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Rengoku Kyojuro hated his birthday; he would willingly admit that many parts of him died the same day his mother did, but this particular abhorrence for May 10th hadn’t been one of them. Every year since becoming a Demon Slayer he had worked over his birthday, and could even remember Amane-sama questioning him why he had worked over his first birthday after becoming a Hashira– oh how difficult it was trying to brush her off in a respectful manner without tripping over himself.
The truth was, the only people who actually knew when his birthday was were his parents, his childhood doctors, the girls at the Butterfly Mansion and Oyakata-sama’s family– all as protocol to be recorded in his files, but no one else knew: not Iguro-san, not Kanroji-san, and certainly not Uzui-san or his wives.
He had never even told Senjuro… his darling otouto must have thought it strange for him to never have a special day and had looked into the family records at the top of the previous year. The very next May 10th, his eighteenth birthday, Kyojuro returned from his mission late into the night– only to find his brother dead asleep at the dining table with an extravagant dinner all set around a letter and a gift.
Even a year on, the guilt of that day still weighed heavily on him, but apparently it hadn’t translated to his legs as he had still gotten up and left the house in the third hour of the morning, before the sun had even bothered to rise…
And Amane-sama must have gotten back to her husband on how he had been skipping out on his birthdays because he hadn’t been assigned a mission– but not having a mission didn’t mean he had the courage to face it; how long had he been wandering now? It was surely deep into the afternoon by now– and his brother was certainly worried, not that their father would be too keen to listen to his concerns, and Iguro-san and Kanroji-san were unlikely to be anywhere close enough to help.
A part of him even went as far as to doubt that Uzui-san would notice his missing or try to find him…
Kyojuro opened his eyes and shivered as he looked down to the rocky cliff just beyond the tip of his toes– there wasn’t even water down there that would save him if he were to fall– or jump… He came to this particular cliff often, and he liked to tell himself that he did so because his mother’s grave was nearby and the view was particularly encapsulating, but he wasn’t so naive to believe it. There wouldn’t be tears streaming down his face if that were the case.
Finally managing to take a deep, calming breath, he took a step back and sat on the ground with his legs crossed, gazing out over the horizon that was marked with a low amber sunset. His mother had been taking him here on every single one of his birthdays since he was a baby, up until he was ten; they would take a walk around all of his ancestors’ graves to celebrate and honour their lives as she regaled him with the stories his father had practically romanced her with. They would sit on top of the cliff, a ways away from the edge, and have a picnic together– something that their father never joined them for. It was their time together, different from them simply being at home twenty four hours of the day, seven days a week.
Kyojuro had promised himself that he would do the same for Senjuro, but by the time he had gotten old enough to do so, the bottom of the cliff had already become far too enticing…
It had been on his fourth birthday that their usual picnic turned on a serious note. His mother said that whereas his father would ensure he was physically trained up to the point of a samurai, she would make sure his mind was ready for the day he took his father’s place; one way, and the most trying way, his mother said she would begin teaching him the Eight Bushido Principles– one for each year until he reaching marrying age. Even at that age, he knew how important they were, and he remembered wanting to be as prepared as he could– but his mother always refused to tell him what order they would come to him by.
The first test, he quickly figured out, was of Truthfulness, and it began as simply as it could have done: regurgitating factual information surfacing from his studies; names, dates, battles, strategy and outcomes. He was quite good at that, as though there was a little box in his brain that he could dip his hand into and immediately pull out the correct answer. That was the easy part of the test.
Over the next ten whole months, his father also began training him with a bokken whenever he was home from his missions. It was something that Kyojuro could mirror easily– but his father hated the ease and almost perfection for some reason, demanding that he put his own self into the motions, that he feel them properly– words and expressions that his four-year-old mind just couldn’t relate to. His father got more and more frustrated with him, and many training sessions ended in Kyojuro upset, his father angry, and an incredibly tense atmosphere hanging over the estate for his mother to deal with.
