Through the White Silence

by FrootLoops42

Summary:

After a brutal battle with a powerful demon, Giyuu Tomioka and Obanai Iguro are left stranded in the middle of a relentless blizzard — both gravely injured, far from the Demon Slayer Corps, and with no one aware of their location.

Giyuu has lost his sight, and Obanai can no longer stand. With only each other to rely on, they make an unspoken pact: Giyuu will walk, and Obanai will see.

Together, they begin the long, freezing journey home.

Notes:

Any dynamic in this fic can be seen as romantic or platonic

This fic idea came from Clem aka knyinsomniac on tik tok

Chapter 1: The Crows Call

The frost hadn’t yet melted from the training yard. The morning air was thin and sharp, and each swing of Giyuu’s blade cut through it with soft precision. His breath misted faintly in front of him — steady, rhythmic, the kind of calm that came from habit rather than peace.

He moved like a shadow over the snow, feet sliding across the frozen ground with effortless control. The familiar rhythm of blade and breath filled the quiet, his concentration unbroken even as sunlight caught on the edge of his sword.

He lowered the blade only when the wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of wisteria from the gardens beyond the Butterfly Mansion. It reminded him of silence — the kind that lingered after missions, when too many names had been lost.

“Training again, Tomioka-san?”

The voice came from behind him, lilting and amused. Shinobu Kocho leaned lightly against the wooden fence, her haori fluttering with the morning breeze. A single wisteria petal drifted down and caught in her hair.

“You’ll wear yourself out before another mission even arrives,” she continued, her tone half-mocking, half-genuine.

Giyuu straightened but didn’t turn toward her. “It’s routine.”

Shinobu smiled faintly, stepping closer to the yard. “Routine,” she repeated. “You and your routines. You never rest, do you?”

Giyuu slid his sword back into its sheath. “There’s no reason to.”

“That’s exactly why you should,” she countered softly. “You can’t save anyone if you collapse from exhaustion.”

He glanced at her then — only for a moment — before looking away again. “I’m fine.”

“Mm.” She tilted her head. “You always say that.”

The silence stretched. The faint sound of cicadas hummed in the distance, faint under the crisp wind. Shinobu turned her eyes to the frost at their feet, her expression softening.

“You’ve been here since sunrise,” she said finally. “Tanjiro told me he saw you when he went for water.”

Giyuu didn’t answer. His hands rested quietly against the hilt of his sword.

Shinobu’s smile returned, though it was gentler now. “You know, it’s allowed to be peaceful once in a while. You could join the others for breakfast.”

He shook his head. “They don’t need me there.”

“That’s a poor excuse.” Her tone carried a hint of scolding warmth. “You don’t need to be needed to be welcome.”

He didn’t reply, but something in his shoulders eased just slightly.

For a brief moment, they simply stood there — the silence not uncomfortable, just full of the soft sound of wind moving through the wisteria trees. Shinobu’s expression turned thoughtful as she watched him.

“You’re very predictable, Tomioka-san.”

“Predictable?”

“Yes. The quiet type, the first to leave, the last to return. You and Iguro are quite alike that way.”

That made Giyuu look up, faint surprise flickering in his eyes. “Iguro?”

“Yes,” she said with an easy smile. “You and Iguro — the same type. Quiet. Brooding. Sitting alone in the corner, acting like the world’s fate depends on how long you can stare at the floor.”

He blinked once, slow. “I don’t brood.”

Shinobu laughed — a bright, clear sound that filled the empty yard. “Of course you don’t,” she said, feigning innocence. “You just stand dramatically in the mist until someone feels sorry enough to talk to you.”

Giyuu didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. Shinobu caught it immediately and smiled wider. “Ah,” she said softly, “so he does have expressions.”

Her teasing carried no malice. She’d long since given up trying to provoke him into flustered responses — it amused her more to catch those tiny cracks in his stoic mask.

Shinobu folded her arms loosely. “You know, for someone so quiet, you make a lot of noise with that sword.”

Giyuu adjusted his grip, saying nothing.

She tilted her head, pretending to think. “Or maybe it’s just the silence around you that makes everything sound louder.”

Still, no answer.

“…You really are impossible to talk to sometimes,” she sighed, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice.

“I wasn’t aware you were trying to,” he said flatly, wiping the blade with a cloth.

“Oh, so you can reply.” She smiled wider. “Progress.”

The wind brushed past them again, carrying small flecks of frost that caught in her hair. Shinobu brushed them away absently. For a moment, there was only the faint scrape of Giyuu’s sword being sheathed and the rustle of her sleeves as she leaned back against the fence.

“I saw Aoi chasing Zenitsu this morning,” she said suddenly. “Apparently he tried to ‘help’ with the kitchen chores.”

Giyuu glanced at her. “And?”

“He dropped the soup,” she said, her tone light. “All of it. Right onto Inosuke’s lap.”

There was a pause.

“…I see.”

Shinobu smiled, clearly entertained by his complete lack of reaction. “You don’t even try to hide it, do you?”

“Hide what?”

“Your disinterest in other people’s chaos.”

“I’m not disinterested,” he said. “I just don’t see the point in reacting.”

“That’s the same thing, Tomioka-san.”

He didn’t answer, and she only laughed again, a soft sound carried off by the wind.

The sun had started to climb higher, warming the edges of the frost. Shinobu straightened, brushing her hands together. “Anyway, breakfast is ready. If you want some before the others eat it all.”

“I’ll go later.”

“Of course you will.” She smiled faintly. “I’ll tell Aoi to keep you a bowl then.”

When she turned to leave, Giyuu caught a faint reflection of her haori in the sunlight — a flicker of violet before it disappeared down the hall.

He stood there for a few seconds longer, eyes lifting toward the pale morning sky. His breath left his lungs in a slow exhale, the kind that lingered in the air a little too long.

The frost around the yard was finally starting to melt.

———

Giyuu stepped toward the engawa, sliding the door open with a soft creak. Warmth met him immediately — a gentle wave of air that carried the faint scent of herbs and simmering broth. It was the kind of warmth that seeped into the skin slowly, almost hesitant to settle after the sharp bite of the morning air.

He paused in the doorway, letting the temperature shift sink in. His breath no longer showed in the air. The inside of the mansion always felt quieter, as though sound itself softened upon entering.

Somewhere down the corridor, he could hear the faint chatter of attendants. The light clink of porcelain bowls, a broom sweeping over wood, and Shinobu’s calm voice weaving through it all — never raised, but somehow always heard.

He stepped fully inside. The warmth wrapped around him, tracing up his arms where the cold had bit the hardest. His haori still carried the chill of frost, damp in patches near the hem.

Aoi appeared from the adjoining hall, balancing a neat stack of folded towels. “Good morning, Tomioka-san,” she greeted, a polite bow following her words.

“Morning,” he said quietly.

“If you’re looking for Kocho-sama, she’s already making rounds in the infirmary,” Aoi added, her voice brisk but kind. “I believe Kanao went with her.”

Giyuu nodded in acknowledgment. “Thank you.”

Aoi gave a faint smile and continued down the corridor, her steps fading into the distance.

Giyuu found himself standing alone again. He wasn’t sure where to go — or whether he wanted to. The mansion always carried a certain gentle rhythm, a peace that felt both comforting and distant to him.

A kettle whistled faintly from the kitchen. The scent of miso drifted out, followed by soft laughter — unmistakably Zenitsu’s voice, half-whining about something. Inosuke’s louder tone answered immediately after, and Aoi’s patience, from the sound of it, was already thinning.

He stood still and listened. The domestic noise, as ordinary as it was, pulled at him in a way he couldn’t quite name.

Outside, the cold light of morning filtered through the paper doors — pale and thin, bending around the wooden frames. The contrast between it and the air around him was striking. The inside of the Butterfly Mansion felt alive, breathing warmth; the world beyond the sliding doors was breathless and still.

He turned his head slightly toward the sound of the wind brushing past the outer walls. Even from here, he could tell how cold it was — the kind of cold that gnawed at bone, the kind that would cling to anyone foolish enough to wander too far into the woods.

And yet, the silence out there called to him more than the comfort here.

He rested a hand briefly on the doorframe, fingertips tracing the smooth grain of the wood. His hand was still rough and scarred from old wounds, the skin colder than it should’ve been.

Aoi’s voice floated back faintly from the kitchen, joined by more laughter. Someone must have spilled something again.

Giyuu allowed himself a small breath. The kind that was almost — but not quite — a sigh.

He slid the door to the outer porch closed again, shutting out the draft that had begun to creep in.

The soft hum of life inside the mansion settled around him once more — a warmth that filled every corner except, perhaps, the one where he stood.

For now, it was just another morning.

———

By midday, the Butterfly Mansion had settled into its usual rhythm.

Sunlight filtered softly through the paper doors, painting the floors in pale gold. The scent of tea leaves filled the air — someone had started brewing a fresh pot, its faint steam curling lazily toward the ceiling.

Giyuu sat alone near the engawa again, his haori folded beside him, his sword resting within reach. From here, he could see the gardens — frost melting in thin rivulets, droplets sliding from the edges of the roof to the stones below.

The world looked fragile when it thawed.

He watched for a long time, his expression unreadable. The breeze outside had softened, carrying with it the faint chirp of sparrows that had returned too early for spring.

A sound — small, quick, and familiar — broke through the quiet.

Flap. Flap. Flap.

He lifted his gaze, already recognizing the rhythm of wings before the black shape descended onto the wooden railing.

“CAW! CAW! Message! Mission for Tomioka Giyuu! Urgent!”

The crow’s voice was shrill, almost scolding. Its feathers ruffled from flight, bits of frost clinging stubbornly to the tips.

Giyuu stood slowly, his face calm but his pulse quickening.

“Joint assignment! Demon activity in the Northern mountains! High priority! Multiple casualties confirmed!”

The crow hopped in place, shaking the frost from its feathers.

“Who’s the other slayer?” Giyuu asked evenly.

“Iguro Obanai!”

The name hung in the air for a moment, sharp and unexpected. The crow continued, oblivious to the faint tension that stirred behind Giyuu’s calm exterior.

“Departure immediately! Coordinates enclosed! Do not delay!”

It dropped a small scroll from its claws. Giyuu caught it before it hit the ground, eyes scanning the seal — the mark of Kagaya Ubuyashiki.

The crow cawed once more before taking flight again, its wings cutting a dark streak across the pale sky.

The courtyard fell silent after it left. Only the faint rustle of wind filled the still air.

Obanai.

Giyuu let out a slow breath, fingers brushing over the parchment. He hadn’t been paired with the Serpent Hashira before — and from what he remembered, Obanai didn’t care for him. Their interactions had been brief, curt, and rarely civil.

Still, duty was duty.

He slipped the scroll into his haori and turned toward the hall. Shinobu’s voice echoed faintly in the distance — likely still tending to the injured.

He hesitated for a moment.

Then, quietly, he said to no one in particular, “…Northern mountains.”

The words drifted into the air like mist.

Outside, the frost had already begun to form again over the stones, thin and pale under the dimming light.

By the time he stepped beyond the gates of the Butterfly Mansion, the warmth behind him was already fading.

———

Giyuu arrived at the meeting point just before sunset. The air had grown colder again, the light thin and fading. The last traces of warmth from the day clung weakly to the path leading out of the Butterfly Mansion, but the horizon already promised snow.

A few members of the Corps passed by, giving him brief bows before continuing their patrols. Most avoided eye contact. Giyuu didn’t mind.

He waited near the old cedar tree that bordered the main road north. His crow perched above him, grooming its wings impatiently.

“Partner arriving soon!” it squawked.

He said nothing, though his hand flexed once at his side.

Moments later, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the stillness — precise, deliberate.

Obanai Iguro appeared at the end of the path, his striped haori faintly moving with the breeze. Kaburamaru rested coiled around his shoulders, tongue flicking as if sensing the shift in air.

Their eyes met immediately.

Both men stopped walking.

Obanai’s gaze hardened first. “Tomioka?” he said, voice low but already sharp. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Giyuu blinked once, unbothered. “I didn’t choose it either.”

A long pause followed.

Kaburamaru lifted its head slightly, tongue flicking toward Giyuu. Obanai muttered something under his breath and looked away, irritation obvious even beneath his usual composure.

“Wonderful,” he said flatly. “Of all the Hashira available, I’m sent with the one who doesn’t speak.”

“I’m speaking now,” Giyuu replied calmly.

Obanai’s brow twitched. “Barely.”

The crow above them shifted restlessly, as though trying to hurry them along.
“High priority mission! Northern mountains! Depart immediately!”

“I heard,” Obanai muttered. His gaze flicked toward the sky, then back to Giyuu. “I hope you can keep up.”

Giyuu adjusted his sword at his hip, face unreadable. “I could say the same to you.”

That earned a faint, humorless sound from Obanai — not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. “You’re more talkative than I expected,” he said, voice dry.

“Only when necessary.”

“Of course.”

The two stood in silence for several seconds more, the tension between them thin and sharp as the wind that swept through the trees.

Kaburamaru flicked its tongue again, and Obanai absently raised a hand to steady it. “Let’s go,” he said curtly, stepping forward. “The longer we wait, the colder it’ll get.”

Giyuu gave a small nod and followed, matching his pace without a word.

The faint crunch of frost beneath their boots was the only sound that followed them down the path.

