Fire in the Desert

You were startled to say the least, but the very way he said it made you feel like it meant nothing at all to him. He wasn't like other lightkeepers, he was a little... unusual.

"Me?"

Flins nods, opening his mouth to speak before closing it once again - it seems he realised how unusual the request was to you.

"Yes. I understand it may be... uncomfortable, but I merely seek comfort on this occasion"

"Ok"

Flins doesn't eat out often. In fact, he doesn't dine in at all. He has no need for it, he's perfectly content with the same meal of fish and rice breakfast lunch and dinner at his place. But even he understands that this is not the ordinary way of life.

Flins also understands that he might be making you nervous as he stares at you when you finally have a proper meal in front of you. He apologises, but cant help but peak up again. In truth, he was just trying to figure out which part of your meal you liked most. 

Over time, Flins would call on you to come get lunch with him almost daily. You wonder how he even has the finances to dine so frequently. Little do you know, he uses his glamour to get what he wants at times like these.

Flins doesn't realise how this makes it seems as if you're both an exclusive couple, dining so frequently- but you do, and you start to grow nervous every time you see him.

Flins notices, how could he not? He's been analysing every part of you, he'll definitely sense a change in you breath or tone when he nears. 

Though the best thing would be to let you be, he was feeling stubborn - after spending so much time with you, he was taking a liking towards you, after all.

Flins invites you to his residence, a gloomy estate far far from town.

He prepares a meal to which you look up at him with wide eyes. For someone who dines out so frequently (with you) you didn't expect him to care for cooking.

In reality, he has been cornering ghosts and asking them of how they used to make specific meals. Its a touchy subject since ghosts do yearn the feeling of a warm meal, but Flins always has his ways.

"I noticed you don't eat often"

"Oh... i just... I'm not good at cooking... and I really just don't seem to have the time or energy for it. I'm sorry, I must have worried you"

You feel awkward now, you've worried what usually would be a stranger into becoming a friend who pays for your every meal. But before you feel bad, Flins speaks,

"I see. Not to worry, we can just continue as we do" Flins speaks casually and you are all too stunned. 

To Flins, it was not a worry anymore since he had already fixed himself on the idea of taking care of you, for however long you would let him. He doesn't understand it himself either - perhaps it were the weeks upon weeks he spent analysing every part of you just to understand what you like and dislike. 

"Huh?"

As you look at him like a deer in headlights, Flins tilts his head to the side, his voice is almost teasing, "Hm? What's wrong? Do you not enjoy it?"

You grow hot, at the thought that Flins was in no way shape or form planning on stopping seeing you - it gave only reasonable conclusion, that he liked it as much as you did. 

"No no! Not at all"

Flins smiles softly at the sight of you flustered.

In truth, he enjoyed it more than he ever anticipated to - dining with you, sharing a simple meal in his home, your presence was a delight to his usually solitary lifestyle.

Perhaps, for once, it wasn’t about coaxing favors with crumbs and sweets. Perhaps this time, he gave simply because your presence and company was his own reward.

© kurapikapikachuu | Please do not feed any of my work into AI. Please do not copy, repost, or translate my work anywhere else.

likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3 lots of love, chuu!

my ao3 & ko-fi !!!

His entire body was a tightly wound spring, a single, raw nerve thrumming with the memory of the previous weeks. Gentle-san. He was acutely, painfully aware of Sanemi, two positions to his right, whose very breathing seemed to be a suppressed, mocking chuckle. He was aware of Obanai, whose cold, dismissive silence was somehow louder. He was aware of Shinobu, whose polite, neutral questions to Oyakata-sama felt laced with a new, dangerous, surgical precision.

And he was aware, in a way that burned, of you.

You were kneeling on his left, your haori a brilliant, agonizing splash in his peripheral vision. You were perfectly still, your posture a model of respectful grace. You smelled, faintly, of soap and sugar.

Giyu had spent the entire two-hour meeting focusing on not looking at you and not thinking about you. He was failing on both counts.

"You are dismissed."

Oyakata-sama’s gentle voice was a release.

The line of Hashira broke. The formal tension evaporated, replaced by the low murmur of individual conversations, of stretches, of plans being made for the evening.

Giyu's plan was simple: Escape.

He rose to his feet in one fluid, blessedly silent motion, his hand already on his hilt, his entire being geared toward a swift, tactical retreat to his own estate. He would be in the dojo, and he would practice his forms until his arms burned and his mind was, finally, blessedly empty.

He turned.

He had taken one step.

"(Y/N)-chan!"

A bright, joyful shriek. Mitsuri, her face flushed with the pleasure of release, bounced across the gravel, her pink-and-green braids flying. She grabbed your arm, her own body practically vibrating with energy.

"That was so long! My legs fell asleep, and I was sure I was going to fall over when Oyakata-sama dismissed us! Are you hungry? I'm starving. I heard about a new shop in the village! They sell this new kind of cake... the kind that looks just like a raindrop!"

Giyu... paused.

His escape was blocked. Not physically. But... he couldn't just walk away..

You, who had been rising with your usual, silent grace, were suddenly enveloped in the whirlwind of Mitsuri's enthusiasm. The formal, serious Flower Hashira from the meeting vanished. A bright, delighted, dimpled smile lit your face.

"A raindrop cake? Mitsuri-san, really? We have to go! Right now?"

"Right now!" Mitsuri confirmed, linking her arm with yours. "We can... oh! We can try to get Shinobu-chan to come! And... and..."

The two of you stood in the center of the courtyard, a perfect, self-contained bubble of sunshine and sugar. You were giggling, heads bowed together, lost in a rapid-fire, whispered discussion.

You were, in a word, oblivious.

You were oblivious to the fact that the entire courtyard, in that moment, had become a silent, high-stakes theater. And you were the stars of the show.

Obanai had not moved.

His mismatched eyes were locked on Mitsuri.

He watched the way her green eyes sparkled when she laughed. He watched the way her hand, small and strong, gestured in the air as she described the dessert. He watched the way her braid, which had come slightly loose, fell across the collar of her uniform.

He was, in that moment, nothing but a pair of eyes, and those eyes held only her.

And you were oblivious, too, to the gaze from the stones.

Giyu was still frozen in his first step of escape. He had not left. He could not.

He was staring at you.

He was trying not to. He was furious with himself for it. His gaze was supposed to be on the gate. It was supposed to be on the path home. But it slipped. It strayed. It locked.

It was not Obanai's gaze. Obanai's was a possessive, adoring, outward force. Giyu's was the opposite. It was a hungry, terrified, internal thing. It was the look of a man freezing to death, staring at a fire he would never, ever allow himself to touch.

He watched you. He watched you laugh. He watched your hand—the same hand that had plunged a blade into a demon's chest, the same hand that had once offered him daikon—fly up to cover your mouth, a gesture of pure, artless shyness. He watched the way the sun caught the color of your hair.

He was lost.

His "kindest eyes," as you had called them, were, in that moment, full of a profound, painful, and hopeless warmth. He was a stone, yes, but he was a stone that had been left in the sun for too long. He was burning.

And of this silent, two-pronged, intense devotion, the two women at the center of it saw nothing.

But everyone else...

Everyone else saw everything.

Shinobu had been on her way to the Butterfly Estate, but she had paused. She was, Giyu realized with a fresh, cold spike of panic, standing directly in his line of sight to you. She had, in one fluid, graceful motion, intercepted his gaze.

She was smiling. Her usual, pleasant, perfect smile.

She did not look at Giyu. She looked at you and Mitsuri, giggling over your sweets.

"They are so full of life, aren't they?" she murmured, her voice a soft, polite sound, meant for no one and everyone.

Then, her gaze, sharp as a scalpel, slid to the right. She looked up into the branches of the maple tree. She saw Obanai, a statue of pure, focused longing. Her smile tightened. It became analytical.

Then, her head turned, just slightly, to the left.

Her gaze met Giyu's.

He had been caught staring. Again. 

Giyu's blood stopped.

Shinobu's smile changed. The polite mask was gone. The analytical look was gone. It was replaced by one of delighted, scientific discovery.

She held his gaze for one... two... three agonizing seconds.

Then, she winked. A single, tiny, catastrophic flutter of her eyelid.

Giyu's composure nearly fractured right then and there.

"Tch."

The sound was a low, disgusted snarl from the other side of the courtyard.

Giyu's head snapped around.

Sanemi was leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed. He had been watching the entire, silent, pathetic exchange.

He had watched Obanai in the tree. (Pathetic.) He had watched Giyu failing to be aloof. (Hilarious.) And he had just watched Shinobu catch Giyu in the act.

Sanemi's face was a mask of glee. He was relishing this. Tormenting Giyu about his crush was his favorite new hobby. He looked at Giyu, who was now pale, caught in the crossfire.

Sanemi pushed himself off the pillar.

No. No. No. He's coming over...

Sanemi sauntered, a slow, predatory roll of his shoulders, not toward Giyu, but toward the center of the courtyard. He was walking toward the girls.

"Oi," he barked.

The bubble of sunshine popped.

You and Mitsuri froze, startled. You instinctively stepped half-a-step behind Mitsuri, flinching.

Giyu saw it. He saw you recoil from Sanemi. His stomach twisted.

"Shinazugawa-san!" Mitsuri squeaked, her face flushing. "G-g-good afternoon!"

Sanemi ignored her.

His gaze was on you.

It was not a kind gaze. It was a bully's gaze. 

"So," he drawled. "You survived the meeting without falling asleep, pipsqueak. Good for you."

"I... I..." you stammered.

"Shinazugawa-san! That's mean!" Mitsuri protested.

"Shut up, Kanroji," he snapped. "I'm talking to my old mission partner." He grinned. "Or... wait. My mistake. You're not my partner anymore, are you?"

His eyes flicked. Just once. A lightning-fast glance over your shoulder. Directly at Giyu.

It was a taunt. A public prodding.

I'm talking to your girl. What are you going to do about it, Gentle-san?

Giyu stopped breathing. He couldn't move. He was a coward. He was frozen. He was about to flee.

"Shinazugawa."

The voice. It was not Giyu's. It was Rengoku's.

He, who had been watching this whole thing with a small, soft smile, was suddenly there. His smile was gone. He was not shouting. His voice was a low, calm flame.

"That is enough," he said.

Sanemi tensed. He turned. His grin became a snarl. "What's it to you, Rengoku?"

"You are making her uncomfortable," Rengoku stated. "And you are being a bully. Which is a waste of your spirit. Stop it."

The two of them stared at each other. Wind and Flame.

And Sanemi, who would have fought anyone else, just scowled. He respected Rengoku's power.

"Tch," he snarled. "You're no fun. I was just saying hello to Tomioka's favorite person."

He said it.

He said it.

Giyu's world ended and he went eerily still....

You blinked. "His... what?"

Mitsuri's hand flew to her mouth. "Ehhh?!"

Giyu did not see the other Hashira. He did not see Rengoku's sudden, horrified silence or Tengen's sharp intake of breath. He did not see Shinobu's smile freeze, her eyes wide with the realization that her game had just turned into a war.

He saw only you.

You were staring at him, your face completely, utterly white. Your eyes, which he had come to recognize as either serenely focused or warm with gentle, blushing embarrassment, were now just... wide. Vast and empty. Your lips were parted. You looked horrified.

You looked, to his shame-ravaged mind, exactly as he expected. Disgusted. Appalled. Repulsed.

But you were processing the revelation, your mind trying to connect the dots—his favorite person? He... he likes me? Romantically? Your heart was a trapped bird in your own chest. The way... the way I like him?

But Giyu couldn't see the complex, fragile dawn of your realization. He only saw the shock.

He had contaminated you. He had taken your kindness, your sincerity, your sweet-toothed, gentle nature, and he had soiled it with his... his stalking. His pathetic, tree-climbing longing.

And Sanemi...

Sanemi had enjoyed it. He had done this deliberately. He had held this secret, this weapon, and waited for the most public, most humiliating moment to detonate it. He had not just revealed Giyu's feelings; he had held you up to be ridiculed with him. He had exposed you.

Something in Giyu broke.

The crushing, suffocating weight of his own self-hatred—the impostor syndrome, the guilt, the grief, the cowardice—imploded. The void left behind was not empty. It was filled with something white-hot, pure, and terrifying.

The temperature in the courtyard plummeted.

It was not a feeling; it was a physical shift. The air became thin, the light sharp and cold. A pressure, silent and immense, radiated from the Water Hashira.

Gyomei suddenly straightened, his prayer beads stopping dead. "Namu Amida Butsu..." he whispered, his sightless eyes turning toward Giyu. "This... this is not right."

"Tomioka...?" Rengoku started, his voice losing its boom, his hand moving slightly. "Calm your spirit. He is just—"

It was too late.

Giyu turned.

His head moved with a slow, hydraulic, terrible smoothness. The man who had been frozen in panic, the "lovesick squirrel" from that night was gone.

Sanemi was still grinning, a feral, triumphant, "got-you" expression. "What's wrong, Gentle-san?" he purred, savoring the new name. "Did I finally—"

SHIIIIING.

The sound was not a draw. It was an eruption.

Giyu was no longer standing by the rocks. He was in front of Sanemi. He had not used a form. He had not used a breath. He had just... moved.

His blade was a blur of blue light, aimed not to disarm, but to end.

Water Breathing, Fourth Form: Striking Tide.

It was the fastest any of them had ever seen him use it. It was not the fluid, adaptable strike of a master. It was a piston of pure killing intent.

Sanemi, for all his mockery, was still a Hashira. His reflexes were inhuman.

Wind Breathing, First Form: Dust Whirlwind Cutter!

CLANG!

It was a high, ringing shriek of steel meeting steel. It was a sound that had never, ever been heard in this courtyard.

Sanemi had blocked it. His green blade was horizontal, holding back Giyu's downward slash.

But the force...

Sanemi's eyes went wide. This was not Giyu's usual, reserved, efficient strength. This was the force of a tidal wave. This was the ocean's bottom.

The block held, but it did not stop.

Sanemi's sandals carved two deep trenches in the pristine gravel as he was hurled backward. He flew a full ten meters, his body a rigid line, before he slammed back-first into the thick, wooden support pillar of the engawa.

CRACK!

The pillar, a foot thick, split. Wood-dust exploded into the air. Sanemi crumpled to the ground, his sword clattering on the stones, his chest heaving, a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

He was laughing. A high, wild, breathless cackle. "You... you finally... HA! You finally did it, you gloomy bastard!"

The courtyard was in chaos.

"ENOUGH!" Rengoku roared, his voice a physical blast of heat as he surged forward.

"TOMIOKA! SHINAZUGAWA! IN THE MASTER'S PRESENCE!" Tengen bellowed, his own blades already half-drawn, moving to flank.

"Stop this."

The command was from Ubuyashiki. His voice was not raised, but it was filled with a cold, sharp power that cut through the panic.

But Giyu did not hear it.

He did not see Rengoku. He did not see Tengen. He did not see you, your hands now pressed against your mouth, your eyes wide with a new, terrifying, and unmistakable awe.

He only saw Sanemi, grinning, bloody, on the ground.

He had hurt you. He had embarrassed you. 

Giyu raised his blade, his empty blue eyes fixed on his target, and charged.

"He's not stopping!" Shinobu shrieked, her voice high with genuine panic. "Himejima-san!"

Sanemi, his feral grin widening, pushed himself up, his own blade flashing. Second Form: Claws-Purifying Wind!

He met Giyu's charge. The courtyard, the sacred ground, erupted. Gravel and air itself seemed to tear apart as Water and Wind collided. It was not a spar. It was a brawl. Giyu's movements were no longer fluid; they were brutal, crushing, overwhelming. Sanemi's were vicious, sharp, and aimed to maim.

CLANG! SHING! KRAK!

"I SAID, ENOUGH!"

Rengoku did not try to get between them. He tackled Giyu, slamming into his side, wrapping his arms around his torso, his feet digging into the gravel to halt the Water Hashira's impossible, rage-fueled momentum.

At the exact same instant, Gyomei was simply there. He had moved with the speed of a silent, gray mountain. He did not grab Sanemi's blade. He grabbed Sanemi's wrist.

CRUNCH.

Sanemi shouted in agony as Gyomei's fingers, like a steel vise, clamped down, his grip absolute, forcing the blade from his nerveless hand.

"You... will... be... still," Gyomei commanded, his voice a low, weeping, and terrible rumble.

"GET OFF ME, YOU BASTARD!" Sanemi roared, trying to kick at the Stone Hashira.

"TOMIOKA! CONTROL YOURSELF!" Rengoku yelled, his arms locked around Giyu's chest.

But Giyu was gone. He was a thing of pure, cold reflex. He slammed his head back, catching Rengoku on the chin, and spun, his blade slicing up...

WHAP.

A blur of white and black. Obanai dropping from his tree, his undrawn sword, still in its sheath, slamming down hard on Giyu's wrist. The shock of the impact, not the pain, was what did it.

Giyu's fingers went numb. His blue Nichirin blade fell from his grasp and clattered onto the gravel.

Silence.

The fight was over. It had lasted less than ten seconds.

Giyu stood, his chest heaving, his arm tingling. He was unarmed. Rengoku was holding him from behind. Gyomei had Sanemi pinned against the splintered pillar, his face a mask of fury. Tengen and Shinobu stood, blades half-drawn, a few feet away, forming a perimeter. You were trembling as Mitsuri held and tried to comfort you.

And Oyakata-sama was still standing on the veranda. He had not moved.

Giyu's mind, which had been a white, roaring void, cleared.

The rage... it was gone.

And the shame.rushed back in.

He saw it. The splintered pillar. The torn gravel. Rengoku, breathing hard, his chin already bruising. Sanemi, bleeding from the mouth, his wrist clearly broken.

And Oyakata-sama.

He had drawn his blade. In this courtyard. In the Master's presence. Against a comrade.

He had attacked a fellow Hashira.

His gaze flicked, uncontrollably, to you.

You were staring at him. Your face was white. Your eyes were wide, not with disgust, but with a new, terrifying... understanding.

You saw. You knew.

He had confirmed it. He had confirmed Sanemi's taunt, with his own violence.

Giyu's world ended.

He could not breathe.

He ripped himself out of Rengoku's grasp.

"Tomioka... Giyu... wait," Rengoku said, his voice now gentle, alarmed.

Giyu didn't listen.

He didn't look at Sanemi. He didn't look at Oyakata-sama. He could not, he would rather die, than look at him right now.

He turned.

And he fled.

He didn't storm. He didn't stride. He ran.

His feet, in their simple sandals, pounded on the gravel, the sound a frantic, desperate, cowardly retreat. He burst through the main gate, his torn, mismatched haori flapping behind him, a banner of his own complete, and now very public, disgrace.

He was gone.

In the courtyard, a new, cold, and terrible silence fell.

Sanemi, his rage now gone, just stared at the empty gateway, his chest heaving, his mind blank. He... he... he... actually...

Mitsuri began to cry, small, terrified sobs.

And you... you just stood there, your heart a wild, frantic, terrified drum.

You looked from the empty gate... to Sanemi's bleeding mouth... and back to the empty gate.

He... you thought, your entire body trembling.

He... he did that...

...for me.

It was rage.

It was protection.

And it was love.

Rengoku, his face grim,looked at the empty gate, his usual bright optimism utterly eclipsed. "Tomioka," he whispered. "By the gods."

The tension was a physical thing, a glass dome pressing down on them all.

"So." Tengen was the first to find his voice, his arms crossed as he stared at the damage. "That... was not flamboyant. That was a disaster."

"He attacked him," Obanai stated from his branch, his voice a flat, cold assessment. "In your presence, Oyakata-sama. He drew his blade on a comrade."

"He was provoked."

The words came from Shinobu. Her smile was gone, her face pale and sharp. Her eyes were fixed on Sanemi with a cold, reptilian anger. "He was goaded, Iguro-san. Like a bear in a cage. You poke it with a stick long enough, you cannot be surprised when it takes your arm."

"He drew first," Sanemi spat, cradling his ruined wrist. "He lost control. He's unstable. He's a—"

"Sanemi."

Ubuyashiki's voice was not loud. It was as soft as a breeze, but it cut through Sanemi's rage like a blade.

The Wind Hashira froze. He looked up at his master, his breathing ragged. The anger in his eyes was still there, but it was now warring with a sudden, cold dread.

Kagaya had not moved. He stood on the veranda, his scarred face turned toward Sanemi. The gentle smile that usually graced his features was gone. It was not replaced by anger, but by something far, far worse: a profound, quiet, and heavy disappointment.

"You are a Hashira, Sanemi," Kagaya said, his voice carrying across the gravel. "You are a pillar of our world. You are supposed to be an example of strength. Of self-control."

"I... Oyakata-sama, he attacked me!" Sanemi protested, the injustice of it burning in his throat.

"And why," Kagaya asked, his voice still impossibly soft, "did he do that?"

Sanemi's mouth clamped shut.

"You knew of his affliction," Kagaya continued. "You know Giyu. You know his silence. You know the burden he carries. You know he is a man who walks in a different kind of darkness than the rest of us."

Giyu's self-imposed isolation, his refusal to train with others, his stark mantra of 'I am not the same as you'—it was a source of irritation for them all. But Kagaya, in that moment, framed it not as arrogance, but as a deep, abiding wound.

"And you," Kagaya's voice was now sharp, a sliver of ice. "You found a new wound. A... a private, nascent feeling. And you decided, in your judgment, to take a knife to it. Here. In front of us all. In front of her."

He did not need to raise his voice. The condemnation was total.

"You did not do it to help him, Sanemi. You did not do it to bring him into the light. You did it to hurt him. You used his affection as a weapon. You used (Y/N) as your prop. You sought to humiliate him, and in doing so, you have shamed yourself. You have shamed this courtyard."

Sanemi's face, which had been pale with pain, was now a deep, blotchy red. He looked down at the gravel, his one good hand clenched into a fist. He was shaking, not with rage, but with a shame that was deeper than any physical pain. He had failed his master.

"That... was not my intention," he muttered, the words thick.

"What was your intention, then?" Kagaya asked, his voice echoing in the silence.

Sanemi had no answer. Because he knew the truth. He had wanted to humiliate Giyu. He had wanted to see him break. He had just never, in his wildest, most fevered imagination, expected him to break like this. He had expected Giyu to stammer, to blush, to flee. He had not expected his head to nearly get taken off.

"He's right, Shinazugawa." Rengoku's voice was low, his bright hair seeming to dim. "That was beneath you."

"Tch." Sanemi spat onto the gravel. He would accept his master's word, but he would not accept Rengoku's.

"Gyomei," Kagaya said, his voice softening again. "Take Sanemi to the Butterfly Estate. Shinobu, please tend to his wrist. It seems Giyu... did not hold back."

"Yes, Oyakata-sama," Gyomei rumbled. He hauled Sanemi to his feet, the Wind Hashira's arm still locked in his grasp, and began to lead him away. Sanemi did not fight. He walked, his head bowed, his defeat absolute.

As they passed, Shinobu gave Sanemi a look of pure, unadulterated loathing. "You are an idiot," she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss for his ears alone. "You took a delicate piece of machinery and you hit it with a sledgehammer. Now it's broken."

Sanemi just growled, too pained and too shamed to retaliate.

The courtyard began to empty. Tengen, shaking his head, muttered, "This is going to be a flamboyant mess to clean up," and vanished. Obanai dropped from his tree, his face a mask. He glanced once at the two remaining girls, then at the empty gate Giyu had fled through, and stalked away. Muichiro had, at some point, already wandered off, his attention stolen by a dragonfly.

Soon, only two people were left on the gravel.

Mitsuri, her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide.

And you.

You had not moved. You were still frozen, your pale skin the color of milk, your hands clenched at your sides.

"(Y/N)-chan...?" Mitsuri whispered, her voice trembling. "Are you... are you okay? That was... that was terrifying."

You didn't respond. You were... processing.

Your mind was a chaotic storm. It was replaying not just the past five minutes, but the last few months.

Giyu gave me directions. He sparred with me. He used his Eleventh Form. He accepted my candy. A blue one. Oyakata-sama assigned us as partners. He ate my snack. The salmon daikon. His... his... favorite... He fought with me. He moved with me. He... he saved me. I saved him. We were a team. He... smiled.

And then, today.

Tomioka's new favorite.

Sanemi's taunt. Giyu's face, his pale, pained face, as he looked at you. The way his body had gone rigid, his scent changing. The shame. The agony.

And then... the rage.

A rage that was not his own. It was a rage that had been born of you. For you.

He had misinterpreted your shock. You saw it now. He had seen your stunned silence, and he had translated it as disgust. He thought you were repulsed by him.

And his reaction to that, his immediate, soul-deep response, was not to flee.

It was to attack.

He had attacked the man who had hurt you. The man who had exposed you. The man who had made you the center of a cruel, public mockery.

He hadn't been defending his own honor. He had been defending yours.

He... likes me, you thought, your mind a dizzying, soaring, terrifying spiral.

He... he... he has... feelings... for me.

The words you had whispered to Mitsuri last night, the ones that had felt so secret and safe, came rushing back.

...the kindest eyes I've ever seen.

You had meant it. And now... you understood. That sadness you saw... that gentleness... it was real. And it was all tangled up with this... this feeling.

A feeling you now recognized in your own chest.

Your heart, which had been frozen in shock, gave a powerful, painful thud.

He has a crush on me.

The way...

The way I have a crush on him.

The realization was so enormous, so sudden, so total, that your knees buckled.

"(Y/N)-chan!" Mitsuri yelped, catching you before you hit the gravel. "Oh, no! You're faint! It's the shock! That Shinazugara, he's a... a... a meanie!"

"He... he did it... for me," you whispered, your voice cracking. You clung to Mitsuri's haori, your whole body trembling.

"What? Who?" Mitsuri asked, her own mind trying to catch up. "Tomioka-san? He... he fought Sanemi-san... because of... you?"

The realization hit Mitsuri. Her eyes, already wide, became perfect saucers.

"Oh," Mitsuri breathed. "Oh. Oh."

"He likes you!" Mitsuri shrieked, her voice a combination of terror and pure, undiluted romantic ecstasy. "Like... like-likes you!"

The pieces all clicked for Mitsuri, forming a beautiful, if terrifying, mosaic.

"But... he ran," you whispered, the hurt returning, sharp and sudden. "He looked... he looked so... angry. And then so ashamed. He ran away."

"He flinched from me," you remembered, the new pain mixing with the old, and a sob broke from your throat. "He... he probably hates me."

"No, no, no!" Mitsuri said, shaking you. "That's not it! He doesn't hate you! He's just... he's Tomioka! He doesn't know how to have feelings! He probably thinks... he probably thinks you hate him!"

You looked up, your eyes shining with unshed tears, meeting Mitsuri's. "You think so?"

"I know so!" Mitsuri said, her voice filled with the absolute conviction of the Love Hashira. "He looked at you... and you looked shocked... and he thought you were disgusted! And so he exploded! It's  tragically romantic!"

"But he attacked a fellowHashira," you whispered, the gravity of it setting in. "In front of Oyakata-sama."

The two of you looked at the veranda, where your master had disappeared. The shattered pillar stood as a monument to what had just happened.

"He's in so much trouble," you said, a new, cold fear washing over you. "And it's my fault."

"No!" Mitsuri said, grabbing your shoulders. "It is not your fault! It's Shinazugawa-san's fault!"

You pulled away from Mitsuri, your mind racing. He was hurt. He was ashamed. He was... alone.

He had run, and he was in pain, and it was because of you. Because of what he felt, and what Sanemi said, and what you didn't say.

You had to find him.

You had to fix this.

"Where are you going?" Mitsuri called out, as you turned from her, your face set with a new, terrified determination.

"I have to find him," you said, your voice shaking but resolute. "I have to talk to him."

"Wait! That's probably a bad idea! He angry!"

"He's my partner," you said, the word tasting heavy.

You turned and ran.

You ran from the courtyard, ignoring Mitsuri's cry of wait. You didn't care about his anger. His anger was a shield, just like your breathing style. You had just seen the man behind the shield, and he was in more pain than anyone you had ever known.

You ran. Your mind was a desperate, chaotic map. Where? Where would he go?

He wouldn't go to the Butterfly Estate. He was the antithesis of Shinobu's world. He wouldn't go to the training grounds; they were too open, too public. He wouldn't be anywhere near the other Hashira.

He would go where he always went. Away.

You sprinted to his estate first, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. The Water Estate was silent, the air still and heavy. The doors were slid open.

"Tomioka-san?" you called out, your voice echoing in the empty, pristine dojo.

Nothing. The koi in his pond swam lazily, their colors a mocking, placid contrast to the storm in your chest. He was not here.

Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at you. He hadn't just retreated. He had fled. He had run from you.

You ran back out, your mind racing. Where does a man who wants to disappear go? Where does a man who hates himself go to be alone?

You raced past the main compound, your light sandals barely making a sound on the packed earth. You ran past the training fields, past the small shrine, and into the woods that bordered the north side of the headquarters. The manicured paths gave way to a deer track, and then to nothing but thick, tangled undergrowth.

You were running blind, fueled only by a desperate, aching need to find him, to fix this. To tell him... what? I'm not disgusted? I like you, too? The thought made your face burn, but you didn't slow.

The forest grew darker, the trees thicker. Twilight was falling in earnest, the sky turning a deep, bruised purple. You were lost. You had no idea where he could be.

"Ami!" you cried out, your voice sharp.

A whoosh of wings, and a small, pearl-gray crow detached itself from a high branch, landing neatly on your outstretched arm. It was smaller than the other Kasugai crows, and much quieter.

"Ami, please," you whispered, your voice trembling. You pressed your fingers to your forehead, trying to focus. "Find him. Please. Find Tomioka-san."

The crow, Ami, cocked her head, her black, intelligent eyes staring into yours. She let out a single, soft caw. She understood the scent of your distress, and she understood the name that was inextricably linked to it.

Ami launched from your arm, a gray streak against the darkening sky, and flew northwest, toward the mountains.

"Wait!" you cried, plunging into the undergrowth after her.

It was not a run. It was a fight. Thorny brambles tore at your white haori, snagging the delicate silk. A low-hanging branch caught your cheek, leaving a stinging red line. Your sandals, so perfect for the dojo floor, were useless on the slick, leaf-strewn incline. You stumbled, catching yourself on a mossy rock, your palms stinging.

You didn't care. You just kept moving, your eyes fixed on the gray speck of your crow, your ears straining for its guiding caw.

You were climbing now, your lungs burning, the cold mountain air sharp in your throat. The roar of the headquarters was gone, replaced by the sound of wind in the high pines and... something else.

A deeper sound. A constant, rushing roar.

Water.

Ami let out a sharp, piercing cry, circling high above a dense cluster of rocks and cypress trees.

"Ami!" you gasped, scrambling up the last, rocky incline.

You burst through a curtain of hanging vines and stopped, your breath stolen.

It was a box canyon, a deep, hidden fold in the mountain. A massive waterfall, easily a hundred feet high, crashed down from a dark, stone precipice, its water a churning, white torrent in the gloom. It hammered into a deep, black, and violent pool, sending a cold, permanent mist into the air that clung to everything.

Your crow cawed again, landing on a branch overhead.

You scanned the clearing. The roar of the water was immense, a physical weight in the air. "Giyu-san?" you called out, your voice sounding small, snatched away by the noise. "Tomioka-san!"

Nothing.

You saw his haori.

It was folded. Not thrown. Folded. Perfectly. It sat on a dry, flat rock near the edge of the pool, his red and green-and-yellow haori a small, sad patch of color in the gray mist.

Your heart seized. Oh, no. Please... no.

You ran to the edge of the pool, your eyes scanning the black, churning water. "Giyu!"

And then you saw him.

He was not in the pool. He was under it.

He was standing, his back to you, directly beneath the full, punishing, brutal cascade of the waterfall.

He was in his black slayer uniform, his Nichirin blade still strapped to his side. The water, thousands of gallons a second, hammered onto his shoulders and head. It was a force that should have flattened a man.

But he stood.

He was rigid, his feet planted on the submerged rock, his arms locked at his sides. He was a statue of pure, self-inflicted penance. He was not training. He was not washing away the shame. He was taking it. He was letting the mountain hit him, again and again, a physical echo of the emotional beating he had just endured.

He was trying to drown his feelings. He was trying to freeze the part of him that cared.

The sight of it broke you.

The shy, blushing girl was gone. The awe-struck rookie was gone. The only thing left was the Protector. The woman whose deepest instinct was to shield.

And the man you loved was trying to destroy himself.

"GIYU-SAN!" you screamed, your voice a raw tear against the roar of the water.

He flinched. A violent, full-body jolt. He knew your voice.

He turned, his head moving with a terrible, slow deliberation. His black hair was plastered to his skull, water streaming from his face. And his eyes...

His eyes were wide, blue, and wild. They were the eyes of a cornered animal, a wolf caught in a trap. They were not sad. They were furious.

"GO!" he roared. His voice was a raw, broken sound, barely audible over the water. "GO AWAY!"

This was not a request. It was a command, born of sheer, desperate terror. He was not angry at you. He was terrified of you. Terrified of you seeing him like this. Broken. Ashamed. Pathetic.

Your resolve hardened. He can't push me away. Not this time.

You took one step into the churning pool.

The cold was immediate. It was not a gentle chill. It was a shock, a physical blow that stole your breath and drove needles of ice into your ankles. The water was melt-off from the mountain, and it was bitter.

"NO!" he yelled, his voice cracking. He took a step toward you, his hand raised. "GO BACK! IT'S NOT SAFE!"

He was, even now, still trying to protect you.

"NO!" you screamed back, the word torn from your throat. You took another step, the water swirling around your knees, the current pulling, strong. You stumbled on a slick, unseen rock, catching yourself.

"I am not leaving you!"

You were the Flower Hashira. You set your feet, found your balance, and pushed. You fought the current, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps against the cold. The water was at your waist now, your skirt a heavy, dragging weight, your haori fanning out around you like a drowning lily.

"I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE!" Giyu roared. He turned his back to you, a final, brutal, 'you are not welcome here' gesture. He braced himself under the water again, as if you were not there.

You lunged.

You used your breath, a sharp hiss of Flower Breathing, to propel you through the last, deepest part of the pool. You burst through the hammering, ice-cold curtain of the waterfall itself.

The force of it hit you. It was like being punched by the mountain. You were blinded, deafened, and you slammed hard into his back.

He was a wall. A wall of cold, unyielding, shaking iron.

You threw your arms around him from behind, your small hands locking around his uniform, your face pressed into the soaking, cold fabric of his back. You held on, your entire body trembling, not just from the cold, but from the sheer, terrifying vibration of the man you were holding. He was shaking. Not from a chill. From everything. From the rage. From the shame. From the desperate, agonizing effort of holding himself together.

"Giyu," you cried, your voice muffled against his back, the name a broken, familiar thing. "Giyu... please."

He roared. It was not a word. It was a sound of pure, animalistic agony.

He grabbed your arms, his fingers digging into your forearms like steel traps, and tore you off him. He spun, his movements fast and violent, and slammed you back against the wet, mossy rock wall behind the waterfall.

The impact knocked the wind from you. You gasped, your head hitting the stone.

He was in front of you, his hands braced on the rock on either side of your head, caging you in. Water streamed from his hair, his face, his uniform. You were in a small, dark cavern behind the falls, the roar of the water a deafening, echoing tomb.

His face was inches from yours. His "kind eyes" were wide, blue, and mad with a pain you couldn't understand.

"WHY?" he yelled, his voice raw, echoing in the small space. "Why did you follow me? Why can't you just leave me alone?"

He was shaking. His shoulders, his arms, his hands... they were all trembling with a force that had nothing to do with the cold.

You, your back aching, your head spinning, looked at this broken, beautiful, furious man. You were not afraid of him. You were heartbroken for him.

"Because..." you said, your voice a reedy, trembling thing, but you met his gaze. You did not look away. "Because you ran."

"I... I..." He looked lost. The rage was cracking.

"You ran," you whispered, your voice gaining a small, trembling strength. "Shinazugawa-san hurt you. He said that. And you looked at me and you thought..."

"STOP," he breathed, the word a plea. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Don't."

"You thought I was disgusted," you finished, your voice breaking.

His eyes snapped open. The wildness was still there, but it was raw. It was pain.

"I'm not," you whispered.

Giyu's breath hitched. He stared at you, his mind unable to process the words.

"I'm not disgusted, Giyu-san," you said, your voice a little stronger. "I was shocked. I didn't know."

"You don't..." he started, his voice a rasp. "It's not what he..."

"Is it?" you interrupted, your eyes searching his. "Is it not true?"

Giyu froze.

You were asking him.

You were asking him if he had feelings for you.

He couldn't breathe.

The silence stretched, filled only by the roar of the waterfall around them.

He couldn't lie to you. He couldn't.

He broke.

The stone crumbled. The iron shattered. The Water Hashira vanished.

His face, his beautiful, stoic, agonized face, crumpled.

His shoulders slumped. His hands, braced against the wall, began to slide. He fell. He didn't fall down. He fell in.

His forehead thudded gently against your shoulder.

His body sagged against yours.

He was shaking. Not with rage. But with sobs. Silent, wracking, terrible sobs that tore through him.

Your own breath stalled.

He was crying.

This man. This pillar of ice and silence.

He was broken.

And he was clinging to you.

Your arms, which had been trapped between you, came up.

They wrapped around his neck.

Your cold, wet hands buried themselves in his soaked hair.

You held him.

You held him tight.

"It's okay," you whispered, your own tears streaming down your face, mixing with the waterfall. "It's okay. I'm here."

"I... I..." he choked out, his voice a ruined thing. "I'm sorry."

"Shhh," you said, holding him tighter. "It's okay. You don't have to talk. Just breathe. Just breathe."

He didn't answer. He just clung to you.

He hid his face in the curve of your neck, and for the first time since he was a child, he just let go.

He let the shame and the grief and the terrible, aching loneliness of the last decade out.

And you, the Flower Hashira, his partner...

You held him.

You were his shield.

Giyu clung to you. His face was buried in the curve of your neck, his body wracked by silent, tearing sobs. The dam had not just broken; it had been obliterated. A decade of tightly controlled grief, of self-imposed isolation, of the crushing weight of his perceived fraudulence—it all came pouring out, a flood that threatened to drown him.

He wept for Sabito, the laughing, righteous boy who should have been standing here. He wept for his sister, Tsutako, for the flash of her wedding kimono on the night the demon came. He wept for Urokodaki and the disappointment he must surely feel. He wept for the Hashira he stood beside but never with, for the gulf of his own making that separated him from them.

He wept for the terrible, aching loneliness that had been his constant companion.

And through it all, you held him.

You did not speak. You did not offer platitudes. You simply held him, your small arms wrapped fiercely around his neck, your cold, wet hands tangled in his soaked hair. Your own body was trembling against his—partly from the icy water that hammered down just inches away, partly from the sheer, raw violence of his grief.

You were so small. Yet you were anchoring him. Your presence was a steady point of warmth in the freezing, roaring darkness. You were the rock face he was pressed against, the only solid thing in a world that had dissolved into pain.

He could feel your breath warm against his ear. He could feel the frantic, bird-like beat of your heart against his chest. He could smell the clean scent of soap, the faint trace of sugar, underneath the cold, metallic tang of the mountain water.

You were real. You were here. You had followed him.

He sobbed harder, a ragged sound ripped from his throat. He hadn't meant to run. He had just been terrified. Terrified of you seeing the pathetic, broken thing he was. Terrified of tainting you with his own darkness. Terrified of the impossible, fragile hope you represented.

He had hurt you. He had made you think he hated you.

Gentle. Kindest eyes.

The memory surfaced again, a tiny, flickering candle in the storm. Your voice, hesitant and soft, on the veranda. You hadn't been disgusted. You hadn't been mocking him. You had seen something good in him. Something he hadn't believed existed.

"Disgusted?"

Your voice, from moments ago, right here in this watery cavern. He heard it again, clear as a bell.

I am not disgusted, Giyu-san.

He clung to the words. He turned them over in his mind, testing their weight, their truth. You hadn't recoiled. You hadn't screamed. You hadn't run.

Eventually, the sobs began to subside. The raw, tearing grief was still there, a deep, hollow ache in his chest, but the frantic edge was gone. He was still shaking, but it was a finer tremor now, exhaustion setting in. He was cold. So cold. The waterfall hammered down, a relentless, icy punishment.

He became aware, slowly, of the arms around his neck. Of the small body pressed against his back, offering what little warmth it had. Of the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing against his ear.

You were still here. You hadn't run. You weren't disgusted.

You might...

The thought was too terrifying to complete. But it was there. A tiny, fragile seed of impossible hope planted in the ruins of his breakdown.

He slowly, carefully, began to pull himself back together. The stoic mask, shattered beyond repair, couldn't be reformed. But he could breathe.

He took a breath. A ragged, shuddering inhale that tasted of cold water and stone.

He took another.

He could feel you shift slightly as he did, your hold on him loosening just a fraction, giving him space.

He slowly lifted his head from your shoulder. The movement felt heavy, weighted. He kept his face turned away, staring at the roaring sheet of water that separated them from the world. He couldn't look at you. Not yet.

"I..." His voice was a wreck. A raw, shredded whisper. "I am sorry."

Your arms tightened around his neck again, a brief, reassuring squeeze. "Don't," you whispered back, your voice thick, still close to his ear. "Don't apologize. Not for that."

He didn't know what "that" meant. For crying? For clinging to you? For everything?

"I hurt you," he said, the guilt a fresh stab. 

He felt you go still against his back.

"You were scared," you said, your voice quiet, uncertain. "I startled you."

"No," he said, the word rough. He forced himself to be honest. At least about this. "I was ashamed. Of myself. Not of you. Never of you."

He felt your breath hitch.

The silence stretched again, filled only by the roar of the water. He could feel you thinking, processing his words.

"Why?" you finally whispered. "Why were you ashamed?"

He couldn't tell you. He couldn't tell you about Sabito. He couldn't tell you about the tree. He couldn't tell you why.

"I am not..." he began, the old, familiar lie rising to his lips. I am not qualified. I am not the same.

But he stopped. He couldn't say it. Not now. Not after this. Not while you were holding him.

"It doesn't matter," he mumbled instead, staring at the water.

"It does matter," you said, your voice regaining a fraction of its gentle firmness. "It matters to me."

He squeezed his eyes shut. You weren't letting him retreat. You weren't letting him hide.

"You thought I was disgusted," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "In the courtyard. When Shinazugawa-san..."

Giyu flinched, a small, involuntary movement.

"I wasn't," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper again. "I was just shocked. I didn't know what to think."

He could feel your cheek press lightly against him as you spoke.

"He shouldn't have said that," you continued, a flicker of anger in your tone. "It was cruel. To you. And..."

You hesitated.

"...and to me," you finished, the words barely audible.

He felt you shift again. Your arms loosened around his neck. Your hands slid down, resting gently on his shoulders.

"Giyu-san," you whispered.

He slowly, hesitantly, turned his head. Just enough to see your face in the dim, watery light filtering through the falls.

You were looking at him. Your face was pale, tear-streaked, your hair plastered to your skin. But your eyes were fixed on his. And they were clear. They held no disgust. No pity. No mockery.

They held concern. And something else. Something hesitant. Something warm.

"You are not disqualified," you said, your voice soft but firm. "You are the Water Hashira. You are my partner. You are brave. You are kind."

You were refuting his self-hatred. You were defending him. To himself.

"And I..." you began, your voice trembling again. Your gaze dropped, just for a second, to his lips, then darted back up to his eyes. Your blush, even in the cold, returned—a faint, lovely warmth on your pale cheeks.

"I am honored," you whispered. 

Honored?

The word made no sense. Honored by what? By his pathetic feelings? By his tree-climbing?

"Honored that someone as strong and gentle as you..." Your voice faltered. You took a breath. "...could feel anything like that for me."

Giyu's world stopped.

It didn't shatter. It didn't explode.

It just stopped.

The roar of the waterfall faded. The cold vanished. The shame, the grief, the fear—it all just receded.

There was only your face. Your words.

Honored. Strong. Gentle. Feel anything like that. For me.

He stared at you, his mind a silent, echoing chamber.

You felt the same way.

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a hope. It was in your eyes. It was in your blush. It was in the trembling of your hands on his shoulders. It was in the word.

Honored.

He... he...

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. He had never been here before.

He just looked at you.

He saw the girl from the path, blushing and lost. He saw the Hashira in the dojo, a blur of impossible grace. He saw the warrior on the mountain pass, her blade a piercing drill. He saw the kind woman who had brought him daikon.

And now he saw this. This small, trembling, brave girl, standing in a freezing waterfall, holding onto a broken man, and telling him... telling him...

He reached up. Slowly. His hand, shaking, brushed a strand of wet hair from your cheek. His fingers were numb with cold, but your skin was warm.

You gasped, a tiny, sharp intake of breath. Your eyes widened. You didn't pull away.

You leaned into his touch. Just a fraction. A centimeter.

He was still broken. He was still a fraud. He was still Giyu.

But maybe... just maybe...

That was enough.

He looked into your luminous, kind eyes.

And for the first time in a very long time, Giyu smiled.

A real smile. Small. Watery. Broken.

But real.

And your heart didn't just stop.

It flew.

You rose on your toes, a small, unthinking movement. Your cold, wet hands slid from his shoulders, one moving up to cup the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his soaked, matted hair. The other hand came to rest on his jaw, your thumb tracing the sharp line of his bone.

And then, you closed the final distance.

Your lips, cold and chapped from the water, pressed against his.

It was a collision. It was clumsy, wet, and freezing. It was nothing like the stories. It was all chattering teeth and the awkward, shocking press of skin. It was the first kiss for both of you, and neither had any idea what you were doing.

For Giyu, it was a cataclysm.

His entire body seized. The touch, so gentle, so warm despite the cold, was an electrical shock that bypassed his brain and went straight to his heart. His mind, which had just begun to piece itself back together, went utterly, blindingly white.

This was not happening. This could not be happening.

You were kissing him.

He was a fraud. He was a coward. He was unworthy. He was the man who had flinched from you. He was Sanemi's joke.

You were the Flower Hashira. You were gentle, pure, and strong. You were wrong. This was a mistake. You had misunderstood. You were kissing a ghost.

You felt his response. Or rather, his lack of it.

He was a statue. His lips were cold, unresponsive, pressed shut beneath yours. His body was rigid, his hands still braced against the rocky wall on either side of your head, caging you in but not touching you.

A new, colder panic washed over you, more chilling than the waterfall.

I made a mistake. Oh, god, I made a mistake.

He is disgusted. This wasn't affection. This was assault. You had forced this on him.

You pulled back, a small, horrified gasp escaping you. Your face, which had been warm with resolve, was now as pale and cold as the water.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, your voice a wrecked, broken thing. "I... Giyu-san, I didn't mean to. I misread."

You tried to pull away, to turn your face, to flee as he had.

"No."

The word was not spoken. It was a groan. A deep, primal sound ripped from his very center.

Giyu's mind had rebooted. He had seen you pull away. He had seen the terror in your eyes—not of him, but of your own perceived mistake. He had seen the light he had just rekindled, and he had, again, been the one to snuff it out.

He couldn't. He wouldn't.

His body moved, finally, before his brain could list the thousand reasons why he was unworthy.

His hand, the one that had been braced on the stone beside your head, moved. It was not gentle. It was clumsy, desperate, and fast. It clamped onto your waist, his fingers digging into the soaked fabric of your uniform, and he pulled you.

Hard.

The small space between you vanished. You gasped as your body slammed flush against his, the air driven from your lungs. You were no longer pinned against the wall. You were pinned against him.

His other hand, the one that had been on your cheek, slid, grasping, into the thick, wet mass of your hair at the back of your head. He angled your face, his grip unsteady, his whole arm shaking.

He was so, so cold. And he was burning.

He looked at you, his blue eyes dark, wide, and filled with a terrifying, raw need. He was not calm. He was not gentle. He was a drowning man, and you were the only solid thing in the ocean.

"Don't stop," he whispered, his voice a raw rasp.

And then, he kissed you.

It was not a kiss of finesse. It was a kiss of desperation. It was a raw, bruising press of his mouth to yours, clumsy, angled wrong, and everything.

Your shock lasted only a second. The relief that flooded you was so profound, so all-consuming, that your legs gave out. You sagged against him, your own arms locking around his neck, holding on as if he were the only thing keeping you from being swept away by the waterfall.

He wasn't responding to your kiss. He was answering it.

He didn't know what he was doing. His lips were firm, untrained, moving against yours with a desperate, seeking pressure. He tasted of cold stone, of iron, of the faint, clean salt of his own tears. He was shaking, his entire body trembling against yours, the last of his iron control completely, totally gone.

For you, the clumsiness was the perfection. This was not the smooth, practiced kiss of a man like Tengen. Giyu’s kiss was honest. It was raw. It was real.

You kissed him back, your own inexperience meeting his. It was a fumbling, breathless, beautiful mess. Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer.

Giyu's mind, which had been a white static of terror, was now a white light of sensation. He could feel everything. The softness of your lips. The cold water sluicing over his back. The impossible warmth of your body pressed against his. The rapid, frantic beat of your heart against his ribs.

You were here. You were real. You were not disgusted.

His hand at your waist tightened, pulling you so close he thought you might fuse, two pieces of ice melting into one. The last wall inside him, the one that held back the hope, the longing, the love... it didn't just break. It vaporized.

The roar of the waterfall, which had been the only sound in the world, was gone. The cold, which had leeched all the feeling from his skin, was gone. There was only this. This impossible, terrifying, warm contact. This feeling.

He had been alone for so long. He had been a ghost, haunting his own life. And now he was touching someone. Someone who was touching him back.

A small, broken sound escaped his throat, a sound that was half-groan, half-sob, and he kissed you deeper, no longer asking, but claiming. He was clumsy. He was desperate. He was starving.

You met his desperation, your own needs, so long suppressed, rising to meet him. You were the shield, and he was the man who needed one. He was the stoic pillar, and you were the one who saw the cracks. It was a perfect, terrible, beautiful fit.

It was only the need for air, a burning, human, inconvenient need, that finally broke you apart.

You didn't separate. You just parted.

Your lips unlocked with a small, wet sound that was shockingly loud in the sudden, roaring return of the waterfall's thunder.

You rested your foreheads against each other.

You were both gasping, your breath pluming in the cold, misty air. You were trembling so hard your teeth chattered. You were soaked. You were freezing. And neither of you had ever felt so warm.

Giyu's eyes were squeezed shut. He couldn't open them. He couldn't face this. The reality of what he had just done. What you had just done.

His hands were still tangled in your hair, gripping your waist. He had not let you go. He was terrified that if he did, you would dissolve. That this was a dream. A hallucination brought on by shame and hypothermia.

"Giyu..."

Your voice. It was a wreck. A breathless, shaky, wonderful whisper against his skin.

He couldn't answer. He had no words. He had never had words for this.

"Giyu," you said again, and he felt your cold hand move from his neck, your fingers, so small, tracing the line of his jaw. "Look at me."

He couldn't.

"Please."

He had to.

Slowly, his eyelids, which felt as heavy as stone, flickered open.

You were right there. Inches away. Your pale, pupil-less lavender eyes were wide, luminous in the dim, gray light. They were shining, not just with tears, but with you. With a dawning, terrified, brilliant joy.

"You are freezing," you whispered, your own body shivering violently against his. "We have to get out of the water."

It was the most practical, logical, normal thing you could have said.

It saved him.

He could do that. He could be functional.

He didn't speak. He just nodded. A single, jerky, agonized nod.

He did not let go of you. He could not let go of you.

His arm, which had been locked around your waist, tightened. He shifted, turning his body, putting himself between you and the worst of the waterfall's spray. He kept one hand buried in your hair, anchoring you to him, and used his other to find a handhold on the slick, mossy rock.

