Archive of Our Own

He dreams, one night, of a hydrangea bush burning.

In this dream he stands alone in his family garden, watching the hydrangeas whither and char; bright blue petals swallowed by the flames.

All around him are the sounds of gore. The deafening echo of bone crushing bone and the squelch of limbs being torn straight from their sockets. In this dream the scent of blood is so thick that it lingers even after he wakes up—years later and the smell hasn’t quite gone away.

The hydrangea bush crackles. His mother screams in a sharp pitch that gets cut off with a gurgle. His father’s voice follows soon after.

Giyuu knows what’s happening behind him; has had this dream too many times before. So he doesn’t turn around. Instead he stares at the hydrangea bush, even as offal and blood land wetly at his feet. Even as the screaming stops and long after that.

This is the dream where he is nine years old, holding the stuffed dog his father gave him when he was six. Named him Bunko and played with him for years; carried him around every day ‘til he was so threadbare Giyuu thought he’d die. Mom tried to fix him—years ago, before anything had ever happened. Before the bad memories had cemented instead of the good.

(Giyuu remembers back then, when she took the scrappy dog from his grip and pressed her lips to his head. Tender and sweet. Kisses like adzuki beans. The kind of love that shines.)

But this is the dream where Giyuu gives up that part of his childhood; where the good rots away to bad. This is the dream where he drops the stuffed dog into the fire and watches him burn.

In this dream his sister grabs his hand, fingers still hot and sticky and red with blood, and they run. And they run. Neither of them lets go—just keep on running—away from their house and away from their parents and away from all the demons that take those good memories and turn them bad.

This is the dream where Giyuu stares at the expanse of his sister’s back—her red haori, her ink black hair—and they run, hand in hand, into the rising sun.

What is the origin of the wound?

Where does it start? With his parents; his sister? Was he born with sharp objects pointing inward?

What is the origin of the wound? Does it end or begin with Sabito? Is Giyuu pulling the knife out or does he keep putting it back in? Does it hurt? Does it hurt?

What is the origin of the wound?

Giyuu wakes up to a familiar ceiling.

Above, the wood beams intersect in clean geometries. Their sharp ninety degree angles and solid, straight lines—Giyuu has spent many hours staring at this ceiling in particular, and he has yet to notice any flaws in it. No discolouration or grooves in the beams, no knots or fissures in the wood; just crisp cedar and orthogonal paneling, high up above.

Giyuu squints. He scrutinizes the latticework, searching for imperfections, but his eyes begin to lose focus. Slowly, slowly, and then all at once.

His head hurts.

His whole body feels heavy and dull, hundreds of thousands of imaginary stones pressing down on his chest making it hard to breathe. His neck is stiff. When he tries to move, a sharp pain strikes through his skull, lighting up behind his eyes before it fades to a dull ache.

“Ah.” Shinobu says, somewhere off to his right. Her voice is as sweet and clipped as freshly cut roses. “Hello, hello? Are you there, Tomioka?” She says. “Can you hear me?”

She snaps her fingers twice in front of Giyuu’s face. Giyuu’s eyes slide over, molasses slow, and their gazes lock. “Oh good.” She smiles. Sunbeams cut through the room, highlighting the delicate curve of her nose.

“Tomioka,” Shinobu says. “Do you know where you are?”

He nods.

“Please use your words.”

Giyuu opens his mouth but suddenly the prospect of forming a sentence seems difficult. His tongue feels fat and heavy, too thick to fit neatly between his jaws. He knits his eyebrows, tries to wet his lips but his mouth is dry, parched, feels like there’s cotton stuffed between his gums.

Shinobu reaches over and withdraws a cup of water. She cradles Giyuu’s head with one hand, tilting him forward to drink from the glass. For a moment Giyuu thinks that she’s going to pour the water on his face, but she is nothing if not professional when it comes to her duties as a medic. She gently touches the rim to his lips and Giyuu drinks the water greedily until all too soon Shinobu pulls it away.

“You’ll vomit if you drink too much.” She chides, resting his head back on the pillow. “Now, do you know where you are?”

Giyuu closes his eyes as the bone deep exhaustion settles in his bones. His head throbs. “The Butterfly Estate?” He guesses and Shinobu hums.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Giyuu opens his mouth and, after a moment, closes it. His eyebrows furrow. He remembers the battle at Kiso Valley, the two demon siblings hiding at the creek. He remembers the woman with an oil-paper wagasa, and the other swinging a chigiriki, but then—

Shinobu snaps her fingers again. Giyuu’s eyes flutter open, irritated, and Shinobu stares down at him with her smile fixed firmly in place.

“There were a pair of Kanoto in my region, stuck in Kiso Valley.” Giyuu says, very slowly. His mouth curves awkwardly around the syllables, each word coming out heavy and sluggish. “And I remember the two demon sisters using one of the walking bridges to hunt. I killed one of them, but…”

Giyuu trails off. He knits his eyebrows together and he looks upwards with a frown, trying to recall the details. His mind draws a blank. He remembers the battle; decapitating the wagasa sister, both Kanoto behind him yelling, but then—

Shinobu waits a moment before scribbling something on her chart. She taps her quill against the clipboard two times. Cocks her head to the side.

“Do you remember the chigiriki chain wrapping around your head?”

Giyuu blinks. Instinctively he reaches up to touch the bandages looped around his temples, but Shinobu swats his hand away.

“You’re very lucky the damage wasn’t worse.” She continues. Her smile flashes like a knife’s blade. “You scared those poor Kanoto half to death, getting your thick skull cracked open like that. Please be more careful next time, Tomioka.”

She stands, looping her fingers behind her back and leaning slightly over Giyuu’s bedside. From this close, the smell of wisteria flowers rolls off of her in waves.

“You’ll be on bed rest for the next few weeks—probably longer than you’re used to. It’s been a while since you’ve had this severe of an injury.” She tilts her head and a strand of hair untucks from behind her ear. “Please stay in bed until one of us gives you permission to leave. If we catch you moving about, we’ll have to restrain you like last time.”

Giyuu’s face twists into a grimace. The memory is not a fond one and Shinobu hums in agreement.

“Well then,” She says, slipping her clipboard underneath her arm. She moves so smoothly, so serenely. Every step is as soft as butterfly wings. “Please get some rest, Tomioka.” She says, and then she’s gone.

He dreams, one night, of flatlands flooded over.

He stands alone in the middle of it: a single figure surrounded by nothing but water, stretching thinner and thinner until it loses its form. Placid blue, running out past the horizon.

Beneath his feet, grass as thin as hair shifts lazily with the currents. The sky reflects like a mirror. Clouds ripple at his ankles.

This is a lonely dream. In this dream there is only Giyuu, only Giyuu, staring off where the world tapers away. Above him, only sky. Below him, only sky. Alone. Alone. Just as he always is.

In the end, after all, there’s only ever him.

He dreams, one night, of a figment. Of a shape.