Chapter 2: The Demon in the Snow

Summary:

In the heart of a growing blizzard, Giyuu and Obanai face a powerful demon hidden within the storm. The fight is fierce and unrelenting, forcing the two Hashira to rely on instinct and each other to survive. When the snow finally settles, victory comes at a heavy cost.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem on tik tok!

Dynamics in this story can be seen as romantic or platonic.

The forest had gone quiet long before they reached it.

The only sound that followed them now was the crunch of snow beneath their boots and the faint whisper of wind weaving through the trees. The branches above were heavy with frost, bowing under their own weight, and every few steps, the silence broke only for the soft creak of ice shifting overhead.

Their breath came out in pale clouds — Obanai’s short and steady, Giyuu’s long and measured. Neither spoke for the first hour of travel.

The road that had once been visible from the mountain’s base was buried under layers of white, the trail nearly gone. It was the kind of cold that clung to everything — to skin, to metal, to bone.

“Stay close,” Obanai said finally, his tone clipped, matter-of-fact. “Visibility’s poor.”

Giyuu’s reply came after a short pause. “I know.”

They continued walking.

For a long while, there was nothing but the steady rhythm of their steps. The air smelled faintly of pine and frost — sharp, clean, and unforgiving. Kaburamaru was coiled tight around Obanai’s neck, its body barely moving except to flick its tongue toward the wind.

Obanai glanced sideways once. “You sense anything?”

Giyuu’s gaze swept the treeline ahead, his expression unreadable. “No. You?”

“Only that you breathe too loud.”

The faintest lift of Giyuu’s brow. “You’re imagining it.”

“I don’t imagine things,” Obanai said flatly.

“Then you’re hearing things.”

A sharp exhale — almost a scoff — left Obanai’s mouth. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Even your insults are dull.”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

The wind picked up then, brushing through the forest like a sigh. The trees swayed with a slow, shivering groan, and a fine dusting of snow fell from the branches above them.

Obanai’s eyes flicked to the side, scanning the shadows between the trees. Giyuu followed his gaze briefly, then turned forward again.

They kept moving.

The trail grew narrower, forcing them closer together, though neither seemed to like it. When Giyuu slowed to glance at a set of faint footprints — likely old — Obanai brushed past him wordlessly, taking the lead.

Giyuu let him.

The silence between them wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t new either. It was the kind of silence that existed between two people too disciplined to waste breath, and too proud to admit the quiet bothered them.

A few minutes later, Obanai spoke again — not looking back. “You can’t sense it?”

“No,” Giyuu replied. “The snow masks everything.”

“Hmph.”

Obanai stopped briefly to adjust the scarf around his mouth, the movement slow and deliberate. His gloved fingers brushed away the frost gathering at the edge of his haori. “This region’s worse than I expected,” he muttered.

Giyuu nodded once, eyes scanning the white expanse ahead. “We’re higher up than the map showed.”

“Wonderful,” Obanai said dryly.

They passed beneath an arch of frozen branches, their edges glittering faintly in the dim light. The air thinned as they climbed — colder, sharper. Every breath stung in the lungs.

A crow called somewhere far behind them, distant and faint.

“Yours?” Obanai asked.

“No,” Giyuu said. “Too far south.”

The forest fell silent again.

Eventually, they reached a small clearing — untouched snow stretching wide, unbroken even by footprints. The two stopped at its edge.

Obanai crouched, gloved hand brushing over the surface of the snow. He let it fall through his fingers, eyes narrowing slightly. “No tracks. No movement.”

“Good,” Giyuu said.

“Or bad,” Obanai countered. “Depends on what was supposed to be here.”

Kaburamaru shifted slightly, its head lifting. Obanai didn’t move. His gaze lingered on the treeline, then flicked briefly toward Giyuu.

The storm hadn’t started yet. But the sky was already warning them it would.

The pale light above was dimming, fading from silver to gray. The first flakes of new snow began to fall — small, scattered, carried by a soft wind that threaded between the trees.

Giyuu adjusted the strap of his blade, exhaling slowly. His breath came out in a thin cloud, immediately carried away by the wind. Obanai followed a few paces behind now, his steps deliberate, silent except for the faint crunch beneath his sandals.

“Keep your guard up,” Obanai murmured.

“I am.”

Kaburamaru’s tongue flicked once, tasting the air. The serpent lifted its head higher, eyes narrowing at something unseen. Obanai slowed slightly, gaze tracing the horizon ahead — the tree line blurred by mist and snow.

“It’s getting worse,” he said under his breath.

“The wind?” Giyuu asked.

“The cold.”

Neither looked at the other.

The snow grew heavier, flurries thickening until the forest began to blur around them. The trees turned to silhouettes — tall, skeletal shapes fading in and out of sight with each gust of wind. The ground grew softer underfoot.

Obanai stepped around a fallen branch and caught the faintest slip of movement beside him — Giyuu brushing past, steady but unhurried. The other Hashira’s expression was unreadable, his focus fixed forward as though the storm didn’t touch him at all.

“How are you seeing anything?” Obanai asked suddenly.

“I’m not.”

Obanai gave him a sideways look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s instinct,” Giyuu replied simply.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind.

Obanai’s jaw tightened beneath his scarf, though his tone stayed even. “Instinct will get you killed one day.”

“Maybe,” Giyuu said. “But not tonight.”

That quiet confidence — or indifference — drew the faintest flicker of irritation across Obanai’s face. He turned away, muttering something low enough to be swallowed by the storm.

They walked in silence again.

The snow thickened by the minute, pressing against their haori, catching in their hair. Each breath burned colder than the last. The path ahead had all but vanished, replaced by the endless white stretch of ground that offered no direction, no edge.

Giyuu slowed briefly, his gaze lowering to a faint impression in the snow — the barely-there shape of a footprint, already half-buried by the falling flakes.

He crouched to inspect it. “This way,” he said quietly.

Obanai didn’t ask how he knew. He followed, eyes flicking from the print to Giyuu’s back, the quiet precision in his movements.

Another gust of wind swept past, sharp and biting. Kaburamaru hissed, tightening around Obanai’s shoulders.

“Your serpent doesn’t like the cold,” Giyuu noted without looking back.

“He doesn’t like wasting time,” Obanai countered.

“Then he’s like you.”

That earned him silence — the kind that said he wasn’t entirely wrong.

The forest began to climb again, the terrain turning steeper and uneven beneath the snow. The incline forced them closer together as they navigated a narrow ridge lined with ice.

Obanai caught Giyuu’s arm briefly when his footing slipped — the contact brief, steady, immediately released.

“Careful,” Obanai said sharply.

“I know.”

The tone in Giyuu’s voice didn’t change. Calm, quiet, always. It grated on Obanai in a way he couldn’t name.

They pressed on. The trees thinned as they reached the higher slope — the wind stronger, the cold biting deeper.

By now, the snow wasn’t falling in flakes anymore but in sweeping curtains, bending the air itself. The moon above was little more than a blur behind the storm clouds.

Obanai narrowed his eyes, trying to see beyond the wall of white. “If this keeps up, we’ll lose visibility completely.”

“Then we keep moving,” Giyuu said. “We’re close.”

Obanai frowned. “You can’t know that.”

“I can feel it.”

“You and your damn instinct again.”

This time, Giyuu almost smiled — the smallest shift of expression, gone before it could be called one.

The wind howled louder. The forest around them seemed to close in, the weight of snow pulling the world smaller, quieter.

And somewhere beneath the cold and the quiet, a low rumble echoed faintly — so distant it could’ve been thunder.

Neither spoke, but both stopped walking.

Obanai’s hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.

Giyuu’s fingers twitched slightly against his own.

The forest fell still again.

Only the snow moved now — falling, falling, falling — soft and endless between them.

The silence stretched thin.
Even the wind seemed to falter, caught between one gust and the next.

Giyuu’s breath misted faintly in front of him, steady, unshaken. He turned his head slightly, listening. The forest around them was still — too still.

“Something’s off,” he murmured.

Obanai glanced toward him. “You think so too.”

Kaburamaru shifted across his shoulders, tongue flicking once, twice, tasting the air before lowering it’s head again. The serpent didn’t hiss, but the movement was uneasy — restless.

Obanai noticed. His jaw tightened beneath the bandages. “He doesn’t like it here.”

“Animals avoid demons,” Giyuu said simply.

“There are no demons out in daylight.”

Giyuu looked up at the pale sky through the trees — colorless, fading into white. “Not for long.”

Snow pressed heavier against his haori as they moved again. The sound of their steps grew muffled, lost beneath the weight of the storm. The forest seemed endless — every trunk the same, every branch bowed under frost.

After a few more paces, Giyuu slowed, one hand brushing a low-hanging branch. A faint dusting of snow slipped off and scattered at his feet. He frowned.

The bark beneath his fingers was damp, but not from melting snow — a tacky residue clung to the edge where the wood splintered.

Obanai caught the look. “What is it?”

Giyuu rubbed the material between his gloved fingers. It came away faintly red — almost frozen over. “Blood.”

Obanai stepped closer, his eyes narrowing at the faint smear. “It’s not fresh.”

“Old enough to freeze,” Giyuu confirmed. He crouched, fingertips brushing the snow beneath the tree. “But the wound was deep.”

Kaburamaru flicked its tongue again, this time toward the forest ahead.

“Whatever bled here,” Obanai said quietly, “was dragged.”

“Or dragged itself.”

Neither spoke for a while. Only the sound of wind filled the space between them.

Obanai finally turned away, his tone clipped but cautious. “If there’s one nearby, it’s smart enough to hide.”

“Smart demons are dangerous.”

“Then we’re lucky.”

Giyuu gave him a sidelong look. “How so?”

Obanai adjusted his haori, eyes still scanning the distance. “Because I’m better at killing those.”

The corner of Giyuu’s mouth almost twitched — almost.

They kept walking, slower now, eyes moving constantly. The trees grew closer together, and the air thickened with cold until it seemed to hum in their lungs.

The storm pressed harder. Snow curled around them in restless swirls, stealing sight and sound.

After another stretch of silence, Giyuu spoke again — quiet, almost to himself.
“Do you hear that?”

Obanai stopped, frowning. “No.”

“That’s the problem.”

It took a moment for him to realize what Giyuu meant.
The wind had stopped.
Completely.

Even Kaburamaru went still.

The forest stood frozen — every branch, every drifting flake suspended midair like it feared to fall.

For one long moment, the world held its breath.

Then, somewhere in the distance, snow shifted.
A faint crack — the sound of weight pressing down where there shouldn’t have been any.

Both men turned at once, silent, poised.

Obanai’s hand settled on his sword’s hilt.
Giyuu’s grip mirrored it.

But when the sound came again, it was gone as quickly as it arrived.

Nothing. Just white.

The stillness returned — heavy, absolute.

Obanai exhaled slowly, his voice quiet but edged. “You’re imagining things.”

“Maybe.”

Neither believed it.

They moved again — slower, more deliberate. The faint prints they left were swallowed instantly by the falling snow, erasing every sign of their passing.

High above, the light thinned to a dull, colorless glow. The first true gust of wind returned, carrying with it a sound too faint to name — almost a breath, almost a voice.

Obanai looked over his shoulder. Nothing.

The path ahead was empty.

Only the snow fell.

The stillness shattered.

Snow exploded upward beside them — a blur of motion and ice, sharp enough to sting the skin.

Giyuu moved first.
The faint hiss of his blade cutting through air broke the quiet, followed by the sound of something solid colliding against the frozen ground.

Obanai’s breath caught in his throat as he turned, sword already drawn.
A shadow moved between the trees — fluid, fast, silent except for the snow it displaced.

For a heartbeat, it seemed human.
Then its outline blurred — long limbs, a body so pale it nearly vanished against the white, and a face that remained eerily blank. Its eyes were closed.

Giyuu steadied his stance. “There,” he said quietly.

“I see it,” Obanai muttered, Kaburamaru tightening around his shoulders.

The demon shifted its weight, tilting its head in a motion too smooth to be natural. Its skin shimmered faintly with frost. When it breathed, the air around it crystallized.

Snow began to swirl tighter, drawn toward it as if the storm itself bent to its will.

“Wonderful,” Obanai said under his breath. “A demon that controls the weather.”

“Or hides in it.”

It vanished.

A blur — so fast it might have been wind.

Giyuu pivoted, catching the movement only by instinct. His blade rose just in time, steel striking flesh. A sharp crack rang out — metal meeting something harder than bone.

Obanai was beside him a heartbeat later, his blade cutting low, sweeping through the snow. A dark streak scattered across the white, and for an instant the form of the demon flickered into sight again — bent, crouched, impossibly still.

Then it disappeared once more.

“Fast,” Giyuu said.

“Too fast,” Obanai replied. His eyes darted across the blur of white. “It’s using the snow to mask its movement.”

Kaburamaru hissed, body tensing. Obanai’s hand moved instantly — sword angled toward where the serpent’s head pointed.

Steel sliced through the air.
A harsh sound followed — not a scream, not quite a roar, but the guttural echo of something that shouldn’t exist.

Obanai’s strike met resistance, and the force of impact sent snow bursting upward again. The demon’s arm fell to the ground, blackened blood hissing as it hit the cold.

It didn’t slow.

The creature lunged forward, one arm missing but movements faster — more frantic, like a storm collapsing inward.

Obanai’s footing slipped in the ice. He caught himself, but the motion cost him a breath too long.

“Move,” Giyuu snapped.

He stepped in, shoulder brushing Obanai’s as he swung upward — not with grace but with sheer precision. His sword met the demon’s jawline, cutting deep, forcing the creature to stagger backward.

Its face turned toward them — eyes still closed.

Giyuu’s grip tightened. His pulse didn’t quicken, but his stance shifted just slightly — weight forward, blade ready.

Obanai straightened beside him, expression unreadable beneath his bandages. “You’re lucky it didn’t aim lower,” he muttered.

“You’re lucky I did.”

Their eyes met — not for long, but long enough. Mutual irritation. Mutual survival.

The demon’s chest expanded — a sudden intake of breath that sent frost spiraling outward.

Obanai’s eyes narrowed. “Incoming.”

The next wave came without sound — a rush of air so cold it burned. Visibility vanished entirely, snow erupting in all directions.

When the storm cleared again, the demon was gone.

Both men stood ready, blades drawn, every sense on edge.

Then, faintly, the crunch of snow — behind them.

Giyuu turned first, sword already mid-swing.

Steel met ice.

Obanai followed immediately, his blade cutting across the same space, their movements perfectly aligned despite neither planning it.

A second cry tore through the blizzard. The figure dissolved into mist and frost — scattered, vanishing as the storm swallowed it again.

Silence returned.

The wind began once more — thin, cold, endless.

Obanai lowered his blade fractionally, breath visible in short bursts. “You think it’s dead?”

“No.”

“Then where—”

The sound came again — farther off, but not far enough.

Giyuu’s eyes flicked toward the dark between the trees. “It’s circling.”

Obanai’s hand flexed over his sword hilt. Kaburamaru lifted its head again, tense, focused.

Snow drifted slowly through the beam of pale moonlight that had broken through the clouds.

“Stay close,” Obanai said lowly.

“I wasn’t planning to stray.”

For the first time, Obanai didn’t have a retort.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, breath fogging the air, swords drawn, the storm rising again around them.

The forest waited.

And so did the thing in the snow.

The wind turned violent.

What had been drifting snow became a wall — a white fury swallowing the forest whole. The trees groaned, their branches bending under the weight of it. The air grew sharp enough to cut.

Obanai tightened his stance, squinting into the blur. His scarf whipped sideways with the wind, Kaburamaru’s coils pressed flat against his neck.

He could barely see Giyuu anymore — just a shifting shadow a few paces ahead.

“Don’t lose focus!” he called out.

“I’m not,” came Giyuu’s voice — calm, level, almost lost in the storm.

The demon’s silhouette flickered again, half-formed and half-swallowed by snow. Its limbs stretched unnaturally as it leapt from one side to the next — no sound, no warning, only movement.

Obanai’s eyes tracked the faintest ripple of motion. “Left!”

Steel sang.
A streak of blue light cut through the white — Water Breathing, Third Form: Flowing Dance — graceful, precise, and quiet as the tide.

The wave-like arc of Giyuu’s blade sliced through the air, scattering ice and shadow alike.

The demon’s body twisted unnaturally, avoiding the brunt of the strike but losing balance mid-lunge.

“Now!”

Obanai lunged forward — Serpent Breathing, Second Form: Venom Fangs of the Narrow Head — his blade moving like a coiling line of silver, cutting through the narrow gap Giyuu had opened.

The attack hit true. Black blood sprayed, freezing as it struck the snow.

The demon staggered, hissed, and its form seemed to unravel — the mist curling from its wounds knitting back together before either man could react.

“Regenerates fast,” Obanai said sharply, stepping back into formation.

Giyuu gave a faint nod. “So do most things that survive this long.”

Before Obanai could answer, the ground split beneath them — a sudden fissure cracking through the ice as the demon’s claws drove upward from below. The attack came without sound, without rhythm, breaking every pattern they’d learned to anticipate.

Giyuu leapt back, landing in the snow with a muted crunch.
Obanai pivoted to meet the strike head-on, sword slashing downward.

Serpent Breathing, Fifth Form: Slithering Serpent.

His blade coiled through the air like a streak of silver lightning, deflecting the demon’s blow and slicing through its arm in one motion.

The demon screamed this time — a sound so low it barely seemed human. The vibration rippled through the snow, unsettling everything around them.

The blizzard howled harder in response, as though the world itself were reacting to the noise.

Visibility dropped to nothing.
Even Giyuu could barely make out Obanai’s form through the white veil that consumed them.

“Where is it?” Obanai shouted, turning toward the sound of snow shifting behind him.

Giyuu’s eyes tracked the faint blur of movement ahead. “Above—”

Before he finished, the demon dropped from the canopy — fast, silent, claws spread wide.

Both moved at once.

Giyuu stepped forward, blade rising — Water Breathing, Sixth Form: Whirlpool.
The blade spun with crushing force, the air around it spiraling in a sudden burst that threw the snow outward.

At the same moment, Obanai slashed upward through the current of Giyuu’s attack — his sword weaving through it with perfect, practiced precision. The two techniques collided in rhythm rather than chaos.

The blizzard swallowed the impact.

A flash of blue and silver illuminated the storm — the clash of their strikes against the demon’s twisting form. Snow burst upward in all directions.

When the light faded, the demon was crouched again several meters away, one arm missing and part of its torso slashed open.

Its eyes were still closed. Its breathing, uneven but steady, echoed faintly between the gusts.

Obanai’s hand trembled slightly on the hilt of his sword, though his grip never loosened. “Still standing.”

“So are we.”

A brief silence.

Kaburamaru shifted again, hissing low — the sound more warning than threat.

“It’s not retreating,” Obanai murmured.

“No,” Giyuu agreed. “It’s waiting.”

“For what?”

The wind howled, swallowing the question whole.

Neither answered.
Neither dared to.

The blizzard grew even wilder — snow now falling sideways, pelting their skin like shards of glass. The forest vanished completely, replaced by endless white and sound.

Every breath burned. Every blink stung.

And somewhere within that howling storm — unseen, silent — the demon moved again.

The blizzard screamed around them now — a living thing with teeth.

Snow lashed at their faces, wind tearing through fabric and flesh alike. Giyuu’s eyes strained to follow movement, but every direction looked the same: endless white, shifting shadows. Even the demon’s presence was hard to track — it blended into the storm like it belonged to it.

Obanai’s breathing came sharp and steady beside him. Kaburamaru hissed low again, its tongue flicking rapidly.

“Behind!” Obanai shouted.

Giyuu turned just as the demon lunged from the snowbank — a blur of limbs and claws, closing the distance in a single bound. He met it halfway, steel flashing.

Water Breathing, Seventh Form: Drop Ripple Thrust.

The tip of his blade pierced the demon’s shoulder. Black blood spilled across the snow, steaming in the cold.

It howled — not in pain, but fury. The air around them twisted violently as the demon swung its arm, striking back with enough force to rattle the earth.

Giyuu ducked low, but the gust caught his balance. The next blow came faster than breath — and aimed for Obanai.

“Move!”

Before the serpent Hashira could react, Giyuu shoved him aside — just as the demon’s claws raked across his face.

The pain was instant and searing. A blinding flash of red filled his vision, and the world fractured into light and sound. He fell to one knee, hand pressed to the bleeding side of his face.

His vision in one eye vanished entirely. The other flickered, half-obscured by blood.

“—Tomioka!”

Obanai’s voice cut through the wind. He turned back immediately, striking at the demon to drive it off. His blade curved in a fluid arc, precise and merciless.

Serpent Breathing, Fourth Form: Twin-Headed Reptile.

His sword split into two intertwining strikes, slashing the demon across the chest. The creature staggered but did not fall — instead, it lunged again, enraged.

Giyuu forced himself to stand. Blood ran down his cheek, hot even against the freezing air. His grip on the sword tightened until his knuckles turned white.

He couldn’t see clearly anymore — shapes blurred and faded, the world reduced to instinct and motion.

But still, he moved.
Still, he fought.

Each swing of his blade was deliberate, each breath shallow but measured. The rhythm of his breathing form was the only thing anchoring him to the chaos.

“Stay low,” he warned, his voice steady despite the blood coating his lips.

Obanai didn’t argue this time. Both of them moved in rhythm — side by side, not as rivals, but as swordsmen bound by survival.

The demon struck again, claws scraping the frozen ground, teeth bared.

“Right flank!” Obanai barked.

Giyuu turned just in time, his body responding faster than his eyes could. Their blades crossed paths mid-swing — Serpent Breathing weaving through Water Breathing, fluid and synchronized.

The demon faltered again. Its regeneration slowed.
They were getting closer.

But the storm was unforgiving — the wind pushing them apart, the snow thick enough to choke on.

Giyuu’s breath came in ragged bursts. His vision dimmed further with each passing second. The world was fading, sound bleeding into silence.

Still, his stance didn’t waver.

Obanai’s blade gleamed faintly in the storm’s light, cutting through another strike. The demon retaliated immediately — claws flashing downward.

The impact sent a shock through the ground. The snow beneath them cracked open, and Obanai’s footing slipped.

The moment’s loss of balance cost him — the demon’s tail lashed out, striking his leg.
A deep, sickening crunch echoed beneath the wind.

Obanai hissed sharply, stumbling back. Giyuu could hear it — the sudden stagger, the uneven step, the sharp intake of breath.
Even without seeing, he knew.

“Iguro!”

“Don’t—” Obanai cut him off sharply, forcing himself upright, his weight shifting painfully onto his good leg. His voice was strained now, rough with effort. “Focus on it!”

He gritted his teeth, forcing the pain aside. His blade rose again — trembling, but unwavering.

The demon lunged for Giyuu this time, sensing weakness. Giyuu barely sidestepped the strike, countering with everything left in him.

“Water Breathing, Eleventh Form…”

The air stilled for a heartbeat. Even the storm seemed to pause.

“…Dead Calm.”

The world moved around him in silence — snow falling weightlessly, his blade gliding through it in perfect stillness.

A single stroke.
A perfect arc.
The demon froze.

Then Obanai moved.

“Serpent Breathing, Final Form—Pure White Coil.”

His blade curved through the air, spiraling like a serpent made of moonlight. The strike met Giyuu’s, completing it — the twin arcs converging on the demon’s neck.

A burst of black mist followed.

And then — silence.

The demon’s body crumpled to the ground, head rolling lifelessly into the snow.

Both men stood motionless for a moment — breathing hard, chests rising and falling in sync.

The blizzard howled again, the world reclaiming its sound.

Giyuu’s sword fell from his grip. His legs nearly gave out. He caught himself, barely. His vision was fading fast — red streaking through white.

Obanai collapsed fully this time, the weight of his body forcing his injured leg beneath him. The sound that escaped him was barely audible — a sharp, strangled breath that said enough.

Giyuu turned toward the sound, eyes unfocused, snow clinging to his lashes. His voice was low, hoarse.

“Iguro…”

But the wind swallowed the rest.

Notes:

Hope this chapter didn’t feel dragged out. I wanted it to be longer then the first.

Chapter 3: The Aftermath

Summary:

As the storm worsens and Obanai’s injury leaves him unable to walk, Giyuu makes the choice to carry him through the blizzard. Guided only by Obanai’s voice and the faint sound of the wind, the two press forward — one serving as the other’s legs, the other as his eyes. Exhausted, wounded, and half-buried in snow, they begin their long, uncertain journey toward survival.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem on tik tok

Dynamics in this story can be viewed as romantic or platonic.

The wind pressed gently against the shoji doors, carrying faint snowflakes that clung to the windows before melting away. The storm hadn’t reached the Butterfly Mansion with full force yet — here, it was just a steady, whispering fall, the kind that painted the world white without silencing it completely.

Inside, the air was warm, filled with the faint scent of herbs and tea. Shinobu sat at a low table surrounded by open reports, the tip of her brush scratching lightly against parchment. Aoi crossed the room carrying steaming cups, and Kanao quietly swept the tatami, careful not to disturb the papers.

The quiet was comforting — almost deceptively so.

“Still snowing?” Shinobu asked without looking up.

Aoi nodded. “Yes. It’s been falling all morning. The Kakushi said the wind picked up near the northern mountains.”

Shinobu hummed in acknowledgment, her brush pausing mid-stroke. “So the storm reached them already…”

Kanao glanced up from her sweeping. “You mean Tomioka-san and Iguro-san?”

“Mm.” Shinobu’s voice softened with a faint lilt of amusement. “Those two were sent together. Quite the pairing, don’t you think?”

Aoi hesitated, exchanging a knowing look with Kanao before sighing. “It’s… a bold decision,” she said carefully.

Shinobu’s smile deepened — calm, almost too calm. “You can say it, Aoi. It’s surprising. They’re not exactly known for their teamwork.”

That earned her a reluctant laugh from Aoi. “More like known for avoiding each other entirely.”

“Exactly.” Shinobu set her brush aside, folding her hands neatly atop the papers. “I can’t imagine how quiet that journey must be. They probably haven’t exchanged more than five words.”

Kanao, who had paused mid-sweep, looked thoughtful. “Tomioka-san doesn’t talk much.”

“And Iguro-san only does when he has something sharp to say,” Aoi added dryly.

Shinobu tilted her head, considering this with a light hum. “Then perhaps the silence will be mutual.”

The joke lingered a moment before she leaned back slightly, eyes turning toward the window. Snowflakes drifted lazily against the glass, and her voice turned softer — reflective.

“…Still,” she murmured, “it’s a harsh storm this early in the season.”

Aoi nodded quietly, following her gaze. “Do you think they’ll be all right?”

Shinobu didn’t answer right away. Her expression remained serene, but her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of a paper.

“They’re Hashira,” she said at last — firm, but gentle. “If anyone can make it through, it’s them.”

Then, a pause. Her smile returned, faint but genuine.

“Though,” she added lightly, “let’s hope they don’t kill each other before the snow does.”

Aoi stifled a laugh, while Kanao’s eyes widened slightly in surprise.

“Shinobu-san,” Aoi said, shaking her head. “That’s—”

“—true,” Shinobu finished, amused. “But let’s be optimistic. Even rivalry has its uses.”

She turned back to her work, but her movements had slowed — her brush hovering over the parchment without touching it. Outside, the snow continued to fall, quiet and endless.

For a moment, the warmth of the room felt fragile — like even laughter couldn’t quite reach through the distance between them and the two figures lost in the white.

———

The world had gone white.
A storm without end, roaring through the mountains, burying the battlefield in a shroud of howling wind and ice.

The demon’s body had already begun to vanish, dissolving into ash that disappeared almost instantly against the snow. The only evidence left of the fight was blood — streaks of it, smeared dark and sharp across the ground.

Giyuu stood where he had fallen, sword driven into the earth for balance. His vision pulsed — flashes of light and shadow, nothing clear enough to distinguish shape from emptiness. Every blink burned. His head throbbed, his ribs ached, and his hands trembled faintly around the hilt. The cold sank through him until it was hard to tell where pain ended and frost began.

Something shifted through the white haze — a slow, uneven movement followed by a strained breath.

“…Iguro?” Giyuu’s voice cracked, carried off by the wind.

There was silence, then the rasp of air pulled through clenched teeth.
“I’m here.”

Relief flickered faintly in Giyuu’s chest — weak but grounding.

“Are you injured?” he asked, stepping toward the voice.

Obanai didn’t respond right away. He was half-kneeling, his sword buried beside him as he tried to stand. His breathing was shallow, uneven, and every movement drew a muffled hiss from him. His left leg shook violently when he tried to put weight on it, a tremor he couldn’t fully control.

“Just a scratch,” he muttered finally, voice tight with pain.

The wind roared around them, tossing snow into their faces like shards of glass. Even with his dulled vision, Giyuu could hear it — the faint drag of Obanai’s steps, the sharp catch of his breath, the subtle shift of his body leaning heavily to one side.

“You’re bleeding,” Giyuu said quietly.

“So are you,” Obanai shot back, his words sharp but low. He took another step, only to freeze when his left leg buckled slightly beneath him. He caught himself with a soft grunt, steadying his balance against his sword. “Don’t point out the obvious.”

Giyuu said nothing. His jaw was tight, breath slow and uneven. He didn’t need to look to know blood was running down his arm, warm against the freezing air. The world blurred again — not from panic, but from the faint throbbing pain behind his eyes that made every blink feel like glass.

The snow screamed across the clearing, carrying the sound of splintering branches.

“We can’t stay here,” Giyuu said finally, voice even despite the exhaustion weighing it down.

“No,” Obanai breathed out, pushing himself upright. The motion drew another involuntary hiss from him. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword as his left leg trembled beneath him. The pain was sharp, radiating from the joint and up into his side.

Kaburamaru shifted weakly around his shoulders, the serpent’s movements slow, uncertain — as if it, too, sensed the limits of his strength.

Giyuu tilted his head slightly toward him. “Can you walk?”

Obanai’s reply came after a pause. “I can move.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Giyuu murmured.

“I said I can move,” Obanai repeated, louder this time, though the edge in his tone cracked under the strain.

The snow fell harder — thick flakes blurring the sky into nothing.

Giyuu adjusted his stance, grounding himself. “The storm’s closing in,” he said. “If we stop, we’ll freeze before morning.”

Obanai took another breath, shallow and shaky. “Then we don’t stop.”

He tried again to step forward, this time more carefully. His left leg bent wrong for a moment — the pain sharp enough to make his jaw lock. He caught himself before falling, pressing his gloved hand against his thigh until the tremor eased.

Giyuu’s head turned toward the sound. He could hear the pain behind the silence — the faint, strangled breath Obanai didn’t mean to let out. But Giyuu didn’t call attention to it. He simply straightened, forcing his own weight forward through the dizzy blur clouding his vision.

The snow pressed around them from every side, the wind swallowing all sound except their breathing — one steady, one labored.

Finally, Giyuu spoke again. “…Tell me where to go.”

Obanai blinked, his voice colder than before. “What?”

“You can still see,” Giyuu said, tone steady. “I can’t. Tell me where to go.”

Obanai let out a short, disbelieving breath — half a laugh, half a sigh. “You’re blind, Tomioka, not helpless.”

“That’s not the same thing,” Giyuu replied quietly.

Another pause. Then, almost reluctantly, Obanai exhaled through his teeth.
“Fine. Follow my voice.”

Neither spoke after that. They tried to move, both walking in halting rhythm — Giyuu’s steps slow and careful, Obanai’s uneven and forced. But the snow grew heavier with each passing minute, burying their tracks almost as fast as they were made.

After a while, Obanai’s pace faltered. His breath came shorter, his left leg dragging faintly through the snow. He paused once to brace against a fallen branch, and Giyuu stopped too, listening in silence.

They didn’t make it far — only a few dozen paces before the storm thickened into a white wall. The wind shrieked, tearing at their clothes. Obanai leaned into his sword again, chest heaving, his body shaking under the effort of staying upright.

Giyuu turned slightly toward him, eyes unfocused but calm. “We can’t go further,” he said quietly.

Obanai didn’t argue. For the first time since the fight, he didn’t speak at all — just stood there in the storm, bleeding, breathing, and refusing to fall.

The snow had grown heavier again.
Each flake fell like ash, swirling through the dim haze that blanketed the mountainside. Their breaths fogged the air — shallow, uneven, and growing weaker with every step.

The slope beneath them had vanished under drifts of white, the ground giving no sign of where they’d already walked. Even Kaburamaru’s faint movements had slowed, the serpent coiling tighter around Obanai’s neck to conserve warmth.

Giyuu paused, blinking against the wind that stung what little sight he had left. His eyes burned, the world reduced to dull light and moving shadows. Every direction looked the same — white, endless white.

He turned slightly. “We’re further up than the map showed us.” His voice came out hoarse, more breath than sound.

Obanai exhaled through his teeth, his usual restraint cracking under exhaustion. “You think I don’t know that?”

There wasn’t much venom behind it. His left leg was dragging now, every movement a struggle. He tried to mask the limp, leaning more heavily on his sword with each uneven step. His breath caught once — almost a hiss of pain — and he stilled briefly before forcing himself forward again.

Giyuu could hear it: the tremor in the snow as Obanai’s foot slipped, the sharp breath through clenched teeth. It was faint, but enough.

“…Iguro.”

Obanai didn’t answer at first. The wind howled between them.

“You’re injured.”

“I’ve noticed,” Obanai muttered, irritation lacing the fatigue in his tone. “You’re not exactly steady yourself, Tomioka.”

“Still,” Giyuu said, his tone calm but firm, “you’re slowing down.”

Obanai stopped walking, gripping his sword tight enough that his knuckles whitened beneath the blood and frost. “And what do you suggest? That I sit here and wait for the snow to bury me?”

Giyuu’s jaw tightened. His expression didn’t shift much — it rarely did — but there was a flicker of resolve in his posture, something quiet and unyielding.

He didn’t answer Obanai right away.
The storm roared again, sweeping a new wave of snow past them, stinging their faces and hands. For a moment, both men stood still in the white, breathing in shallow bursts, their silhouettes barely visible against the blur of wind.

Then, wordlessly, Giyuu began to untie the clasp of his haori.

Obanai noticed the movement immediately. “What are you doing?”

Giyuu didn’t respond. He just shifted closer, the faint crunch of snow marking each step. When the haori slipped free, he shook off the frost clinging to its edges and reached toward him.

“Tomioka—”

“Put it on.”

Obanai stared at him through the storm — incredulous, maybe angry, maybe too tired to decide. His first instinct was to refuse, to throw the haori right back at him. But the cold bit deeper now, seeping past the damp fabric of his uniform and the blood still drying along his leg. His body was trembling, though he hadn’t wanted to admit it.

“I don’t need—”

“You’re freezing,” Giyuu cut in, voice level but quiet. “You won’t move another mile like that.”

The simplicity of it — no lecture, no sympathy, just fact — left Obanai without a retort.

He hesitated only a moment longer before Giyuu stepped closer, draping the haori around his shoulders himself. The motion was steady, deliberate, careful not to aggravate the injured leg.

The fabric was still faintly warm.

Obanai tensed as it settled over him, the familiar patterned edges brushing against his wrists. He could smell blood, snow, and a faint trace of wisteria clinging to it.

“…You’re going to regret that,” he muttered finally, his voice quieter than before.

“Maybe.”

That was all Giyuu said.

He straightened again, tilting his head slightly toward the faint sound of Obanai’s sword shifting in the snow. Beneath the bandages, his eyes were half-open, unfocused — sightless, but still searching.

Obanai pulled the haori tighter around himself, muttering under his breath as if to fill the silence.

“You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

It wasn’t warmth that passed between them — not yet. But something eased in the space between one breath and the next.

“You won’t last long if you keep forcing your leg.”

“Then I’ll last long enough,” Obanai snapped back, though even his voice shook slightly. The next step he took made him falter, his knee nearly buckling before he caught himself. The snow beneath his foot gave way, sinking him an inch deeper.

Giyuu’s hand shot out, steadying him by the arm before he could fall. The contact was brief, but it froze both of them in place.

The wind screamed again, drowning out the sound of their breathing.

Giyuu spoke quietly, as if speaking louder would risk shattering the thin layer of pride still holding them upright.

“You’ll collapse before we reach anything.”

Obanai didn’t answer. His gaze flicked toward Giyuu — pale blue eyes rimmed in blood and shadow, staring through the blur of snowfall — and something inside him shifted, subtle but unmistakable.

He looked away first. His breath fogged the air, and his shoulders slumped slightly under the weight of exhaustion.

The silence stretched long before Giyuu broke it again.

“I’ll carry you.”

The words fell between them like a blade through the snow — simple, cold, impossible to ignore.

Obanai turned sharply toward him, expression unreadable behind the faint tremor of his voice.

“You’ll what?”

“You can still see. I can still walk.”

Another gust of wind passed, scattering loose flakes across their faces. Giyuu didn’t flinch. His breathing stayed calm, deliberate.

“You’ll tell me where to step.”

Obanai stared at him for a long moment, the faintest twitch in his jaw betraying his disbelief — and his reluctant understanding.

He tried to speak — to refuse, to argue — but the words caught somewhere between his pride and the throbbing pain in his leg.
So instead, he looked away, the snow masking the faint tremor in his exhale.

“You’re out of your mind, Tomioka.”

“Maybe.”

Neither of them smiled, but the silence that followed wasn’t as sharp as before.

The storm howled on, and between its breaks, both men stood there — two silhouettes barely upright against the cold — realizing they had only one way left to survive.

Obanai didn’t speak for a long time. The storm pressed around them, swallowing what little warmth they had left.
The pain in his leg pulsed sharply with every heartbeat. He’d been ignoring it — the dull ache turned searing whenever he shifted his weight wrong. It wasn’t just a strain anymore. He knew that.

Finally, he exhaled through gritted teeth. “You can’t even see properly,” he muttered. “You’ll trip over the first branch we hit.”

“I can manage.”

“Ridiculous.” Obanai shook his head, his tone thin, tired — more resignation than anger now.

He leaned heavier on his sword, staring at the endless stretch of snow ahead. The wind had buried any trace of the path they came from. There was no direction anymore, only white.

Kaburamaru stirred against his neck, sensing the falter in his movements. The serpent’s scales were cold now — too cold.

“…You’re serious about this.”

“I am.”

Obanai breathed out slowly, letting the wind drag the last of his stubbornness away. His leg trembled again as he shifted, pain spiking through his thigh and knee. He clenched his jaw until it passed.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice rough. “But if you fall, I’m leaving you in the snow.”

Giyuu nodded once. “Understood.”

He crouched slightly, steadying himself. The motion was slow — careful — every small movement deliberate. The world was only vague light and shadow, but he tilted his head toward the sound of Obanai’s steps. “Your left leg,” he said, lowly. “Don’t put weight on it.”

Obanai didn’t reply at first, just slipped the sword back into its sheath with quiet precision and eased forward. His breath came raggedly as he shifted his weight off the injured leg and gripped Giyuu’s shoulder.

The contact startled him — not out of discomfort, but because of how cold Giyuu’s skin was even through the fabric of his uniform.

“Try not to drop me,” Obanai muttered, his voice quiet but sharp enough to hide the hesitation in it.

Giyuu crouched lower, one arm sliding back to steady Obanai’s side as the other braced against the snow. “I won’t.”

It wasn’t effortless — Obanai was light but still more weight than Giyuu’s weakened frame should have been lifting. His muscles burned, and the pain behind his eyes pulsed with every movement. Still, he rose, slow and steady, snow crunching beneath his feet as he adjusted his balance.

Kaburamaru moved instinctively, curling tighter around Obanai’s shoulders — head resting close to Giyuu’s temple now. The serpent’s scales brushed his skin; its soft hiss blended into the wind.

Giyuu took one careful step forward. Then another.
Each exhale came in slow, measured bursts.

Obanai steadied his hands loosely around Giyuu’s shoulders, eyes scanning the whiteness ahead. He kept his voice even, low against Giyuu’s ear.

“Just keep going straight, in two kilometers move south. If you forget you’ll run into a tree.. so don’t blame me.”

Giyuu obeyed in silence, his movements steady and wordless as he adjusted his grip and turned in the direction Obanai had indicated.

The blizzard howled again, snow slicing past their faces. Giyuu’s dark hair clung to the side of his cheek, damp from the wind, and Obanai’s voice cut through the noise — clipped, strained, but firm.

They moved like that for a while — one leading by sight, the other by strength. Two half-broken warriors trying to keep each other upright.

When they finally reached a break in the slope, Giyuu stopped, his breath uneven but controlled. “You’re heavier than I expected.”

Obanai huffed faintly. “That’s your punishment for volunteering.”

It wasn’t quite humor — but it was the closest either of them had come to it.

Giyuu shifted slightly, adjusting his grip. The serpent brushed against his jaw again, and he murmured, just loud enough to be heard through the wind, “Keep your eyes open. I’ll rely on you to see.”

“Obviously.” Obanai’s tone softened, almost imperceptibly. “Don’t make me regret this.”

The snow continued to fall, quiet and relentless — erasing their footprints as fast as they were made.

⸻

The snow had started to settle heavier again, the air turning sharp and white around them. Giyuu’s breathing grew shallow under the weight on his back, every exhale misting in the cold.

Kaburamaru shifted weakly on Obanai’s shoulders, its movements sluggish. The serpent’s body trembled faintly against his neck, scales barely moving as it fought to stay coiled.

Giyuu noticed the shiver the same moment Obanai did. Without a word, he adjusted his stance — one knee lowering slightly as if to balance the both of them better. Then his hand moved toward his scarf, fingers brushing at the knot to untie it.

“What are you doing?” Obanai’s voice cut through the wind, low and sharp, though not quite angry.

“Your serpent’s freezing,” Giyuu said quietly. His fingers lingered near his neck, ready to pull the scarf loose. “He won’t last long if—”

“You already gave me your haori.” Obanai’s tone sharpened, firm despite the exhaustion dragging it down. “You’re not giving that too.”

Giyuu turned his head slightly toward the sound of his voice, the pale blur of snow making his lashes glint faintly red. “I don’t need it.”

Obanai gave a breath of disbelief — half frustration, half fatigue. “You barely have your footing, Tomioka. If you start freezing, you’ll take us both down.”

Neither moved for a moment. The wind pressed at them, scattering loose flakes across their shoulders and hair. Giyuu’s hand dropped back down, but he didn’t reply — only turned his face slightly downward as if conceding without words.

Obanai stayed silent for a beat. Then, after a small, almost imperceptible exhale, he shifted one arm from Giyuu’s shoulder.

“…Fine,” he muttered, the word thin under his breath. “Then take this instead.”

He tugged gently at the end of his scarf, careful not to jostle Kaburamaru as he loosened it from around his neck. The serpent stirred weakly, head lifting in confusion before settling again as the cloth loosened.

With slow movements, Obanai drew the scarf free and leaned it over Giyuu’s shoulder, the serpent following with a faint hiss of protest before curling obediently into Giyuu’s hold.

Giyuu froze at the sudden weight near his collarbone, the serpent’s scales cool but alive against his skin. His hands instinctively adjusted the fabric, tucking Kaburamaru under the scarf’s warmth.

Obanai’s hand lingered near his shoulder a moment longer, steadying himself as he caught his breath.
“Don’t drop him,” he said finally, voice quieter now.

“I won’t.”

The tone was simple, calm — but there was something solid beneath it, something like reassurance.

Kaburamaru shifted once more, then went still, coiled neatly against Giyuu’s chest under the soft fold of the scarf.
The fabric smelled faintly of Obanai — snow, smoke, and the sharp trace of wisteria salve.

Neither spoke for a while. The wind filled the silence between them, carrying the faint sound of snow brushing past branches overhead.

When Obanai finally spoke again, his tone had softened — grudgingly, but unmistakably.

“You’re impossible.”

“So are you.”

Their words were nearly lost to the wind, but both of them heard.

The storm around them thickened, the world fading to white once more — two figures, one walking and one guiding, bound together by exhaustion and a quiet, wordless exchange neither of them would ever name.

———

The storm had grown quieter, though not gentler.

The snow fell thicker now — slow, heavy flakes settling across their shoulders and hair. It blurred the forest around them until even the trees looked ghostlike.

After several more careful steps, Giyuu slowed, breath shallow and uneven. “We need to stop for a moment,” he said softly.

Obanai didn’t argue. His grip had weakened, fingers trembling faintly against Giyuu’s shoulder. The strain of keeping himself steady had worsened the pain in his leg — it throbbed now, sharp and pulsing beneath the layers of snow-damp fabric.

Giyuu lowered to one knee, moving carefully so he wouldn’t jostle the serpent tucked beneath the scarf. Obanai let himself slide down from his back with quiet restraint, landing in the snow beside him. His sword was still in hand, but it wavered slightly as he steadied his balance.

The silence between them deepened — broken only by the wind sighing through the trees.

Giyuu’s breathing sounded rough now, uneven. He blinked slowly, a faint tremor in his lashes. A streak of dried blood still clung to his cheek from where the demon’s claws had grazed him, and his eyes — clouded, red, and half-lidded — didn’t quite focus on anything anymore.

Obanai noticed. He hadn’t wanted to, but he did. His gaze lingered a second longer than it should have.

“Your eyes,” he muttered. “They’re getting worse.”

“I know.”

It was the way he said it — calm, as though it didn’t matter. But the distant tone only made it worse.

Obanai exhaled sharply through his nose. “You’ll go blind if we don’t cover them.”

“I can still see light.”

“Not for long if you keep letting the wind tear into them.”

The argument ended there — neither had the strength for another round of pride. Obanai hesitated, then reached for the last of the cloth still tied around his wrist. It was barely enough to wrap a wound, let alone cover Giyuu’s eyes.

He frowned. His own bandages — the ones that usually covered his mouth and neck — had come loose during the fight. The fabric still hung from his collar, torn and half-frozen.

He tugged at it without thinking.

The sound of fabric tearing filled the air as Obanai stripped the last of it away. His breath hitched faintly from the cold, the exposure to air stinging the faint scars across his face.

He didn’t meet Giyuu’s gaze.

“Use this.”

Giyuu turned his head slightly toward the sound, confused. “You don’t have to—”

“I said use it,” Obanai cut in, voice sharper than before — not angry, but firm in a way that didn’t allow space for refusal.

For a moment, Giyuu didn’t move. Then, wordlessly, he reached forward, fingers brushing the worn fabric as if to confirm it was really being offered.

He tied it slowly around his eyes, the movement careful — deliberate. His hands trembled slightly near the end of the knot. When he finished, the blood-streaked bandages covered his eyes fully, shielding them from the harsh wind.

Obanai watched quietly. His breath puffed faintly in the air, and for the first time since the fight, he allowed his posture to ease — shoulders lowering, exhaustion catching up to him.

Kaburamaru stirred faintly beneath the scarf, pressing against Giyuu’s collarbone before curling back down.

Neither man spoke.

The only sound was the storm.

After a long pause, Giyuu’s voice came, barely audible.

“You should rest a moment. Your leg—”

“Don’t start,” Obanai murmured, his tone softer now. “We’ll move again soon.”

“…All right.”

Obanai sat with one leg stretched out, the other bent just enough to keep his sword within reach. He’d stopped shaking, though only because the cold had numbed most of the pain. The dull ache in his left leg pulsed steadily beneath the surface — deep, constant, impossible to ignore.

Beside him, Giyuu sat in silence. His back was straight despite the exhaustion weighing on him, his bandaged eyes turned faintly toward the faint sound of wind brushing through the trees. He wasn’t fully still — his hand rested lightly over the scarf on his chest, where Kaburamaru was coiled.

The serpent’s faint movements broke the quiet first. It shifted, brushing its head against the edge of the scarf as if searching for warmth.

“You’re keeping him steady,” Obanai said quietly after a while.

Giyuu tilted his head slightly toward the voice. “He’s calm.”

“Mm.” Obanai leaned back a little, gaze following the endless white horizon. “He doesn’t trust many people.”

There was no pride in the words — only quiet observation.

Giyuu said nothing. The serpent stirred again, curling closer to the fabric, and the corner of Giyuu’s mouth twitched faintly — not a smile, not really, but something close.

Obanai noticed. He didn’t comment.

The snow kept falling. Their breaths fogged faintly in the still air.

After a moment, Giyuu broke the silence.

“When the storm clears, they’ll send someone.”

“You think they’ll find us?”

“Eventually.”

Obanai exhaled through his nose, almost a scoff. “That’s not much reassurance.”

“It’s the truth.”

A faint pause. Then, quieter — Obanai’s voice carried a hint of something else.

“You’re too calm about this.”

“Getting angry won’t make the snow stop.”

That shut him up, though the corner of his lip curved almost imperceptibly. He turned his head slightly away, muttering,

“You really are unbearable, Tomioka.”

Giyuu didn’t reply.

The storm began to build again, softly at first — a whisper before the next wave of wind. The faint sound of it stirred the snow around them.

Neither man moved yet. For that brief moment, in the cold silence between gusts, they simply sat there — two exhausted silhouettes, breathing in rhythm, surrounded by white.

⸻

The wind screamed through the trees again, harsher than before. Snow lashed across their faces, melting only to freeze against skin and fabric. Giyuu’s breath came out in slow, even bursts, fogging the air near Obanai’s shoulder. Every exhale seemed to echo the rhythm of his steps — measured, controlled, but undeniably strained.

Obanai’s gloved hands were tight against his shoulders, both for balance and warmth. The serpent had curled against Giyuu’s collarbone, hidden beneath the scarf, its faint movement the only soft thing in the storm around them.

“Left,” Obanai said, his voice sharp to cut through the wind. “There’s a ridge ahead.”

Giyuu adjusted course without hesitation. His foot sank deep into snow with each step, the slope beneath them slick and unstable. Despite the weight on his back, his movements stayed deliberate, careful.

The world was white — all white. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it. The cold pressed against the thin bandages wrapped over his eyes — the same ones Obanai had given him earlier — now stiff and damp from the frost. He focused instead on Obanai’s voice — clipped, precise, grounding.

“Keep straight. The wind’s coming from the east.”
“…We’re heading south, then?”
“Yes.” A pause. “Don’t argue.”

Giyuu didn’t.

The silence between them stretched again, filled only by the crunch of snow and the relentless howl of the storm.

After a while, Obanai spoke again — quieter this time. “You should rest again soon.”

“I can still walk.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” Obanai muttered. His tone wasn’t biting now, only faintly weary. “You’re not made of stone, Tomioka.”

“I know.”

It wasn’t an argument, but it wasn’t agreement either. Just a simple acknowledgment.

Giyuu’s steps slowed slightly as the wind shifted direction again. He adjusted his grip under Obanai’s knees, steadying him. The movement made Obanai wince — the pain from his left leg flaring bright, though he didn’t let it show beyond a sharp inhale.

“Sorry,” Giyuu murmured after a moment.

“…It’s fine.”

Neither spoke after that.

Snow clung to their hair, their lashes, their clothing. Giyuu’s haori hung heavy over Obanai’s shoulders, its fabric darkened by melting frost. The scarf — Obanai’s — had come loose slightly, and Kaburamaru’s head peeked out from its folds. The serpent’s tongue flicked against Giyuu’s throat, tasting the air, perhaps sensing his heartbeat.

The storm was growing louder — closer somehow. The sound of it pressed down on them until even Obanai’s voice began to fade under it.

Then, faintly, Obanai said —
“There’s… a break ahead. A drop.”

Giyuu slowed immediately. “How far?”

“Ten, maybe fifteen steps. Stay close to the trees.”

Giyuu turned slightly, obeying the direction. The snow beneath him shifted again, deep and uncertain, but he didn’t falter.

Obanai’s voice guided him through the white — low, steady, the one thing that hadn’t vanished in the storm.

Notes:

I just realized Giyuu is supposed to have a neck wound that prevented him from talking well.

I most likely can’t add that in anymore but I’ll find another way to do something similar.

Anyway thanks for reading!

Chapter 4: Eyes and Legs

Summary:

Lost deep in the storm, Giyuu and Obanai struggle forward through the freezing wilderness — one blind beneath blood-soaked bandages, the other in too much pain to walk. Forced to rely on each other completely, their sharp words and quiet endurance reveal a fragile trust forming between them. Back at the Ubuyashiki estate, the remaining Hashira gather in growing concern, realizing the two have been missing for more than a day. As faith battles fear, somewhere in the storm’s endless white, a lone crow cries.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem on tik tok.

Dynamics in this story can be viewed as romantic or platonic.

The snow had swallowed the world whole.
Wind cut through the air in sharp, uneven bursts, carrying flakes so fine they stung like ash against exposed skin. The trail behind them had long vanished beneath fresh layers—no footprints, no sign they’d ever passed through. Only the faint rhythm of two breaths broke the stillness.

Obanai’s voice came from behind Giyuu, low and steady despite the rasp in his throat. “There’s a slope ahead. Keep right—don’t step too far forward.”

Giyuu adjusted his footing, the weight on his back shifting slightly as he obeyed. His breath came out as white fog, disappearing into the cold before he could draw another. He said nothing, just continued forward—each step sinking deeper into the snow.

The world was dim, a blur of white and gray. His vision was gone, but Obanai’s words guided him—the pauses, the faint taps against his shoulder, the subtle shifts in tone when the ground dipped or rose.

The storm hadn’t relented since the night before. The wind howled across the mountain, scattering the snow in spirals that blinded even the sharpest eyes. Ice crusted the edge of Giyuu’s sleeves, catching the faint shimmer of daylight that broke weakly through the clouds. His body ached with cold and exhaustion, but he kept moving, his breathing shallow and controlled.

“Careful,” Obanai murmured again, voice quieter this time—almost carried away by the storm.

Giyuu nodded faintly, his pace steady but slowing. His legs felt heavier with each step, the snow dragging at his ankles. Still, he didn’t stop.

“Your pace is uneven,” Obanai muttered after a while. His tone was clipped, sharp as ever, though quieter than usual. “You’re going to trip at this rate.”

Giyuu’s response came late, his voice steady but faint. “Then tell me before I do.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Obanai snapped back—but the edge in his voice was dulled by fatigue. He exhaled shakily, leaning forward slightly so his hand could steady itself on Giyuu’s shoulder. “There’s a dip ahead. Step left.”

Giyuu did as told. The motion jostled Kaburamaru, still curled beneath the scarf at Giyuu’s neck. The serpent stirred, flicking its tongue before settling again. Obanai’s gaze softened for half a breath—barely perceptible beneath his usual frown.

“…He’s still warm,” Giyuu said after a while.

“He would be,” Obanai muttered. “That scarf’s thicker than most blankets.”

There was silence for several steps, broken only by the snow crunching beneath Giyuu’s boots. The wind tugged at his haori—the one now draped around Obanai’s shoulders.

“You could’ve kept it,” Obanai said suddenly, voice quieter, almost begrudging.

Giyuu didn’t answer right away. His breath came slower now, labored but controlled. “You needed it more.”

Obanai scoffed softly. “You say that like it’s a choice.”

They fell once—Obanai’s weight shifted when the snow beneath them gave way. The movement was sudden, and as Giyuu’s knees hit the ground, Obanai’s injured leg slammed against his side. Pain seared up from the limb, sharp and immediate. His breath caught in his throat, and for a fleeting second, his grip on Giyuu’s shoulder tightened hard enough to leave a mark.

Giyuu caught himself on one knee, snow biting at the exposed skin of his wrist. He drew a slow breath, the cold searing his lungs, then pushed himself upright again before Obanai could speak.

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m fine,” Giyuu cut in, his tone even, unshaken. He adjusted his grip on Obanai’s legs before moving forward again, slower this time.

Obanai frowned, eyes narrowing behind his lashes. The dull throb in his leg lingered—an ache that deepened with every bump and shift of movement. Still, he said nothing about it. He could hear how shallow Giyuu’s breathing had become, the faint tremor in each exhale. “You’ll collapse if you keep this up,” he muttered, voice softer now.

“Then I’ll fall forward,” Giyuu said. “Still closer than standing still.”

Obanai didn’t reply. The storm raged around them, biting and merciless, but Giyuu’s steps didn’t falter. He stumbled again once, twice—each time recovering with silent determination.

After a while, Obanai’s voice came again, low and almost begrudging. “You’re stubborn.”

“So are you.”

That earned the faintest exhale from Obanai—something between irritation and amusement. He adjusted slightly on Giyuu’s back, careful not to shift too much weight, though his leg pulsed with heat beneath the cold.

“Keep straight,” he murmured after a long pause. “There’s a ridge ahead. You’ll feel it when the ground hardens.”

And still, step by step, they moved—through wind that cut like glass and snow that swallowed all sound—bound together by exhaustion, duty, and the quiet refusal to let the other fall.

———

The wind howled louder now, swallowing every sound but their breathing. It had grown darker—the kind of gray light that came when the sun was long gone, but the moon hadn’t yet shown. The blizzard had worsened. Snow whipped through the air in thick, heavy sheets, stinging exposed skin and clinging to fabric until even their breath froze against the cloth.

Giyuu’s steps had slowed, each one deliberate, his boots crunching deep into the snow before dragging out again. His shoulders trembled faintly beneath Obanai’s weight—not from weakness, but from the cold burrowing into his muscles.

Obanai could feel it too. Even through the fabric of Giyuu’s haori wrapped around him, the chill cut sharp. His fingers were going numb despite the gloves he wore, and his injured leg was stiff with pain and cold. He tried not to show it, tried to shift as little as possible to avoid adding to Giyuu’s burden, but his grip had weakened—he couldn’t feel his fingertips anymore.

The wind picked up again, throwing snow across their faces like shards of ice. Giyuu stumbled slightly, catching himself before he fell. His breath came out in shallow bursts, white mist curling into the storm.

“Step… right,” Obanai managed, voice rough. “The ground’s uneven.”

Giyuu obeyed silently, his movements careful. Obanai could tell from the way his breathing hitched that his endurance was wearing thin. The man was too quiet—even for Tomioka.

For a while, they said nothing. Only the endless sound of snow and wind surrounded them, relentless and unyielding. Kaburamaru had gone still beneath the scarf, coiled tightly against Giyuu’s neck for warmth.

Obanai’s fingers twitched weakly at Giyuu’s shoulder. He told himself it was just to steady his hold, but as the next gust of wind struck, he leaned forward without thinking—his chest pressing closer to Giyuu’s back. The warmth that met him was faint but steady, radiating through the damp layers of Giyuu’s uniform.

He exhaled against the fabric, too tired to move back. The motion was instinctive, unguarded—something between exhaustion and silent acknowledgment.

Giyuu didn’t say anything about it. He simply adjusted his stance to balance the weight better, his head tilting slightly as though listening to Obanai’s breathing over the storm.

Snow clung to his hair and lashes, melting into the bandages wrapped around his eyes. His fingers were stiff, raw from the cold, yet his grip didn’t falter.

Obanai’s head lowered slightly against his shoulder. His voice came out softer than before—rough but steady. “How much farther, do you think?”

“…Farther than it feels,” Giyuu murmured, his tone calm but faint, barely audible beneath the wind.

Another gust tore through, colder than the last. Obanai’s leg throbbed dully, his hands trembling against Giyuu’s uniform. His breathing slowed—not from calm, but fatigue. And still, he didn’t pull away.

The warmth between them, faint as it was, felt like the only thing holding back the storm.

Each breath Giyuu took came out rough, fogging in front of him before vanishing into the storm. His steps had grown heavier—uneven—but still, he didn’t stop.

Obanai’s grip on his shoulders had loosened slightly. He wasn’t asleep, not yet, but the fatigue in his body made every breath slower, every word harder to form. His hands trembled faintly against Giyuu’s shoulders, the movement barely noticeable at first—but it was enough.

Giyuu halted. The sudden stillness made the cold sink in deeper. He lowered himself slowly, crouching until Obanai could rest against a mound of snow that had built up at the base of a fallen tree. The wind hissed through the air, tossing his hair against the bandages covering his eyes.

Obanai stirred, his tone sluggish but still sharp. “Why—why are we stopping?”

Giyuu didn’t answer. He carefully adjusted Kaburamaru, ensuring the serpent remained nestled under the scarf before reaching for his gloves. His hands were red and raw from the cold, fingers stiff from gripping his sword earlier, but he tugged them off without hesitation.

“Don’t.” Obanai’s voice came out rough, the word cutting through the storm. “You need them more than I do.”

Giyuu didn’t respond. He didn’t argue, didn’t speak at all. His expression stayed neutral as he reached forward, hands moving with quiet certainty despite the bandages over his eyes. He found Obanai’s arm by touch—fingers brushing against the sleeve first, tracing downward carefully until he reached his hand.

Obanai tensed at the contact, the instinctive flicker of surprise fading almost instantly when Giyuu’s cold fingers closed gently around his own. His gloves were already soaked through from the snow, the fabric chilled and stiff.

“Giyuu—”

Before Obanai could finish, Giyuu began slipping his own gloves over them. It took effort—his fingers fumbled slightly as he tried to fit them over Obanai’s already gloved hands, the layers thick and awkward. He didn’t stop, though. His breathing stayed even, his movements deliberate, the faint tremor in his hands betraying only how cold he’d become.

“…You’re insufferable,” Obanai muttered finally, his voice almost lost under the sound of the wind.

Giyuu adjusted the second glove, pressing it down to make sure it fit securely. “They’ll help,” he said quietly. His tone was steady—matter-of-fact—but something faintly softer lingered beneath it.

Obanai stared at him for a moment, the expression behind his mismatched eyes unreadable. The air between them was cold enough to burn, yet the silence carried a strange warmth.

Finally, Obanai exhaled, his head lowering against the tree behind him. “You’re going to freeze first,” he murmured, half under his breath.

Giyuu didn’t answer. He simply adjusted the scarf around Kaburamaru one last time, then moved to lift Obanai again. His hands were bare now, red and shaking, but his grip didn’t falter.

The storm raged on around them, endless and merciless. But when Giyuu hoisted him onto his back again, it felt—if only for a moment—like they were defying it together.

———

The storm had dulled into a steady wall of white. The wind no longer screamed—it whispered instead, cold and constant, wrapping around them like breath from the mountain itself. The light was fading fast, and what little the sky offered was swallowed by gray.

Giyuu’s boots sank deeper into the snow with every step. The rhythm of his breathing had grown ragged—inhale, exhale, step—but still, he moved forward. The sound of snow crunching beneath him and the muffled rustle of fabric between them were the only signs of life in the endless quiet.

“Left,” Obanai murmured, voice slurred and faint against Giyuu’s shoulder. It wasn’t the sharp, sure tone he’d spoken with before. The words drifted out of him like smoke.

Giyuu turned slightly in the direction of the sound, relying entirely on Obanai’s fading voice. The bandages over his eyes had long since sealed the world in darkness. Every movement was guided by sound, by memory, by the faint pressure of Obanai’s weight against his back.

After a few more steps, Obanai’s hand—resting weakly against his chest—slipped lower.

“Obanai?” Giyuu’s voice was quiet, nearly lost in the wind.

There was no answer. Just the slow, uneven rhythm of Obanai’s breathing.

Giyuu slowed, then stopped. His grip tightened automatically. He shifted his hold, lifting Obanai’s weight slightly higher onto his back so he wouldn’t slip. The movement drew a faint, tired sound from Obanai’s throat, but he didn’t wake.

The cold bit sharply at Giyuu’s bare hands. His fingers had gone numb long ago, the skin pale and stiff, but still he moved them—still he adjusted his grip, refusing to let go. Each breath that left him came out as a shiver, mist curling from his lips before being swallowed by the air.

He paused again, the wind cutting hard against them. Slowly, carefully, Giyuu reached up and found the edge of the scarf Obanai had given him earlier. It had shifted out of place as they walked, part of it falling away from Obanai’s face. His fingers, clumsy from the cold, brushed the fabric until he caught it. He fumbled for a moment, the lack of sight and the trembling in his hands making the motion harder, then finally managed to pull the scarf higher.

He adjusted the back of it to cover the side of Obanai’s face where the wind bit hardest. The fabric brushed Obanai’s cheek as Giyuu tucked it closer, making sure it stayed secure.

Obanai stirred faintly, breath ghosting against the fabric.

“…Tomioka…” The name came out barely audible, almost dreamlike.

“I’m here,” Giyuu answered softly.

No reply followed. The silence that returned wasn’t empty—it pulsed with quiet endurance. Giyuu started walking again, slower now, careful with each step as darkness settled fully around them. He couldn’t see the path—not through the snow, not through the bandages—but he remembered the direction Obanai had given him before his voice began to fade.

He followed it blindly, one step at a time, trusting memory, instinct, and the faint, steady weight of the man resting against him.

———

The air around the Ubuyashiki estate was still, the kind of quiet that pressed on the chest. Snow fell in thin, restless flurries, drifting over the garden and melting as it touched the lantern light. Inside the meeting hall, all the remaining Hashira were gathered, their presence filling the space with an uneasy tension.

Kagaya sat at the head of the room, his calm expression unreadable. Though his voice was steady, it carried the weight of worry shared by everyone there.

“It’s been twenty-four hours since Tomioka and Iguro departed,” he said softly. “And neither of their crows have returned.”

Shinobu knelt with her hands folded neatly, eyes downcast. “The storm hasn’t cleared in that region. Visibility is low, and the wind too strong for crows to fly far. Still…” Her tone faltered slightly. “It’s unusual for there to be no sign at all.”

“Unusual?” Sanemi cut in, his tone edged with frustration. “They’ve vanished. That’s not ‘unusual,’ that’s a problem.”

“Calm yourself,” Gyoumei said quietly from the far end of the room. The prayer beads between his fingers clicked softly in the silence that followed. “They are not the type to fall easily.”

Across from him, Mitsuri’s hands trembled slightly in her lap. “They were supposed to check in by now,” she said, voice small. “Even if it was just their crows…”

Tengen leaned back, crossing his arms. “You’re all underestimating how bad that weather is. The storm hit harder than expected. They could be stuck somewhere waiting it out.”

“Or buried in it,” Sanemi muttered, earning a sharp look from Shinobu.

“Honestly, Shinazugawa,” she said, tone deceptively sweet, “if pessimism were a breathing style, you’d be the strongest slayer in history.”

Sanemi glared but didn’t respond.

Kagaya’s faint smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ve both endured worse,” he said gently. “But the mountain terrain is treacherous this time of year. Sending search parties into that storm now would only place more lives at risk. We’ll wait until dawn.”

Mitsuri frowned, twisting a strand of her hair nervously. “You’re sure they’ll be all right?”

Kagaya turned his gaze toward the sliding doors, where the faint glow of the storm’s reflection shimmered against the paper panels. “I believe in them,” he said simply. “And I believe they have each other.”

The others fell silent at that. The thought lingered—those two, who could barely tolerate being in the same room together, now forced to rely on one another.

Shinobu’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile as she rested her chin on one hand. “Well,” she murmured, voice light but edged with irony, “if anyone can survive by sheer stubbornness alone, it would be those two.”

The words hung in the air, a quiet truth wrapped in teasing.

No one argued.

Outside, the snow thickened again.

And from somewhere beyond the walls—distant, faint against the cold wind—
a crow cried.

Notes:

I hope you all liked this one. I’m sorry that it’s short I had a hard time writing this chapter.

Chapter 5: The Blizzards Heart

Summary:

Amid the storm’s growing fury, Giyuu and Obanai fight against the cold and exhaustion. When the snow threatens to overtake them, they find brief refuge in a small cave. There, the silence between them shifts—worn thin by the storm, yet steadied by something unspoken. Outside, the blizzard rages on.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem on tik tok.

Dynamics in this story can be viewed as romantic or platonic.

The storm had a pulse of its own—steady, unrelenting, alive. It howled around them like something breathing, something ancient and merciless. The snow came down harder now, no longer drifting but striking in sharp, stinging bursts that bit at any exposed skin.

Giyuu’s steps were slow. Careful. Each one sank deep into the snow before he forced the next. His balance wavered at times, the uneven ground hidden beneath the endless white, but he never stopped moving.

He couldn’t see—hadn’t seen since the fight—and the darkness behind the bandages pressed against him like a weight. The world existed only in sound and touch now: the rasp of his breath, the creak of his boots through the ice, and the faint warmth of Obanai’s body against his back.

The other man hadn’t spoken for some time. His breathing was steady, softer now, the kind that came with sleep—or exhaustion too deep to fight. Kaburamaru stirred faintly beneath Giyuu’s scarf, curling closer for warmth.

The wind clawed at them, dragging at Giyuu’s clothes and numbing his fingers until he couldn’t tell where his own skin ended and the frost began. He’d long since stopped feeling his hands. His haori was gone—wrapped around Obanai—and his gloves with it.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Every few steps, he paused just long enough to steady himself, one breath trembling through his chest before he forced his legs forward again. His lungs burned with cold air, and his head felt light, but his hold on Obanai never loosened.

He didn’t need to see to know the storm had grown worse. The wind’s voice was harsher now, the snow heavier. It pressed against him, buried his tracks almost as soon as he made them.

His foot caught on something buried under the snow — a root, maybe a half-frozen branch — and his balance vanished.

Giyuu’s knee hit the ground hard. The shock ran up through his leg, and his free hand sank into the snow to keep them from falling completely. The sting of the cold against his bare fingers was immediate and sharp. His breath came out in a low hiss, white in the freezing air.

The sudden jolt jarred Obanai awake — and pain flared in his left leg as it shifted awkwardly with the fall. He stiffened, his breath catching as the ache pulsed sharply up from his calf.

“…Tomioka?” he muttered, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the wind.

Giyuu steadied them both, his grip tightening beneath Obanai’s knees. “I slipped,” he said quietly, his tone level but strained.

Obanai winced, his brows pulling together as another tremor of pain ran through his leg. “You’re trying to kill us both, aren’t you?” he rasped, the words edged more with exhaustion than irritation.

But Giyuu didn’t respond — just adjusted his footing again, snow crunching softly under him as the storm pressed harder against them both.

There was silence for a moment — only the sound of the wind tearing through the trees around them. Obanai blinked, trying to focus through the haze of fatigue. His gaze dropped toward Giyuu’s hands, the skin flushed red and trembling against the snow. His jaw tightened.

“Your hands,” he said, his tone sharper now, concern threaded beneath the words. “They’re shaking.”

Giyuu didn’t respond, only pushed himself back to his feet. The motion was slower this time, his breath unsteady from the cold.

Obanai exhaled, frustration flickering in his voice. “We need to stop.”

“The storm hasn’t settled,” Giyuu replied, his tone low and even.

“It’s getting worse,” Obanai countered, his hand gripping Giyuu’s sleeve weakly. “You can’t see. You’re freezing. If we keep walking like this, neither of us will make it far.”

Giyuu hesitated — just a pause, small but noticeable. Then, quietly, he said, “You can sleep again. I’ll keep going.”

Obanai’s response came immediately, steady despite his exhaustion. “No. I’m not sleeping while you’re stumbling blind through a storm.”

The wind howled louder now, carrying shards of snow that bit at their faces.

Obanai shifted slightly on his back, his tone softening. “There should be a ridge nearby. Somewhere to take cover.”

He spoke as though trying to convince them both.

After a moment, Giyuu nodded once, almost imperceptibly. “Then tell me where.”

Obanai adjusted his grip weakly, fingers brushing Giyuu’s shoulder as he pointed ahead. “Left… about thirty paces. It’ll dip before it rises again. Look for that.”

And despite the weight dragging at his limbs, Giyuu obeyed — his steps slow, deliberate, and soundless but sure — carrying them both toward the faint promise of shelter in the heart of the storm.

The snow deepened the farther they went. It clung to Giyuu’s legs, dragging at his every step, the weight of Obanai on his back making each movement deliberate — a struggle against the cold that gnawed through him. The bandages around his eyes were stiff with frost now, and his breath came out in shallow bursts that fogged against the fabric.

Obanai’s directions came quieter, slower. “A little more… there should be an incline soon.” His voice wavered — exhaustion pressing at the edges — but he forced himself to stay awake, his gloved fingers occasionally tightening against Giyuu’s shoulder to keep him anchored.

The air had shifted; even without sight, Giyuu could tell. The wind was stronger here, funneled through the rocks, and the cold bit deeper, sharper. His hands were near numb — he could no longer feel the ache, just a dull heaviness that warned of how much heat he’d already lost.

“Tomioka,” Obanai said suddenly, low but firm. “Stop.”

He did. His boots sank deep into the drift.

“There,” Obanai breathed out, lifting his head slightly. He squinted through the snow. “To the right — there’s a slope.”

Giyuu turned toward the direction of his voice, his movements careful. He tested each step before putting his weight down.

The wind screamed once more, throwing another sheet of snow across them. Giyuu bowed his head into it, his fingers curling tighter against Obanai’s leg. The snow bit into his skin like shards of glass.

Obanai could feel him shaking.

He pressed a gloved hand against Giyuu’s shoulder — light but insistent. “We’ll stop there. Just until the storm passes a little.”

There was no argument this time. Giyuu didn’t speak — only nodded once and pushed forward. The ridge rose beneath his feet, uneven and slick, but his footing held. After another few steps, the ground dipped again, and through the veil of snow Obanai caught the faint shadow of a dark opening — small, half-buried under frost and rock, but enough.

“Here,” he said, relief barely audible in his tired voice. “It’s a cave.”

Giyuu felt the change beneath his boots — solid, uneven stone instead of packed snow. He took a few more steps, ducking instinctively as the wind softened around them, blocked by the rock face. The air was still bitterly cold, but it no longer cut through them like a blade.

Only then did he stop, breath heaving, the sound muffled by the bandages around his mouth and the scarf pulled tight around his neck. His legs trembled as he lowered himself to one knee and then carefully eased Obanai down beside him.

The storm roared beyond the ridge — a white blur of noise and fury — but here, in the small hollow of stone and shadow, the world felt momentarily still.

Obanai leaned back against the rough wall of the cave, closing his eyes. His voice, when he finally spoke, was barely more than a whisper. “You should’ve said something sooner.”

Giyuu didn’t answer. He only sat back, head bowed, snow melting slowly in his hair as his chest rose and fell with quiet, unsteady breaths.

The wind outside howled relentlessly, snow sweeping past the cave’s mouth in long, pale ribbons. The sound filled the air — a constant, hollow rush that seemed to swallow every other noise. Inside, though, the air was still. Thin, cold, but bearable.

Obanai shifted slightly, drawing one leg in closer to his chest. The motion sent a sharp jolt of pain through his injured leg, but he hid it behind clenched teeth. His breath fogged faintly in front of him, visible even in the low light.

Next to him, Giyuu sat with his back against the wall, head bowed slightly. His haori — now wrapped around Obanai — hung unevenly over the serpent Hashira’s shoulders. Frost clung to the edges of Giyuu’s uniform, the fabric stiff and pale from exposure. His fingers rested loosely against his knees, still trembling from cold and exhaustion.

Kaburamaru stirred under the scarf at Giyuu’s collar, lifting his small head to taste the air. The serpent’s tongue flicked once, twice, before it settled again against the warmth of the fabric.

“Your breathing’s uneven,” Obanai muttered after a while, voice soft but cutting through the quiet.

Giyuu’s head lifted slightly. “So is yours.”

A faint sound escaped Obanai — something between a breath and a tired huff. “You sound worse.”

Giyuu didn’t respond right away. His fingers flexed slowly, the motion sluggish. The numbness in them was spreading higher, to his wrists. “It’s fine,” he said at last, voice steady but faint beneath the bandages.

“Fine,” Obanai repeated, tilting his head toward him. “You can barely stay upright, Tomioka.”

“I’m sitting.”

That earned a quiet exhale that might’ve been the start of a laugh — brief, strained, but real. “Still stubborn even half frozen.”

Giyuu didn’t deny it. He leaned his head back against the wall, listening to the faint scrape of snow shifting outside the cave. The air in here was still icy, but it carried a fragile kind of calm — the kind that followed hours of relentless wind and silence.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Only the faint sound of their breathing filled the space.

Obanai’s eyes flicked toward him — or rather, toward the outline of him in the dark. “You’re shivering,” he said quietly, not as an observation but a warning.

Giyuu turned his head slightly toward the voice, though his eyes were hidden beneath the frost-bitten bandages. “You should rest.”

Obanai exhaled, the sound tired. “You keep saying that,” he muttered.

“You’re injured,” Giyuu replied, his voice calm but firm.

“And you’re blind, freezing, and still trying to pretend you’re not,” Obanai countered.

There was no malice in it. Only fatigue.

The storm outside groaned — a heavy, drawn-out sound that made the cave tremble faintly. The cold crept in with every gust that slipped through the cracks, brushing against their skin like a whisper.

Obanai shifted again, his gloved hand brushing against Giyuu’s shoulder as he steadied himself.

Giyuu didn’t move away.

He sat still, listening to the faint sound of Obanai’s breathing, the weight of the scarf and serpent still settled near his collar. His body ached, his vision gone, his hands too cold to flex anymore — but for the first time in what felt like hours, the wind no longer touched them.

Obanai’s breathing had evened out again, though his shoulders still trembled beneath Giyuu’s haori. His head rested lightly against the wall behind him, the fatigue in his body evident from the stiffness in his posture. Every breath he took sounded controlled, deliberate — like he was forcing himself to stay awake.

Giyuu noticed.

“Sleep,” he said quietly. His voice was low, steady — the kind of tone he used when arguing wasn’t an option.

Obanai’s eyes flicked open again. “And leave you awake in this cold?” His tone wasn’t sharp this time. Just tired. “You’re the one who can’t even feel his hands.”

“I can manage.”

“Barely,” Obanai muttered. He tilted his head slightly toward him, trying to read his expression — but the bandages covering Giyuu’s eyes gave him nothing. “You’ll freeze first.”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

He shifted slightly instead, reaching out until his fingertips brushed against the side of the cave wall. The rough surface grounded him — cold, solid, real. It helped him orient himself when the world beyond the bandages felt like an endless blur of sound and chill.

For a while, the only movement came from Kaburamaru. The serpent uncurled from Giyuu’s scarf and slithered briefly across his shoulder before finding its way back to the warmth beneath the fabric.

Obanai’s eyes followed the movement, his expression softening — just barely. “He likes you,” he said finally, his voice low and rough.

Giyuu turned his head slightly toward the sound. “He’s obedient.”

“That’s not obedience,” Obanai replied, his tone almost thoughtful. “He wouldn’t stay close to someone he didn’t trust.”

The statement lingered in the air longer than either of them expected.

Giyuu didn’t respond immediately — and when he did, his words were quiet, half-lost beneath the wind. “…He trusts you more.”

“Obviously,” Obanai said, the faintest curve tugging at his lips. “I feed him.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold this time. It was tired, yes — but lighter, calmer. The kind of silence that existed when words weren’t necessary.

Outside, the wind screamed again, shaking loose snow from the rocks above. A few flakes drifted through the cave’s mouth, landing soundlessly between them.

Obanai exhaled, the sound slow and uneven. “You’re shaking again.”

“I’m fine.”

He gave a quiet scoff. “You keep saying that.”

Giyuu’s lips parted slightly, his breath visible in the dim light. “Because it’s true enough.”

Obanai looked toward him, his brows drawing together faintly — a mix of disbelief and something softer he wouldn’t name. Then, after a pause, he muttered under his breath, “You’re impossible.”

Neither spoke again after that.

Giyuu sat still, his breath shallow but steady. Obanai leaned back against the wall, his eyes slipping shut only when the ache in his leg dulled to something bearable. The faint warmth between them — from their shared closeness, the scarf, and the serpent curled between them — was fragile, but enough to keep the cold at bay.

Obanai’s eyes drifted open again after a while — the cold had a way of refusing to let him rest fully. The faint shiver in the air near Giyuu drew his attention, and when he glanced toward him, he noticed the way the other man’s shoulders trembled beneath the thin layers he had left.

For a moment, Obanai said nothing. He watched quietly as Giyuu’s fingers flexed — slow, stiff, the skin pale beneath the dim light. Then he saw the color.

“…Tomioka,” Obanai muttered, his voice low.

Giyuu didn’t respond immediately. His head tilted slightly, acknowledging the sound, but his body stayed still — probably because it took effort to even move.

Obanai exhaled sharply through his nose. He shifted forward, ignoring the protest from his leg, and reached out to grab Giyuu’s wrist. His fingers tightened, forcing the other man’s hand open.

Giyuu flinched — not from pain, but from surprise. The motion caused a faint rustle of the scarf around his neck, Kaburamaru stirring slightly beneath it.

“Your hands,” Obanai hissed, the irritation in his tone laced with something that sounded a lot more like worry. The skin was cold — too cold — and faintly purple near the fingertips. He held them closer to the faint breath between them and began to blow warm air across the skin, his jaw clenched.

Giyuu didn’t move. He could feel the warmth faintly — not enough to burn, but enough to sting as the numbness slowly began to fade.

After a few seconds, Obanai muttered under his breath, his voice trembling slightly with exhaustion and anger.
“Why the fuck would you give me your gloves?!”

Giyuu blinked behind the bandages, his voice calm even through the chattering cold. “You needed them.”

“I have my own,” Obanai snapped, his tone sharper now. “I had my own for a reason, you idiot.”

There was a long pause. The kind that carried more meaning than shouting could.

Obanai’s hands lingered around Giyuu’s, still warming them with slow, deliberate breaths. The frustration in his voice cracked with the next sentence, quieter this time.
“You could’ve lost your fingers.”

Giyuu tilted his head slightly toward him, his tone quiet but steady. “You wouldn’t have stayed warm otherwise.”

Obanai let out a breath that was more sigh than exhale — sharp at first, then soft. “You really don’t think before you do things, do you?”

Giyuu didn’t answer. He just sat still, the faint tension in his shoulders easing as Obanai’s breath continued to warm his hands.

Obanai’s breath came out slow, fogging faintly between them as he finally stopped. Giyuu’s hands, though still stiff and faintly purple at the tips, were warmer now. The color had begun to return — sluggishly, but enough that Obanai’s shoulders eased a fraction.

Without saying anything, he reached for the gloves he’d been wearing — Giyuu’s gloves, layered over his own — and tugged them off. His fingers hesitated for just a moment before he pushed the pair toward Giyuu.

“Here,” he muttered. “Take them back.”

Giyuu’s head lifted slightly, though his covered eyes couldn’t find Obanai’s expression. “Keep them.”

Obanai frowned, his tone cutting through the quiet. “Don’t start that again.”

“You need them more.”

A short, sharp sound escaped Obanai — halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “You’re the one who can’t feel your hands.”

Giyuu’s voice didn’t waver. “You’ll just need them back again.”

Obanai gave him a look that could’ve cut through steel if Giyuu had been able to see it. “I’ll tie them to your hands if I have to.”

That earned silence — stubborn silence — the kind only Giyuu could manage. His head tilted down slightly, his jaw set as though refusing was easier than explaining himself.

Obanai exhaled again, patience fraying at the edges. “Tomioka,” he said slowly, voice dropping quieter, the irritation now tinged with something almost — almost — gentle. “Put them on.”

When Giyuu still didn’t move, Obanai muttered under his breath, “Unbelievable,” and leaned forward himself. He caught one of Giyuu’s hands again and pressed the glove into it, pulling it over the cold, trembling fingers with firm, deliberate movements.

“See? Not that hard,” he said, voice low, his usual sharpness softened by fatigue. He tugged the other glove on next, his gloved fingers brushing against Giyuu’s skin — a small, unintentional gesture of care disguised as annoyance.

When he was done, he sat back against the wall with a quiet sigh. “There. Now, if you freeze to death, it won’t be because you’re an idiot. It’ll be because this storm’s a bastard.”

For a moment, the cave was silent again. Only the distant howl of the blizzard filled the air.

Giyuu flexed his fingers slightly, feeling the fabric against his skin, the faint warmth still lingering from Obanai’s touch. His voice came quiet after a few breaths — so soft it could’ve been lost to the wind.

“Thank you.”

Obanai glanced toward him. The look on his face wasn’t quite a glare — more an unspoken mix of relief and irritation. “Don’t thank me,” he said, voice rough. “Just keep them on.”

And with that, he turned his gaze toward the faint glow at the cave’s mouth, where the snow still fell thick and endless. Kaburamaru stirred again beneath Giyuu’s scarf.

After a moment, Obanai muttered again, quieter this time. “Next time you pull something that stupid, I’m taking the gloves back and wrapping them around your damn neck.”

The corners of Giyuu’s lips twitched — barely, almost imperceptibly. But it was enough.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. Only their breathing broke the silence — Obanai’s slow and steady, Giyuu’s a little uneven, quieter than usual.

Kaburamaru shifted again, curling tighter in the scarf around Giyuu’s neck. The faint movement drew Obanai’s eyes for a moment, his expression softening despite the exhaustion etched across his features.

“…You still awake?” Obanai finally muttered, his voice rough, but calm.

“Yes.”

“Figures,” he said, leaning his head back against the cold stone. “You don’t look like someone who ever sleeps.”

Giyuu didn’t answer at first — just sat still, his hands now resting inside the gloves Obanai had forced back onto him. The fabric felt almost painfully warm now.

“…Sometimes it’s easier not to,” he said after a while, his tone quiet enough to almost be lost to the wind.

Obanai’s head tilted slightly. “Why’s that?”

“Dreams,” Giyuu said simply. “They don’t stop.”

Obanai stared at him for a moment — the faintest crease appearing between his brows. “Tch. I know the feeling.”

Silence again. The storm’s voice filled the space where words could’ve been.

“…Do you ever think about it?” Giyuu asked finally.

Obanai turned toward him, though Giyuu couldn’t see the motion. “About what?”

“Dying.”

A small, humorless sound escaped Obanai — half a scoff, half a sigh. “You mean when. Not if.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “We all think about it. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t.” His voice quieted. “You don’t last long doing this without wondering if your next breath’ll be your last.”

Giyuu’s hands twitched slightly in his lap. “…I used to think about it too much,” he admitted. “Now I just hope when it happens, it’s not pointless.”

Obanai looked at him then — really looked. “It won’t be,” he said simply. “Not if you’re the one fighting.”

The words hung between them, raw and unexpectedly sincere.

Outside, the blizzard screamed louder, snow beating against the rocks. But inside the cave, the air felt still — almost fragile.

Obanai exhaled softly, the anger gone from his voice now. “I fight because I have to,” he said. “For her. For what’s left.”

Giyuu turned his head slightly toward him, silent.

Obanai didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.

After a long moment, Giyuu said quietly, “You’ll see her again.”

Obanai gave a tired, dry laugh — but there was no bitterness in it. “You sound too sure of that.”

“I am,” Giyuu replied, the words calm but certain.

Obanai looked at him — the bandages still wrapped over his eyes, the exhaustion etched in every part of him — and for once, he didn’t argue. He just nodded faintly, the sound of the storm filling the space between them again.

The wind tore against the mouth of the cave, howling like it wanted to drag them both back out into the storm. Giyuu sat motionless, his back pressed to the cold rock, his breath fogging faintly in the air. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—just heavy, worn down by exhaustion and the weight of everything unsaid.

Obanai shifted next to him, leaning slightly against the wall, arms crossed beneath the thick fabric of Giyuu’s haori. A faint shiver ran through his shoulders as he muttered, “You’re too quiet. It’s unsettling.”

Giyuu didn’t answer right away. His fingers flexed slowly, trying to keep feeling in them. “I don’t have anything to say,” he murmured, his voice trembling just enough to betray the cold.

“You never do,” Obanai said flatly.

The comment was meant to bite, but there wasn’t much force behind it. They both knew that.

Giyuu lowered his head slightly, the faintest breath of a sigh escaping him. “I don’t talk because there’s nothing worth saying.”

Obanai turned his head toward him, faintly irritated. His breath came out shaky from the chill. “You make it sound like you’re above all of us,” he muttered, quieter now but still cutting. “Like we’re the noisy ones wasting words.”

Giyuu didn’t react. For a long moment, the only sound was the wind. Then, in a voice so soft it almost vanished beneath the storm, he said, “That’s not it.”

Obanai’s brow furrowed slightly, though Giyuu couldn’t see it.

“I don’t talk,” Giyuu continued, his words slow and deliberate, “because I don’t belong among you.”

That stilled the air between them.

Obanai’s first instinct was to argue—because that’s what he did—but something in Giyuu’s tone stopped him. It wasn’t self-pity. It wasn’t arrogance. It was… matter-of-fact.

Giyuu’s gloved hands rested loosely in his lap. “I didn’t survive Final Selection,” he said after a pause, his breath unsteady. “Someone saved me. He killed every demon that came for me. I passed out before it was even over. And when I woke up, they told me I’d passed.”

He exhaled slowly, the sound almost lost to the wind. “They say I survived. But I didn’t.”

Obanai blinked, eyes narrowing slightly. He’d never heard Giyuu talk like that before—openly, honestly. He’d always assumed Tomioka’s silence came from pride, from that frustrating detachment that made him seem so distant.

But this—this was something else.

“…You think that makes you unworthy,” he said after a long silence, his voice wavering slightly.

Giyuu didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

Obanai’s jaw tightened. His first instinct was to scold him—to snap something sharp and cutting that would force him out of that mindset. But instead, he just looked at him. Bandaged eyes. Frostbitten hands. The haori gone from his shoulders, wrapped instead around someone else.

Obanai turned his gaze away, muttering, “You’re a fool, Tomioka.”

“…I know.” Giyuu’s voice came out rough, his teeth almost chattering at the edges of his words.

“Good.” Obanai’s tone softened, barely. “Then stop talking like that before I hit you. You passed. You’re here. That’s what matters.”

Giyuu tilted his head slightly, as if trying to catch his expression. “You really think that?”

Obanai snorted, hiding something gentler behind the sound. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

The wind screamed outside again, snow rattling against stone. Neither spoke after that.

But for the first time since the storm began, Giyuu didn’t feel the cold quite as sharply.

The wind howled like a wounded thing outside — sharp and unrelenting, cutting against the mouth of the cave. Snow drifted in with every gust, gathering in thin white ribbons along the stone floor.

Giyuu’s head had tilted forward slightly, his posture stiff but slumped — as if the weight of exhaustion was finally starting to win. His hands, now wrapped in both pairs of gloves, rested motionless in his lap.

Obanai watched him for a moment, studying the faint tremor in his shoulders. He could tell the other man was fighting to stay awake. Typical. Always carrying everything alone, even when it was killing him.

He sighed, the sound soft but edged with that familiar annoyance. “You should sleep, Tomioka.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“…Both.”

Obanai clicked his tongue. “You’re impossible.”

The corner of Giyuu’s mouth twitched — barely a reaction, but enough to count as one. “So I’ve been told.”

A faint, reluctant smile tugged at Obanai’s lips. It was gone just as quickly. He turned his gaze toward the cave opening, where the storm blurred the world into nothing but white and wind. “You think they’ll find us?” he asked quietly.

“They will,” Giyuu said, his voice steady despite the fatigue. “They’ll wait until the storm passes.”

Obanai hummed, unconvinced but too tired to argue. “You sound sure again.”

“I have to be.”

Obanai looked back at him — the bandages, the steadiness that refused to break, even now. “You always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Too damn calm,” he muttered. “Even half frozen, you talk like nothing touches you.”

“I’m cold,” Giyuu said simply.

Obanai blinked, a small startled sound escaping him — and then, unexpectedly, he laughed. It was quiet, rough, but real.

The sound drew something faint in Giyuu’s expression — not quite a smile, but the tension in his shoulders eased.

When Obanai’s laughter faded, silence returned, softer this time. He shifted closer again, just enough so their shoulders brushed — a small, unconscious motion more instinct than thought. The warmth between them was faint, but it was there.

After a while, Obanai spoke again, voice low enough that it almost got lost under the wind. “You know, Tomioka…”

Giyuu tilted his head slightly in his direction.

“…you’re not half as unbearable as everyone says.”

There was a pause — then, quiet as snow falling, Giyuu replied, “You either.”

Obanai snorted under his breath, the faintest smirk curling. “Don’t start flattering me now. You’ll ruin your reputation.”

Giyuu didn’t answer — but Obanai could feel the shift in his breathing, steady and slow.

And for the first time since the blizzard began, the cave didn’t feel so cold.

Notes:

I hope you all enjoyed this one! I think they’re a little out of character in this one but I really tried.

I MIGHT post another chapter later today so look out for that.

Chapter 6: The Lone Walk

Summary:

Giyuu and Obanai endure the harsh cold in a snowbound cave, their injuries and exhaustion pressing on them. Meanwhile, at the Butterfly Mansion, Shinobu and the others prepare for a rescue, gathering supplies and bracing against the storm. The tension of the blizzard looms over both groups as the search begins.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem on tik tok.

Any dynamics in this story can be viewed as romantic or platonic.

Morning came quietly—if it could be called morning at all. The light outside was dim and colorless, a pale veil pressing against the mouth of the cave. