Chapter Text
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Kyojuro wakes with a jolt, feeling disoriented.
It isn't even a second before the disorientation leaves, and he realizes where he is again, awareness and awakeness having been drilled into his warrior’s body like steel folded many times. The realization doesn’t make it any less disappointing. Even with his sleeping pack, Kyojuro aches from lying on the hard forest floor, and to make matters worse, it’s bone-chillingly cold.
Kyojuro flexes fingers that have gone numb, his breath puffing before his face, and reaches instinctively for his Nichirin katana’s white silk-wrapped handle. There are just enough embers in their campfire to see by, preventing the little clearing from reaching total darkness, but the fire has burned down low enough to make its warmth nonexistent—though, in truth, it had never been all that warm to begin with. It had only gotten colder as the sun had set.
Kyojuro forces himself to stand, ignoring the protests of his cold, stiff joints, and kneels to toss a few more logs onto the fire. The shadows gave way before the flames, casting their campsite in flickering incandescence.
There are five sleeping bags clustered here, including his own. Two of them are still occupied—Kyojuro can just make out the top of Makio’s head, whereas Suma is little more than an indistinct lump in the darkness. Her snores are soft and steady. The other two bags are conspicuously empty.
Where are Tengen and Hinatsuru?
Kyojuro tilts his head, listening. The forest whispers back to him: wind in the trees, a shallow stream bubbling over smooth stones, unseen creatures hunting through the grass. Somewhere, an owl hoots. The sound is low and lonely.
The emptiness of the Sound Hashira’s sleeping bag is glaring. And, not for the first time, Kyojuro feels a spike of irritation—familiar, but hot and shameful and imperfect because this wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
Kyojuro sighs.
It isn’t unusual for Hashira to work together. Shinobu and Giyu were paired together all the time. Obanai and Sanemi, too, but Kyojuro had never been given such an opportunity. So he’s surprised—surprised and pleased—when Kaname comes wheeling down out of the sky one morning to land upon his shoulder, squawking almost affectionately in his deep, croaking crow's voice.
“Mission for you, Lord Rengoku! A joint mission!”
A joint mission? The news had made Kyojuro sit up straight, his red miso and sweet potato forgotten. The Corps had gotten wind of a particularly nasty demon prowling the streets of Kawagoe, a former castle town turned bustling commercial center.
The slayings had been going on for a while now. Until recently, however, they’d been attributed to the sort of unfortunate but not entirely unexpected violent crimes that sometimes happened in major cities. This demon—whoever it was—had turned Kawagoe’s brothels, shadier tea houses, and gambling dens into hunting grounds. The victims were almost universally working women, criminals, or poor outcasts—in short, people who would not be missed. Which probably explained why it had been allowed to go on for so long.
Kyojuro remembers how his fists clenched in anger. A monster who made a meal out of their society’s most vulnerable…it was a despicable thing, indeed.
By itself, such a creature probably wouldn’t have warranted the attention of one Hashira, let alone two. But the reports coming out of Kawagoe had been disturbing—disturbing enough to warrant an aggressive response.
The mission was objectively simple: exterminate this demon. But in practice, in a city such as Kawagoe, against a foe such as this…they couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
And that’s how Kyojuro came to be paired up with Tengen Uzui. Kyojuro had been ordered to meet up with Tengen at Iwanokawa, a little village to the east, and together, they would make the trip north to Kawagoe. Further mission details were to follow. Simple enough.
Kyojuro shakes his head. If only.
A joint mission, and with Tengen Uzui, no less! Kyojuro can still recall how excited he’d been by the prospect. He’s always admired Tengen, both as a colleague and a warrior. Tengen was one of the strongest among them, second only to Himejima. His speed, his spectacular breathing style, even his weapon—two giant Nichirin cleavers linked like a pair of nunchucks—were all so very different from Kyojuro’s own. As someone who’s spent the majority of his life honing his skills to a fine edge, he appreciated it—like water seeking its own level. Unfortunately…
Unfortunately, expectations hadn’t lived up to the reality of actually working with the so-called god of festivals and flashiness. Kyojuro studies Tengen and Hinatsuru’s empty sleeping bags with contemplative eyes.