“You draw circles around yourself.” Tsutako says in this dream.

“You stand so far away. There is so much distance.” Her voice feels like a late night breeze, drifting through his bedroom window. “I’m sorry.”

She takes his hand, but it’s not warm. No pressure or touch. In this dream she isn’t really here. Can’t be. Giyuu subconscious won’t allow it. Can’t bear to look at her no matter how badly he wants to see her. Sometimes it feels like his whole body is going to collapse inwards at just the thought of her so instead he keeps her real memory locked away in a chest. Buried it out back and built a house on top. Shuttered the windows and threw away the key.

In this dream, his mind has scribbled out her face in thick, black lines—no features, just shape. Still, it aches just to know it’s her.

“Some thoughts are circular, too.” She says and he wants her to comb a hand through his hair. He wants to wrap his arms around her, curl his fists in that red haori. Wants to hold her so tight he can pull her out of this dream and into the real world.

“Some thoughts are loops that you get trapped in, Giyuu.” She says. “They’re circles you draw in your head.”

He dreams, one night, of Sabito.

This is not an unfamiliar dream. He’s fallen asleep dozens—hundreds—of times thinking about Sabito, but something about this one strikes an odd chord.

Before he had dreamt about approximations of Sabito. Not-quite renditions. Wrong hair, wrong skin. Wrong boy with his head cracked-in.

Like his sister, he scribbles out Sabito’s face. Thick black lines. Shape. No feeling. But this dream is different. In this dream, he opens his eyes and Sabito is staring right back at him; crisp and clean as an outline in a mirror. Feels like if Giyuu reached out to touch him, for once his hand wouldn’t slip right through.

All around them it is snowing; featherlight and dusting the ground in an endless winter. In this dream the world is grey and faded, blurred as if someone had gone and smudged out the edges. No clear definition except for Sabito and Giyuu, right in the middle of it. Two bodies in orbit. They stand at the foot of a deteriorated shrine; two concrete pillars connected by a single, braided rope. It looks decrepit, deteriorating. Older than time itself.

“This isn’t real.” Giyuu runs a hand along the aging column. Flecks of stone crumble at his fingertips.

“I know.” Sabito says, mimicking the action on the other side.

And for a moment they stare at each other. His eyes to Giyuu’s eyes, Giyuu’s eyes to his. They connect from across the shrine and something strange and foreign fills the air between them. Shape in the absence of space. Recognition of self in the other.

Around them, snow continues to fall.

“Sabito.” Giyuu says. The name rolls off heavy on his tongue.

“Oh.” Sabito says. His eyes light up. He has such pale eyes, Giyuu thinks. Light blue, glacial blue. Blank as a dead man’s. Quickly, Giyuu smothers the thought.

“Oh.” Sabito says again. He takes a step forward, curiously. “You recognize me?”

“Is that a joke?”

“No! No. I just mean every time I see you, you never know who I am.”

Giyuu squints. “What does that mean?”

Sabito opens his mouth and then closes it. His forehead crinkles as he looks upwards in thought. Scratches a hand through his messy hair. Giyuu can see the snowflakes getting caught in the strands.

“Nevermind.” Sabito says, after a moment. “It’s not important. I just…” He drops his hand, tilts his head a little and smiles. “I’m just happy to see you. It’s— really good to see you again, Giyuu.” And above them, the shrine’s rope begins to sway in the wind.

Giyuu wants to frown. Hurts to look at Sabito, he thinks. Not painful, but aches. Quietly. Insidiously. Part of Giyuu wishes he could still scribble out Sabito’s face again and the other part of him is just so grateful to see him again. Flesh and bone, sinew and skin, a living memory standing right in front of him. Giyuu could almost cry but that’s not who he is anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time ‘cause men don’t cry.

“Yeah.” Giyuu says and looks to the side. Pieces of hair in his face. Inside he feels like an ocean, tides swelling, waves beginning to crash. Turmoil, like a storm on the horizon. He closes his eyes, breathes deep: wills his heart to be placid again. Dead calm. Lull.

When he opens his eyes Sabito is still there, staring at him. Snowflakes in his hair, his eyelashes, drifting all around him and framing his figure.

Like this, the space between them starts to feel awkward. Not far, not close. Separation. Distance. An imaginary crack in the ground between them that grows with each second. Two people, standing on opposite sides with an ocean apart.

Sabito smiles, gentle like he sees it too. Takes a step closer and bridges the gap, touching a hand to Giyuu’s upper arm. Cold from the snow. Giyuu almost jolts when he feels the pressure.

“What are you doing here?” Sabito asks, soft like its a secret. Breath fogs the air.

Giyuu can’t stop staring at where their bodies connect. “Here? Dreaming?”

Sabito’s mouth twists like he isn’t quite sure. Giyuu isn’t either, so instead he just shrugs. “I just got back from a mission. Sleeping in the infirmary.” His nose and ears tip red from the cold. He sniffs. Wants to reach out and touch Sabato's hand. Feel his knuckles or trace the stretch of tendon, the dip of his palm. “Demon fractured my skull so I’m on bedrest.”

Sabito stills. His hand slips off of Giyuu’s arm, and for a moment Giyuu misses it.

He looks to Sabito and thinks that he’s going to scold him. Smack him, maybe. Tell him to be more careful, definitely. Almost hopes that that’s the case—same old Sabito, like nothing’s ever changed.

But instead the only thing Sabito says is a hollowed out, “Oh.”

He reaches up and touches the crown of his head, right where his bangs part. Traces a line that isn’t really there.

“Oh.” He says again, somewhere a million miles away.

When Giyuu wakes up, it’s dark. The moonlight casts odd shapes across the infirmary. Shadows of wisteria, like fingers, reaching across the walls.

It happens again. And again. And again. Every night he dreams of Sabito and every night they visit somewhere new.

The first few times, Giyuu thought that these dreams were meant to be some sort of guidance—maybe a manifestation of guilt. His mind searching for something he wasn’t privy to understand. He thought about asking a priest for advice a couple of times but Giyuu’s never been a pious man and figured it was a little late to start.

But then weeks pass and still, nothing happens. No eye-opening experiences, no philosophical ordeals. Nothing but Sabito and Giyuu, roaming the dreamscape. Sabito and Giyuu, keeping each other company. Just Sabito and Giyuu, Sabito and Giyuu.

Sometimes Sabito leads them and sometimes Giyuu does. Most of the time they just walk side by side, quietly together. Neither says a word. Giyuu likes the silence—likes to be in Sabito’s orbit. Glances at him every so often just to watch him stare out ahead, shoulders pulled back and chin tilted up. Twists a very specific feeling inside of Giyuu every time he gets to see the light reflecting in Sabito’s eyes again.

It’s almost strange how comfortably they fit together. How seamlessly they flow into each other, as if time and distance and life and death were never a wedge lodged between them. They fall into an easy tandem together; not as if they were still kids, no, but as if they were kids—grown up after all these years. Still friends despite a lifetime apart.