It came to a crescendo a month before his birthday, when his mother had gone out to the market just as Kyojuro’s tears and irritation flared into a sudden, dark anger, and he struck his father with enough force to snap his bokken in half. That was the first, and unfortunately not the last, time his father had struck him and dragged him to his room, telling him to not even bother thinking about leaving. Kyojuro burst into tears– confused and overwhelmed. He hadn’t even meant to strike his father, who had even snapped at his mother and told her not to comfort him when she returned.
His mother wouldn’t be stopped so easily, however, and soon he had been sobbing into her bosom; he couldn’t stop his words from spilling out as he sobbed, telling her how he may not have been happy with his father bossing him about, but it had never made him angry before, or even after– not even after his father hit him, it was just that second, that one single second… he wanted to see his father, but knew that it was unlikely he would want to see him for a while, and then he’d go on a mission, and then a patrol– it’d be weeks before he got to apologise… He’d passed his Test of Truthfulness for his honesty at the cost of his image, but it was nothing he felt good about.
As he turned five, Kyojuro began to feel incredibly distracted with himself; falling behind in his training and getting increasingly short and testy with his father– who gave that signature Rengoku ‘kicked puppy’ pout when he did: he understood why, they had barely gotten out of one argument and they were on the precipice of another– and it must have hurt, but he just couldn’t help it!
And all of that hurt came to a culmination: his father’s grip got tighter around his wrists as he readjusted his stances, and his words were cold and calculating, coming from a stern expression. He even stopped coming into his bedroom to give him a hug and kiss on a night. After a few more months of that, Kyojuro had burst into tears in front of his mother, crying in her arms again.
His mother had, of course, held him and comforted him, and then promptly reprimanded him for what he had done, teaching him that the way he acted had come back around to punish him. He had been selfish in his actions, and so his father was being selfish back, and as much as he understood that, it also confused him– his mother had also taught him to be more mature, was his father not mature? His mother had sighed when he asked that question, and the shame he felt became tenfold when she set him out of her lap.
He couldn’t even raise his head to look at her as he shook his head in response to her question: had she even told him the story of how she and her father met? No, she hadn’t– but he knew that it was an unorthodox marriage because his mother hadn’t been highborn. He knew that many people put a lot of value on that, another thing he never understood because his mother was beautiful and amazing regardless of where she came from.
Kyojuro told her as much, looking back up into her eyes to show her just how much he meant it, receiving a head pat and a rub against his cheek as a reward. His mother gave him one last smile before becoming deadly serious, fixing him with a stern stare as she began her story.
His mother had once been trapped in a cult with her two sisters, sent there by their father to be under the devoted watch of the leader of the cult– a leader who just so happened to be a demon, the Upper Moon Two, no less. Kyojuro had to suck in a gasp when he heard that, knowing he couldn’t interrupt her. She seemed pleased enough as she continued: her and her sisters had been planning to escape at almost the exact time the Demon Slayer Corps had caught on to the rumours surrounding the church the cult held up in–
His father and two of his comrades, Urokodaki Sakonji and Kuwajima Jigoro, had been just a shade too late, and just as her own body had collapsed into the gentle arms of his father– her two older sisters had been killed far behind her by the fan-wielding demon. She had fallen at the feet of the three Hashira, pleading with them at all costs to save her sisters despite the futility– Urokodaki-san and Kuwajima-san had run off, his father staying to comfort her– being a pillar and guiding her back to reality.
When the two senior Hashira had returned, not only was there no sight of her sisters, but there was no sight of the Upper Moon or his cult either– as though it were imaginary all along. For the longest time as she was recovering in the Butterfly Mansion, she refused to talk about anything out of fear of not being believed, and it had again been his father who somehow wormed her story out of her.
But it wasn’t until almost four years and four months ago, when she asked for her daughter to be called ‘Kyoa’ in honour of her eldest sister that she truly felt like she belonged and was believed– because apparently his father had responded “and what about Kyojuro for a boy?”
Kyojuro could even find it in himself to smile at the story fifteen years on, and although he had respected his seniors, it was something that was more written into his genes than something he truly believed. But that story of sacrifice resonated with him, and he looked at his mother’s stomach for a long moment before asking, “can we call my baby sister or brother ‘Senki’, or… ‘Senjuro’?”
He found from a very young age that if he simply focused enough, he could see inside people– his question had seemed innocent to the people around him until a month or so later when his mother started getting pregnancy symptoms. By the time he had become an official Demon Slayer, he had honed this ability to his command– it was handy in tending to the injuries of his comrades!
Regardless, he had passed his Test of Respect, and eight months from then and there was a new addition to the Rengoku Family– and their house got a whole lot louder and a whole lot busier; to the point that the graveyard trip his mother and him took was delayed by a day, and what was worse was that his mother had brought him his favourite meal, favourite dessert, and his favourite bag of candy! Now that may have sounded like a blessing, but it wasn’t! Because he wasn’t allowed to eat any of it– and even worse is every time he even glanced at it his mother would steal a bite, starting with the candy and working back to the main meal.
What was probably the most degrading part of it was how his mother joked that this would probably be his most difficult test because he loved eating so much; it’s not like it was his fault– there just always seemed like there was a hole in the pit of his stomach that he could never quite fill, and nothing he ate would change that.
So time went by, and more and more Kyojuro had been pushed to the side– his father spent less time focusing and readjusting his stances to coo over the new baby, and it seemed that whenever the tiny little bundle made even the smallest sound his mother was by his side, leaving Kyojuro dejected and feeling abandoned.
It was at this point that he had perfected his smile, because he wasn’t insensitive: he knew how much care and attention a newborn needed, and he knew how tired his mother was, and he knew that his father wanted to capture the most he could of little Senjuro while he was still so small. He knew that his being upset would hurt and mount the stress on his parents, and so he smiled, he said he was okay, and held no malice in his heart for either his parents nor his little brother.
And it was exactly that reason that one night, when his mother had fallen asleep by the crib– a crib holding a notably awake baby and his father was on a patrol, he gathered up his mother in a blanket, struggling even with breathing techniques to gently drag her back to her room and wrap her up in her futon. He returned to the baby after that, leaning over the crib and reaching down his arm to massage the belly that was barely larger than his palm. He watched as the baby kept falling asleep and snapping back awake as though he were afraid to miss something important– but his big brother would always still be there, still stroking his belly, still smiling a loving smile.
His father had returned from his mission to find both his boys asleep like that, prying Kyojuro away and putting him to bed– only to catch sight of the multiple drafts of an apology letter strewn across the little desk they had built together in the corner.
The next morning he was laughing about how he found his sons the night before over their breakfast– much to the shock of his mother, who apologised to him for having to do that. But Kyojuro smiled again, saying that “it was his job as a big brother”; another statement that came to the shock of his parents. It had confused Kyojuro, the sudden change in behaviour, but the reply to his apology set next to a tidied stack of his drafts chased all thoughts of his parent’s strange reaction out of his mind.
It wasn’t until his next birthday that his mother told him how he had passed the Test of Self-Control that day, but he had come to the decision very quickly that reconciling with his father had been the real prize.
In light of having another bag of his favourite sweets on the cliff the day he turned seven, Kyojuro had asked his mother if they could get more soon– to which she told him he would only get more once his father told her he had made enough progress in his sword training. It was infuriating, because demon sightings had suspiciously gone up and his father was gone more frequently and for longer periods of time. Of course, Kyojuro trained without his father, but that only left more room to develop useless habits that would waste more time.
About nine months was how long it took for him to make the necessary progress, but the balls of homemade hard candy from the family bakery and sweet shop were worth all of the effort he had put in. His family always went there, to the point where the family who owned it could be considered family-friends, and joked of Kyojuro marrying their daughter when they were of age. The visits were monotonous in the sense that the parents gossiped and joked while the kids abused the habit of their sweet tooth.
