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“I hate the way you talk to him.”
Sanemi, fresh off a surge of searing anger, scoffs.
“Well, it’s a good thing it doesn’t fucking matter what you think.”
Giyuu rolls his eyes, unfazed by Sanemi’s crassness. Quick as ever to parry his low insults with words of equal sharpness, Giyuu takes a step forward, a physical marker of his escalation of their impending argument.
“You know, you really ought to mend your relationship with him. He’s all you have left, and I don’t know why you’d ever speak to a younger sibling like that.”
Sanemi bites back the knee-jerk, practically scripted response of I don’t have a younger sibling. It’s pointless around Giyuu, someone who knows him better than most (not that the list is particularly long), perhaps even Iguro, and someone who isn’t afraid to argue with him. Probably enjoys it, too.
Their familiarity isn’t something Sanemi was intending, but after too many nights of excessive amounts of alcohol loosening his tongue, he doesn’t really have a choice but to embrace it. Those nights are, of course, spent between the sheets as well, but Sanemi shoos the thought from his mind, lest he begin to dwell on the fact that recently their encounters have been stone-cold sober. He likes to think that he’s allowed himself to indulge for so long because when he holds Giyuu face-down with a hand in his hair, he’s making Giyuu feel just as vulnerable as he does when he’s spilling his guts about all the people who have left him over the course of his miserable life. Sanemi isn’t sure how much longer he can keep lying to himself. The invasive creep of fondness is getting harder to ignore.
“You know,” he mocks, “I think I’d rather cut off my hand than take any sort of emotional advice from you.”
Sanemi feels something like guilt crawling up his throat. It’s not a very nice thing to say, especially to the only person who can keep his heart from breaking when the grief is at its worst. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he knows he can’t jeopardize this relationship. Deep down, he doesn’t know what he would do without Giyuu’s soft murmurs, his fingers gently threading through his hair, his sweet, bashful smile. Nevertheless, Giyuu takes Sanemi’s words in stride.
“I would give anything to see my sister again, just once.” And with that, he spins on his heel, draining Sanemi of the anger that had fueled him just moments ago, and replacing it with a terrible emptiness.
*********
Later that night, Sanemi makes his way to the Water Estate, bottle of Giyuu’s favorite liquor in hand. He apologizes with his head between his thighs, and once he satisfies Giyuu he crawls on top of him, kissing him messy and frantic, mouth and chin still dripping. He gets himself off in an embarrassingly short amount of time, humping Giyuu’s leg still fully clothed.
Once he feels his breathing slow and the gaping pit in his stomach begin to close, he collapses on Giyuu’s chest, turning his head to the side and resting his ear on his sternum. Sanemi closes his eyes as his focus zeroes in on the comforting, consistent rhythm of Giyuu’s heart. Giyuu, sweet, perfect Giyuu whom Sanemi does not deserve in the slightest, brings his hand to Sanemi’s disheveled hair and begins to card his fingers through it, intermittently scratching at his scalp. He doesn’t say a word, and Sanemi feels like crying because he’s never had anyone who has known exactly what he needs when he needs it, and he doesn’t know why he’s so fucking mean all the time. It’s like he has this incessant, sick exigency to try his damndest to fuck things up just when they start to get good.
Eventually, Sanemi rolls off of Giyuu to clean himself up, discarding his pants and slipping into a set of jinbei Giyuu had pointed him towards that just so happened to be his size. He wipes Giyuu’s entire body down even though he’s not messy, especially compared to his usual post-coital state. He wraps him up in his yukata, having undone the obi earlier in the evening in his eagerness to get his mouth on Giyuu’s svelte collarbones and breasts. His chest is absolutely covered in marks ranging from purple to fresh, still-irritated red. Instead of the warm satisfaction Sanemi typically feels, that same sour guilt returns. He’s quick to cover Giyuu up.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, his mouth uncomfortably tacky, Sanemi positions himself behind Giyuu, who had turned onto his side as soon as Sanemi had stopped fussing over him. Sanemi wraps his arms tightly around Giyuu’s torso, burying his face in his hair and shakily inhaling. Giyuu places a hand over Sanemi’s and squeezes it before letting it fall limp, surely drifting off to sleep. Sanemi’s sinuses burn, and he allows a few tears to trail over the bridge of his nose. He has never felt fear quite like this.
*********
Time marches forth, ceaseless as ever, and Sanemi doesn’t see Genya for months. He tries not to make his interest obvious when he hears Genya’s name from Himejima’s mouth, but sometimes he can’t help but stop dead in his tracks at the mention of his little brother. Iguro looks at him funny when he awkwardly shifts and clears his throat as Himejima updates Oyakata-sama on his apprentice, not tsuguko, because he’s just not talented enough for that.
He hears about Genya hanging around the Kamado brat and his gaggle of misfits, and he can’t seem to stifle the faint air of comfort it brings him. Despite everything, the older brother that lies dormant within him wants nothing more than to see Genya happy, even if he himself has nothing to do with it.
Against his better judgment, Sanemi begins to allow his mind to drift back to his childhood. He recalls his most treasured memories, locked safely within a neat, sturdy box that he has to dig through the muddy recesses of his mind to find. He tries to hold every detail close to his chest; the color of his mother’s kimono, partially hidden under her apron as Sanemi helped her prepare a meal, or the size of the beetle he and Genya had found in the woods outside of their village compared to Genya’s tiny, grubby palms. One evening during a particularly bad week, Sanemi finds that he cannot picture his younger sister Sumi’s face, and he remains sitting on his futon until the sun comes up because he knows that if he moves, he will go straight for his katana and run himself through.
The self-destructive thoughts wax and wane, never lasting long, but paired with a debilitating intensity. When he is feeling particularly raw and scored open, Sanemi directs his anger towards his younger self, a boy who failed in every conceivable way to fill the void his good-for-nothing father left gaping. If he had worked harder and more often, his mother wouldn’t have had to pick up those jobs that kept her up all night and ultimately led to her demise. If he had stayed home that night, rather than leaving Genya to shepherd five young children, maybe Genya would still have siblings who could show him just how much they love him. Or, better yet, if he had never been born, or fallen victim to some tragic accident before he could single-handedly destroy his entire family.
He thinks about his father the most, but that’s no surprise considering he sees the bastard in the mirror each morning.
*********
The only thing that makes Sanemi feel some semblance of good is Giyuu. He used to tell himself that the rush of energy that could have him coasting for days and the buzz of contentment only happened because that’s what sex is biologically supposed to do to you. But it’s not just the sex. It’s the coy tilt of Giyuu’s head when he looks up at Sanemi, the slightest smile on his face like he knows exactly how fast Sanemi’s heart is racing. It’s his even temper, especially towards the younger members of the corps.
Sanemi constantly thinks about the day they dispatched a demon who had been terrorizing a small village, and how he got to witness Giyuu’s soft spot for children up close. They arrived in time to save a young boy, and the way Giyuu had crouched down, took the boy’s face into his hands and wiped his tears while softly soothing him had rendered Sanemi dazed. Upon returning from the mission, Sanemi took him to the Wind Estate where he spent hours getting his mouth and hands on every square inch of Giyuu’s body. He remembers intently taking Giyuu apart, watching his face with rapt fascination and absorbing every expression and noise that Sanemi teased out of him. It remains the softest and slowest they’ve ever fucked, and Sanemi has been hoping for another excuse to do it all over again.
He sees Giyuu as often as their occupations allow, and is eventually lulled into a state of contentment. Even apart, Sanemi finds that his thoughts drift to his lover with an increasing frequency. It’s as if he has a sixth sense, one that revolves around satisfying Giyuu. When traveling, his attention is often caught by potential gifts; a blend of tea he thinks Giyuu would be partial to, or a bracelet adorned with a stone that nearly matches Giyuu’s eyes, as nothing could truly compare to that brilliant blue that makes Sanemi’s heart stutter.
Sanemi is often spoiled as well, as undeserving as he feels. Giyuu surprises him with ohagi one afternoon, and Sanemi’s chest swells with a rush of affection that flushes his face and ears. He later discovers from a sour Iguro that Giyuu sought Kanroji’s help in the endeavor, disclosing his lack of skill in the kitchen to her.
Speaking of their fellow Hashira, Sanemi’s relationship with Giyuu seems to have become the latest gossip within their circle. Kanroji is sent into a fit of poorly-concealed giggles whenever he happens to catch her eye during meetings, and Shinobu can’t seem to keep a smirk off her face whilst treating Sanemi at the Butterfly Mansion. Iguro repeatedly questions him for his choice in romantic partners, and his bitter attitude towards Giyuu grows worse. He is cornered by Uzui multiple times, the man dying to know just how their unforeseen affair began.
Once, he caught Sanemi with his fingers knuckle-deep in Giyuu’s cunt, whose face was buried in the crook of Sanemi’s neck to muffle his whines. To be fair, they hadn’t even made it past the genkan of the Wind Estate, desperation rendering them unable to keep their hands off of each other, but Uzui has a real problem with knocking. Giyuu had been absolutely mortified, telling Sanemi that he would never do something so careless again, and forcing him to ensure that Uzui wouldn’t go running his mouth to the entire Demon Slayer Corps. After sufficient taunting, Uzui had agreed, quipping that he expected to be sat front row at Sanemi and Giyuu’s wedding ceremony. In exchange for his silence, Sanemi was also made to promise that himself and Giyuu would make an appearance at Uzui’s next jamboree at the Sound Estate.
About a month later, the promise is begrudgingly fulfilled. Sanemi and Giyuu arrive about fifteen minutes after they were told to, hoping to neither be the first nor last in order to deter any unwanted attention. Giyuu is dressed in a lovely kimono that accentuates the innate elegance of his figure. He even lets his choppy hair out of its usual low ponytail, allowing it to torrent down his shoulders uninterrupted. He’s beautiful. Before entering the Sound Estate, Sanemi turns to him.
“You’ll tell me if anyone gives you trouble?”
Sanemi knows better than anyone that Giyuu is more than capable of holding his own, both physically and verbally, but he wants tonight to go as smoothly as possible for him. It’s because of Sanemi that he has to be here, after all. Giyuu raises an eyebrow.
“You worried about me?” he goads, opening the door and slipping inside.
Events within the Demon Slayer Corps had been laced with pensive melancholy since Rengoku’s death and Uzui’s retirement. They had lost Hashira before, but this felt different, as if the plates beneath their feet were shifting with greater speed and force, heralding an earthquake of unprecedented magnitude. Sanemi hopes that Uzui’s impressive trove of alcohol will provide an adequate distraction.
Stepping into the genkan, Sanemi quickly spots Giyuu being fawned over by Kanroji and one of Uzui’s wives; Hinatsuru, if his memory serves him well. Pleased by the sight, he makes his way to the table occupied by Uzui, Iguro, and Shinobu. Himejima is predictably absent; Sanemi can only imagine what he thinks of their soirées. They engage in casual, slightly strained conversation until a sly grin stretches across Uzui’s features.
“Lovely night we’re having, Shinazugawa.”
“Too bad you’re only seeing half of it,” Sanemi fires back.
“Oh, I only need one eye to appreciate how dazzling your date looks this evening.”
Iguro snickers, and the jolt of indignation that begins to heat Sanemi’s blood is largely unjustified. One, Uzui is merely fulfilling his role as Corps instigator, and two, Sanemi has absolutely no claim over Giyuu. They’ve never discussed the nature of their relationship, Sanemi assuming that Giyuu is nowhere near as invested as he is. Still, he refuses to entertain Uzui’s playful jabs.
“I didn’t drag myself to your ugly fucking house to listen to you talk about him all night.” Why the hell is he so worked up over this?
“Come now, Sanemi, no need to draw your sword. We won’t make you share that pretty pu-”
Sanemi’s fist makes contact with Uzui’s nose, a wet crunch sounding out from under Sanemi’s knuckles. He turns and makes a beeline for the door before he can see anyone’s reaction, his cheeks already burning. He’s gone and fucked up Giyuu’s night in a record ten minutes.
He marks his entry of his estate with an unbridled Fuck! He grits his teeth so forcefully that they creak, his nails carving crescents into his calloused palms. Giyuu won’t want to see him again, and maybe that’s a good thing, considering Sanemi is incapable of self-control when he’s involved.