It’s so strange to think of who Sabito really could have been—what shape he could have taken if he was given the chance to grow. Giyuu finds himself intrigued by the differences between this Sabito and the one from adolescence. The new and the old. Dreams and reality. He takes time to categorize the differences.

When Sabito talks, Giyuu studies his mouth. The fold of his lips and the dip in the corner where his skin pulls back a little too far. The angular cut of his jaw and the slope where his adam’s apple curves out. Down his shoulders to the muscular bend of his arm. His wrist, his hands. Giyuu notes the shape of Sabito’s nails: not quite square and not quite oval. Beige. Chipped. Still chewed like when they were kids.

This Sabito is a lot like the one he remembers. Older, definitely. Shoulders a little more filled out, voice a few octaves deeper. No more cracking when he yells. Handsome. Strong. Same hair but just a few inches longer than Giyuu recalls.

It’s nice to pretend that this version of him got to grow with Giyuu, living some secret life in the back of Giyuu’s head. Deep down, of course, he knows that it’s just his mind filling in the blanks; an approximation of a memory. Nothing there but empty space. In the end, after all, there’s only ever him.

Whatever, Giyuu thinks. It doesn’t matter, Giyuu thinks.

This is fine as it is.

Better than it needs to be.

“Aoi tells me you’ve been sleeping quite a bit.” Shinobu says, clipboard in hand as she stands at the base of Giyuu’s bed. From this angle she casts a wide shadow, blocking out the midday sun. Despite someone so small, she can be rather ominous.

To his left, one of the younger infirmary girls cleans his wound, tossing the bloodied gauze into the ceramic dish at her feet. The iodine stings as she presses a cotton swab to his temple but Giyuu, of course, does not flinch. The treatment itself seems superfluous. Excessive. If it were up to him, he’d be back patrolling already.

“Of course that’s good,” Shinobu continues. “But I’m a little suspicious of your complacency. You’re usually quite a pain to handle.” She taps her pen to the corner of her mouth, thinking aloud. “Perhaps your head got a little more scrambled than we initially thought?”

Perhaps, Giyuu thinks as his eyes glaze over with exhaustion. He wants to go back to bed—feels dizzy, his body starting to ache—but suddenly he has a question. He looks to Shinobu. She’s writing something on her clipboard and when she looks up, their eyes make contact. She cocks her eyebrow. Giyuu opens his mouth but closes it just as quickly. He makes a face, suddenly unsure if he should ask.

“Tomioka?” Shinobu says, smiling as she leans over. There’s a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Hello? Don’t tell me you’re feeling nauseous—if you’re going to vomit, we need to know before you dirty our sheets.”

But Giyuu just shakes his head. The action startles the young girl to his left and jostles the bandages loose. She murmurs a quiet apology and rewinds them with care. Giyuu pays her no mind—doesn’t even remember her name.

Shinobu waits, smile fixed stubbornly in place and eventually Giyuu decides he might as well ask. “Do you ever dream about Kanae?”

Suddenly, Shinobu’s eyes cloud over. Dark. Far away. No more smile—her expression shatters like glass to pavement. Giyuu blinks in surprise. He’s never once seen Shinobu drop her act so quickly, and momentarily he feels taken aback. The girl beside him inhales a sharp, short gasp. Her hands slip away. The room goes very still and silent.

“No.” Shinobu says, eventually. Empty like she isn’t even talking to Giyuu. Staring right through him. “No. I never dream about my sister.”

Some days he doesn’t feel quite like a person.

Some days he doesn’t feel quite like anything at all. An ocean, empty and vast. So deep that nothing can ever reach the seafloor. Try to touch the abyss, but then what? Then what? At the bottom of nothing, there’s only more nothing.

Some days he feels like a hurricane, a monsoon. A tsunami right before it crashes to land. Furious and aching, he wants to break the world in half—trains so hard that the skin peels right off his hands, and even then he isn’t satisfied.

Other days, he doesn't know what he is.

Not quite himself but an approximation of it. Those days he is a mirage in the distance, a dried up riverbed; nothing but reflections of the past.

At the top of a lone lighthouse, tasting salt in the breeze.

No ocean below but instead miles of long blue grass, waving in the wind. Even from up here, Giyuu can hear the swishing of cattails against each other. The occasional ring of a distant cricket, the blow of swift wind currents racing through the hills and up the sides of the greystone tower. There’s nothing else to see for miles; just the grass and the hills and the long white clouds rolling across a grey, grey sky.

The stairs of the lighthouse twist dizzyingly upwards. It feels like they’ve been walking up them for hours, but every time Giyuu glances down they’ve only ascended a few dozen feet. Still, he follows behind Sabito, staring at the cut of his shoulders and the broad canvas of his back. He’s so close that Giyuu could reach out and touch him; remind himself that Sabito’s still here, even if it’s just a dream.

At the top of the lighthouse, Sabito offers his hand to Giyuu at the final set of steps and Giyuu, bewildered, accepts it. He lets Sabito pull him up, not because he can’t or he’s too tired but because he can’t remember the last time someone had helped him for the sake of kindness. It feels strange.

From here, the boundaries of the dream stretch out farther than the eye can see. They stare out at the sea of grass, cheeks flushed and wind whipping their hair. Their clothes catch and billow in the breeze and, absently, Giyuu grips the sturdy hilt of his sword. Grounding.

And there they stand, in silence, together, watching time pass.

Lately, Sabito has taken an interest in asking Giyuu questions. It was strange, at first, for a figment to be so real—the first time he asked about life in the Corps, Giyuu couldn’t even respond. Tongue tied. Now he doesn’t mind; he thinks that, maybe, it makes the dream a little more real. Easier to pretend Sabito’s really here with him because this is still a dream, it’s a dream, it’s only ever been a dream.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Sabito says, as if on cue. Giyuu turns to him and their eyes catch. “Is this my haori?” He reaches out and catches a slip of Giyuu’s fabric, green and yellow geometric boxes flagging in the wind.

For a moment, Giyuu falters. He wasn’t sure what kind of question he was expecting, but for some reason that wasn't it. He thinks he should feel embarrassed or guilty—maybe flustered or caught off-guard—but instead a heavy feeling of sadness begins to seep in. He touches the sleeve of the haori, feeling the threads between his fingertips. From his right, a streak of red fabric catches the corner of his eye, waving in the wind like a reminder. Don’t forget. Don't forget. The heavy feeling deepens.

Giyuu looks away. He nods, tracing a thumb over the straight edge of a square; there’s a small bloodstain in the corner of the fabric. Pieces are frayed and torn at the edges. In the distance, grey clouds begin to roll in from the horizon.

“Oh.” Is all Sabito says. His eyebrows knit. He holds the halved haori for a moment longer before letting the fabric slip between his fingers, catching in the wind.

Sometimes, when he wakes up, Giyuu can pretend this has all been a very long, very bad dream.

Not often, but every now and then before he opens his eyes, he can imagine he’s back in his old bedroom. First bedroom. Parents just on the other side of the door, sister somewhere a few steps down the hallway.

Early morning and the whole house smells of satsuma. Summer. Cicadas. Bright as light scales the walls. No ache. Somewhere not far, his mother laughs, all muffled and sweet, sweet—sweeter than adzuki beans.

This won’t last. It never does. He knows it, knows this dream—secret dream. Secret place. Somewhere where time is a little shallow, a little thin; if he's lucky he can stay here just a bit longer. Pretend for just a few more minutes. Six years old. Caught right in the middle of the space between sleeping and awake. Perfect angle.

It won’t last. It never, never does. Light hits glass and there’s rainbow on the floorboards. Red, yellow, ochre, azure. No hurt. No ache. It won’t last, it never lasts, but he can pretend. Just once, just for now. Sister slides open his bedroom door and no ache, won’t last.

“Giyuu?” She says, all good before the bad. No, no, no ache. Six years old and over and over and over again. Light paints colours. Eyes still closed. “Giyuu.” She says and time’s still thin and just a little more and one more minute and “It’s time to wake up now.”

Shinobu discharges him.

Morning after, and one of the infirmary girls tells him he can leave. Gives him a note with instructions and salve for the wound; no pain killers because Shinobu probably knew he’d refuse them anyways. She isn’t there to send him off but one of the Kanoto he saved is, waiting patiently with his blade and folded haori.

She sits by his bedside, staring at her hands. Shoulders taut. Hasn’t said a word. Giyuu hasn’t either—doesn’t think he ever learnt her name—so instead he quietly eats as the silence between them stretches ever thinner.

He finishes his breakfast. Salmon daikon. Feels the smallest pang of disappointment when there’s nothing left in his bowl but grilled fish skin soaking in broth. Idly, Giyuu picks at it with his chopsticks, swirling the remnants. Out of curiosity he plucks a scale from the skin and sticks it in his mouth. It’s salty. Stiff and surprisingly sharp when he tries to chew, but it tastes good so he eats another. And another.

When he looks up, the Kanoto is staring at him with a sour expression on her face. “Uhm.” She says, lips curled back. “Should you be… eating that?”

Giyuu glances down at the bowl.

“The scales.” She elaborates. “The fish scales. Uhm. Should you be eating... them...?”

Giyuu blinks. Shrugs. Why not? He puts another in his mouth and to his left the girl continues to stare in disbelief.

They walk back to Water Estate not long after. Although Giyuu is perfectly capable of escorting himself, the Kanoto is adamant about helping him. Refuses to even let Giyuu carry his own blade, but relents when Giyuu asks—no, demands—for his haori back. Voice stern. Expression unwavering. She passes it over and looks sheepish for daring to argue with a Pillar, but Giyuu's too tired to scold her.

They walk in silence up the stone path of Giyuu’s unkempt estate. There’s weeds between the rocks and the pine trees are overgrown; Giyuu rarely spends any time here and it very clearly shows. It was a gift from Oyakata that he couldn’t politely decline—a historic residence home to countless previous pillars. Likely once-great, but now it stands neglected and as sparsely furnished as when Giyuu first moved in.

“It’s a beautiful day.” The Kanoto observes instead of you have a beautiful home. She holds up a low lying branch for Giyuu and he ducks under it. The pine needles skim his nape.

They’ve made it out to the garden just in front of the manor and by now the sun’s barely cracked the horizon. When Giyuu looks up, slowly, through his lashes, he’s suddenly struck by how true the Konoto’s statement is. Beyond them, a new day is just beginning to unfurl.

Above: first light strikes across the sky. Brilliant shades of pale, pale pink with flecks of stars gleaming silver in the distance. Orange clouds like smears of paint. It’s a wide sky—an open sky, outstretched in placid offering. Valleys of powder blue stretching out along the edges. Giyuu can still see a crescent moon, twin face to the sun, that hasn’t quite shied away for the night.

Right now the sky is a rare split down the middle: evening to morning and the passing space in between. Strange to think that Giyuu almost wasn't alive to see it.

Stranger to think that one day, he won’t be. That one day, he’ll wake up and see the sky for the last time and never even know it. That one day the sky will continue on as always, and one day he will not. Just like his mother and his father and his sister and Sabito and. And. Well, and then that's it.

In the end, after all, there's only ever him until one day, there isn't.

“Take the plunge.” Sabito says. “Come on, I can see you aching all the way across the water.”

And so, Giyuu does. He sheds his clothes and takes a running leap into the pool before he can convince himself not to. In a dream, nothing really matters. In a dream, he can throw all caution to the wind.

His body hits the water like an eruption, like an explosion. Waves splashing over the edge of the hot pool, bubbles racing past to the surface. He relaxes as soon as the water envelopes him.

It’s warm. Hot. The water feels the exact same as he remembers the hot pools at Mt. Sagiri being. A dream so real he could have mistaken it for a memory.

It’s nice like this, Giyuu thinks. It’s quiet. Calm. He sinks deeper into the pool and his hair floats like ink in water, framing his face. Briefly, he thinks about how he’s never felt quite at home as he does in the water. An innate feeling of comfort every time he goes swimming. Wonders if Sabito feels the same.

Giyuu lets himself linger in the feeling a little longer, sinking deeper, letting the world slow down around him until it stills completely. Until he is only living in the moment and that moment is still and silent. When he opens his eyes it stings a little but it does not bite. It does not hurt. Not like the rest of the world.

Below him there is nothing but darkness; a night sky without stars. It is a void so great in depth that no noise nor light can pierce through it.

Back then, at Mt. Sagiri, none of the other children ever knew how deep these hot pools went. Even Sabito, the best swimmer of the bunch, could never reach the bottom. Always broke the surface gasping and red-faced, hands pruned from too many hours spent seeing how far he could go. There were rumours back then, too, of kids who had drowned. Urokodaki never entertained them but Giyuu always remembers what the other kids used to say. Late night whispers of all the lost souls who’d never even made it to the Final Selection. No one ever found any bodies—all of them sunk somewhere deep down to the very bottom of it all. Maybe, Giyuu thinks, they’re still sinking to this day.

From inside his chest, Giyuu’s lungs begin to ache. He tries to squeeze out any last air, just a little longer, but soon the first trail of bubbles escapes to the surface. Giyuu exhales. More bubbles float away. He tilts his head and follows them up.

Years of meticulously practicing his concentrated breathing and yet he still can’t hold his breath for as long as he wants; wishes he could hold it forever. Can only gain few seconds at best despite months of rigorous training, but Giyuu’s sure that Sabito could hold his for twice as long if he tried.

Giyuu breaks the surface with an inhale. His chest expands, convex, and when he blinks the water from his eyes he can see Sabito from across the hot pool. He’s staring at Giyuu with those same blue eyes. Glacial eyes. Dead man’s eyes. His hair makes swirling patterns where it clings wetly to his nape.

“What took you so long?” Sabito asks. He’s pressed against the side, arms outstretched along the edge and fingertips dipping into the water. His skin is flushed from the heat—always got so patchy when they went swimming as kids. Now it blossoms into strange red shapes. Giyuu wants to press his hand to it and feel where it’s hot.

“I was trying to find the bottom.” Giyuu says and Sabito laughs—a sharp, startled thing.

Giyuu ducks under the surface again. Rises and pushes the hair from his face. When he looks over, Sabito is still staring at him. He’s got this strange expression—fond. Sad, maybe. It’s hard to tell but if Giyuu had to pick a word for the way Sabito looks at him, it’d be longing.

It makes Giyuu’s skin prickle.

Hours later and Giyuu’s skin feels like it’s about to crawl right off of his body.

Still in the pool, too hot, too hot. “Where’s this from?” Sabito says, tracing the scar that runs across Giyuu’s chest. Not quite touching. The tip of his finger so close that Giyuu can only feel it brush the hair on his skin.

“Demons.” He says.

“And this?” Taps a finger to the base of Giyuu’s shoulder. Right on top of an ugly, torn thing. Canyon in the muscle. Nearly lost his arm, over two years ago.

“Demons.” Giyuu says again. Simply, without conjecture. These are solid, straight facts.

Sabito hums. Around them, the air vibrates with the word—demons. Demons. It cuts like a knife, but Sabito and Giyuu both know better than to flinch.

Another scar. “Demons,” Giyuu says. “But I had to cauterize it out in the field.” He pokes the smear of pink across his bicep where the scar tissue is numb and distended.

“What happened?” Sabito traces along the outline and Giyuu shrugs.

“I didn’t realize there were two of them until one of them came down from the trees. Out by Mt. Miyosake. They were pretty weak, but the one that landed on my shoulders got some good hits in before I killed it.” Sweat rolls down the column of Giyuu’s neck. Heat rises to the top of his head, making him feel dizzy. “‘Had to heat my nichirin blade and use it to stop the bleeding. It hurt more than I was expecting.” He rubs his palm into the dip of his eye, squeezing them shut. Could almost laugh when he admits, “I got in trouble with my swordsmith afterwards for warping my blade.”

Sabito frowns. “That’s cruel.”

“He was in the right.”

But Sabito just huffs. “Maybe the Slayer Corps culture is just different than what I imagined.” And Giyuu doesn’t like that thought. Not one bit. He hates to remember how they used to dream about joining the Corps, late at night whispering fantasies about their shared future with their cots pushed together. Giyuu had forgotten all about it, but now the memory leaks back in. Feels sour, curdling somewhere in his gut.

Sabito traces his hand across Giyuu’s shoulders and down his back. Giyuu almost doesn’t notice but jolts when Sabito stops at an older scar. One that starts to branch across his shoulder blades, stale white hue. Scar tissue that’s at least a decade old.

“This one?”

Giyuu frowns, twisting back and trying to look at it. “You know that one.” He says, but Sabito just hums like he’s still waiting for an answer.

Giyuu sighs; doesn’t like to talk this much, but for Sabito he supposes he can relent. “It’s not from demons.” He says after a moment and Sabito cracks a knowing smile. Two dimples, one on each cheek. “It’s from when we fell into a pit at Mt. Sagiri.”

But Sabito shakes his head. “No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“That’s not what happened.”

Giyuu stares at him incredulously. “Yes it is. You were there.”

“No.” Sabito says again, leans forward, so close. He smooths his palm across Giyuu’s shoulder blades, encompassing the scar, and every muscle in Giyuu’s back locks in place at once. “I fell into the pit, you were trying to get me out. There’s a difference.”

Giyuu’s face twists into a frown. “Is there?”

“Yes,” Sabito insists. “There is. I only fell in there because I wasn’t paying attention and you pulled me out.” He leans in close. So close. Gets right into Giyuu’s face and their noses almost touch. “You piggybacked me down the mountain—you patched me up afterwards.” Sabito pokes his chest. “Giyuu, you never give yourself enough credit. That was all you. You didn’t just ‘fall into a pit’—you helped me.” Sabito shakes his head. “You’re so much more capable than you think.”

“I—”

“Nope! No. I don’t want to hear what you’re going to say, unless it’s ‘yes, Sabito’.”

Giyuu clamps his mouth shut.

Sabito leans back. His cheeks are flushed from the heat as the steam rises all around them. “'Thought so.” Sabito says. “Honestly, you’ve got such a big, beautiful head, I don’t understand why you don’t use it more.”

Giyuu blinks. He touches his forehead. “You think my head is big?” And Sabito snorts. He shoves Giyuu and Giyuu shoves him back and the water splashes and their laughs ring out, bright and clear through the evergreen trees.

Mornings are always harder.

Empty bed, empty estate. Empty man sitting in a long empty room. Strange to spend every night lost wandering in dreams, only to wake up all alone right back where he started.

Giyuu makes his tea, scrubs the sleep from his eyes. Does a few light exercises because Shinobu isn’t here to tell him not to and because he thinks his body might start to decay if he lays in bed any longer.

From outside, the sun cuts through the windows and lights the whole room up in an easy gold tint. Giyuu enjoys it for a moment. Just a moment. The way a sunbeam cuts across his back, perfect and warm, right between his shoulder blades; it’s nice. Soothing. Strange he’s only noticing it now, strange he never takes the time to enjoy it. Sure, he thinks, the sun’s always shining but sometimes he doesn’t quite feel it.

Later: Giyuu settles down with another cup of tea, a needle, some thread, and the scraps of his haori. Lays them all out neatly in front of him and inspects the damage left from his mission.

He hadn’t realized how much blood there was. Unfolding the fabric and looking at it now, collar stained so dark it’s nearly black, Giyuu understands why the Kanoto would have been distraught. Practically looks like he lost his damn head.

Still, Giyuu thinks as he spreads the fabric out, they should be used to it by now. Need to act more like men—no room for rabbit-hearts in a place like the Corps.

He threads his needle and begins to work, methodically stitching his haori whole again. He’s gotten good at it over the years—surprisingly so. His early sewing was choppy and uneven but now his actions are deft. Precise. He weaves the needle in and out of the fabric, meticulously repairing each tear. He reinforces the seams and patches any holes before they can get worse.

Giyuu knows this haori inside and out. Every fold, every crease; a well worn topography he can retrace with his eyes closed. Afterwards he’ll wash it—scrub the stains out until his hands prune and then hang it up to dry—but for now he fixes it. Enjoys the quiet catharsis that comes with rejoining every tear.

Once he’s satisfied with the reparations, Giyuu rethreads his needle and inverts the fabric. He begins to resew the middle seam, reinforcing the weakest part. Stitch by careful stitch, he reunites green to red. The melding of two sorrows, two worlds—nothing more precious than the fabric between his hands.

