathering more of the sleeve of his haori in his palm, wondering if Rengoku would be willing to stitch him up later. But then he stops, and realizes— Giyuu realizes that it sits close enough to his glands to cause him a great deal of concern, a great deal of grief. His knowledge might not be extensive, but he knows just enough about bond marks and their rightful place along the body to understand the actual severity of what just happened. All of a sudden, there’s this cold and sharp fear gripping his heart in a vice grip, chilling the blood in his veins.
Giyuu looks up, at the river glittering with silver, then at Rengoku’s extra fiery eyes, alight with turbulent emotion. “I know a physician in town,” he is saying, fast to scoop him up in his arms. “A family acquaintance, she’d know how to help us so hold on tight, you will be fine. Do you hear me, Giyuu?”
He blinks away the tears fogging his eyesight and nods with as much conviction as he can find in his frozen heart.
☾
Ikeda Fumiko is a prim and jovial middle-aged woman who practices medicine from her humble residence with her two cats as attendees.
It’s dark and awfully late when they knock at her door, but Fumiko, who meets them there in a matter of seconds, only has to sweep one quick look at Giyuu’s pale face, at his shaking hands where they clutch desperately his bitten throat before she’s ushering them inside the house, come in, hurry hurry, barely needing to point out the way to the patient room where Rengoku is fast to take him.
Surprisingly, she chases Rengoku from the room, thwarting his protests by declaring his presence a distraction to both doctor and patient, then reassuring him that his dear friend is in good hands and that he should make some chamomile tea in the time it takes her to stitch up the gash on Giyuu’s throat. The pain isn’t atrocious, and her touch is firm and gentle when she cleans the dried blood from his bruised skin, so practiced the movements that Giyuu is instantly soothed, instantly coaxed into confiding to her his real, genuine concerns.
“Oh honey,” she says, voice brimming with motherly warmth, and Giyuu looks at her with reverence, his anxiety dissipating. He deflates in her arms when she wraps his neck in thick bandages, the air doused with the light and sweet aroma of rosewater. “You were worrying yourself thin over nothing. Bonds can only happen if the concerned parties are sincerely willing and consenting to the act. No one, and I mean no one, can ever force you into bearing a mark you’ve never desired.”
If feels like a crucial piece of knowledge that he should’ve always had tucked somewhere in his brain. Of course, you idiot, phantom Shinobu admonishes him in his head. It’s as obvious as that. How ridiculous and unreasonable was he, to worry over a forced bond. And with a demon they murdered no less? Where on earth was his common sense in all this? And why’s his heart still heavy as a rock?
“And even then, bond marks aren’t always permanent,” Fumiko is saying, clearing away her working station now that she’s done. He studies her meticulous and efficient ways, almost entranced. “They can and will disappear if mutual love is no longer achieved. Human relations are flawed like that, fragile and finite, but precious all the same.”
Giyuu takes it in stride. He swallows the painkillers Fumiko presents him for his throbbing neck, then immediately folds forward in a deep bow to show gratitude, forsaking his words for they would surely betray him by not being enough. A moment passes, and he feels a hand ruffling through his hair, smoothing down the strands sticking up from the crown of his head, “I’m sorry your night was this rough and unkind, young man. Kyojurou should’ve taken better care of you.”
He looks up slowly, at her smiling eyes, tongue burning with the need to tell her of all the ways Rengoku has taken care of him, of them all, subtle or otherwise, his benevolence so abundant in such wretched world it should be illegal.
But then, Rengoku in the flesh barges in, a sleeping orange cat slung like a shawl around his neck, and another chunkier one with black fur tucked carefully under his arm, also sleeping. “I’m sorry Fumiko-san, but I’ve made the chamomile tea you’ve asked of me and I’ve started to think of the worst when you didn’t call me back and I just couldn’t sit still anymore and— oh,” breathless, he is breathless. “Oh hi! Hi, Giyuu— oh you’re alive, thank God.”
Giyuu’s face does something so rare that his muscles ache with it. A hidden dimple springs up by the corner of his mouth. “Kyojurou,” he calls, smiling.
☾
The chunky black cat is called Hime, and she’s as regale as her name suggests, her fur soft and majestic as she snuggles up to a sleepy Giyuu in his cozy beddings, purring loudly in his ears.
Kyojurou is so delighted by the sight of them that he’s made no progress setting down his own futon, his smile stretched big it reaches the heavens. “Oh wow, I’ve never seen her so affectionate before. Not even my adorable brother had her swooning like this. She adores you.”
Frankly, Giyuu is just as surprised, but he could also be dreaming up this reality. The painkillers have him suspended in air, so powerful their pull he feels like a floating cloud, his throat blissfully numbed. He hugs the cat close like some child’s beloved stuffed toy, and she purrs louder, if possible. “Your disbelief is offensive, Kyojurou.” He addresses him from the warmth of his covers under the dim lighting of the sole lantern in the guest room, doing his best to sound slighted with half his face squished into the pillow. “It shouldn’t be this peculiar that a cat finds me likeable.”
“Certainly not,” Kyojurou doesn’t hesitate a beat. “You’re very endearing so I’m not surprised that a cat likes you, I’m just amazed that it’s standoffish Hime bestowing her favors. See how cozy you look!”
And yeah, alright, Giyuu has never had anyone call him endearing in his life, like ever, so now there’s no doubt in his mind that he’s dreaming this all up; cuddly cat and soft winded Kyojurou alike, with his bright smile and untied hair falling over his eyes. He squishes the rest of his face into the pillow, hugging the snoring dream-cat closer, mouth souring with disappointment.
“Asleep, Tomioka?” dream-Kyojurou asks somewhere above him. Giyuu doesn’t answer, only listens to the rustling going on to his right, Kyojurou unfurling the sheets at last, stirring some wind within the peaceful room. So silent and peaceful it gets that he barely notices himself falling asleep for real this time. For a moment, he’s lost to the world, heart steady, warmth pressing into him from all sides. For a moment, he thinks of nothing, dreams of nothing, his slate mercifully blank as exhaustion all but ravages every cell of him. But then, a nightmare in the shape of a headless demon takes over, blood gushing dark red like a waterfall, charging at him with freaky speed, and Giyuu lurches upward, shaking like a leaf, his hand holding his bandaged neck like the wound might just reopen on its own.
“Giyuu?”
He knows he hasn’t been asleep for long. Kyojurou seems to have just settled in his futon, his hair fluffed up around him like a halo of light, startled as he appraises him. Giyuu looks down and, regrettably, finds a very grouchy Hime staring at him in a daze. She yawns before she cozies up again in the lingering warmth where Giyuu’s body had once been, knocked out in a second.
Kyojurou sits cross legged. He furrows his brows, looks closer, searching Giyuu’s face like it’s his life mission to uncover the mystery of him. “Giyuu, are you okay?”
He doesn’t even know where to start with that question, so he simply doesn’t. He nods at Kyojurou to reassure him, a bit ashamed for rendering him an unwilling audience to his theatrics. “I’m sorry for waking you. You should go back to sleep.”
“I wasn’t asleep.” The sheets rustle when Kyojurou moves forward, coming close enough that Giyuu can catch a hint of his long, fair lashes. It’s almost dizzying how much softer his voice sounds at night, a stark contrast to its usual resounding cadence. “A nightmare?”
Giyuu nods, swallowing against the lingering horror. “The usual.”
Kyojurou tilts his head, watching him. Giyuu would be unnerved had it been anyone else, would flinch away had it been anything but Kyojurou’s hand coming up to push his hair back, feeling for his forehead. “You’re all warm and feverish.” he declares, hand sliding to Giyuu’s ruddy cheek. “Fumiko-san would surely have something to—”
“Don’t you dare ruin her sleep, Kyojurou.”
He shifts backward, his arm falling, and Giyuu instantly misses it, the gentle touch of his hand. “But you’re burning.”
“I’ll survive.”
“But—”
“Please,” Giyuu cuts in, somewhat desperate to get this night going. “I’ll wake up better than ever, so let’s just go back to sleep. Please.”
Kyojurou hears it, and he stills his tongue, going silent. It’s a halting sight, a non-smiling Kyojurou with untamed golden hair pinning Giyuu under a scrutinizing stare. It lasts a while, this odd silence intercepted by Hime’s gentle snoring, by Giyuu’s loud heartbeat, but then Kyojurou springs back up on his feet with startling speed, moves around to slide his futon closer and closer till their pillows are touching, their beddings merged.
“You’re joking,” Giyuu says, incredulous, doubting his reality again. “I don’t appreciate you treating me like a concerned parent with their scared kid.”
Kyojurou’s grin is back, a force of nature, one that Giyuu can’t look away from. He lounges on his arm, pets the sleeping cat wedged like a barrier between them. The only barrier between them. “It’s nothing of the sort,” he states. “I just like looking out for my peers. And you, Tomioka Giyuu, are surely a cherished comrade.”
Those words drive into him like the sharp edge of a blade. Giyuu’s cheeks are ferociously in bloom. Because he’s practically half-delirious at this point, he blurts the first thing that crosses his mind. “What if you squish the cat to death? You’re quite heavy, made of muscles, think of your sins for a second.”
Kyojurou laughs, a sudden sound, a bright one. “Honestly Giyuu, I’m beginning to think I’m witnessing a miracle, I have never heard you talk so much—”
Effectively, that shuts Giyuu up faster than any unkind remark he’s ever received in his lifetime.
“—which is unfortunate because you do have a lovely voice.”
Giyuu gives up. He blames it all on the painkillers. “Good night.” He mutters as he seeks refuge inside his covers, face turned to the wall, back turned to Kyojurou.
But Kyojurou is still talking. He is a menace, and he won’t shut up to spare Giyuu the wild heart palpitations. “I can easily hold your hand should another nightmare find you. Trust me, it’s quite soothing having someone near, even if just a friend.”
Giyuu refuses to look behind him. “You will not hold my hand.”
“I do the same for my brother when something troubles his sleep. I hug him, too.”
Good God. “You will not hug me.”
“As you wish.” There’s a promise in his voice, clear and poignant. “Sweet dreams, then.”
☾
No nightmarish demons revisit his night. No monsters of the abyss, odd and misshapen sporting a thousand writhing limbs. He sleeps like he doesn’t remember doing before: soundly, profoundly.
But he also suffers this: sunshine beating into his closed eyes as he flutters them open, gazing with sharp blur at where the cat had once been, her spot vacant, the only barrier, the only dividing line, replaced now with—
Giyuu closes his eyes again. He breathes deep, then buries his face back into the crook of Kyojurou’s throat.
☾
Unsurprisingly, Kaname is first to deliver news of another mission on the brightest day they’ve had since the beginning of spring. Mounting horror in a nearby village, any demon slayer sent to counter it, slain. Any joined efforts to push back against the bloodshed, futile and in vain. Kyojurou is the Hashira summoned for this particular mission, so Giyuu makes to leave with him before they’ll eventually have to split ways down the road. Kanzaburo must certainly be flying with Giyuu’s own call of duty somewhere out there in the universe, so like every time, Giyuu remains patiently waiting for him.
Fumiko, having also adopted him at this point, changes his bandages, then all but forces down their throats her hearty breakfast of grilled fish, miso soup and green tea before she lets them go.
I rather grew fond of you. Promise you’ll come again for some tea, young man. She’d looked at him, at Kyojurou, then back at him. There are tales I want to hear.
Please, call me Giyuu. He’d smiled, surprised at his eagerness for never wanting to break this certain promise. Thanking her again for her kindness and hospitality. For the warmth she’d met him with, though a stranger he is.
Kyojurou, send my regards to your cranky father, will you. Tell Senjurou he’s long overdue for a check-up. You boys can knock at my door anytime, my cats welcome you.
They set off under the early morning sunlight, the warming and pleasant sort that doesn’t melt bones, the kind that precedes the onslaught of infernal midday heat. Kyojurou, ever the expert with small talk and genuine pleasantries, takes the lead and talks his throat out while Giyuu drowns in the rich pool of his voice. When it’s time for him to head down a steep and rocky incline, Giyuu is surprised at this wave of insurmountable disappointment cresting and crashing in his chest, prompting him to almost follow after this man. Maybe he’d be just as needed as Kyojurou on the job, maybe it’s some upper moon wrecking havoc on their lot and the danger is much more pronounced than what has been reported so having two Hashiras on site would be—
“Keep safe, Giyuu,” Kyojurou says, his smile subdued but sweet as honey. “I’ll see you around, hopefully soon. But if I don’t—”
“You will.” Giyuu cuts him off, and he’s just as astonished with himself as the look he finds on Kyojurou’s face. He knows they live on borrowed time, having walked this path and all, but something is breathing hot courage into Giyuu’s lungs, making him want to lay bare more pieces of him. Maybe it’s the wicked deity, atoning, lending him some strength. “I’d like to confide something in you.”
Kyojurou blinks at him for a second. But then, and without losing his smile, he lifts a hand to tuck this long wind-swept hair strand behind Giyuu’s ear, fingers brushing past Giyuu’s jaw, hinted as a caress. “I’m listening.”
“No,” Giyuu says after he’s had a moment to breathe, to quiet down his hammering heart. A not-so-secret truth he needs to share in his own words. “When I see you again.”
☾
Again comes much, much later that Giyuu begins to believe that it has all been forgotten, if not merely hallucinated under the heavy dosage of painkillers dealt to his system. They never get teamed up after that joyless ride with the throat-biting demon, and as they get pulled further and further apart to tend to a dying world individually, Giyuu begins to fear that this is a distance he won’t ever get to breach again, seeing as the Hashiras come in a precious number of nine in a vast land of growing violence.
It’s a vast land, yet the plight that is Shinobu is so relentless in the pursuit of his misery that Giyuu has mostly given up.
“You know, your tenacity can be quite frightening, but I respect it.”
Giyuu sips at his steaming tea, flinches when it burns his tongue. Takes another sip. Flinches—
“I mean, I was team Rengoku-san all along, still am to be honest, but at this point you’ll sooner die from liver failure than snag a chance to sleep with the man.”
He flinches again, but not from his tea, not this time. “Why are you bringing up my private life, Kochou?”
“Your nonexistent private life, you mean?” Giyuu regrets coming back here, wishes he’d sought out some cave in the wilderness and passed away in peace. “And, forgive my wording here, but I’m not talking about some trivial matter of your private life. Your health is in shambles, do you understand? I’m not giving you any more meds next time you’re strung up with heat. There’s no way in hell I’m dealing you the hand of death, Tomioka-san.”
Which is fair. Which is expected and responsible and if Shinobu ever wishes to kick him out of the estate, then she has every right to it, Giyuu wouldn’t hold it against her, just like he wouldn’t hold it against his liver if it ends up truly and finally giving up on him. Lord knows how much he’s abused his poor organs to stave off any and all sickness wringing his soul.
He’s succumbed to four more heat cycles since the last time he’s seen Kyojurou. Four times he’s thrashed and writhed like a beetle flipped on its back between his covers in the span of— and this is where Shinobu’s outrage comes — two months.
“You are a real nuisance to the corps, I can’t stress this enough.” The vein throbbing in Shinobu’s forehead is ready to pop. “You’re leaving me no choice but to interfere.”
Giyuu freezes mid-sip of his green tea. He lowers his arm, slowly, carefully, puts the tea away and looks at her like he would a charging demon. “You are doing no such thing.”
She stands up with ardent, bone-chilling finality. “I’m calling up Rengoku-san. It’s a critical situation so I’m sure he’d be understanding of your predicament—”
Giyuu shoots back on his feet so fast he almost topples to the side from rushing dizziness. “I’m no longer in heat,” he lies, glaring at her. “You don’t get a say in this, Shinobu.”
“I do.” there’s a challenge in her ferocious eyes when she looks up at him, and the room spikes with the bitter notes of simmering anger. “It’s an emergency, you are a self-destructive patient and I’m not letting you die, not on my watch.” She pauses, considers something, then says, “It’s either him or Shinazugawa-san. Your choice.”
☾
Well, none of that turns out to be of relevance anyway; Kyojurou, in the flesh, shows up to the butterfly estate the next day with a broken arm and a badly bruised neck.
There’s almost nothing different about him— Giyuu notes dimly from a distance, concealed behind a corner by the west wing, doused in the heady perfume he’d borrowed from Shinobu to push down the lasting floral notes from his heat— there’s nothing that alludes to the nature of the damage he’s incurred. True to his name, the Flame Hashira bears pain with blazing fervor, swallows it and makes it his own. Other than a bit of tiredness etching new lines around his eyes, the man remains radiant and beaming like a lamppost, the only sign that something’s off can be read from the subtle way he cradles his arm close to his chest, weary of movement as Shinobu guides him further inside the mansion, her steps thunderous, barking here and there at the attendees to get the room ready.
Giyuu never leaves the comfort of shadows, not even after Shinobu closes the door to the room she’s held Kyojurou hostage in. He stands outside, arms crossed, spooking anyone unfortunate enough to walk by him in the vacant hallway. He doesn’t need to strain to eavesdrop; their voices carry easily past the threshold.
“Shinobu, gentleness I beg.”
“I am being gentle, Rengoku-san.” There’s irritation wedges in her tone. “You could’ve waited for back up. This will cause you at least a month of inactivity. You’re lucky it’s not your sword arm.”
“Worry not, I’ve known my bones to heal fast. I’ll be back on the field in no ti— that hurts Shinobu.”
Giyuu is itching to barge in unannounced. Giyuu is itching to see him, to gaze into his eyes and bask in that loud and soothing frequency of his voice— to hug him stupidly tight he’d fracture another bone, to hold him, and be held by him. To be held—
“Yeah, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask; can Tomioka come in?”