Kyojuro, not quite awake enough that day to face the suggestive eyes and comments of the mother of the girl he was very likely set to marry, sat in the small alleyway to the left of the shop with his now nearly two-year-old brother sat next to, digging into a few of the candy as he waited for his mother and father. He portioned out his brother’s softer sweets, making sure he wasn’t scarfing them down and choking on them– but getting to enjoy the adorable polite smile and tiny little hand begging for another whenever he finished his bite.
But another thing caught his eye, and he looked over to see a pair of beady little eyes staring at him from further in the alley, he had immediately stood and tucked his brother close behind him, his keen eyes ready to protect him as the eyes got closer and closer–
It was just a little boy, no older and no different than Kyojuro, probably– dirty, and definitely far skinnier than the healthy average, but definitely no different than him: those eyes were filled with childlike wonder, excitement dancing and asking him a silent question. Kyojuro looked at the cloth containing his sweets that he abandoned on the bench, the pieces falling into place as he guided Senjuro back to sit.
He picked out three of his hard candies, holding them out to the boy who crawled over to him, looking between his outstretched hand and his eyes– and Kyojuro held his gaze the whole time, smiling when he got to see that pleased expression of a child sucking on a hard candy. And he shared the rest of his bag, as well, even though not a word was spoken between them, they simply enjoyed each other’s company.
That was what he did from then on whenever he had sweets bought for him, sharing them evenly in the dark alleyway– always in silence. Kyojuro had managed to learn his name at some point, “Goto”, and every time he made sure to buy a different sweet so that they could find his favourite.
On his eighth birthday, at the cliff, his mother had confronted him about the rumours that had begun circulating. Kyojuro was honest about what he had did, not seeing the issue with what he had done: he had been gifted those sweets, and so he gifted them to another– another who didn’t, and perhaps would never, have as much as he did, who struggled too much to enjoy a proper meal, let alone sweet treats. That was something he was sure of, and no one, not even his mother, would change his mind on that! And he made that crystal clear to her too!
And then his mother smiled– praising him on completion of his Test of Righteousness. He pouted at her, asserting that this wasn’t about some test, to which her smile became aching gentle: she had known that, but it was that very fact that made him not only pass, but pass with flying colours. Because at the end of the day, these tests weren’t about ticking boxes, there were lessons in each and every one of them, and just because he passed them, didn’t mean he couldn’t necessarily fail them again– another reason why she was so proud, because he hadn’t given her a reason up until that point to revoke any of his passes.
Kyojuro couldn’t help but think that if she could see him now, she likely wouldn’t think the same…
His ninth birthday came and went quite quickly, as did another five months– and it was then that his father’s crow had swooped down and informed them that his father had been deeply injured. Kyojuro had begged his mother to go see his father, almost in tears with how much he feared for his father’s life. Even little Senjuro was sobbing for his father, and it was all too soon that they were taken to the Butterfly Mansion by an escort of Kakushi.
They stayed there for three days just waiting for his father to wake up, and whereas his mother and brother never dared to leave the side of the comatose man– Kyojuro felt far too restless and began to help around the Mansion: Shinobu had thanked him for his neat organisation of reports a couple months back, but in reality it was him repaying what her predecessor had done for him. He was taught by the former Flower Hashira before Kanae-san the curation of the Butterfly Mansion and how to organise reports, and how to cook for loads of people, and how to clean a whole estate in the least amount of time. His teacher had even let him help with some patients, and gave him books on first aid–
What he hadn’t known at the time was that for each task he did, the Flower Hashira had set aside some money for him, and on the fourth day when he and his family were all hooked on the story his father was telling, the Flower Hashira entered and handed him a pouch of money, thanking him for all the help he had someone managed to give in just three days.
His mother and father had been stunned, not having known just what he had been up to when he disappeared. They gushed over it while he counted the coins, shocked by just how much it had been, ignoring the hand of his father on his head and the gentle thumb of his mother stroking his cheek– even Senjuro joined in, smacking his tiny hand against his ear. Kyojuro smiled at them, before standing up and bowing to the Flower Hashira, thanking him for his teachings and patience.