"Hold on," he rasped.

He moved, half-pulling, half-carrying you out of the small cavern.

The main force of the waterfall hit you again, a sudden, brutal, ice-cold slap from reality. It was a punishing, deafening roar. You cried out, burying your face against his chest, your arms locking around his neck.

Giyu didn't flinch. He set his feet, braced his body against the tonnage of water, and pushed. He was the Water Hashira. This was his element.

He pushed through the curtain.

The sudden, relative quiet of the canyon was a shock. He half-dragged, half-carried you through the churning, waist-deep pool, his legs stronger, his body a shield against the current. He did not let you stumble.

You collapsed onto the rocky bank, onto the sharp, cold gravel. You landed in a wet, tangled heap, your limbs entwined, both of you gasping, your chests heaving.

The cold was immediate. The water, no longer a buffer, was just water. And it was freezing.

"God," you breathed, shivering so hard your teeth chattered.

Giyu pulled away, just enough to sit up. He looked at you.

You were a mess. Your uniform. Your haori was torn from your run, soaked and clinging, gray with dirt. Your beautiful hair was a tangled, dripping mop. Your lips were pale and starting to turn blue.

He was a monster.

"You’re freezing," he said, his voice a low, rough rasp.

He looked at his own haori. His dry haori. Still neatly folded on the rock, a monument to his earlier, simpler, lonely despair.

He grabbed it.

"Here," he grunted.

He didn't ask. He just acted. He unhooked your own wet, clinging haori from your shoulders, dropping it to the ground. Then, he took his dry one, shook it open and, with a clumsy, awkward, desperate tenderness, he wrapped it around you.

You clutched the fabric, your small, cold hands disappearing into the sleeves. It was warm. Or, at least, it was dry. It smelled like him. Faintly of soap, and cedar, and something uniquely Giyu.

You turned, your face buried in the warm, dry silk, your lavender eyes, wide and shining, peering up at him.

"Giyu..." you started.

He looked at you. Really looked at you.

You were tiny. You were drenched. You were shivering.

And you were wearing his haori.

You were his.

The thought hit him.

He was in love.

And you...

He looked at your face.

You weren't running. You were waiting.

He had to say something.

He couldn't.

So, he did the only thing he could.

He sat down.

He sat on the cold rock, his back to the roaring waterfall, his own soaked, black uniform dripping onto the gravel. He looked at his feet.

The silence stretched.

It was your turn.

You watched him. This impossible man.

He had attacked a Hashira. He had run. He had cried. He had kissed you.

He had given you his haori.

And now he wasn't talking.

A small smile touched your lips.

It was okay.

You knew his language.

You sat down next to him.

You didn't touch him.

You just sat.

You pulled his haori tighter around you.

You sat in silence.

The waterfall roared. The moon shone.

And for the first time...

Giyu wasn't alone.

The End.

~

You emerged scrubbed raw, your skin flushed pink. Aoi, ever efficient, had tersely provided you with a fresh set of clothes, but Mitsuri—vibrating with an energy that could power a small village—had intercepted her.

"Absolutely not! You're coming with me!" the Love Hashira declared, practically dragging you by the wrist. "You survived! You were amazing! And you look exhausted! That means you need one thing, and one thing only: a sleepover! And sugar!"

Which was how you found yourself, two hours later, sitting on the sun-warmed engawa of the Love Estate. You were swimming in a borrowed, pale-pink yukata that smelled faintly of cherry blossoms. The estate itself was a reflection of its master: bright, open, airy, and featuring an impractical number of heart-shaped cutouts in the shoji screens.

And there was, as promised, a feast.

It was a sweet-tooth's paradise. There were towering plates of sakura mochi, their pale pink rice glistening; skewers of dango stacked in cheerful rows; ichigo daifuku, plump and white with the red tip of a strawberry peeking out. And in the center, a large ceramic bowl filled to the brim with glittering, multi-colored konpeito.

"I just can't believe it!" Mitsuri said, her mouth full of mochi. Her green-and-pink braids were slightly messy, and she was already on her fourth dessert. "You just... you just did it! You made a dome! A... a garden of petals!"

You blushed, nibbling on a pink dango. After the vulnerability of the bath, your natural shyness had returned in full force.

"It... it wasn't that impressive, Mitsuri-san. I just did my forms. It was Shinazugawa-san and Iguro-san who were truly amazing. They were so fast. When they finally attacked... it was like watching two storms collide. I've never seen anything so powerful."

"Ehhhh?" Mitsuri tilted her head, swallowing. "But... but they're so scary! Shinazugawa-san is always yelling, and Iguro-san is... well, he's always just... staring." She shivered, but it was a happy, excited shiver. "I'm just so glad they didn't hurt you! I was so worried!"

"Oh, no, they were..." You paused, trying to find the right word to describe the terrified awe you felt watching the Wind and Serpent Hashiras work. "They were... focused. Very professional. They didn't talk much to me, but they were incredible."

Mitsuri giggled, a high, bright sound like a string of silver bells. "I guess so! Oh, this is so much fun! We have to do this all the time! Hashira sleepover! We'll invite Shinobu-chan next time! Oh, maybe we could even get Tomioka-san to come!"

At the mention of Giyu, your hand—reaching for a piece of candy—froze. A blush that had nothing to do with shyness and everything to do with a certain stoic Water Hashira rose from the collar of your yukata.

"I... I don't think he would enjoy this, Mitsuri-san," you murmured, your gaze dropping to the plate. You thought of your patrol partner—the long silences, the awkward nods. "He seems... very serious. He barely tolerates me on patrol as it is."

"Oh, probably!" Mitsuri laughed again, a joyous, carefree sound that drifted on the late afternoon breeze, clear over the high stone wall that separated the Love Estate from its neighbor.

…

Clack. Thwack. Hiss.

The dojo at the Serpent Estate was the antithesis of its neighbor. It was all gray stone, dark, unpolished wood, and cold, functional silence.

Sanemi and Obanai were sparring. It was not a spar of skill. It was an exorcism.

Sanemi’s bokken strikes were over-extended, furious, and sloppy. He was putting all his weight and rage into them, trying to shatter something—anything. Obanai's movements were tighter, more serpentine, but they were equally vicious, his bokken darting in like a fang, aimed at joints and nerve centers.

They were both, in their own way, processing the same thing: the profound, infuriating uselessness they had felt in the village during their joint mission.

Clack! Sanemi's heavy downward strike was parried by Obanai, who used the momentum to flow around him.

"You're swinging like a drunkard," Obanai rasped, his bokken tapping Sanemi sharply on the ribs.

"And you're... dancing like... her!" Sanemi roared, spinning, his bokken cutting a wide, horizontal arc that Obanai was forced to duck under.

Sanemi was furious because the new Flower Hashira had been right. Because her defense had been more useful than his offense. He was a storm, but she had been the wall that the storm couldn't break.

Obanai was furious because he hadn't seen it. His eyes, his precision—those were his pride. And you, with those soft, flower-patterned eyes, had seen everything. The traps. The threads. The demon's heart. You had rendered his own senses obsolete.

They were the Corps' sharpest blades, and they had been relegated to the role of... backup.

"Stand still!" Sanemi bellowed.

"Be precise," Obanai hissed.

"I'll show you precise—"

It was then that the sound came. A high, bright, silver-bell laugh, clear as day, cutting right through the strained, masculine air of their dojo.

Obanai froze.

His bokken, which had been aimed at Sanemi's throat, stopped mid-thrust. His head, covered in its usual bandages, snapped in the direction of the Love Estate. Every muscle in his body went rigid.

Sanemi, his own bokken raised, skidded to a halt. "What? What the hell is wrong with you? Don't stop in the—"

"Quiet."

Obanai's voice was a low command. He was listening, his head tilted.

Another giggle, lighter this time, but unmistakably Mitsuri's.

A slow, strange, almost... soft expression entered Obanai's mismatched eyes. He lowered his bokken, his entire focus shifting. The spar, Sanemi, the mission—it all evaporated. There was only the sound.

Obanai turned and moved, not walking, but flowing toward the high stone wall that bordered his estate. He was silent as a shadow.

Sanemi stared at his back, his brow furrowed, his face a mask of aggravated confusion. "Oi! Iguro! Where the hell are you going? We're not finished!"

Obanai didn't answer. He reached the wall and, with athletic, serpentine grace, found holds in the stone and climbed. He was up, perched on the top of the ten-foot wall, in seconds.

"You bandaged freak!" Sanemi snarled, his patience gone. "What are you, a damn cat?"

He was agitated, his spar unfinished, his rage unvented. With a growl, he threw his bokken aside and stalked after him. He was a less graceful climber, his movements more brute-force, but he was a Hashira. He hauled himself up the wall and settled on the wide stone, his legs dangling.

"This is ridiculous," he growled. "If you're just going to spy on Kanroji again, I'm... I'm..."

His voice trailed off. He looked down into the neighboring garden.

His jaw dropped.

"What the hell is that?"

His gaze was fixed on the veranda. It wasn't the two women, not at first. It was the food. The sheer, obscene quantity of sugar. Plates and platters and bowls of it. 

"She's trying to kill herself," he muttered, disgusted. "That's not food. It's poison."

Obanai paid no attention to Sanemi. He wasn't looking at the food. He was looking at Mitsuri.

His gaze was fixed, intense, and unmoving. He cataloged everything. The way her pink-and-green hair was tied up, but strands had escaped to frame her flushed, happy face. The way she laughed, her hand covering her mouth. The pale pink yukata she wore. He just... watched. His breathing was steady, his body perfectly still. It was a silent, total adoration.

Sanemi scoffed. "You're a creep, you know that?"

Obanai didn't so much as flicker an eyelid. "It's... surveillance."

"Surveillance of what?" Sanemi snarled. "Mochi? You're pathetic. I'm leaving."

He started to shift, to climb back down.

"Wait." Obanai's voice was sharp.

"What now?"

"We're not alone." Obanai's gaze had left Mitsuri, lifting to the trees on the far side of the Love Estate's garden.

Sanemi stopped. He squinted, following Obanai's line of sight. The Love Estate was bordered by a small patch of woods that led toward the Butterfly Estate. In the branches of a large, dark-leafed oak tree, there was a shape.

It was a blot of shadow, unmoving. A flicker of mismatched fabric.

"Is that..." Sanemi breathed.

"Tomioka," Obanai finished, and his voice was a low, venomous hiss.

There, perched on a thick branch with all the stealth of a trained assassin, was Giyu. He was in his full uniform, his haori a splash against the leaves. He was partially obscured, but his profile was unmistakable. He was stock-still, silent as the grave, and he was staring, unblinking, down into the Love Estate's garden.

A wave of jealous, possessive rage rolled off Obanai. Kaburamaru, his white snake, seemed to sense it, its head rising from his shoulder, its tongue flicking.

"That disgusting... pervert," Obanai rasped, his voice shaking with a cold fury. "Stalking her. Hiding in the shadows to... to watch Kanroji. He's vile."

"Hah," Sanemi grunted, settling back onto the wall, his own departure forgotten. This was getting interesting. "He's always been a depressing creep. What's new?"

"This is different," Obanai hissed. He was genuinely, truly furious. He was gathering himself, coiling his muscles as if to launch himself across the garden and attack. "He has no right. He has no honor. Spying on her in her private time. It's... it's..."

"It's exactly what we're doing," Sanemi pointed out, his voice flat.

"It's not the same!" Obanai snapped. "We're her... her colleagues. We're next door. He's skulking. He's a... a voyeur. He's probably imagining things."

"And you're not?" Sanemi countered, a sharp intelligence in his gaze.

Obanai ignored him, his eyes narrowed, his hands clenched. He watched Giyu, his disgust mounting. He watched Giyu's head, waiting for it to track Mitsuri as she reached for another dango.

But Giyu's head did not move.

Obanai froze.

"Wait," he whispered.

Mitsuri laughed again, that bright, bell-like sound, and she stood up to retrieve a small teapot from a tray. It was a clear, full movement.

Giyu's gaze did not follow her.

It remained fixed, locked onto the veranda, right where Mitsuri had been.

Where you still were.

Sanemi, who had also been watching Giyu, saw it too. "Huh," he grunted. "His eyes are broken."

"No," Obanai breathed. His mismatched gaze was sharp, analytical, like a hawk tracking its prey.

On the veranda, you had said something, your voice too soft to carry. You smiled, that small, shy smile you’d given Giyu the last time you saw him, earlier that day.

Giyu's posture, which had been rigid, changed. He leaned forward, just a fraction. A centimeter.

Then, Mitsuri sat back down, blocking you from his view for a moment. Giyu's head shifted slightly to the left, his gaze moving around Mitsuri, to reacquire his original target.

You, unaware of your audience, reached for another piece of konpeito. You popped it in your mouth, and your face lit up with simple, childish bliss. And as you did, you smiled—the full, wide, unguarded one.

Giyu moved. He gripped the branch he was on, his knuckles whitening, his entire body tensing as if he'd just been struck by lightning.

And in that instant, Obanai understood.

Sanemi, watching Obanai's face, saw the Serpent Hashira's expression go from rage, to confusion, to a state of such profound, stunned disbelief that his mouth actually fell open beneath his bandages.

"No," Obanai whispered. It was a sound of sheer, existential shock.

"What?" Sanemi demanded, his gaze snapping back to Giyu, then to you, then back to Giyu. "What is it?"

Obanai, the master of silent observation, the man who lived in a state of coiled, hidden intensity, recognized the look. He knew it better than he knew his own breathing forms. He knew it because he saw it in his own reflection every morning.

Tomioka was not looking at Mitsuri.

He was looking at you.

And he was looking at you... with the exact same, silent, fixed, all-consuming, desperate adoration that Obanai felt for Mitsuri.

"Holy..." Sanemi's voice was a reverent whisper. The pieces clicked into place. The patrol schedules. The way Giyu lingered after meetings. "He... Tomioka... her?"

Obanai said nothing. He just stared, his mind finally... broken. He had been prepared to defend Mitsuri's honor from a pervert. He was not, in any way, prepared to discover that the Corps' emotionless Water Hashira was hopelessly, silently, and creepily in love with their newest, sugar-addicted Flower Hashira.

Sanemi, on the other hand, felt a sensation he hadn't experienced in years. It started as a low chuckle, a vibration in his scarred chest. It was a feeling of pure, unadulterated, malicious joy.

This... This was hilarious.

He settled back on the wall, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. He wasn't going anywhere. This was far better than sparring!

…

Giyu had not meant to spy.

He was not a spy. He was not a creep. He was not... he was not the kind of man who hid in trees.

And yet, here he was.

He was perched on a thick, dark branch of an oak tree, his back pressed against the trunk, his haori a patch of mismatched shadow among the leaves. His posture was rigid, his breath held, and his heart was pounding with a slow, heavy, mortified beat.

He had been in his own estate. The silence of it, usually a comfort, had become a prison. The Water Estate was a place of perfect, cold stillness, but his mind was not still. It was turbulent. It was... loud.

He had tried to meditate. He had sat on his engawa, overlooking his own placid pond, and had focused on his breathing. Total Concentration. He had tried to find his center. But when he closed his eyes, he did not see the still water.

He saw a blur of your hair. He heard the soft, rushing sound of a million petals cutting through the air like razor blades. He saw your eyes—wide and focused—radiating a terrifying, serene calm.

He had tried to train. He had gone to his dojo and practiced his forms. First Form: Water Surface Slash. Fourth Form: Striking Tide. Eleventh Form: Dead Calm. But his blade felt heavy. Dead Calm... it felt... incomplete. It was a reaction. It was a single, perfect stop.

But what he had witnessed you do with your Flower Breathing... that was not a stop. That was a negation. You had not nullified an attack. You had turned the battlefield into a garden where nothing else could survive.

And then, when he had sheathed his blade, his mind had conjured the other image. The one that made even less sense. You, upon returning from your mission, had offered him a piece of candy.

He had left the blue konpeito on his table. He had stared at it for an hour.

It was... too much. The Hashira who had disarmed him when they first sparred, the warrior who had shielded Sanemi and Obanai during their mission, the kind girl who ate sugar and offered to share it... they were all the same person. It did not compute. His world was made of simple, brutal equations: demons kill, slayers die, duty is absolute, grief is permanent.

You were an impossible variable. You had broken his math.

He couldn't get you out of his head.

So he had walked. He had left his estate, needing air, needing something. He hadn't had a plan. He had just walked. Then after a few minutes, he had heard laughter. A high, bright, unguarded sound. Kanroji. He knew that sound. It was as unmistakable as Rengoku's booming voice or Sanemi's snarl.

He had followed it.

He found himself at the edge of the Love Estate. He had stood at the wall, hidden by the trees, and just listened. He heard Mitsuri's pealing laughter, and then... a softer, lighter sound. A giggle.

You.

He had wanted to see you. He had wanted to look at you, away from combat, away from the formal pressure of the corps. He just wanted to see. To confirm this other side of you was real.

But what would he say?

Hello. I am here. I wanted to see you.

The words, even in his own head, sounded insane. He could picture your polite, confused smile. He could picture Mitsuri's vibrant, excited questions. Tomioka-san! Are you here for some kompeito?

He had felt a cold, immediate panic. So he had retreated. But he hadn't left.

He had taken the only logical, cowardly, and silent path available to him. He had climbed the tree.

From here, he was safe. He was hidden. He was invisible. And he could see.

His gaze had fallen on the veranda, and his breath had caught.

The feast of sweets was the first thing he registered. It was an amount of sugar he found physically alarming. It was a testament to the Love and Flower Hashiras' shared, baffling metabolism for sugar.

But then he had seen you.

You were clean. The blood, the dirt, the grime of the mission... all gone. Your hair, which he had only ever seen in a tight ponytail or a battle-strewn mess, was down. It was damp, silky, and spilled over your shoulders. You were wearing a yukata. It was pale pink, not your usual uniform. It was soft, loose, and... and it made you look...

You weren't the Flower Hashira. You weren't the tactical genius. You weren't the fortress of petals.

You were just... you.

You were small, sitting with your legs tucked under you, laughing with Mitsuri. You looked young. You looked... delicate.

Giyu's mind struggled, trying to hold this image in the same space as the memory of your haori, spinning like a typhoon, shredding a storm of steel. How... how could both be real?

He watched as you nibbled on a piece of dango. You ate it slowly, savoring it, a small, happy blush on your cheeks. And then Mitsuri said something, and you laughed. It wasn't a loud laugh. It was a soft, airy giggle, your hand rising to cover your mouth, your eyes crinkling at the corners.

A strange, unfamiliar, and warm sensation bloomed in Giyu's chest. It was a feeling so foreign he almost identified it as an injury.

It was... peace.

He was watching you be happy. You were safe. You were resting. You were eating your ridiculous, sugary food. And you were smiling.

He found he couldn't look away. He was happy... watching you be happy.

The feeling was a revelation. It was a small, warm light in the cold, gray expanse of his own existence. His life was duty. His life was the memory of Sabito and his sister. It was a long, lonely, twilight path. He had accepted this.

But this feeling. Watching you... it was like standing in a sunbeam. It didn't change the grayness of his world, but it was... there. A spot of warmth. He wanted to stay in it.

He was so absorbed in you, so lost in this new, fragile, and overwhelming sensation, that the world had shrunk to the size of that veranda. There was nothing else. Just the sound of soft, feminine chatter, and the sight of you, small and safe, in a pink yukata.

But then, his gaze, which had been locked on your face, drifted. It was an idle, unfocused movement, his mind still wrapped in that warm, pleasant haze. He scanned past you, past the plates of sweets, past the edge of the veranda. His eyes moved over the manicured garden, over the high, gray stone wall of the neighboring estate.

He saw... shapes.

His Hashira-trained eyes snapped into focus, the warmth evaporating, replaced by instant, cold analysis.

Two figures. On top of the wall.

He recognized them instantly. The spiky, stark-white hair. The bandaged, serpent-like posture.

Shinazugawa. And Iguro.

A flicker of confusion went through Giyu. What are they doing?

His gaze followed theirs. They were staring intently, unmoving, down into the garden.

Giyu's first thought, his logical, immediate conclusion, was Kanroji. He knew of Obanai's... fixation. It was a quiet, universally acknowledged fact. Obanai was spying on Mitsuri. And Sanemi, for some reason, was with him.

Giyu felt a strange, distant pang of... camaraderie? No, that wasn't right. It was understanding. He understood. Watching from a distance. Unable to speak. He understood it, in this moment, perhaps better than anyone else.

He felt a twinge of pity for Obanai.

He watched them for a moment, these two men who hated him, and he felt nothing. He was safe in his tree. They were safe on their wall.

His gaze started to drift back to you.

But... something was wrong.

His internal sense of geometry, his slayer's spatial awareness, kicked in. He paused. He looked back at Obanai and Sanemi.

He studied their posture. Their heads. The angle of their gaze.

They were angled wrong.

They were not looking down, where Mitsuri was sitting. Their gaze was higher. It was aimed... across the garden. Not down into it.

It was aimed...

Giyu's heart stopped.

It was aimed at his tree.

He froze. No. They can't see me. I'm hidden.

But... he tracked the line. From their eyes. To his position. It was... direct.

He looked at them.

They were not looking at the garden. They were not looking at Mitsuri.

They were, both of them, with a fixed, unblinking, and focused intensity, staring directly at him.

Giyu stopped breathing.

His blood, which had been so warm, turned to ice. It drained from his face, from his limbs, leaving him cold and numb. He was a statue, carved from horror, in the branches of an oak tree.

He did not move. He could not move.

They see me.

The thought was a silent, internal scream.

They see me. I'm in a tree. I'm... I'm...

His mind flashed, in a millisecond of pure, abject panic, to the scene below.

He was watching you.

They were watching him.

The full, catastrophic, soul-destroying reality of the situation crashed down on him.

They were not just seeing him.

They were seeing him spy.

They were watching him... watch you.

Giyu's world, which had been so pleasantly rearranged, collapsed into a black hole of social annihilation.

He was pinned. If he moved, if he flinched, if he so much as breathed, it would be an admission of guilt. It would be a confirmation. He couldn't jump down. He couldn't retreat. He was exposed, held in the crosshairs of their two sets of judging, horrified, and...

Giyu's eyes, wide with panic, focused on Sanemi.

He could just barely make out his face in the fading light.

Obanai was a rigid, bandaged statue of disbelief.

But Sanemi...

Sanemi was... smiling.

It was not a combat grin. It was not a snarl of rage. It was a slow, wide, purely demonic grin of absolute, malicious, and unholy joy. It was the smile of a man who had just been handed the single most valuable piece of blackmail material in the entire Demon Slayer Corps.

He knows.

Giyu felt his entire life end.

On the veranda below, oblivious, you laughed again, a light, happy sound. "Oh, Mitsuri-san, that's so funny! Here, you have to try this one!"

The sound, which moments before had been a sunbeam, was now the soundtrack to his own execution.

Giyu was frozen. He remained perfectly, terribly, calm. But inside, his mind was a single, repeating, frantic scream.

He was in a tree. He was a pervert. And Shinazugawa knew!

This was, he concluded with a cold, final certainty, a far worse fate than being eaten by any demon.

…

Back on the wall, Sanemi was still vibrating.

He had just been handed a gift from the gods, wrapped in a mismatched haori and perched in a tree. He was a man who lived on a diet of rage, adrenaline, and ohagi, but this... this was a feast.

He watched, his grin stretching so wide it pulled at the scars on his face, as the realization of his discovery dawned on Tomioka’s.

It was a beautiful thing to witness.

Tomioka, the man of ice. Tomioka, the stoic, the aloof, the better-than-thou pillar of sheer, aggravating silence. Tomioka, who walked through life as if he were a cloud, floating above the petty concerns of lesser men.

That same Tomioka was currently frozen to a tree branch, his face—even in the dying light—a pale, bloodless mask of existential horror.

Sanemi saw the micro-twitch in Giyu's shoulder, the way his hand, which had been resting loosely, clamped onto the branch. He saw the fractional widening of those deep blue eyes.

Gotcha, Sanemi thought. The glee was so potent it was almost intoxicating. You are a pervert.

This was better than a perfect mission. He had, in one instant, found the one, single crack in Tomioka's flawless, infuriating façade. And it was not a crack. It was a canyon.

The man was a stalker.

Sanemi settled his weight on the stone, his back resting against a support. He was going to watch Tomioka figure a way out of this, which he wouldn't. He was going to let this moment burn itself into his memory, a new, warm comfort to revisit on cold nights.

Beside him, Obanai was still stuck.

Obanai's mind, which was usually a sharp, coiling blade of logic, had been knocked entirely off its axis. His protective rage for Mitsuri had been primed, his venom ready to strike. But the target had moved. He was still processing the new, impossible data: Tomioka... likes... the Flower Hashira.

It was nonsensical. It was like saying fire is wet. Or Shinazugawa is quiet. The two concepts did not belong in the same universe.

He watched Giyu's frozen panic. He watched Sanemi's demonic grin. He looked down at the veranda.

He was, in a word, baffled.

…

But back in the oak tree, Giyu was in hell.

He was not in a tree. He was the tree. He had fused with it. If he did not move, if he did not breathe, perhaps he would, by sheer force of will, photosynthesize and become a permanent, leafy fixture. It was a viable escape plan.

They see me. They see me. They see me.

He was a Hashira. He was a master of Water Breathing. And he had been caught.

Not by Rengoku, who would have laughed it off with a friendly, deafening boom. Not by Gyomei, who would have wept for his lack of moral fiber. Not even by Shinobu, whose teasing was a familiar, if unpleasant, pain.

No. He had been caught by the two men who already held him in the lowest possible regard. The two men who saw him as an arrogant, gloomy, anti-social waste of a haori.

And he had just confirmed their every worst assumption.

He was a creep. A stalker. A pervert.

He pictured the conversation tomorrow. Sanemi's snarling laugh. "Oi, Iguro, did you see Tomioka in that tree? The gloomy bastard was..." His stomach hollowed out.

He had to move. He had to leave.

But how?

If he dropped from the tree now, they would watch him. YOU would see him and realize he’s a stalking pervert!

The thought was so humiliating he felt physically ill.

No. He couldn't move. He had to stay. He had to pretend he hadn't seen them. He was just... enjoying the evening air. In a tree. Far from his own estate. Overlooking the Love Estate's garden.

His alibi was non-existent.

He was dead. He was already a ghost. His social life, a flickering, weak thing at the best of times, had just been permanently extinguished.

He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable shout from Sanemi. The "OI, TOMIOKA, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, YOU FILTHY STALKER?"

It didn't come.

Why wasn't he yelling?

The silence was, somehow, worse.

…

Meanwhile, on the veranda, you and Mitsuri were still floating on a cloud of sugar and good-natured bliss, having no idea you were the anchor point of a silent, three-way Hashira standoff.

"Ehhhh, I'm just so full!" Mitsuri giggled, pressing her hands to her cheeks. "But this sakura mochi is just so... moist!"

"It's wonderful, Mitsuri-san," you agreed, your voice soft. You had finished your dango and were sipping your tea, your cheeks flushed with warmth and sugar. "Thank you so much for... for all this. I... I really needed this."

"Of course!" Mitsuri beamed. "We're friends! And friends have to talk! We talked about the mission, and how brave you were... but... we haven't talked about the important stuff!"

You tilted your head, your eyes wide and innocent. "Important stuff? Like... like our breathing forms? Or Oyakata-sama's health?"

Mitsuri leaned in, her green eyes sparkling with a new, conspiratorial light. Her voice dropped to a loud, excited whisper.

"No, silly! Boys!"

The word, dropped into the quiet, sugar-filled air, was an explosion.

In the tree, Giyu's eyes snapped open. His blood, which had been frozen, now turned to a hot, scalding acid that flooded his face. No.

On the wall, Obanai's entire body went rigid. His gaze, which had been flickering between Giyu and the veranda, locked onto Mitsuri. His heart, which had been confused, was now hammering against his ribs with a new, desperate terror.

Sanemi's grin, which had been one of simple, malicious glee, transformed. It became a thing of rapturous, unholy joy. He was no longer just watching a creep in a tree. He was getting a show. He settled in, propping his chin on his hand, his eyes wide. This was the entertainment he deserved.

Your face, which had been a polite, happy pink, went a deep, sudden crimson.

"B-b-boys?" you stammered, your voice a sudden squeak. You looked at your teacup, at the mochi, at the sky. Anywhere but at Mitsuri. "I... I... Mitsuri-san, I... I don't... I don't really think about... about... that."

"EHHHHHH?" Mitsuri cried, scandalized. "But you have to! You're so pretty! And so strong! Oh, I bet all the other slayers are already writing poems about you! The Flower Hashira who defends them!"

"No! They're not! Please, they're not!" you protested, hiding your face in your hands.

"Come on, we have to! It's fun!" Mitsuri insisted, grabbing your arm. "Look! We're surrounded by the strongest men in the world! We have to rate them! Like... like sumo wrestlers!"

"Mitsuri-san!" You were mortified.

On the wall, Obanai's soul left his body. Rate... them? He was going to be rated? By Mitsuri? He was going to die. He was going to die on this wall, of pure anxiety.

Giyu, in his leafy prison, had ceased to be a man. He was just a single, condensed point of agonizing shame. He was trapped. He was chained to this branch, forced to listen to this. This was his punishment. This was his personal, customized hell.

"Okay, okay, let's start!" Mitsuri said, her voice full of analytical excitement. "Kyojuro-san!"

Sanemi stifled a snort.

"Rengoku-san?" you said, peeking through your fingers.

"Yes! He's so caring and passionate, isn't he? And so strong! His hair is like a lion's mane! And he's always so warm and cheerful! Like a big, walking bonfire! So reliable!"

"He is very bright," you agreed, your voice still shaky. "His spirit is... it's very admirable. He is always so kind to me."

"I know, right?" Mitsuri beamed. "Okay, next! Tengen-san!"

Sanemi rolled his eyes. "Oh, here we go."

"He's so tall!" Mitsuri squealed. "And so flamboyant! And he has three wives! Three! Can you imagine? He must be... so... strong!"

You giggled, a small, nervous sound. "He is very confident, Mitsuri-san. I don't know if I could handle all that... flashiness. It's a lot."

"It is a lot!" Mitsuri agreed. "Okay, ooh, this is a tricky one! What about... Shinazugawa-san?"

On the wall, Sanemi froze. His grin vanished. His head snapped forward. What?

The air around him, which had been full of his own amusement, suddenly became very still. He was, abruptly, no longer a spectator. He was invested. What were these two little sugar-brats going to say about him? He glared at the veranda, daring both you and Mitsuri to say something stupid.

You shivered. The genuine, somatic kind.

"Shinazugawa-san?" you whispered, as if saying his name might summon him.

Sanemi leaned in.

"He's... he's terrifying, Mitsuri-san," you said, your voice small.

Hmph. Good. She's not a total idiot. Sanemi thought, crossing his arms.

"I... I was so scared of him," you continued, your gaze dropping. "He was so angry. On the mission, he didn't say a single kind word for two days."

Sanemi's scowl deepened. So? It's not a tea party.

"But..." You paused. "When the demon attacked and he drew his blade. His breathing... Mitsuri-san, I... I've never felt anything like it. It wasn't just wind. It was so strong. It was like a real, living storm, right in front of me. It was incredible."

Sanemi's arms, which had been crossed, loosened. ...Incredible?

"I respect his power," you finished, your voice quiet. "I don't think I... like him. But I respect him. Immensely. Even if he's the angriest person I've ever met."

Sanemi... did not know what to do with that.

He was... terrifying. (Correct.) He was angry. (Correct.) He was incredible. And respected. (Also correct.) He... he couldn't even be mad about it. It was just true. He grunted, a short, confused sound, and settled back. He was still aggravated, but... it was a different, less-focused aggravation. He glanced at Tomioka's tree. The bastard was still frozen. Good.

"I know, right?" Mitsuri said, sighing. "So intense! Okay... my turn!" She blushed, a deep, beautiful crimson. "What about... Iguro-san?"

Obanai stopped breathing.

This was it. His life. His entire, coiled, bandaged existence, had led to this single, terrifying moment. He was going to hear, from her own lips... He gripped the stone of the wall, his knuckles white. Kaburamaru, sensing his master's distress, coiled tighter around his neck, hissing softly.

You looked at Mitsuri, and your expression softened. "Obanai-san?"

But Mitsuri was already gone, lost in her own thoughts.

"He's... he's just... so..." Mitsuri began, her voice becoming dreamy and distant. "He's always... there. You know? He's so dedicated! And he always listens! And his eyes are... they're so pretty, aren't they? One is gold, and one is turquoise, and... and he's so precise... and... and his little snake is so cute... and... and..."

She just... dissolved into a happy, incoherent sigh, her face the color of a ripe plum.

On the wall, Obanai... ascended.

He was no longer on a stone wall in the Demon Slayer Headquarters. He was on a cloud. He was in heaven. She said... pretty. She said... my eyes...are pretty. He was fairly certain he was dying. His heart had stopped, and then restarted, and was now attempting to beat its way out of his chest. He was trembling. A faint, dizzying bliss washed over him, and he had to grip the wall to keep from toppling off, either forward into the garden or backward into his own.

Sanemi looked at him. The man was visibly vibrating. He looked pathetic. Sanemi rolled his eyes, his lip curling in a sneer. Disgusting.

"Okay, okay, last one!" Mitsuri said, fanning her face, trying to compose herself.

Her voice cut through Obanai's happy fog. Sanemi's attention snapped back.

In the tree, Giyu's entire body went taut. No. Not last. Skip one. Skip me. Please. For the love of all gods, skip me.

"What about Tomioka-san?"

Sanemi's grin was back. It was blinding. This was it. The main event. He looked at Giyu's tree. He could feel the panic from fifty yards away. It was delicious.

Obanai, still floating, was now also curious. He, too, turned his gaze from Mitsuri to the motionless, leafy prison of Giyu Tomioka.

"Tomioka-san!" Mitsuri said, clapping her hands. "He's so handsome, isn't he? In that cool, mysterious way! Like a sculpture!"

Sculpture? Giyu's mind screamed. I'm a man! I'm not a... a rock!

"But he's so quiet!" Mitsuri continued, oblivious. "He's the only one I can't get to talk! I can never, ever tell what he's thinking! It's so frustrating! What do you think?"

There was a pause.

It was not a long pause. In real time, it was perhaps three seconds.

To Giyu, it was an eternity. It was a vast, cold, silent expanse of time in which he lived, died, and was reborn in a new, more advanced state of dread.

Sanemi leaned forward. His grin was gone, replaced by a focused, predatory curiosity. What would the brat say? "Gloomy"? "Boring"? "Arrogant"? He was ready for the kill.

Your voice, when it came, was different.

It was not the embarrassed squeak you'd used for "boys." It was not the respectful awe you'd used for Sanemi. It was not the friendly giggle you'd used for Rengoku.

It was... small. It was soft. It was hesitant.

"Tomioka-san...?" you said, your voice barely a whisper.

Mitsuri leaned in. "Yes!"

You looked down at your hands, which were clasped in the lap of your yukata.

"He... he was the first person I met here," you said, so quietly the men on the wall had to strain to hear.

"He was?!" Mitsuri gasped.

"Yes." Your blush was back, but it was a soft, gentle thing. "The day I was promoted. I... I ran right into him. By the Butterfly Estate. I... I wasn't looking, and I fell down."

Giyu's memory flashed, sharp as a photograph. The girl on the gravel. The cascade of hair. The red nose.

"I was so embarrassed," you whispered. "I was lost, and I was late, and... and I thought... I thought I was going to fail before I even began. I... I thought he would be angry."

"But," you continued, a small, tiny smile touching your lips, "he wasn't. He didn't yell. He just... stood there. And he... he gave me directions. He was so calm. And quiet."

"He's always quiet!" Mitsuri pointed out.

"I know," you said, your voice still a soft murmur. "But I don't think he's 'cool'. Or 'mysterious'."

On the wall, Sanemi leaned in. In the tree, Giyu braced for the blow. I'm... "sad"? "Gloomy"? "Empty"?

You looked up, your eyes fixed on the darkening sky, as if you could see him there.

"I think..." you said, your voice careful, as if you were articulating a thought for the first time. "I think he's just... very gentle."

Giyu stopped.

Sanemi's jaw dropped.

Obanai's head  snapped around, his bliss-haze shattering, his mismatched eyes wide.

The three men, in their separate, hidden kingdoms, were united in a single, silent, profound moment of what the actual hell.

Gentle? Sanemi's mind roared. Tomioka? The man who had flat, dead fish eyes? The man who radiated so much "do not approach" energy he could freeze water? GENTLE?

"And maybe..." you continued, your voice dropping even lower, to a whisper that was almost lost in the breeze, "maybe... a little... sad. And..."

"And...?" Mitsuri prompted, leaning in so your heads were almost touching.

Your blush was so deep it was crimson. You whispered the next words, a secret you were only just admitting to yourself.

"And... I think... I think he has the kindest eyes I've ever seen."

The words landed.

In the oak tree, Giyu's world simply... fractured. And then it... dissolved.

Kindest... eyes.

He was no longer in a tree. He was no longer in hell. He was... he was... he didn't know where he was. He was floating. The warmth he'd felt earlier, the small sunbeam... it was back. But it was not a sunbeam. It was the sun. It was a supernova, exploding in his chest, a feeling so hot and so bright he thought he might, quite literally, pass out and fall from his branch.

She...

She sees. me...

And she thinks I’m... kind?

His hand, gripped on the branch, was shaking. Not from fear. Not anymore.

On the wall, Sanemi was staring. He was staring at you. He was staring at Giyu's tree. He was staring at Obanai.

He was no longer grinning.

This was not what was supposed to happen. This was not the script. You were supposed to roast Tomioka. You were supposed to call him a gloomy, arrogant bastard. You were supposed to confirm everything Sanemi already knew.

But you hadn't.

You had looked at the Corps' biggest social disaster... and had seen... gentleness. Kindness.

Sanemi felt cheated and confused. He looked at Giyu's frozen, stunned silhouette, and a new, unfamiliar, and deeply irritating emotion surfaced. He was... he was...

He was... almost... angry for Tomioka. No, that wasn't right. He was angry at Tomioka. How had he tricked this girl? How had this gloomy, useless stalker... managed to convince her that he was kind?

It was almost offensive.

Sanemi realized that the universe no longer made sense.

And in his tree, Giyu finally, slowly, breathed.

…

Fifteen Minutes Later…

The sweet, sugary haze that had enveloped the Love Estate's veranda began to thin. 

Mitsuri let out a massive, unladylike yawn, her eyes watering. "Oooooh... I'm so... sleepy..." she murmured, her words thick. The sugar crash was hitting her, and it was hitting her hard. "And so full."

You stifled your own yawn. The long soak in the bath, combined with the food and the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion from your mission, was weighing on your limbs like lead. "Me too. I feel like I could sleep for a week."

"We have to do this again!" Mitsuri insisted, as she began to stack the empty plates with a clatter. "A sleepover, every time you come back from a tough mission! It'll be our tradition!"

"I'd like that, Mitsuri-san," you said, your voice soft. You stood and helped gather the small, sticky dishes. "Thank you. This was the nicest night I've had in... maybe ever."

"Awww!" Mitsuri beamed, dropping the plates to give you a quick, tight hug. "We'll invite Shinobu-chan next time! It'll be a real girls' night!"

You both giggled, your soft laughter a final, bright sound in the growing dark. Together, you carried the dishes inside. The shoji screen slid open, casting a warm, rectangular light onto the veranda, and then, with a soft click, it slid shut.

The garden was plunged into silence.

The light was gone. The voices were gone. The engawa was empty.

In the oak tree, Giyu's world, which had been a supernova of warm, brilliant light, snapped back to a cold, dark, and terrifying reality.

They're gone. She's gone.

He was still suspended in the aftershock of your words. Gentle. Kindest eyes. The words echoed in his head, a mantra that was both a shield and a terrible vulnerability. He had, for a few, fleeting moments, forgotten his shame. Forgotten his prison. Forgotten them.

He hazarded a glance, his head moving with the slow, deliberate caution of a man trying not to trigger a pressure plate. He looked at the wall.

It was empty.

The two shapes, the spiky-haired menace and the bandaged shadow, were gone.

A wave of relief so profound washed over Giyu that his knees, which had been locked, went weak. He sagged against the trunk of the tree, his heart, which had been a trapped bird, now hammering with the frantic beat of escape.

They're gone. They left. They got bored.

He was safe. He had been seen, but... maybe... maybe they didn’t care. He took a deep, shuddering breath. He was alive. He was okay. He was... still in a tree.

He had to get down. He had to leave. He had to get back to his own estate, to his cold pond, and he had to sit there until his heart stopped trying to exit his body.

He moved. He did not climb down. He flowed. His hands and feet found holds in the bark without a sound, his body moving in a fluid, downward motion. He was a drop of water sliding down a leaf.

He landed on the soft earth at the base of the tree. His feet made no sound. Not a rustle. Not a snap of a twig. It was a perfect, silent landing.

He let out one, single, shaky breath. Gentle. Kindest eyes. He allowed himself that one, small, warm thought. He straightened his mismatched haori, pulling the tattered shreds of his dignity back around him. He was the Water Hashira. He had not been in a tree. He had been... inspecting the perimeter. Yes.

He turned, melting from the deep shadows of the woods, and stepped out onto the main gravel path that ran between the estates. The small, gray stones crunched, almost imperceptibly, under his feet. He was heading home. He was free.

"Going somewhere, Tomioka?"

The voice was not a shout. It was not a growl. It was a low, lazy, amused drawl. It was the sound of a cat that had not just cornered the mouse, but had it by the tail, and was now preparing to enjoy a long, slow, and very educational game.

Giyu froze.

His blood, which had just returned to his limbs, did an immediate, painful reverse. It fled, leaving his skin cold and clammy. His spine, which had just straightened with regained dignity, became a rod of pure, unyielding ice.

He did not want to turn around. If he didn't turn, if he didn't acknowledge it, maybe it wasn't real. Maybe it was a demon, a blood art, a hallucination brought on by shame and sugar-fumes.

He turned. Slowly. Every degree of the rotation was an agony, a fresh, small death.

They were there.

They hadn't left. They hadn't gone. They had, he realized with a fresh, dawning wave of horror, climbed down from the wall and waited for him in the shadows of the path, like a two-man ambush.

They stood ten yards away, blocking his path home.

Sanemi was leaning against the cold stone of the Serpent Estate's wall, his arms crossed over his chest. And he was grinning. It was the grin Giyu had seen from the tree—a wide, sharp, predatory expression of pure, unholy, and knowing joy.

Obanai was somehow worse.

He was standing a few feet from Sanemi, his posture deceptively relaxed, his arms also crossed. He was just... watching. His bandaged face was a mask, but his mismatched eyes were sharp, analytical, and—Giyu's stomach turned—baffled. He was being stared at, not as a rival, but as a... a specimen. A new, bizarre insect. 

Giyu was trapped. He was exposed. He was, in every conceivable way, finished.

The silence on the path stretched, drawn taut by Sanemi's grin. The crickets in the garden seemed to be screaming. Sanemi was enjoying this. He was savoring it. He was forcing Giyu to close the distance.

Giyu could not run away. He was a Hashira. So he walked.

Each step on the gravel was a small, loud explosion. Crunch. (They see you). Crunch. (They know). Crunch. (You are a creep). Crunch. (She... she said... kind). The thoughts warred in his head, a chaotic, humiliating battle.

He stopped, a "safe" five feet away from them. 

He forced his face into its usual mask. Blank. Impassive. Calm. He was the water. He was Dead Calm. (He was, inside, a churning, screaming, fifty-foot tsunami of pure, liquid shame).

"Shinazugawa. Iguro." His voice was flat. A small miracle. It sounded almost normal.

Sanemi's grin widened. His teeth flashed. "Tomioka," he purred. "Fancy seeing you here. This is a long way from your own pond, isn't it?"

The accusation was plain. This isn't your territory. What are you doing here?

Giyu's mind was a white, roaring static. He needed an alibi. He needed a reason. A reason to be here. A reason to be in a tree. What was a reason? He had... he had...

"I was..." Giyu began. His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat, the sound loud in the quiet. "I was just... out for a walk."

The words landed on the path, dead. It was the single, stupidest, most pathetic, most transparently false statement he had ever uttered. A walk. A vertical walk.

Sanemi's face did something extraordinary. He tried, with all his might, to hold in his laughter. His cheeks puffed out. His scarred face went red. A sound like a dying, strangled pig escaped him—hnnngk... pfft. He slapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking in a silent, violent earthquake of mirth.

"A... a walk?" Sanemi finally sputtered, the words tearing out of him. "You were 'out for a walk'? Up a tree? What, did you get lost? Were you looking for a bird's nest?"

Giyu's face was burning. He could feel the heat on his ears, his neck. He had to fix this.

"I was... surveying the area," Giyu said, his voice flat, his gaze fixed on a point just past Sanemi's shoulder. He was digging. He was digging his own grave with a teaspoon, but he was digging. "From a high vantage point. For security."

"Security."

Obanai spoke. His voice was a cold, dry, sandy rasp. It cut right through Sanemi's choking laughter, silencing it instantly. Obanai was not laughing. He was dissecting.

"You were 'surveying' the Love Estate's veranda," Obanai stated, not as a question, but as a fact. "For 'security'." He tilted his head. "An admirable dedication to your duties."

The cold, precise sarcasm was a thousand times worse than Sanemi's mockery.

"She's not in danger, Tomioka," Obanai continued, his voice flat.

Giyu's head snapped to him. "What?"

"Kanroji," Obanai clarified, as if Giyu were a particularly slow child. "I was... also... surveying. From the wall. She is not in danger. Your 'security' is not required."

A beat.

Giyu's panicked, frantic mind seized on the words. Kanroji. He thinks... he thinks I was there for MITSURI.

It was a lifeline. It was an escape hatch. It was a plausible reason for his creep-like behavior. Obanai was a known, devoted stalker. If Giyu was also a stalker, but of the same woman, it changed the dynamic. It made him a rival. Not a weirdo.

This was his out. Obanai's jealousy was, for the first time in history, a shield.

All he had to do was nod. Or say nothing. Let them believe it. Let Obanai focus his cold, possessive energy on him as a romantic threat. It was a familiar, if unpleasant, social position. He could handle that.

He opened his mouth. He was going to let the lie stand.

But then...

I think... I think he has the kindest eyes... I've ever seen.

The words echoed in his mind, clear and warm. He been spying on you. When you said that. He had been listening.

If he let them believe he was there for Mitsuri... it felt wrong. It felt like he was staining that. That one, pure, warm moment. It felt like he was lying about you. Or lying to you, even though you weren't there.

He couldn't do it.

The logic was idiotic. It was emotional. It was self-destructive. But it was honest.

Giyu made the single worst tactical decision of his life.

"I..." he said, his voice quiet, but firm. "I was not... looking... at Kanroji."

The words dropped into the silence.

He had just confessed. By eliminating the only other logical target, he had, with surgical precision, confirmed the truth.

Sanemi's choking laughter stopped. His head, which had been bowed, snapped up. His grin was gone. It was replaced by the same, stunned, utterly baffled expression he'd worn on the wall. His mouth was open. He was staring. He... he just... ADMITTED it?

Obanai, too, went perfectly still. His mismatched eyes, which had been narrowed with suspicion, widened. He confirmed it. Obanai didn’t expect that.

The three of them stood there, in the deepening darkness, caught in a new, horrifying, and now spoken truth.

Sanemi was the first to recover.

His face cycled through three emotions in a single second. Bafflement. Disbelief. And then... a slow, dawning, monstrous grin. It was not the same grin as before. This was not just glee. This was... this was something else. This was the joy of a man who has just seen the universe fold in on itself.

"So," Sanemi said, his voice a low, dangerous, almost reverent purr. He pushed himself off the wall, taking one, slow step toward Giyu.

Giyu flinched.

Sanemi stopped, his grin widening. He knew he had him.

"So," he repeated, savoring the word. "The... gentle... kind-eyed... Tomioka."

He used your words.

They heard. They heard everything.

Giyu 's world did not just collapse. It was vaporized. He had no armor. He had no alibi. He had no escape. He was naked, in the middle of a battlefield, and Sanemi was holding the executioner's blade.

"You..." Sanemi's voice was low, each word a hammer blow. "You climbed a tree... to listen to the new girl... call you nice?"

He didn't even laugh. He just... stated it. And the fact, laid bare, was so much more damning than any mockery.

Giyu said nothing. He couldn't.

He just stood there, burning in the cold, silent, all-knowing gaze of his comrades.

"Well?" Sanemi was twisting the blade. "Nothing to say?"

Giyu was focusing all his energy, his Total Concentration, on not... simply... disintegrating.

"Hmph," Obanai's dry voice cut in. "Tomioka. You are... a disappointment."

Disappointment. The word was cold. It was, somehow, worse than Sanemi's mockery.

"You have two seconds," Obanai continued, his voice flat as slate, "to provide a reason for your... 'position'... before I retrieve The Flower Hashira."

The threat was real. Giyu's head snapped up. His blue eyes, wide with a flicker of pure, animal panic, met Obanai's.

He couldn't. He couldn't let this get to you. The shame of it... the thought of your gentle, knowing smile being directed at this... at this pathetic, arboreal... failure.

He had to say something. He had to give them something.

His mind, screaming and frantic, scrambled for a lie. But it couldn't find one. All it could find... was the truth. Or, a version of it. The reason he had been walking. The reason he had felt that strange, warm pull toward the Love Estate.

"She..." Giyu's voice was a low, hoarse croak. He had to clear his throat. The sound was horribly loud. "She... looked tired."

The words hung in the air, naked and absurd.

Giyu pushed on, digging his own grave with a frantic, desperate energy. "After your mission. She... she was... she looked... tired. And pale."

This is true, his mind insisted. You were. Your haori had been torn. You were covered in blood and dirt. You were spent.

"The mission," he continued, his voice gaining a stiff, formal, report-like quality, "was difficult. She is new to this rank. To... this... level of engagement."

He was reasoning. He was building a case. A logical, defensible case.

"I was..." he said, his gaze fixed on that same, safe pebble, "just making sure that as my patrol partner, she was alright. That she was... recovering."

He had said it. It was a reason. A plausible, Hashira-level reason. Concern for a new comrade's well-being after a traumatic mission. It was logical.

He had just forgotten the tree part.

He chanced a look at Sanemi.

Sanemi's mouth was open. His eyes were wide. He was processing the staggering, astronomical stupidity of the lie.

And then, he finally broke.

It was not a laugh. It was an explosion.

It was a bark. A howl. A high-pitched, choking, wheezing sound that ripped out of his chest, doubling him over. He clutched his stomach, his entire body convulsing. He was trying to breathe, but he couldn't. He was dying. He was dying of joy.

"Hhhk... HAAAAH!" he gasped, pounding a fist on the stone wall. "He... he... he... hhhhh..."

Giyu stood, frozen, as the Wind Hashira had a complete, hysterical, and very public breakdown in the middle of the path.

"'MAKING SURE... SHE'S ALRIGHT'?" Sanemi finally roared, the words tearing out of him on a fresh wave of laughter. "You… watery BASTARD!"

He pointed a shaking finger at Giyu, his eyes streaming with tears of malicious mirth. "You! YOU! Tomioka! Were 'worried'?"

He staggered forward. "You, who wouldn't know a 'feeling' if it bit you on the ass! You, who hasn't said a 'nice' word,"—he spat the word like a curse—"since the day you were... whelped! You were so... concerned... about the new girl... that you... you..."

He couldn't even say it. He just pointed, his finger stabbing up toward the oak tree.

"You climbed a tree!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "Like a lovesick squirrel! To 'check on her'?"

"I was..." Giyu tried, his face burning, a deep, painful crimson. "I was just... being..."

And then he said it. He said the word. The single, most damning, most fatal word in his vocabulary.

"...kind."

The word hit Sanemi like a physical blow.

He stopped laughing. Instantly.

His face went from mirth to a kind of stunned, awed reverence. 

"You..." he breathed. "You... you're pining. You're actually, genuinely... pining. This isn't just you being a creep. This is worse. This is just pathetic!"

"I am not... pining," Giyu forced out, the words tasting like ash.

"Oh, aren't you?" Sanemi shot back, his grin returning, but it was colder now. "You're so 'nice' and 'concerned' that you hid in the dark, fifty yards away, and... listened? Listened to her talk about boys?"

Giyu flinched. The blow landed hard.

"A-ha!" Sanemi crowed. "You did hear it! You were listening! You... you... 'kind-eyed'... bastard!"

"Tomioka."

Obanai's voice was like a bucket of ice water. He had not laughed. He had not moved. He was just watching. And his mismatched eyes were filled with a professional contempt.

"You are a fool," Obanai stated. It was a simple, flat diagnosis.

Giyu turned to him. Obanai was a master piner/stalker. He, of all people, should... understand.

"You were not 'checking' on her," Obanai said, his voice a dry rasp. "You were watching her. There is a difference."

"I was..."

"You were hiding," Obanai cut him off, his voice sharp. "You were 'concerned' for her 'well-being'. So you... hid. In a tree. In the dark. While she was safe. Eating snacks."

He said the word snacks with so much venom, it was as if Giyu had been caught committing a war crime.

"That is not 'concern'," Obanai hissed, his snake, Kaburamaru, rising from his shoulder in agreement. "That is not 'nice'. That is cowardice. If you were 'concerned', Tomioka, you would have knocked. You would have spoken to her."

He let the simple, logical, normal social solution hang in the air, a testament to Giyu's staggering failure.

"But you didn't," Obanai continued. "Because you are not 'nice'. You are afraid. You hid. You listened. You spied. And you were sloppy."

This was the final, professional judgment. He wasn't just a creep. He was a bad creep.

Giyu's entire defense, his pathetic, truthful-lie, was in ashes. He was a coward. He was a pining, lovesick, sloppy squirrel.

"You..." Giyu said, his voice low, his hands clenching at his sides. He was, for the first time, not just ashamed. He was angry. He was angry at them, for seeing. He was angry at himself, for his new, stupid, warm emotions.

"You don't understand," he said, his voice a low, vibrating growl.

"Oh, we don't understand?" Sanemi laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "We understand perfectly, Tomioka. We understand that you've got it bad for the new girl. And you're so... 'gentle'..."—he was never going to let that word go—"...that you can't even talk to her! You just climb trees, like a damn monkey!"

"She's new," Giyu insisted, latching onto his only remaining piece of logic. "She's... she's... she needs... to be looked after."

"She disarmed you," Obanai countered, his voice cold. "She shielded us in combat. She is more than capable. She does not need you 'looking after' her... from a tree."

He was checkmated. From every angle. His logic was flawed. His motives were transparent. His execution was pathetic.

He stood there, defeated. The blood was hot in his face. His heart was a trapped, frantic thing. He had nothing to say. He just took it.

Sanemi watched him, his grin finally fading, replaced by a look of... almost... pity? No. Not pity. It was disgust. It was the look of a predator that had finally, completely, broken its prey, and was now just bored.

"You're pathetic," Sanemi said, his voice flat. All the humor was gone. It was just a fact. "You're moonstruck. Over a brat."

Obanai had already turned his back. His part in this was over. He had diagnosed the patient. The patient was terminal.

"This is tiresome," Obanai said, his back to them. "My... 'surveillance'... is complete. Kanroji is safe. Yours..." He looked over his shoulder, his mismatched eyes cold. "...is finished. Do not let this happen again, Tomioka. Or I will inform the Flower Hashira of your new... 'security protocols'."

He didn't wait for a reply. He just flowed into the shadows of his own estate, a silent, bandaged ghost, his snake hissing a final, contemptuous farewell.

Giyu was left alone.

With Sanemi.

This was worse. This was so, so much worse.

Sanemi was looking at Giyu with a new, strange, and deeply unsettling expression. It was appraisal. He was re-cataloging Giyu. He was not "Tomioka the Arrogant Bastard" anymore. He was "Tomioka the Lovesick Idiot."

Sanemi let out a long, slow breath. "Tch." It was a sound of profound, weary disappointment.

He uncrossed his arms. He, too, was done. There was no more sport in this. He stepped aside.

It was not a friendly gesture. It was a dismissal. He was opening the cage. He was allowing Giyu to pass. It was the ultimate, final assertion of dominance.

Giyu's entire body was rigid. He had to walk by the man who now held the single, most humiliating secret of his entire life.

He took a step. Crunch.

He took another. Crunch.

He was walking. He kept his eyes forward. He kept his face a mask of stone. He was Dead Calm. He was Dead Calm. He was... he was...

He was level with Sanemi. He could smell the sweat and the sharp scent of his Wind Breathing. He could feel the heat radiating off his scarred chest.

He did not look. He just walked.

"Tomioka."

Sanemi's voice was a low, quiet growl, right by his ear.

Giyu stopped. He did not turn.

"Don't worry," Sanemi whispered, and the sound was thick with a new, dark amusement. "I won't tell anyone."

Giyu felt a flicker of... hope?

"Not yet, at least," Sanemi breathed, "Watching you squirm is way more entertaining."

He let the words land.

"Now get out of here," Sanemi added, his voice hardening. "You're pathetic. Go be... nice... somewhere else." He paused, and Giyu could hear the grin return to his voice. "We'll talk tomorrow, Gentle-san."

Giyu did not flinch. He did not speak.

He just walked.

He walked down the path, his back straight, his head high. He did not run. He did not stumble. He moved with the perfect, fluid, and measured pace of the Water Hashira.

He turned the corner. He was out of sight.

The moment the stone wall of the Serpent Estate eclipsed him, the mask shattered.

Giyu stopped. He stumbled, his hand shooting out to brace himself against the cold, dark wall of the next estate. His breath, which he had been holding in a state of Dead Calm, came rushing out of him in a ragged, desperate gasp.

He leaned his forehead against the cool stone, his eyes squeezed shut. His heart was a thunderstorm in his chest. His face was... he had never felt his face so hot. He was burning. He was burning from the inside out with a feeling he couldn't name.

It was... it was...

Mortification.

But...

Underneath it. Buried deep, deep beneath the mountain of shame, the humiliation, the sheer, agonizing exposure...

Kindest eyes I've ever seen.

The words were still there. They were a single, burning, indestructible coal.

He had been seen. He had been caught. He had been mocked, judged, and dismissed.

But he had also been seen.

Giyu pushed himself off the wall, his whole body shaking, and he began the long, quiet walk home—a man who had, in the span of one hour, been both completely, utterly destroyed... and, somehow... started.

To Be Continued…

Part Two

But then, you remember the rumor—the kind of rumor people whisper about when they’re this close to a mental collapse. Oh yes, the whispered tale of the fairies in the forest at the edge of town. Supposedly, if you bring an offering to the fairies, they’ll grant you a wish. Any wish. No strings attached.

You snort. It’s probably a load of magical nonsense. But considering your current state of sleep deprivation (and let’s be honest, mild hysteria), you’re willing to give it a shot. Desperate times and all that.

So, you scrape together the fanciest honey and milk your student budget can manage, which is probably a 5/10 by fairy standards but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. You pack it up in a basket like some weird, broke Little Red Riding Hood and trudge out to the forest.

The second you arrive, you’re not even trying to be subtle or respectful about it. No, you go straight to begging.

“Please, fairies, PLEASE!” You fall to your knees dramatically, waving the basket around like you’re presenting some holy relic. “I’m begging you. I need help. I haven’t slept in three days, I’m running on a liter of coffee and sheer spite, and if I fail one more class, I’m gonna have to turn myself into a toad and live under a rock. Just—just one wish, that’s all I’m asking!”

It’s bad. Like, so bad, you’re half-expecting some animal to come along and put you out of your misery out of sheer secondhand embarrassment.

But then, there’s this rustling sound behind you, and when you look up, someone is standing there.

Correction: the prettiest person you’ve ever seen is standing there.

He’s tall, ethereal, and glowing—literally glowing, like he bathes in moonlight and stardust. His hair’s all silky and perfect, his skin looks like it’s never heard of acne, and the expression on his face tells you that he’s about two seconds away from calling security on you.

“Why, exactly,” he starts, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow that could cut glass, “are you kneeling in front of my forest and making this embarrassing display?”

You blink. Several things occur to you all at once:

1. Fairies are real. Huh. You thought you were just being insane.

2. Holy hell, he’s the most beautiful person (fairy?) you’ve ever seen.

3. Wait—his forest?

You quickly wipe the pathetic tears from your face and stumble to your feet. “A-are you… a fairy?”

“No, I’m a sentient dust bunny,” he deadpans. “Yes, of course, I’m a fairy. What are you even doing here?”

You hesitate. He’s giving off serious annoyed model on a runway vibes, and you’re not sure if he’s going to hex you out of his forest or just roll his eyes so hard that you get flung into another dimension.

“I, uh… finals,” you mumble, the tears starting to well up again. “Four finals. Same day. And I haven’t slept. I’m one failed exam away from permanently turning into a raccoon.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like your existence is just too much for him. “And you thought the best course of action was to come here and… grovel?”

You nod pathetically. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

For a moment, he looks like he’s about to just walk away, leaving you to your breakdown. But then his eyes narrow, and he points at your backpack. “What’s that?”

“Huh?” You look down and see the sunscreen bottle sticking out. “Oh, uh, that’s just something I made. I’ve been working on a skincare formula for sensitive skin.”

He steps closer, plucking it from your bag with the grace of someone used to handling priceless artifacts. “Skincare, you say?” He opens it, sniffing it cautiously before dabbing a bit onto the back of his hand. His eyes light up for a second, and you swear you hear an angelic choir in the background. “Hm. Not bad. A bit of a lavender undertone. Smooth texture. SPF 50?”

You nod. “Y-yeah.”

He looks back at you, and for the first time since he appeared, you see the barest hint of approval on his face. “It’s hard to find good skincare products these days, even among the fairies.”

You’re not sure how to respond. Is this your life now? Trading finals survival for skincare tips with a beautiful fairy?

“Well,” he says, still admiring the product, “I suppose I could grant you one wish. One. But only if you agree to make more of these skincare products for me.”

“Really?” You blink, not entirely believing your luck. “You’ll help me?”

He gives you a sidelong glance, a smirk playing on his lips. “I don’t do charity. But your skincare is adequate. And it’s not every day I meet someone this close to unraveling. It’s almost entertaining.”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open like a fish. “Deal. Deal. I’ll make you whatever skincare you want, just get me through these finals.”

He gives a nod, satisfied. “Then we have a deal.”

And just like that, you’ve somehow bartered your way out of academic doom with a fairy obsessed with sun protection. Let’s hope this arrangement works out better than the rest of your life so far.

Apparently, fairies like Vil don’t believe in things like cheating or, you know, the basic decency of using magic to fix your problems instantly. No, that would be too easy. And Vil—your very pretty, very exasperating new fairy overlord—has decided that the best way to help you pass your finals is to tutor you personally.

His price? One skincare product per lesson. And you, being surprisingly decent at making potions and cosmetics (alchemy major, what else), agreed because, at the time, you thought, How hard could it be?

Sweet summer child. You had no idea what you were getting into.

Because Vil? He’s not just strict. He’s villain origin story strict. His “tutoring” is so intense, so grueling, that you’re starting to wonder if he’s secretly training you for some kind of sadistic mage boot camp. At one point, you fail a poison-brewing technique, and he makes you redo it. Then again. And again. And again.

By the fifteenth attempt, you’re seriously contemplating bottling the poison and taking a little sip just to see what happens.

“Again,” Vil says, his voice icily calm, like he hasn’t just been watching you fail for an hour straight.

“I think I’m seeing stars,” you mutter, staring at the cauldron. “Should potions be giving me a near-death experience?”

“Focus,” he says, completely unfazed by your descent into madness. “If you can’t even get this basic potion right, I have serious concerns about your competency as a mage.”

You’re on the verge of a mental breakdown. One more failed attempt, and you’re going to throw yourself off the nearest cliff. Or better yet—turn yourself into a toad and hop into a pot of boiling water. Anything to escape the relentless perfectionism of Vil Schoenheit.

“Maybe I’ll just hex myself into a mushroom and live out the rest of my life in peace,” you grumble under your breath as you stir the potion yet again.

“ What was that?”

“Nothing!” You stir faster.

To your utter shock, the potion finally turns the right color. You’ve done it. You’ve successfully brewed the poison, and it only took, what, half your lifespan?

Vil inspects it with a critical eye, and after a long, painful pause, he says, “Acceptable.”

“Acceptable?!” You want to scream. This is the culmination of blood, sweat, tears, and the remnants of your sanity, and all he has to say is acceptable?

“Yes, acceptable,” Vil repeats, as if your suffering isn’t the most amusing thing he’s seen all week. “You’ll need to refine your technique, of course, but this will suffice for now.”

You groan, head in your hands. “I’m going to transmute myself into a sock and live in someone’s laundry basket.”

But here’s the kicker: despite all of Vil’s strictness, he’s actually the nicest person (fairy?) you’ve ever met. You don’t know if that’s pathetic or straight-up depressing, but still, it’s true. He’s picky, yes, but he cares.

Apparently, Vil has a radar for poor life choices because one day, after what feels like your 57th failed poison attempt, he takes one look at the sad pile of instant noodles and energy drinks cluttering your desk and clicks his tongue in disapproval.

"You've been eating this?" He gestures at the disaster that is your meal—a cup of ramen sitting next to an open bag of questionable chips. His expression could curdle milk. "Do you actually value your internal organs, or are you trying to audition for the role of a trash panda?"

You blink, staring at your gourmet spread, and then back at him. "Excuse me, I’ll have you know, this is an advanced student diet. We run on caffeine and MSG."

He raises an eyebrow. "You’re not running on anything. You’re sputtering at best."

You open your mouth to argue, but then glance down at the pathetic excuse for food in front of you. Okay. Fine. Maybe you are sputtering. But what are you supposed to do, handcraft five-course meals between four finals and Vil’s poison-torture sessions?

Vil sighs dramatically, as if your very existence is a personal affront. "I’m not letting you continue this… self-destruction. You’re going to eat real food even if it kills you." He waves a hand, and suddenly a basket of the most beautiful, vibrant fruits and vegetables you've ever seen appears out of thin air. It's like the entire organic section of a high-end grocery store, but, you know, without the soul-crushing price tags.

"Where did you even get all this?" you ask, poking suspiciously at a particularly shiny apple. "Did you steal it from some enchanted Whole Foods?"

Vil glares at you like you’ve personally insulted his lineage. "I foraged it from my forest, you uncultured turnip."

You blink. "I’m a potato now, and a turnip? What’s next? Are we making a root vegetable salad?"

Vil rolls his eyes. "No, we’re making something that doesn’t resemble a cry for help. Get to it."

You sigh, but with Vil watching like a disapproving food critic, you figure you might as well try to impress him. You rummage through the basket, grab a few ingredients, and somehow manage to throw together a halfway decent stir-fry. You may be broke, but you can cook. It’s one of the few things that hasn't gone completely sideways in your life.

You serve it up with a flourish, smirking a little. "Voilà, a proper meal. Happy now?"

Vil inspects the plate with his usual level of judgment. You half-expect him to whip out a magnifying glass and start searching for flaws. Finally, he takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and then gives you a rare, grudging nod of approval.

"Surprisingly competent for someone who survives on garbage," he says, in what you can only assume is Vil’s version of high praise.

"Wow, a compliment. I feel blessed," you deadpan, but you’re grinning. It’s not every day you get validation from a fairy with standards so high he probably judges oxygen.

Vil continues eating, and you join him, secretly proud of the fact that you managed to cook something that didn’t send him into a rant about toxins and poor life choices. For a moment, the two of you sit in companionable silence, just… eating. It’s weirdly nice.

After you both finish, Vil leans back, looking mildly satisfied. "If you continue to feed yourself like a proper human being," he says, "you might actually survive your finals."

"Yeah, well, if I keep spending time with you, I might also survive on sheer fear," you mutter.

He smiles, that rare, dazzling smile that makes your brain short-circuit for a moment. "Fear is a good motivator. But I expect more than just survival from you. I expect excellence."

You groan. "You know, for a fairy who showed up because of my embarrassing begging, you sure do expect a lot."

Vil just smirks. "You begged for help. I’m making sure you don’t embarrass yourself further by failing."

"Touché," you admit, stuffing another bite of food into your mouth to avoid further conversation.

You know, maybe being insulted by the prettiest fairy in existence while eating fresh, organic food isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to you.

But soon enough, it was back to work. After the food debacle, you whipped up a fresh batch of moisturizer for him. It’s something you’ve done a thousand times before, so you’re not expecting much.

Then Vil tries it. And his entire face lights up like you’ve just handed him the elixir of eternal youth.

“This is… impressive,” he says, his voice soft with genuine surprise. “It’s incredibly hydrating, and the texture is—” He pauses, then flashes you a smile that’s so dazzling, it practically sparkles. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

And then, out of nowhere, he leans over and kisses you on the cheek.

You freeze.

Your brain flatlines.

“Wha—Did you just—?”

Vil pulls back, completely unfazed by the fact that he just KISSED YOU. “If you continue to make products of this quality, I may have to keep you around longer.”

Your heart is still trying to restart, but you manage to nod. “Yeah… yeah, sure. Skincare. I can do that.”

You stare at him, wondering if this is real life or if you’ve just died and gone to some bizarre, fairy-run skincare hell. Because if that’s what’s happening, it’s starting to feel weirdly okay. Especially with the way he’s smiling at you.

And as you walk away, still reeling, you catch yourself thinking, Is dropping out of the academy to become Vil’s personal skincare maker really such a bad idea?

Honestly? With a smile like that? You’re starting to think it’s the best idea.

You’ve finally survived—ahem mastered—the hell that was poisons and advanced magical theory under Vil’s terrifyingly perfect supervision. You can now confidently brew lethal concoctions and analyze obscure spells without mentally cursing out every deity you can name. That’s progress. But of course, your next subject is Magical Beasts, and because life apparently hates you, it’s your worst one yet.

When you express this to Vil, expecting some helpful advice or perhaps even a break (hah, wishful thinking), he just waves a hand dismissively.

“I’ll ask a friend for help,” he says simply.

And that’s how you end up in the presence of the most extra fairy you’ve ever seen in your life. (Okay, you’ve met a grand total of two fairies, but still.)

The fairy in question bursts into your study room in a whirlwind of sparkles and sheer chaos, trailing a cloud of rose petals and the distinct scent of overly expensive perfume. He’s tall and elegant, his wings shimmering with iridescent hues, and before you can so much as blink, he’s speaking a mile a minute in a mix of French and pure gibberish.

“Mon cher! Quelle horreur! This room is an insult to aesthetics! Non, non, I simply cannot work in these conditions!” he cries dramatically, gesturing wildly at your meticulously organized notes.

You blink. “…What?”

But he’s already prancing around, rearranging your books and scattering glitter like some kind of deranged fairy godmother. Then, with zero transition, Rook starts rambling about magical beasts and their habitats in a way that has your head spinning. One minute he’s critiquing your choice of ink color (“Black? How dull!”), and the next he’s rattling off obscure beast facts with the enthusiasm of a caffeinated professor.

“The Hippogriff prefers moonlight baths! Ah, and the Knarl must be serenaded with music, or it will—how you say?—stab you!” he chirps, waving his delicate hands around in a way that seems more dangerous than helpful.

You’re sitting there, bewildered and slightly concerned for your sanity. “Wait, wait, wait, so—hold up, what do I do if a Knarl shows up in the daytime?”

Rook stares at you like you’ve just asked if water is wet. “Why, you run, of course!” Then he bursts into laughter, as if this is the funniest joke he’s ever heard.

By the end of the afternoon, you’ve lost count of the number of strange and sometimes horrifying tidbits he’s thrown at you. You’re pretty sure you’ve somehow become an expert in magical beast theory without consciously realizing it, and the sheer absurdity of the situation is enough to make you feel like your brain’s been hijacked.

“And that,” the fairy declares with a dramatic twirl, “is how you tame a Chimaera!”

You blink, staring at your notes, which are now a colorful mess of drawings, beast diagrams, and snippets of what you hope are actual instructions and not just fashion advice. “…I feel like I’ve learned a lot. But also absolutely nothing.”

“Perfect!” he crows. “You have done magnifique!”

Before you can process what the heck just happened, you decide to thank him the only way you know how: by giving him a small, beautifully-packaged vial of a custom serum. You’ve worked hard on this formula, combining the best of alchemy and skincare magic, and as soon as you hand it to him, his eyes go wide.

“Pour moi? C’est incroyable!” He clutches it dramatically to his chest, as if you’ve just gifted him a crown jewel. Then, without warning, he’s leaning in way too close, inspecting your face with an intensity that borders on obsessive. “Mon Dieu, you are a true artiste! So beautiful! So—”

“Excuse me,” a low, frosty voice cuts in.

You turn just in time to see Vil gliding over, expression smooth but eyes narrowed. With the grace of a professional diplomat (or maybe a particularly possessive cat), he slips between the two of you, placing a firm hand on the other fairy’s shoulder and gently guiding him away from your personal space.

“Thank you for your assistance, Rook,” Vil says with a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We appreciate your expertise, but I believe that’s enough for today.”

Rook pouts but finally relents. He throws one last, longing glance at your serum and then at you, as if you’re both equally captivating. “Ah, c’est dommage… I shall return!” With that, he flits off, leaving you standing there, more confused than ever.

You turn to Vil, raising an eyebrow. “Uh… thanks?”

But Vil isn’t looking at you like a savior. No, he’s looking at you like you’ve just betrayed his entire bloodline.

“Excuse me,” you ask, blinking in confusion. “Did… did I do something wrong?”

“You,” Vil says slowly, his voice dangerously soft, “are my skincare human.”

You stare at him. “Um. What?”

“Mine.” Vil’s gaze flickers pointedly between you and the direction Rook flew off in, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I did not agree to share your talents with anyone else.”

Oh. Oh.

“Vil,” you say, a grin spreading across your face despite yourself. “Are you… jealous?”

The way his expression shifts from imperious to indignant would almost be funny if it weren’t so incredibly satisfying. “Jealous?” he scoffs, tossing his hair back with a haughty flick. “Don’t be absurd.”

You glance pointedly at the pink tips of his ears, which are steadily darkening into a bright red.

“Riiight,” you say slowly. “Totally not jealous at all. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m not,” he insists, crossing his arms, but his voice is just a fraction too defensive.

“Sure, sure,” you say with a mock-serious nod, fighting to keep a straight face. “It’s just that, you know, your ears are kind of giving you away.”

Vil sputters, shooting you a glare that could melt glass. “You—!”

“I’m just saying!” you chirp, smirking as you lean back. “I’m your skincare human. Got it, boss.”

He narrows his eyes, but the flush on his ears betrays him. “Remember it,” he huffs, turning sharply on his heel. “And don’t you dare give away my products to anyone else without consulting me first.”

You watch him stalk off, your grin widening. Maybe studying under Vil isn’t so bad after all.

Finally, your last subject: Offensive Magic. You’re almost at the finish line, but there’s one little problem. Apparently, dueling Vil or Rook is a fast track to the afterlife, and you aren’t too keen on becoming a cautionary tale.

That’s how you find yourself facing off against the youngest of the bunch—a fairy named Epel. He looks as thrilled to be there as you are, which is to say, not at all.

“Vil made me do this,” he mutters under his breath, glaring at nothing in particular.

You quickly realize that Epel’s main emotion is mild resentment, which honestly? Relatable.

The duel begins, and you’re expecting something simple—maybe some low-level spells, something to pad out your barely passing grades. But then Epel smirks, lifts his hand, and suddenly, half the field explodes in a brilliant display of magic that has you rethinking your life choices. Like, seriously reconsidering everything that led you to this exact moment.

You’re left standing there, jaw practically on the floor as bits of dirt rain down around you. “Holy shit,” you breathe. “You’re so cool.”

Epel freezes. His eyes dart to you, clearly shocked by the praise, and he suddenly looks a lot less surly. “...Really?”

“Yeah! That was amazing! I didn’t even know you could do that!”

He rubs the back of his neck, trying to hide a smile. “Well, I’ve been practicing…”

And just like that, you’re friends. Bonded over the mutual understanding that Offensive Magic is both terrifying and awesome when Epel’s involved.

Later that day, after a lesson where you actually didn’t almost explode yourself (personal growth!), you, Vil, and Epel are lounging in the forest. Rook’s off doing...whatever mysterious thing he does, leaving you all in relative peace. You’re casually chatting about the lessons when Epel, totally offhandedly, drops the biggest bomb of the century.

“Yeah, well, you’re pretty lucky the king of the fairies decided to help you out.”

You blink. “The what?”

Epel gives you a look like you’ve just asked if the moon was real. “The king of the fairies. You know, Vil.”

You almost choke. “Vil’s the king of the fairies?” Your voice cracks like you’ve hit puberty again.

Vil, lounging nearby, doesn’t even flinch. “Didn’t I mention that?”

“NO. YOU DIDN’T.”

“Well, now you know.”

You stare at him, mind reeling. “I’ve been—wait—what in the Sevens—you’re the king of the fairies? And you just—casually tutor people? Like it’s no big deal?!”

Vil sighs, flipping through a book as if this is the most normal thing in the world. “I thought it was obvious.”

“It was not obvious!” You’re flailing at this point, and Epel is snickering behind his hand, clearly enjoying your existential crisis.

Vil’s still cool as a cucumber, but when you stammer, “No wonder you’re the most beautiful fairy I’ve ever seen,” you catch the faintest flicker of a smirk on his face. He straightens up just a little bit, clearly preening at the compliment.

Rook suddenly appears out of nowhere, laughing like he’s just witnessed the funniest thing in his life. “Ah! How charming! Our humble little mage finally sees the light!”

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumble, feeling your face heat up. “This is too much. My brain can’t handle this.”

The lesson ends, and you decide to thank Vil the only way you know how—by crafting him a night cream as a parting gift. You’ve gotten pretty good at making skincare, and you can tell he’s been eyeing this particular blend.

But then, in a rare moment of what can only be described as vulnerability, Vil hands you the jar and says, “Could you…apply it for me?”

You freeze. “Huh?”

He’s holding it out to you, but he’s not meeting your eyes, and—wait, are his hands shaking? You squint. Is he nervous?

Nah. Can’t be. Vil doesn’t do nervous.

“Sure,” you say, trying not to overthink it. You take the jar and start gently massaging the cream into his flawless skin. Vil closes his eyes, and for a moment, it’s almost…peaceful.

“You’re really good at this,” he murmurs.

You smile to yourself, oblivious to the emotional storm brewing inside him. “Thanks! I’ve been practicing.”

What you don’t realize is that this was your last lesson. Vil knows this. And for some reason, it’s hitting him hard. He’s spent all this time tutoring you, teaching you everything he knows, and now…you won’t need him anymore. You won’t come back. You’ll pass your exams and move on with your life, leaving him behind. And the thought of that—it stings more than he wants to admit.

Meanwhile, you’re completely unaware of his inner turmoil, humming to yourself as you finish applying the cream. “There you go. All set!”

You stretch, packing up your things, already mentally planning your next skincare batch for him. “Well, I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Wait.” Vil’s voice is soft, almost hesitant. You blink as he suddenly pulls you into a hug, catching you completely off guard.

“Uh…Vil?”

He’s holding you tightly, and when he speaks, his voice is a little sad. “Good luck.”

You frown, confused. “Why do you sound so sad? I'll pass my exams for sure after all your help.”

He doesn’t respond. You shrug and hug him back, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Alright, see you later, drama king.”

And with that, you stroll off, leaving Vil standing there, still holding on to the weight of his unspoken feelings.

Rook, watching from a distance, smiles knowingly. “Ah, how bittersweet…”

Epel just rolls his eyes. “Man, this is like watching a soap opera.”

You passed your exams. Scratch that—you topped them. You’re basically an academic legend now, leaving everyone wondering what kind of ancient god you made a pact with. The professors are whispering your name like you’re some ancient prodigy who’s been secretly acing exams since the dawn of time.

Naturally, you’ve decided to celebrate by making your magnum opus: the most legendary lip balm the world has ever seen. The kind of balm that could revive a dying star, or, more realistically, soothe the chapped lips of a certain fussy fairy.

With your glorious lip balm in hand, you set off to the forest to see Vil. The path is familiar, and yet, today something feels... off. The trees look droopy, the flowers are wilting—like someone forgot to water this whole section of the forest.

“Oh, great,” you mutter, stepping over a vine that looks like it’s given up on life. “Did everyone just forget what hydration is?”

When you reach Vil’s cottage, your gut instinct kicks into overdrive.

Something’s wrong. Really wrong. Your heart is racing. You knock once. Twice. Still nothing. Panic sets in, and before you know it, you’re knocking the door clean off its hinges in your haste.

“Oops,” you whisper, but there’s no time to dwell on it because you see someone on the bed. It’s Vil, and he’s looking about as far from his usual flawless self as you’ve ever seen. He’s feverish, pale, and frankly, it kind of looks like he's dying.

“Vil!” you rush over, shaking him gently. He opens his eyes, squinting at you like you’re an overly bright light in the middle of his fever dream.

“I didn’t know hallucinations could be so vivid,” he mumbles, his voice hoarse.

“What hallucinations? I’m real!” You’re practically crying now, shaking him harder. He just smiles faintly, completely convinced that you’re some fever-induced mirage.

Fantastic. Not only is he sick, but he also thinks you’re a figment of his imagination.

Frantically, you start brewing a cooling potion, your hands shaking as you mix the ingredients. Vil just watches you with a dazed, slightly amused expression, like he’s impressed that his hallucination has such a good grasp on potion-making.

“I’m real,” you repeat, as you pour the potion down his throat. He gives a tiny nod before slipping back into unconsciousness.

Cue full-on panic mode. You don’t know what’s happening or why Vil’s like this, so you do the only thing you can think of—you send a carrier pigeon to Rook, because of course fairies don’t have phones.

Rook shows up in record time, practically gliding into the cottage like some kind of majestic hunting bird. He takes one look at the pitiful scene—Vil feverish and weak, you hovering like an anxious mother hen—and smiles.

“Oh, he’s heartbroken,” Rook declares, as if that explains everything.

“Heartbroken?!” you echo, disbelief dripping from every syllable. “I saw him two days ago, and he was fine. How could he be heartbroken in two days?!”

“Ah,” Rook says, his eyes twinkling with dramatic flair, “fairies can only fall in love once, and when they do, they fall hard. He thought you wouldn’t return after your exams. He was suffering in silence, believing you’d move on without him.”

You stare at Rook, dumbfounded. “Is he blind?!” You throw your hands in the air. “I’ve been horrendously in love with him since day one! How could he not notice?”

Rook just beams at you, like you’ve confirmed his favorite romantic theory. “Ah, l’amour. So tragic, yet so beautiful.”

At this point, you’re ready to throw your hands up in frustration. How does Vil not notice? You’ve been making him skincare products, practically living in his cottage, and hovering over him like a lovesick puppy. Could he really think you were just going to leave? But of course, Vil—being Vil—had assumed you’d outgrow him and move on to something better, leaving him behind like a discarded serum bottle.

With renewed determination, you take care of Vil, nursing him back to health with potions and plenty of water. You even manage to coax him to eat something other than the fairy equivalent of air-dried kale. Slowly, he starts looking more like himself, his fever fading and his color returning. But when he finally wakes up, fully lucid, his eyes widen in shock.

“You... you’re real?” he whispers, staring at you like you’re some miraculous vision.

“Yes, I’m real,” you huff, crossing your arms. “And I made this.” You pull out the lip balm you’ve been working on, your prized creation. You swipe some on your lips and then lean down to kiss him.

Vil blinks, stunned into silence. After a moment, a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “That’s... a surprisingly effective balm.”

You grin, feeling the tension melt away. “Maybe you should test it again.”

Vil wastes no time, pulling you in for another kiss, his lips soft and cool from the balm. He kisses you a second time, then a third—because, well, it’s important to make sure the balm has long-lasting effects, right?

But then, you pull back slightly, the grin slipping from your face. “Vil, I... I passed all my exams. I even got an offer to move to the capital.”

Vil’s entire body tenses. His hands, still resting on your waist, tighten slightly as his eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—fear? Dread? Whatever it is, it’s like a storm cloud settling over him.

“Oh.” His voice is soft, but there’s a weight to it, like he’s bracing himself for the inevitable. “I see.”

You can feel the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself so carefully, as if preparing for you to tell him you’re leaving. That you’re going to take the offer and disappear from his life, just like he feared. He’s already trying to let you go, even as his hands tremble slightly against your waist. It hits you all at once—how terrified he must have been, thinking you’d leave him behind.

For a moment, you just watch him, your heart aching at the sight of his barely concealed distress. And then, finally, you say, “I declined the offer.”

Vil’s breath catches. His eyes snap up to yours, wide with disbelief. “You... you what?”

You smile, leaning in closer. “I declined. I’m not going anywhere, Vil. In fact...” You take a deep breath, your grin widening. “I’m opening a skincare shop right here, on the edge of the forest. And I’m going to live here. With you. No arguments.”

For a moment, Vil just stares at you, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Then, slowly, the tension in his body dissolves, replaced by pure, unfiltered relief. His hands, which had been shaking moments ago, steady as they pull you closer, wrapping you in a tight embrace.

“You’re staying?” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“I’m staying,” you confirm, your heart swelling at the way he’s holding you, like he’s afraid to let go.

Vil presses his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as he takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice so soft, you almost miss it.

Your heart skips a beat. You smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you too, drama king.”

Vil huffs out a small, breathy laugh, pulling you down into the bed with him, his arms wrapped securely around you. For a moment, everything is still, peaceful, as you lie there together, tangled in each other’s arms. Neither of you says a word, content just to hold each other, the weight of the past few days finally lifting.

And as you drift off to sleep, you can’t help but feel a sense of warmth, knowing that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be—by Vil’s side, where you’ve always belonged.

I'm so deeply in love with this man it's kinda embarrassing