Giyuu’s heart freezes, before it lurches to the moon at a speed that leaves him lightheaded. For an embarrassing second, he thinks to escape by leaping from the window in the hallway, to make a run for it and nurse his wounded dignity at a later notice in the safety of solitude— but Shinobu is nothing if not speed personified, and soon she’s opening that door so hard it rattles violently in its hinges.
She stares at where he stands rooted to his spot, her eyes wide, her evil grin wider. “Oh wow, those are some extraordinary senses, Rengoku-san.” She tilts her head, her face full of mirth at his expense. “Fancy seeing you here, Tomioka-san, though it’s quite rude that you were listening in on us. You could’ve just knocked. I wouldn’t have barred you from entering.”
Giyuu looks up and sends a desperate prayer. Looks down, past Shinobu’s smug head, past everything, and there he sits, the familiar sight of his glowing person pushing a jagged rock between Giyuu’s ribs, right through the lungs.
He sits no more when he sees him, and in one, two, three steps, Kyojurou is all up in his space again, looking just the slightest bit terrible with his starkly bruised neck, with his broken and bandaged arm. He’s all up in his space, but he makes no move to touch him, though Giyuu can easily imagine him doing so. Thinks back to that day and imagines his face pressed into Kyojurou’s neck again, the heat of him scorching, can imagine holding that man close and tight—
“Hey!” Kyojurou’s voice, at such proximity, hits him like something violent. His damning smile is ravenous. “I didn’t think I’d miss seeing you this much, but here we are.”
“Kyojurou,” he tries the name on his tongue, warmth cascading into his chest. “Hi. Your arm—”
“Is fine. I’m fine.” He pauses, assessing him. “Are you?”
Is he?
“I’ve never felt better.” Which is true, he doesn’t need to lie about it. “Can I...” he means to string more words together, but Kyojurou is already nodding, is already stepping closer to him, his good arm linking around Giyuu’s shoulders, bringing him for— a hug.
There’s a burst of euphoria in Giyuu’s brain. It heightens to such an extreme degree that tears spring up to his eyes. His limbs tingle relentlessly, his heart set ablaze as Kyojurou embraces him, the scent of him sharp and dizzying and familiar, the feel of him as Giyuu hugs back— God, he can’t catch his breath. Giyuu can’t catch his breath, so he plunges into that feeling, and drowns.
☾
“Alright, keep that arm in its sling, Rengoku-san.”
☾
It’s hot and humid, and Giyuu is in the water estate. And Rengoku Kyojurou is his guest.
There’s not much sentimental value to this estate aside from being a place for Giyuu, or anyone from the corps who knows of its existence, to rest whenever the job has them hunting demons in nearby grounds. It’s a ghost mansion with ghost inhabitants, a great deal of melancholy tucked in its corners, large and winding and empty, but so gorgeous with its untamed and sprawling gardens, so solid a structure that Giyuu’s heart aches seeing it so disused. Tonight, it shelters them as they sit together by the engawa in the thick of summer, a low table near sporting yakitori and sweet mochi and, of course, some saké.
It’s a bad idea for someone of their rank to consume alcohol. In fact, it’s a disastrous idea for two pillars to get drunk at the same time, in the same space, under the same roof, if Shinazugawa’s last explosive brawl with an inebriated Uzui is any indicator. They need to remain alert at all times, that’s why Giyuu drinks just enough to get tipsy, and Kyojurou drinks just enough to—well.
“You chug liquor like it’s water. I am getting concerned.”
As if to further demonstrate his monstrous tolerance, Kyojurou downs another cup, his hand so steady it invites jealousy, then another before he comes up, grinning. The flush happening about his cheeks has him looking so sweet and youthful. “I’ll be fine, I’ve always tolerated alcohol well.”
“I can see that.” And because he’s tipsy, which means it’s the only time he’ll ever lack a bit of shame, he finds his courage and lifts his hand to push slow fingers through Kyojurou’s loose hair. It flows soft and vibrant down his back, longer than Giyuu remembers. “Shinobu is right, you should’ve given your arm more rest. It’s been barely three weeks.”
“And risk having that demon out in the wild?” Kyojurou shakes his head vehemently, yellow hair falling over his face. “Absolutely not.”
“Kanroji had total control over the situation.” Giyuu says, staring ahead at the darkening sky. The nights have been getting shorter and shorter, which is summer’s sole blessing. “I was there, too.”
“Exactly. You were there, a perfect target.”
Giyuu looks away from the starlight. “That’s highly insulting, Rengoku. I can hold my own just fine.”
Kyojurou just smiles at him, and it’s— an arresting sight. The gorgeousness of this man. “I know. I’ve always known of your strength and honest ways. You may not have noticed but I’ve only ever had respect for you.” He scoots closers, ever so subtly, like he doesn’t mean to frighten, or startle him. Like Giyuu might just bolt from his arms or vanish in thin air or— “Respect and admiration and this deep unexplainable affection that I can’t find its roots. You’re like, so easy to love, Giyuu. So easy to cherish.”
He’s close enough that Giyuu can count the small freckles dotting his nose bridge, below his lashes, upon the golden skin of his cheekbones. Close enough that Giyuu is positively ensnared, and he won’t get to escape even if he wanted to. So he sits there, in honest expression, bearing the weight of Kyojurou’s words as they devastate and mend his insides in equal parts. “I was clearly mistaken,” he says, “You’re drunk and unaware of what you’re saying. You’ll come to your senses by morning.”
“What did you mean to tell me? The other day?”
The cries of cicadas fill the following silence. Giyuu waits a while to talk again. There’s nowhere to look, nowhere to run. Kyojurou’s eyes are locked into his. “You’re an alpha,” he says, his heart in his mouth. “You must’ve surely realized by this point what I had to say.”
“Realized what?”
This is painful for Giyuu, and it shows in the involuntary expression he makes, mirroring any doubt and unworthiness he feels. Kyojurou picks up on it instantly, and he draws back from him, just enough to allow fresh air to wedge in. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” His smile hasn’t faltered, Giyuu notes, as if nothing in the world could ever dampen the light of him. “But I’m not taking my words back, you are indeed worthy of cherish.”
Giyuu sits with that for a second. It shouldn’t be this hard to believe. Kyojurou would never lie to him. Has no reason to lie to him. “Kochou thinks I have no way of regulating my heat cycles if I don’t spend them with someone.” He says, staring at his cup, half-full. “She’s even threatened to wring my neck if I don’t sort this problem out.”
That does it. Kyojurou bursts out laughing. It dilutes some of the tension and Giyuu smiles. “That sounds like her. Promise you won’t inform her of today.”
“Too late, she must’ve already caught wind of that. Prepare for your funeral.” This time, he’s the one leaning in, creeping closer to Kyojurou at his own pace. The wood creaks a bit under his palm, but Giyuu’s ears are deafened by his loud pulse. “I wish there were an easier way to word this, I really do.”
Kyojurou tilts his head. There’s a knowing look in his irises, but he decides to act gullible anyway, which Giyuu vows to murder him for. But later. “By ‘this’ you mean?”
“Propositioning you, I— I guess.” Giyuu’s heart is practically on the verge of spilling out. “I want you to be with me. For my heats.”
It’s totally dark now, the only source of light a small lantern glowing from the inside of the house, streaking the side of Kyojurou’s face. His expression is indescribable, but it could almost be read as ecstatic. “Are you asking me as a friend?” he’s close, so close, Giyuu can smell the sugary sweetness on his breath. “Because Giyuu, excuse my crudeness, but I don’t think I can lay my hands on you as just a friend.”
Giyuu blushes so deeply his ears sing. “Don’t make me regret asking you.”
Kyojurou bursts into more laughter, before he collects himself, says, “Well, we can’t have Shinobu wringing your neck now, can we?” then surges forward and kisses him.
☾
Remember, there’s nothing that dictates you should bond with the first person you sleep with. No rulebook that handles and steers the flow of connections.
But what if he desires it. Deep in his heart.
☾
“Oh, God,” Giyuu gasps against Kyojurou’s lips, hair in disarray, Kyojurou’s sure hand holding the back of his head, an arm steadying Giyuu by the waist. He might just die either way. This might just end him.
“Easy.” Kyojurou whispers, but he’s just as flushed, just as taken by the moment. He brushes his fingers down Giyuu’s cheek, an unyielding smile on his face.
Whatever is taking flight in Giyuu’s guts won’t simmer down. He looks into Kyojurou’s eyes, warm and bright and loving. “There’s no way I’m surviving this.”
That draws a chuckle from him. “You’ve survived worse, Giyuu.”
“Yes, I’ve survived worse.” His breath hitches, and he swallows down his heart. “But not—joy.”
Kyojurou’s eyes are so fond. “The key is to practice, then,” he says. “The joy,” before he kisses him hard enough to banish his worries.