Suddenly, the needle slips and slides into his skin. Giyuu jolts, surprised. He retracts his hand and tries to blink away the faraway feeling that’s settled over him—off lost somewhere in his head.

When he looks up, the sun sways low in the sky. Hours passed. Tea’s cold. When he looks down, there are two red pearls dotting his fingertip; two perfect circles; two exact wounds.

In this dream the stars are falling, falling, ever so slowly, like rain down a windowpane. They drop into the water, solid as stone, rippling the surface of the vast ocean below.

In this dream, Sabito and Giyuu are hiking up a mountain. A black mountain—black as coal, black as blood at night. Around them the whole world is strangely silent; nothing but the sounds of their twin breathing and dark shale crunching underfoot.

In this dream, the mountain looks like Mt. Fujikasane—or a version of it at least. Its charred remains, maybe, as if a forest fire had swept through and burned everything to the ground. A husk. No life. A few black bushes scatter along the edges of the trail, and the sky above weighs dark and heavy.

Far below them, a black ocean is churning. Giyuu pauses and looks outwards. He imagines the waves; their melodic crashing as their tides hit the shore, the elegant curve they make as they roll. Deep and mysterious: water so black that no light shines through.

Beyond them the stars continue to fall, slowly, slowly slipping below the tides.

Eventually he and Sabito stop near an outcrop at the edge of the mountain. It’s so dark here—the ground, the sky, the ocean crashing far, far down below—and yet Giyuu doesn’t find it difficult to see. There’s no moon, but still the world around him is clearly defined. So crisp that he can see the exact slope of Sabito’s neck. The angle of his jaw. The way his throat bobs and the slow, easy expansion of his chest. Inhale, exhale, like the lapping of tides to shore.

He’s so close, every detail on him outlined in high definition. If he focused, Giyuu could probably count each fleck of purple in Sabito’s eyes.

A charred wisteria tree protrudes from the centre of the outcrop. He and Sabito stand on either side of it, quietly staring out at the cliff’s edge as they watch the stars fall. Giyuu studies the jagged bark of the tree; the way its roots still hold firm and yet Giyuu can see it’s been dead for a long, long time. Its skeletal branches creep outwards, like fingers, like hands, reaching up towards the sky.

Out here the air is so thin. It’s dizzying in a way that makes Giyuu feel like he could just float off, up into the sky. He wants to reach out and touch the tree—its branches, its hands. Wants to anchor himself down so he has some semblance of gravity, but instead the branches, the hands, they just makes him think of Sabito. Not the one that’s here now, but the real one. The dead one. The one back at the real Mt. Fujikasane, with half his corpse rotting somewhere underground.

Giyuu’s skin itches. He wants to pick at his nails, chip away at the soft skin lining his cuticles until they start to bleed but Sabito never liked that so instead Giyuu clenches his fists. Grits his teeth. Doesn’t want to think about the branches, the hands—his hands or that Sabito. Soon he’ll wake up so for now he wants to dream.

Beside him, on the opposite side of the charred wisteria tree, Sabito’s face begins to twist into a frown. A soft, sad thing cracking at the edges.

Giyuu stares. Knows that expression—feels it too. Thinks he should say something comforting, but what good will that do? What could he possibly say to Sabito after all these years? What peace can the living bring to the dead? So instead he says nothing, just watches the lines deepen on Sabito’s face. The twist of scar tissue at the corner of his mouth and the way his eyes turn glassy the longer he stares out. Same expression he had when Giyuu saw him at the shrine.

This kind of absence—between them, within them—is so large. It’s an immensity neither of them can quite touch. Giyuu wants to reach out and smooth the lines on Sabito’s face. Push his hair out of the way. Say I’m sorry. Sorry. I know. I’m sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to end up like this. Sorry, sorry. Miss you. Sorry.

Instead Giyuu just looks away. He suddenly feels tired. Exhausted. He’s going to float away. He presses his hand to the cold bark of the tree and leans against it, staring out past the horizon. Out there where the stars are still falling, falling. Landing in the ocean. Rippling the tides. Drops of light that slowly fade as they sink under the sea. Out there where it’s only black and the faintest blue lines stretch out along the horizon, farther than the eye can see. Black waves crash at the base of the cliff. Black mood, weighing heavy like rocks.

Immensity, endlessness.

Beyond them, Giyuu sees an absence he cannot even begin to fill.

Forgetting is important. If we never forgot, we would never sleep.

Giyuu forgot the mountains because they stood too still; he forgot the children because they drowned in the springs. He forgot the dog because it burnt in a dream.

He tried to forget his sister but the thought of her cuts too deep. He wears her memory like a scar—Sabito’s too; drapes them across his back so they can mark who he was, who he is, what he will become.

Memories like devotion: he’s always loved too much. Heart’s too full. It always hurts when it breaks.

Red fox in the cold grey dawn.

The sun’s barely risen and Giyuu is sitting on his porch, legs neatly tucked underneath himself as he sips tea. Sleepy. All around him the landscape is dusted with frost from the night before, looking clean and untouched. First snow. Reminds Giyuu of the mountains.

The steam from his mug curls around his face, warm where everything else is cold. He could sit inside, he supposes. Curl up under the kotatsu and go back to sleep. Shinobu tells him one more week before he can start training again—no more bandages on his head, instead all that’s left is a new scar by his hair and skin that’s still a little too tender to touch.

It’s out by the stone garden, weaving between the shrubs and wisteria trees, that Giyuu first sees the fox. The brilliant flash of red amongst all the muted winter colours, the faint tracks left behind on the frosted ground. The property’s so overgrown that Giyuu’s surprised he hasn’t seen one here before.

So he sits in silence and quietly observes. The fox raises its head to stare. Two different worlds, colliding at the same moment.

Giyuu reaches out his hand.

The fox absconds through the trees.

Giyuu blinks. After a slow, quiet moment, he retracts his hand and stares down at his palm. Dreams and reality and the conflicting space in between. Around him, it begins to snow.

In one dream, Sabito touches his neck. His hand, ever warm, skimming the clear line where Giyuu’s nape is exposed. Hair in the breeze, out overlooking the great beyond. Same as before and same as always and maybe it happens in this dream, or another dream, or maybe one after that but Giyuu doesn’t know because the lines are starting to blur. Dreams and reality. Dreams without boundaries. Lately there’s no difference between sleeping and awake because nothing’s as grounding as the feeling of Sabito pressed against him.

When he wakes, Giyuu catches himself reaching back to touch his nape. Trying to imagine how Sabito felt.

They dream like they’ve got nothing but time.

Evening to morning, Sabito and Giyuu.

They’re sitting in front of each other. Legs crossed, eyes locked: they stare each other down. Giyuu’s expression is flat, unwavering. Sabito’s is mildly annoyed, with his eyebrow twitching ever so slightly in the upper left corner.

Hours pass, or maybe minutes—Giyuu never has a sense of time in these dreamscapes—and still they continue to stare. No sound but the wind through the trees and the water in the creek.

Suddenly, Sabito reaches out and smears his hands against Giyuu’s face.

“I can’t take it anymore.” Sabito says, tipping his head back in exasperation. “Get that stupid expression away from me.”

Giyuu grunts. Words all muffled. “That’s just my face.”

“Shut up.” Sabito says and then he doubles his efforts to wipe Giyuu’s stupid expression right off of his stupid face. Open palmed, fingers mashing into the skin uncomfortably.

Giyuu tries to turn away, but when that doesn’t work he reaches up and shoves his own hand in Sabito’s face. Squishes his cheek to his nose and Sabito laughs, all bright and delighted. A precious thing. Giyuu laughs, too. A rumble that starts in his chest and radiates outwards, shaking his shoulders. Eyes closed and nose crinkled.

The two of them together, knees touching, trying to push each others faces away.

“What are you smiling about?” Sanemi says, throwing the practice sword at him. “Staring off into space like that. It’s fucking creepy.”

Giyuu blinks—didn’t even realize he was smiling. He schools his expression flat and catches the hilt of the sword easily, seamlessly, as smooth as a flowing river.

Four weeks after his injury and he’s finally allowed to train. He thinks it feels good to stretch his muscles again. Feels good to breathe this deep again; he hasn’t been on bedrest for that long in over two years and now he feels stale.

Giyuu shifts his weight, feeling the ground beneath his feet. Solid. Steady. Feels good, feels good. A rare bout of excitement prickles in his veins.

He extends his arm and begins to draw circles in the air with his wooden sword, rotating his shoulder and easing the ligaments. Muscle and bone, body and blood. He inhales and his mind washes clear.

Readies his stance in anticipation and mere seconds later, Sanemi lunges.

He hits with such ferocity, trying to push Giyuu off-balance. Brute force; Sanemi slams the sword down and Giyuu deflects before striking. Sanemi’s trying to take advantage while Giyuu’s still out of practice and overpower him through strength alone, but Giyuu does not relent. Holds steady and pushes back.

Together their movements are remarkably in-tune; strength and synergy, a storm whipping up the waves. Giyuu ducks and aims low, almost catches Sanemi by the ankle but Sanemi’s quick to jump away.

He lunges again, taking the offence. Giyuu’s sword collides directly with Sanemi’s and for a second they deadlock, face to face. Blood pumping, breaths heaving. Feels good, feels good; Giyuu’s whole body comes alive.

“Tomioka,” Sanemi grits, pushing all his weight forward but barely moving Giyuu an inch. Bodies at a standstill. “Stop fucking smiling.”

And Giyuu, for once, finds that he can’t.

Sabito laying all spread out in a field lined with goldenrod. Eyes closed. Clouds up above. Giyuu beside him, head on his knees.

Giyuu stares at him; the fanning of his hair, the soft scar tissue up his jaw. Wants to reach out and touch him. Brush his finger up his cheek, trace the dip under his eye. He could. He knows he could—he doesn’t, but he could. Giyuu tries to will the feeling away but the sensation persists, taking up too much space. Awkward. Heavy. Mountains at the bottom of the ocean.

Clouds pass. When Sabito stands up, there’s an impression of his silhouette in the grass. Body outline, empty space. Despite everything—all the dreams, all the time spent with Sabito, all the warmth and touch and feeling and shape—it still hurts to look at.

A wound that never quite healed right.

Sabito pulls the sword from his sheath, holds it in front of him.

It’s times like this that Giyuu doesn’t know what to do. He wants Sabito to aim the sword at him, wants the blade to press against his underbelly. But then what? What does he want? For the blade to push in or for Sabito to put it down? Punishment or mercy?

Both, he supposes. He wants both. He wants to hurt and to never be hurt again.

“Draw your sword.” Sabito says. His voice is tight. All the muscles in his neck are tight too. Giyuu tilts his head, observing, and looks at the way Sabito’s knuckles go white from the grip on his hilt.

Giyuu just stares at him, dead calm, and makes no move to do as he’s told. Sabito bends his legs, adjusting his posture. Feet planted firmly on the ground, he raises his sword and readies his strike. “Draw your sword, Giyuu.”

Still, Giyuu stubbornly refuses. “I don’t want to spar with you.”

“I don’t care.” Is all Sabito says before he charges right at him. Swipes, but Giyuu dodges to the side. Dodges Sabito’s back-attack, too, and just like that they fall into a dance, a waltz. Push and pull, bound and rebound. It may have been years, but Giyuu still remembers all of Sabito’s moves.

Sabito is relentless and even more forceful than Sanemi when he’s pissed off. Giyuu is almost surprised at Sabito’s strength and skill but of course—of course—he’s still this strong. Stronger, even. It’s a pointless battle, Giyuu thinks and Sabito is quick to take advantage of Giyuu’s apprehension; sweeps low and kicks Giyuu’s legs straight out from underneath him. He lands flat on his ass and stays there, in the dirt.

“Get up.” Sabito barks. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?”

When did you get like this? What’s this emptiness? What’s this apathy? Where’s Giyuu?

Sabito slams his sword down and Giyuu reflexively blocks it. Horizontally, with his scabbard straight above his head. Sabito is dead serious—could have easily embedded his blade in Giyuu’s face just then if Giyuu hadn’t reacted.

“Get up!” Sabito yells. His face twists into all sorts of ugly shapes as he raises his sword and strikes it downwards relentlessly. Each hit shakes Giyuu like a hurricane, all the bones in his body knocking against each other from the force of impact. Still, he stubbornly stays on defence.

Sabito aims a kick for Giyuu’s nose and Giyuu’s hand snaps out, stopping him before he can land the blow. Muscle memory. His fingers tighten around the curve of Sabito’s foot.

“Why won’t you fight back?” Sabito yells. He twists his blade, trying to dislodge the sword and scabbard from Giyuu’s grip. The action off-balances Giyuu and he falters ever so slightly. Just as Sabito is about to strike again, Giyuu rolls out of the way, kicking up dirt. Sabito’s foot and sword land simultaneously in the same spot Giyuu kneeled seconds before.

Giyuu stays in a defensive crouch a few feet away, holding his still-sheathed sword. His haori is covered in dust, threads fraying at the sleeves.

“I can’t win against you.” He says, honestly, and Sabito’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits. He lunches again and this time Giyuu meets him halfway, blocking the attack.

“Don’t be a fool.” Sabito says. “You’re a pillar. You’ve had years of training—killed countless demons. Of course you can beat me.”

But Giyuu just shakes his head solemnly. “I can’t win.” He says. “You’ve always been stronger than me. I’m just a stand in.”

Sabito’s attacks begin to hit with twice the force, twice the speed. He’s angry. All the muscles in his jaw are clenched tight. There’s less finesse to his movements now, just brute strength and fury. Giyuu blocks each strike, deflecting Sabito’s sword. His muscles warm with the spar, stretching, pulsing, they come alive under his skin. Still, his chest feels cold and hollow. Empty. There’s a space carved out in it that he can’t seem to fill.

Giyuu clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth. Then, all at once he exhales and lowers his sword, taking a step back. He doesn’t want to spar. He doesn’t want this at all. He wants to trade places with Sabito, flip the script and give Sabito the space he needs to flourish and grow.

Giyuu’s eyebrows knit. He looks off to the side, says: “I should have been the one to die during Final Selection.”

And Sabito’s foot promptly collides with his jaw, sending Giyuu skidding across the ground.

“Shut up!” Sabito yells. He discards his sword and lunges. Pins Giyuu to the ground with his thighs on either side of Giyuu’s hips. When Giyuu tries to get out from underneath, Sabito pushes back down with twice the force. Giyuu’s back hits the ground so hard that the air’s briefly knocked out from his lungs.

“Shut up.” Sabito says. “I told you if you ever said that to me again I’d never forgive you.”

Giyuu looks up at him, stunned. He blinks away the surprised tears caught in his eyelashes, little flecks of water dotting his vision. Tries to breathe easy but his chest feels so sore that his lungs ache.

“Don’t you get it?” Sabito says. His face is red. Angry. He’s so close now, leaning down and pinning the pressure on Giyuu’s shoulders. The feeling of his breath makes all the little hairs rise on Giyuu’s skin.

“You’re a pillar. You invented a new breathing technique for a centuries-old form. Giyuu, you succeeded. You grew and became stronger, you carried mine and your sister’s will forward.” Strands of Sabito’s hair touches his cheek. And then his voices goes so much softer when he says, “We got our second breaths because of you.”

Sabito raises his fist and for a moment, Giyuu thinks he’s going to punch him—beat the lesson into Giyuu’s thick skull—but instead he just grinds his knuckles awkwardly into Giyuu’s cheek. “Don’t you get it?” Sabito says, squishing Giyuu’s face. “Don’t you get it? It was all you. It was only ever you.”

Giyuu blinks. Something strange and awful collapses in his chest, like the emptiness is being pushed out. It hurts. He opens his mouth to say something but closes it when nothing comes. He wants to disagree or argue or yell or fight but instead it just hurts. It hurts. Sabito drops his hand from his face and Giyuu stares openly at him, searching—wants to find some hint in Sabito’s expression that he’s lying but this boy has never been good at hiding the truth.

He’s so honest. Too honest. It makes Giyuu’s heart twist in all sorts of uncomfortable angles. Giyuu swallows, trying to clear the lump in his throat.

“I miss you.” He says because it’s true and it’s the only thing he can think about right now. “I wish you were still here.”

“I know.” Sabito says. All soft like it aches. “I know. I do, too. But you’re alive and I’m not. And nothing’s going to change that.”

“I know.” Giyuu’s voice cracks in half because it still fucking hurts and it’s never not going to hurt. A pain that never goes away. He isn’t sure if he wants to frown or cry or detach completely but right now Sabito is close, so impossibly close, that Giyuu decides that the only thing he wants is Sabito right here, right now.

He reaches up and curls his hands in the fabric of Sabito’s haori; feels the warmth radiating off of him in waves. Giyuu tips his head and Sabito leans closer, closer, their noses brush. Come on. Take the plunge.

And so Sabito does. He closes the distance and Giyuu meets him halfway. Presses their lips together and opens his mouth.

And just like that, they fit together. So organically, so perfectly; no clicking of teeth or uncomfortable pressing, they mould into each other as a continuum, a whole. Evening and morning. Sunset to sunrise.

Sabito slides his hand along Giyuu’s cheek and Giyuu tips his head forward. He opens up; runs his hands along Sabito’s back and settles one on his hip. Curls the other in the loose hairs of Sabito’s nape and feels the muscles shift beneath his skin.

Sabito hums and they stay just like that, all splayed out in the dirt on the ground. Sabito and Giyuu, finally together again.

Sabito breaks the kiss and leans back, pressing his lips to the crown of Giyuu’s head. A quick peck. Giyuu’s hand tightens minutely in his hair and Sabito hums again, all soft and low. Touches his forehead to Giyuu’s and looks him in the eyes.

“I missed you.” He says, voice hushed and gravelly. “I don’t even think you realize how much, but I do. I miss you more than you know.”

“Shut up.” Giyuu says, because he can’t deal with his heart starting to ache when it feels this full. “Come here.” He pulls Sabito down by the shoulders, lips brushing when he talks. And then, just like that, they fit back together. So perfect, it’s like they’ve always belonged.

So strange to think they were ever apart.

Sabito and Giyuu, sitting in front of each other. Face to face, as close as they can get. Knees touch and shins touch and if Giyuu wanted, he could reach out and touch Sabito’s face too. Squish his cheeks or touch his nape or trace his scars or, or—

Above, the sun and moon chase each other across the sky. Rhythmic rotation. Evening and morning, the light flashes between their eyes. No matter how hard they want to pretend, these dreams can never last forever but Giyuu will keep his eyes closed for as long as he can.

Sabito stretches his hand out.

Idly, Giyuu studies it. The grooves of his fingers, the dip of his wrist. The small scar on his third knuckle and the meticulous topography of veins branching just beneath the surface. It looks so real, so alive—flesh and bone, sinew running under the skin. When Giyuu touches it, it feels warm.

“Giyuu.” Sabito says. Giyuu tilts his head down, bangs falling over his face. Black curtain. He traces the outline of Sabito’s hand, presses his fingers to his wrist and feels the drum of his pulse, strong and sure. Wants to memorize how it looks, how it feels. Doesn’t want to forget any details; doesn’t want to lose anything else ever again.

“Giyuu.” Sabito says again. He slips their hands together and folds his fingers between the grooves. They slot together perfectly, Giyuu thinks, two halves of a whole. He marvels at the strange, new geometry their hands make—how long they missed out when their bodies fit so well.

Sabito’s other hand reaches out through the curtain of Giyuu’s hair and cups his cheek. It feels so hot, too hot. Too real. Too much. Sabito’s skin to Giyuu’s skin, Giyuu’s pulse thumping to the steady beat of warm, warm, warm.

Giyuu sighs. Slips his eyes shut and lets himself press closer to Sabito. Tilts his head and relaxes against Sabito’s palm. Missed you, he thinks, missed you. Miss you. Love you, miss you. Between his ribs, his heart once again starts to ache.

Sabito smoothes a thumb over the slope of Giyuu’s cheekbone, runs just below the dip of his eye. Giyuu’s free hand reaches up and slides over Sabito’s. He wants to get impossibly close, as close as he can. Never not close enough—doesn’t want to feel alone ever again.

When he looks up, Sabito is staring at him with those same, blue eyes. Glacial eyes. Dead man’s eyes.

The sun and moon still chase each other overhead: two celestial bodies, stuck an inseparable distance apart.

“Giyuu.” Sabito says and squeezes his hand. “I’m still here.”

And then, by morning, he wasn’t.