Just as the gravity of Sanemi’s actions begins to set in, there’s a knock at his door. He freezes, quickly deciding that he undoubtedly does not want to see whoever is on the other side. He’s ready to wait them out, tensing his muscles when a soft Sanemi? filters through the heavy wood. He’s off like a shot, a thousand apologies on his tongue as he races to throw the door open.
“Giyuu, I’m so-”
Giyuu grabs the front of his shirt, dragging him down for the most heated kiss Sanemi’s ever experienced. He gasps into his mouth, his arms wrapping around Giyuu’s waist and pulling him flush against his body. Giyuu breaks the kiss, chest heaving.
“Can I come in?”
*********
Sanemi’s mouth feels stuffed with cotton as he watches Giyuu drop to his knees before him. His lithe fingers reach for the tie of his hakama, and Sanemi’s palms grow sweaty.
“Gi-Giyuu, wait a minute,” he protests.
“Shut up and let me thank you.”
Giyuu’s voice kindles a fire, leaving no room for argument. Sanemi tries to steady his breathing as he brushes Giyuu’s bangs away from his forehead. After a moment of fumbling, Giyuu fishes his cock out, leaning forward so he can get his lips around the head. Sanemi groans as he begins to suck lightly, already sliding down to take more into his mouth.
“Fuck, that’s it.”
Sanemi wrangles Giyuu’s silky hair into a makeshift handle, focusing on the texture in an effort to distract himself from how close he already is. He resists the urge to close his eyes and throw his head back. He wants to commit every minute detail to memory; the flutter of Giyuu’s eyelashes and the tears that bead at his waterline when Sanemi’s dick hits the back of his throat, the subtle squeeze of his thighs as he tries to relieve the accumulated tension between them. Sanemi tilts Giyuu’s head up using the grip he has on his hair. He strokes the fragile skin underneath his eye with the thumb of his free hand, letting his palm pillow Giyuu’s heated cheek.
Giyuu hums out of sheer bliss, his eyes hazy and half-lidded. Sanemi’s heart races at the display of docility before him. He begins to fuck into Giyuu’s mouth, gradually gaining speed and fervor as his self-control frays. He’s suddenly overcome with the urge to tell Giyuu exactly how good he’s making him feel.
“You’re doing so well, doll. So fucking perfect for me.”
Giyuu’s brows draw upward and together as his forehead crinkles, a broken whimper rising from his diaphragm. He has a thinly-veiled thing for praise, and Sanemi loves to feed the beast, always in awe at the visceral reactions he can provoke with a sentence or two.
That desperate look on Giyuu’s face has Sanemi plummeting towards his orgasm. He fists Giyuu’s hair and shoves his face into his abdomen, hips bucking erratically as he spills down his lover’s throat.
He eases off of Giyuu’s head as soon as that thick comber of pleasure recedes, moving his hands to wipe the tears carving shiny trails into Giyuu’s cheeks. His face is a wreck, ruddy and syrupy with drool, and his hair is even worse. Sanemi pulls him to his feet with a c'mere, sweetheart, planting kisses everywhere within reach. He lifts him up as he sets off for his bedroom, eager to get his mouth, hands, what have you on his pretty pussy as Uzui had so eloquently referred to it. Fuck, he still feels bad about that. An established, universal truth understood by all members of the Demon Slayer Corps is that Uzui will be Uzui, and there’s simply nothing to be done about it. Certainly not socking him right in his perfect nose, at least.
He sets Giyuu down on the futon, watches him move to undress himself. Sanemi grabs his wrists.
“Let me,” he says, his voice taking on a pleading edge. Giyuu nods, eyes wide.
Sanemi unties the obi, his fingers slipping more than once. They’re shaking. Next to go are the date-jime and koshi-himo. He pauses to wipe his palms on his hakama, the sweat impeding his dexterity. He unwraps the kimono, Giyuu rising from his haunches up onto his knees as Sanemi slips the garment off of him. His breathing has picked up, the effort visibly noticeable.
“Please,” he whispers, thighs trembling. Sanemi wonders how wet he is. He springs into action at the thought, making quick work of the nagajuban, Giyuu’s susoyoke and hadajuban soon to follow. Sanemi struggles to maintain his composure, not wanting to risk Giyuu’s wrath by tearing his clothes in his haste.
Sanemi unwinds Giyuu’s fundoshi before shoving him backwards. He lands on his elbows as Sanemi grabs his legs, forcing them open. Sanemi’s frantic movements slow as he drinks in the sight before him. Giyuu is flushed down to his chest, covered in gooseflesh thanks to the cool night air. His cunt is soaked. Sanemi notices the glisten of fluids smeared halfway down his inner thighs after rubbing them together in search of friction. He takes his hands off of Giyuu’s knees and brushes them over his cheeks before dragging one down to his neck, his fingers briefly wrapping around his windpipe. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds. He trails over sharp collarbones, then lissome breasts, pausing to swipe his thumbs over stiff nipples. Giyuu chokes on an inhale, arching his chest at the long-awaited stimulation. Sanemi soldiers on, over the ridges of Giyuu’s ribs, down to his waist. Sanemi’s stomach twists when he wraps his hands around it and the tips of his fingers brush each other.
Finally, finally, Sanemi takes Giyuu’s knee back into his left hand, pushing it laterally, and traces the fingertips of his right down the smooth plane of his stomach. Giyuu jumps as he reaches the mound of his pussy, his middle finger breaching his slit to deliver gentle strokes to his clit.
“Oh,” Giyuu moans, fisting the duvet, “Sanemi.”
Sanemi grins.
“Yeah? That feel good, doll?”
Giyuu whines, lashes fluttering as Sanemi teases his hole with that same finger, now absolutely drenched.
“I asked you a question, Giyuu.”
A gasp, then:
“Fuck! Yes, Sanemi, so good! M-more, please more!”
Sanemi plunges his finger into wet, hot velvet, his ears burning at the squelch that fills the air. He fucks it back and forth a few times before slipping his ring finger in with ease. Giyuu begins to squirm as Sanemi grinds the heel of his hand against his swelling clit, so Sanemi forces his body closer to keep his legs open. He lets his other hand roam the peaks and valleys of Giyuu’s body, touching him everywhere as if he has any right to. He rubs circles into his abdomen, applying slight pressure just above his pelvis.
Giyuu’s hands immediately fly up, grabbing his wrist and fingers and pulling in a weak attempt to escape the odd stimulus. Sanemi doubles his efforts as Giyuu’s pussy begins to clench. He leans into the rapid back and forth of his arm, grinding his cock against the futon. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Giyuu so wet, his cunt scattering slick each time Sanemi draws his fingers back. Giyuu plants his feet on the bedding, angling his hips towards Sanemi’s relentless movement. Blood pounds in his ears as he speaks.
“So close, aren’t you?” Fuck, he wants to see it so bad, “Let go for me. Come on, Giyuu, I’ve got you.”
Giyuu responds with a drawn-out uhhhh, his eyes crossing before he squeezes them shut. His jaw is slack, drool steadily leaking from his mouth. His brows furrow in what Sanemi interprets as disbelief, like he can’t even comprehend what he’s feeling. Sanemi is giddy, nearly lightheaded with excitement.
Giyuu gasps, throwing his head back with so much force it looks painful before his entire body goes rigid and he screams. Sanemi is so preoccupied with the look on his face that he nearly misses the moment Giyuu’s pussy goes taut and a surge of fluid spurts from it. The sight launches him into his own orgasm as he rips his fingers out and scrubs them side to side over Giyuu’s clit. He sprays everywhere; it drenches Sanemi’s clothes, the ruined futon, even the floor. Giyuu’s wails dissolve into sobs and his hips lower back to the duvet as the stream of fluid dissipates. He’s shaking all over, struggling to catch his breath and Sanemi is overwhelmed with the urge to comfort.
“Fuck. Fuck, Giyuu,” he groans as he drags Giyuu onto his lap and holds him tight, one hand on the back of his head and the other wrapped around his waist. Sweet, darling Giyuu cries into his chest, body wracked with overstimulated sobs. Sanemi rubs large, full circles on his back as his brain shifts into fix-it mode.
“You did so well, sweetheart,” he soothes, “You’re so pretty, you know that? ‘M so lucky you keep me around. I-”
Shit. He catches himself before he completely loses control. Giyuu seems to be too out of it to notice, thankfully. Sanemi leans back to examine his face. It’s red and streaked with tears, but he’s not in distress. He’s relaxed, almost limp in Sanemi’s arms. He needs water, probably something small to eat as well, but Sanemi is reluctant to leave him.
“I made a mess,” Giyuu sniffles.
“It’s okay,” Sanemi replies, amused, “I liked it.”
Giyuu smiles softly, salt drying on his cheeks. Sanemi combs his bangs back to press a kiss to his forehead, then tilts his chin up and captures his lips. Giyuu indulges him for a few seconds, then lays his head in the crook of his neck, spent. Ugly, familiar guilt eats at Sanemi’s heart.
“I really am sorry. About tonight.”
“Maybe that’ll teach Uzui to keep his mouth shut,” Giyuu quips. Sanemi grimaces, not quite ready to make light of the ordeal.
“I’m not upset with you,” he continues in a soft murmur, “It’s nice to know you care.”
Oh, he cares. He cares so much it makes him ache, keeps him pacing the halls at odd hours in anxious paroxysms. He’s never loved anyone the way he loves Giyuu, a specific flavor of devotion that pendulums between euphoric pleasure and panicked hysteria. He loves him and he’ll never tell him because he will not risk losing him. He would rather live in purgatory, whispering his affection like a solemn oath only dared muttered under cloak of night, than imperil what they have. Shinazugawa Sanemi is not a betting man.
“You’re good to me, Sanemi.”
“I’ll draw you a bath,” he croaks.
*********
Uzui’s party marks a turning point in Sanemi and Giyuu’s relationship. They put an end to the pointless denial when interrogated by their fellow Hashira, and their encounters develop a romantic ambience. They still have sex; more than ever, probably, but more emphasis is placed on the before and after. They go on the occasional date, and Sanemi enjoys them more than he ever thought he would. Seeing Giyuu in public and/or when the sun is still in the sky fills him with inexplicable delight. He feels himself growing increasingly dependent on Giyuu’s presence to feel even remotely happy, but he can’t find it in himself to care. He wants nothing more than to be near Giyuu; hold his hand to guide him down busy streets, braid his hair in the gentle kiss of the morning sun, press his lips to his nose and stroke his cheek as they drift off to sleep. Sanemi is cautiously optimistic.
It’s only a matter of time before Giyuu gets curious about Genya again.
Since Upper Moons Four and Five were defeated at the Swordsmith Village, the structure of the Demon Slayer Corps seems to have tilted further on its axis. The Kamado girl has conquered the sun, which can only mean that Kibutsuji is plotting how best to murder each and every one of them at any given moment. Everyone is unsettled, waiting with bated breath as the curtains prepare to fall on the final act of their measly lives. Sanemi chooses to cope by thinking about it as little as humanly possible and seeing Giyuu as often as humanly possible.
It’s the morning after one of their late-night trysts when Giyuu gets bold enough to meddle in Sanemi’s familial affairs again.
“Have you seen your brother at all?”
Sanemi lets tense silence speak for him.
“Tanjiro told me that he played a very pivotal role in defeating Upper Four. Said they couldn’t have done it without him.”
Sanemi’s focus zeroes in on the braid he’s weaving into Giyuu’s hair. He’s briefly thankful that Giyuu chose to breach this topic when they weren’t facing each other.
“Sanemi, you should talk to him.”
“I’m not having this conversation with you,” Sanemi clips.
“You’re all he has, Sanemi. He needs you.”
“And how the fuck would you know what he needs, Giyuu?”
“Because he told me!” Sanemi’s hands freeze, “He knows about us. He came to me asking how to get you to speak to him again. I had no fucking clue what to say to him because I don’t understand it!”
Sanemi takes his hands out of Giyuu’s hair, the plait half-finished.
“Of course you don’t fucking understand it,” he grits out, “You don’t know a fucking thing about the sacrifices I’ve made for him. You think-” His voice begins to break, growing watery and thin.
Nonetheless, he continues:
“You think I don’t love him? Everything I do is for him. I’m nothing without him, and I won’t watch him throw his fucking life away and get himself killed in the name of this organization. I don’t care if he hates me, as long as he’s alive to do it!”
His chest heaves, and the dam breaks on the exhale. He sobs like he’s a kid again, covering his face with his hands to soften the humiliation. He hears Giyuu shift on the futon. Gentle arms envelop him, one hand rubbing his back and the other stroking his hair. He lets himself be pulled into Giyuu’s chest, resting his head just below his chin. Giyuu holds him for a few moments, listens to Sanemi cry himself hoarse, then begins to speak.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” Giyuu whispers, “I want to help you. I love you, Sanemi.”
Sanemi weeps harder at the admission, taking his hands away from his face just to wrap them snug around Giyuu’s waist. He burrows his face into his sternum, desperate to feel warm skin against his.
“I’m scared,” Sanemi rasps, “I’m so fucking scared all the time. I need him to be safe. I can’t live without him, but-”
He hiccups as he struggles to speak through the tears. He’s definitely smearing snot all over Giyuu, who only pulls him closer.
“But I can’t let him see how broken I am.”
Giyuu drops his head, presses his lips to Sanemi’s hair and lingers there for a moment. Sanemi doesn’t deserve him. Giyuu should leave before Sanemi can ruin him too, drag him down into his yawning abyss of misery. He should run for the fucking hills, but Sanemi is far too selfish to push him away.
A fresh swell of tears trickles down his cheeks. He sinks further into Giyuu’s embrace, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
*********
And drop it does.
A few months later, Sanemi awakens in the halls of the Butterfly Mansion, having lost the few dregs of purpose he had.
Genya is dead. Iguro is dead, Oyakata-sama is dead, Kanroji is dead, Shinobu is dead, Tokito is dead, Himejima is dead, and Genya. Genya is dead.
Sanemi promptly vomits all over himself, gasping for air that doesn’t quite reach his lungs. He begins to mutter hysterically, no no no please no why not me why him please why as the price paid for Kibutsuji’s life begins to settle over him like thick, suffocating smoke. He recalls glimpses of Kanroji cradled in Iguro’s arms as they succumbed to their wounds, Himejima fading with a smile on his face, Tokito’s butchered corpse, too small.
And Genya. His baby brother had softly smiled and comforted Sanemi as he screamed, refusing to reckon with fate. His brother, braver than Sanemi could ever hope to be. There hadn’t even been a body, Genya withering into ash like the demon they had bested moments before. Sanemi had spent the better part of ten years pushing him away, and he had nothing but ash to show for it. An incoherent, garbled scream tears from his throat as the grief boils over. He feels the prick of a needle before his eyes grow heavy.
The sun wakes him, its shine ricocheting off of the window across from him and beaming directly into his eyes. The thought of the world continuing to turn without Genya in it fills him with sullen rage. He feels floaty and distant, his entire body staticky and blurred at the edges. He is grateful. He knows that he cannot survive his unbridled grief.
Sanemi jumps as a warm weight deposits itself in his lap. He hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room. He lazily angles his head to find Giyuu, head buried in his thighs and his fist clenched so tightly in the blanket his knuckles are white. Fist, Sanemi realizes, because he’s missing a fucking arm. Sanemi lays a hand on his head. If he focuses, he can hear Giyuu sobbing, harsh and unrestrained.
“I thought you weren’t going to wake up!” he wails.
Sanemi opens his mouth to reassure him, offer any sort of comfort, to no avail. His throat is numb from disuse, and even if he could speak, he doesn’t know what he’d say. He’s not sure that there are words for what they’ve seen and done. He moves his fingers, tries to caress his hair, scratch his scalp, anything, but his brain is cloaked in a fog that makes every movement cost twice as much effort. Giyuu raises his head, eyes bloodshot and bright with tears. He looks fucking exhausted. He stands and settles on his haunches on the edge of the bed, placing his hand on Sanemi’s cheek. He smooths his thumb over the scar splintering the bridge of his nose.
“It’s over. I’ll take care of you now. You can rest, Sanemi, it’s alright.”
No, he thinks, nothing will ever be alright again. The thought carries no anger as it once would have. Sanemi leans into Giyuu, heart cleaved in two.