A sound comes spinning out of the dark, echoing amongst the foliage. Kyojuro turns in a semicircle, soundless, surveying the treeline gathered about the clearing like silent sentinels. For a moment, there’s nothing—wind soughing through the trees, water flowing over rocks in the stream, all the expected sounds—and then he hears it again. Something like a hiss, low and pained.
His hands fly to his sword. The motion is easy, practiced, automatic, and then Kyojuro moves toward the sound. His eyes are squinted against the dark. The night is moonless.
He keeps his sword at the ready, the long sheath with its gray and white chevron pattern tucked up under one arm, one hand resting lightly on the hilt. Fifty feet into the treeline, he pauses again, straining every sense. It’s nearly totally dark under the canopy. The camp is a pinprick of light behind him.
Kyojuro isn’t worried—not yet, anyway—but Tengen and Hinatsuru’s absence concerns him more and more. Hinatsuru’s especially. His frustration with Tengen aside, Kyojuro rather liked his wives. He’d found Hinatsuru particularly lovely. Intelligent, level-headed (and beautiful, some small, thoroughly unhelpful part of him supplies, as if each and every one of his wives isn’t equally as beautiful), Hinatsuru had been a breath of fresh air during the long journey to Kawagoe, and a balm for his rising tensions with Tengen. He wouldn’t put this past Tengen, but it wasn’t at all like Hinatsuru to just take off without a word.
Kyojuro turns again, listening, searching, but the forest is quiet once more. He’s just about made up his mind to go back to camp and rouse Makio and Suma for a search party when he hears a grunt and catches a flash of something through the trees. There.
Kyojuro is there in a flash, moving on quick, silent feet. The path forms another natural clearing, and he pauses just at the edge of it, looking out, sword at the ready. He sees Tengen and Hinatsuru. Relief floods him, followed almost immediately by confusion, then shock. The feeling is like ice water to the face, cold and sobering.
Tengen is facing him, his back to a nearby tree. In his arms is Hinatsuru, and even though he’s close—no more than ten, fifteen feet away—Kyojuro can tell from the look on Tengen’s face that Hinatsuru is the only thing that exists for him right now.
Tengen's expression is almost pained. His brow furrow in concentration beneath his headband. The Sound Hashira's sharp, cat-like eyes are half-lidded. He gazes at Hinatsuru lovingly, lustfully; Kyojuro can see nothing of Hinatsuru’s face, but he can almost imagine she must look similar, her cheeks flush, biting her lips in something far from pain.
Hinatsuru’s legs are wrapped around his waist, and Tengen is holding her up, his thick forearms supporting her thighs. Hinatsuru’s legs are long and strong—Kyojuro has no doubt that the kunoichi has more than enough strength and flexibility to hold herself up, but Tengen does it anyway.
There’s something so tender in his grasp, in the way Hinatsuru’s arms loop around his neck.
There’s something desperate in the way Tengen kisses her—like he’s drowning, like he’s starving, and her lips are air and sustenance all at once. It makes something ache in Kyojuro’s bones, makes him think of his mother and father, how happy they’d been, and how desperately he wants to have that for himself someday: a partner to love wholeheartedly, children to raise, a home filled with laughter and happiness.
He lets out a breath.
It isn’t until Hinatsuru begins to raise and lower herself, rising and falling in smooth, steady rolls, that some part of him realizes what’s happening.
Kyojuro’s face goes hot; he knows he ought to look away, knows this isn’t for him to see, but he’s transfixed. It’s like trying not to scratch an itch. He doesn’t know a lot about this, but he isn’t entirely clueless. Tengen and Hinatsuru are quiet, considering. Sounds escape them all the same. A groan here. A pant there. A grunt from Tengen. The Sound Hashira’s forehead comes to rest on his wife’s—one of his wife’s—shoulder. The sounds are rapturous.
Kyojuro glances down. He doesn’t want to, but he almost can’t help it; Hinatsuru’s mode of dress makes Mitsuri’s uniform seem positively modest. Her vanishingly short purple yukata is bunched around her shapely thighs, and as she raises herself, Kyojuro sees it.
Tengen’s cock curves up from his unfastened uniform pants to disappear in Hinatsuru. It’s slick with the evidence of her, so long and thick Kyojuro has trouble believing he can even fit it inside and—and, oh, gods—Kyojuro catches himself with a sick feeling and finally, finally turns away. His blush is like a sunburn, and his heart is in his ears. His embarrassment is a hot, restless feeling in him, like needing to pee, but worse.
But even all that is nothing, nothing compared to what he hears next: “Kyojuro...”
Kyojuro freezes, mortified. If Muzan Kibutsuji had appeared before him, Kyojuro would have thrown himself at the Demon King without a second thought and died happily in battle. For a moment, all he can think to do is run, but he quickly banishes the impulse as cowardly and starts to turn back. A dozen apologies bubble on his lips.
But, to his surprise, Tengen and Hinatsuru aren’t looking at him. They are just as preoccupied as before. Hinatsuru raises and lowers herself faster and faster, bracing her palms on Tengen’s shoulders, and in the sudden frenzy of their movement, Kyojuro hears his name again, the syllables drawn out in a half-groan, half-whine that tumbles from Tengen’s lips.
“Kyojuro—ah, fuck—Hina…!”
Wh…what…?
Kyojuro flees back to camp.
He can’t say he’s ever run from anything before. But he runs from this, shocked right down to his core. Every inch of his skin feels warm, so hot it’s like he’s running a fever. The stiff white shirt collar of his uniform is suddenly constricting. He’s acutely aware of it, feels too closely where the material ends, and he begins; he wants to wriggle out of it, then go dunk his head in a river and hide for the next week. Kyojuro knows very little of the ways of lovemaking, but he’s fairly certain that you aren’t supposed to be groaning someone else’s name while you do it.
Hinatsuru hadn’t seemed to mind it, though. And—gods, oh gods—why was Tengen moaning his name? The look on his face…the slickness as Tengen pumped in and out, obvious even in the dark—
Kyojuro shakes himself like a dog, his bangs whipping the sides of his face. He makes it back to camp in record time. The fire is blazing merrily. Makio and Suma sleep peacefully.
Kyojuro sets his katana on the ground, within easy reaching distance, and carefully crawls back into his sleeping bag. He draws it up high, covering his face so that only his hair can be seen.
It's another day two before they reach Kawagoe. The long trip was wearing on him, but Kyojuro’s never felt less tired or more awake. Tengen and Hinatsuru linger in his mind like the afterimage of staring at something too bright for too long.
The answers elude him, and the most maddening thing is that he’s not sure he even wants an answer to this. Kyojuro is fairly certain he ought to forget it ever happened.
It isn’t long before Tengen and Hinatsuru step back into the circle of the camp. Kyojuro goes rigid, then relaxes, shutting his eyes. He keeps his breathing slow and steady, mimicking the rhythm of sleep. Tengen and Hinatsuru hadn’t noticed him, and for that, he can only thank his lucky stars. It will be hard enough to look either of them in the eye come morning.
Hinatsuru settles in. Kyojuro can hear her; her pack is near his. But, for some reason, Tengen doesn’t immediately return to his place by the fire; he hovers over him. Kyojuro can feel the large man’s shadow on his face, even in the dark. Then he kneels beside him. The Sound Hashira smells strongly of juniper, a piney, resinous scent, but mixed in with that is the softer smell of jasmine and sandalwood from Hinatsuru. Of course, they would smell like each other.
He doesn't know why that surprises him, makes him feel...he doesn't know.
Before Kyojuro can puzzle through it, Tengen's hands are in his hair. It's the faintest of faint touches, but it takes every ounce of Kyojuro’s willpower to keep his breathing steady.
What the hell is he doing?
Tengen’s faint touch becomes a gentle stroke. Left to its own devices, Kyojuro’s hair forms waves and loose curls that he struggles to keep off his face. Tengen wraps a strand of it around his finger, then finally withdraws. There’s something soft and sacred about the way he does it, and it makes Kyojuro’s mouth go very, very dry.
“Lord Tengen. You should tell him,” Hinatsuru’s voice, barely above a whisper.
Tengen takes a breath. He’s already moving away. His voice is low, lacking in its usual bravado. “I love you. Get some sleep, eh?”
The camp falls silent after that, save for Suma’s snores.
Kyojuro doesn’t get much rest.