But it was the next day that things really seemed to fall in place for his mother: they had been just about to leave– his father was in the clear, with a little bit more healing and a week or so of rehabilitation training he’d be a-okay and right back in the field. They were trying to settle down a ratty two-year-old for the trip back when a small group of Demon Slayers and one lone Kakushi walked into the Estate Grounds– the Kakushi walked by them, and Kyojuro didn’t even take much notice while trying to tug on his brother’s haori–
And the four Slayers ganged up on the poor boy, demanding that he bow, that he show respect– one even went as far to hit him, and all… for him and his brother– not even for the sake of his darling mother…
“Enough!” Kyojuro demanded, slipping between the downright bullies and the Kakushi, setting them with dark glare. “I don’t care who I am or what my name represents, you do not hurt others! For any reason! It is your duty as Demon Slayers to protect those weaker than yourselves, regardless of who they are. Reprimand him with stern words if you must, but do not bully him!”
His eyes hurt from how wide they were, his jaw hurt from how tight he was clenching his teeth, his throat hurt from the force of his words, and his lungs were burning from the sheer rage he felt– and he only just barely managed to take a breath before turning around and kneeling next to the Kakushi, reaching out to check where he’d been slapped. The four Demon Slayers slipped away as soon as he turned his back.
“You should be okay, but you should put a cold compress over it to soothe the pain and stem bruising,” he said, taking the hands that were far bigger than his own to support him to stand. That was when the Kakushi did bow low to him.
“Thank you, Rengoku-sama, I apologise for not bowing sooner!”
Kyojuro gave him a bright smile, bowing his respect for the apology. “Thank you, but there’s no need to apologise.” The Kakushi’s face may have been covered, but his eyes were twinkling with a shocked smile.
The Test of Honour had been passed through his actions at the estate, but between his knowledge that anyone would– or at least should – do something similar, and his mother’s growing sickness– what they foolishly thought was minor at the time– he didn’t really care about the Bushido Principles in a conscious way.
How could he when his Test of Courage at the age of nine came with the threat to his brother’s and his mother’s life?
It had been raining all day, and a storm had kicked up just before the sun had gone down– despite all of that his father still went on his patrol, knowing that this was one of the easiest times for demons to make their attacks. Humans would be inside, and although most incense burners the Corps and their allies used had covers, they weren’t always reliable against such a relentless wind.
It was just before his and his brother’s bedtime, his mother’s too– she may have cleaned the house a bit, but her weak grip on them and her pale complexion suggested that she too was tired. A part of their routine, especially when their father was on duty, was praying to Kagutsuchi and their ancestors, asking them to give his father strength to protect both others and himself. The shrine that they prayed to had a jar with the ashes from each prior Flame Hashira– the grave at the graveyard were placeholders, a comfort for the Oyakata-sama that wished to commemorate their sacrifice.
Also in the shrine room were every single blade of the very same Hashira, including the ones that came prior to their patented Flame Breathing technique..
Once they were all settled into bed, Kyojuro had been woken up an hour later by a scared little brother– trembling from the storm, fearing that any moment would bring him danger. Kyojuro had taken him back to the shrine room, the single most well-lit room in the house when all the candles were burning. He made up a story to ease his brother’s worried heart, and they enjoy a nice slice of peace for the moment.
The shoji door behind them opened at that moment– blowing out all the candles. If he were anyone else, he would assume it was his mother, drawn by the light and the noise, but the prickling at his skin and the alarm bells in his heart were enough to tell him that wasn’t the case…
He could have moved to grab one of the blades, but the moment he did that would be the moment his brother died; if he stayed to shield his brother, there was no way he would…
“Haha u–” his brother whispered, cut short by Kyojuro snapping his hand over his mouth.
“Shh.” Kyojuro held his brother closer to his chest, curling around his brother. “As soon as I let go of you, Sen, you run. Don’t look, just run. Promise me?” He muttered into his brother’s hair. “Just nod, don’t say anything…” The motion of his brother’s head shifting against his chest made tears spring to his eyes, and he looked at the blades one more time as if it would change his decision. “I lov–”
The scream that cut him off would have woken the entire street if it hadn’t been for the rain– he felt claws digging in so deep that they scratch the bones of his rips, teeth ripped into his shoulders– but he knew he had to make use of this moment. He let go of Senjuro to grip the demon, feeling another set of talons claw into his leg.
Another strike of lightning sounded through the storm, and Kyojuro felt the weight burn off. He collapsed into someone’s arms, calling out to his brother with the fear that he had all been too late– his memory began to get fuzzy and he was panicking, and then fuzziness turned to sleepiness– and he slipped into darkness before he got even the slightest chance to even glimpse his baby brother.
It was a whole week before he woke up, bruised, broken and bandaged, but surprisingly alive– his rib healed quickly and almost miraculously, and the claw and bite marks were already scabbing over.
But most importantly, his brother was okay– smiling and giggling and telling him the same stories he had when Senjuro was upset. He had even received a letter from the Master, commemorating his bravery. He didn’t really see how he had been so brave, if anything he had frozen and cowardly backed down– sacrificing himself to curl up around his brother.
And it very quickly no longer mattered– his mother had been getting steadily worse and worse but it suddenly began to deteriorate. By the time of his tenth birthday came, his mother couldn’t even walk to the market, let alone take their annual trip to the graveyard. The moment he realised this he actually ran away– going to the graveyard regardless. He had come to this very cliff actually, crying and sobbing for reasons he didn’t even know or put words to.
No one even came to look for him… And what was worse when he had returned, his mother and father were fawning over a boy around his age… A boy that clung to his father, his mismatching eyes never daring to look away from his mother, and who almost bolted out the door when his little brother tried to comfort him.
“Ah, Kyojuro!” His father smiled, patting the boy’s head and holding him tighter against his hip. “I want you to meet Iguro Obanai: he’ll be staying with us for perhaps quite a bit.”
Kyojuro forced a smile to his face: it wasn’t this boy’s fault that his parents didn’t seem to notice his going missing– and if he was here, very likely something awful had happened to him, told by the bandages wrapped around his face, hands and knees. They actually took quite well to each other, to the shock of his father; they had never once argued, and Kyojuro even helped him settle on Kaburamaru’s name!
There was only one time that they had disagreed: the matter of the Demon Slaying Corps.
It was unlikely that the innocent question of why his father had saved Iguro was intended to cause such a fiasco– but Iguro insulted the Corps for its selfless goals, and then insulted the Master for sending people on suicide missions just so that he could cure his illness. It had taken all the self-control Kyojuro had schooled over the years to not entirely blow up at the uneducated boy for insulting the Master.
The debate was still rather heated despite his efforts, however, as for some reason the boy just couldn’t understand why people would want to help others– even when he told him that many Demon Slayers, more often than not, were out for revenge, to bring justice to their families that had so greatly suffered at the despicable hands of demons. There was only one more trick that Kyojuro could pull out of the proverbial hat to try and prove his point: “well… if you really think about it, if my ancestors hadn’t become Demon Slayers, then my father wouldn’t have become one, which meant you wouldn’t have been saved, and if you hadn’t been saved, then who knows what would have become of you and Kaburamaru, here.”
Iguro had gotten quiet after that, apparently never having seen it that way– and his mother had once again praised him for it, passing him on his Test of Loyalty.
Unfortunately, her sickness had progressed too far by that point, and that was the last time she ever passed him on the Principles. The following years were exhausting, and a new respect formed in his heart for his mother as all the duties of the house fell to him: Iguro did try to help, but his small frame and hands meant that the chores tended to pile up; taking longer and more effort for him to complete.
And then there was Senjuro, who couldn’t understand where his mother had gone, and his father, who had steadily fallen into depression, and far more quickly fell into a sake bottle. Kyojuro had desperately tried to pull him out of it, but his father just got physical from that point on.
Kyojuro would never let anything happen to his baby brother.
Iguro tried to help, and in fact Kyojuro would go as far as to say they had become incredibly close– like brothers. Except the fact was Iguro was an incredibly stubborn and surprisingly protective person, and certainly not the type to take the abuse of the Rengoku Brothers lightly. The day he left to find a Water Breathing Trainer, he had begged and begged Kyojuro to come with him, to even pack Senjuro’s bag before Shinjuro got any worse than he had been.
Kyojuro stupidly thought that his father would get better, that he would wake up and realise what he’d done, and at the very least thought that he shouldn’t be alone. He tried to ignore the jab of Iguro’s “but who makes sure you’re not alone?” with a smile, saying that he would be alright… that Iguro didn’t have to worry and should just go ahead and focus on his studies. Him doing that would save and protect more people than two rather well-off sons of a well-known Samurai Family.
It was on his twelfth birthday that he received a letter from the snake boy; which wasn’t rare as they exchanged letters all the time, but this one was serious… certified even… it was written in a shockingly elegant way for the usual uncouth boy– but the message was the same. He, Iguro Obanai, passed him on his Test of Compassion– stating how it never mattered who it was, because Kyojuro would always be there to help them, even at the cost of himself, his physical body.
He had held the letter to his heart and cried quietly over it– he would take back all eight completions to have his mother and the boy he had come to class as his older brother back. He was alone, and he should have heeded the warning, but he couldn’t… he couldn’t abandon his father, even if and when he himself was abandoned.
It was pathetic, really– he was pathetic; he couldn’t even help his father, he failed to help Iguro with his training, and although Senjuro was almost always honest with him, he had gotten so quiet and cautious over the years. And he had failed to teach anyone Flame Breathing– only Kanroji-san had stuck with him and even then she created Love Breathing. At every corner he failed, and the only reason he was absconded by the Corps was because whenever he was sent to a location, everyone seemed to make it out, because he was “strong”, because he had killed a certain amount of demons, because he had killed certain types of demons, because he was a “Hashira”.
There was only one constant in his life, and it was the love and trust he held for his mother above any and all else. It was like she was the only thing that he could trust– he trusted her memory more than he trusted himself because there was that emptiness inside of him that just didn’t care, for others or for himself: it was hungry, starved for something, and it was eating him from the inside out, threatening to consume him….
And the worst part of it was that he was beginning to get terribly exhausted trying to fight against it; trying to always uphold his smile, always trying to be a beacon of positivity to those around him, always bringing comfort and security. And for what? What did any of them actually care about him? None of them, not one, had ever returned the favour– he couldn’t smile from the heart, he was never comforted, he was never safe– and it was this that the emptiness fed on.
A part of him wanted to just jump simply to end the pain, and yet another part of him said that it’d be useless– he had been throwing himself at demons for four years and was never still wounded past the three month mark, as though he were the laughing stock of some higher power. He no longer felt like his fate was his own, and he…
He really just wanted his mother. He wanted her to tell him that he was okay, that he had nothing to worry about– that he had turned into and would forever be a good man, that whatever was inside him was nothing to worry about– that it didn’t define him and it wasn’t what he was about. It had crossed his mind to tell Uzui-san, but how could he do so in a way that didn’t make him sound evil? Or downright insane?! Even if he wouldn’t think either of those things, the mental hurdle he would have to brace over was tall and thick, and he didn’t think that he had the strength to leap over it this time. He had to face the music…
Rengoku Kyojuro was alone; no matter how many people hailed him as their “older brother”, no matter how much they said they cared and would be there for him– he would always get talked over, his feelings would always be invalidated, and there would always been that small handful that scorned him for “having it better than most of the people who joined the Corps”.
It was as though people saw him as perfect, and yet still expected more, that he was both a God and yet no more valuable than the muck on the bottom of one’s shoe. No one treats him simply as a human being, an imperfect being that only had to try its best, that didn’t have to be perfect and could make mistakes and get the chance to learn from them.
He was just so tired… he was just so unbelievably tired…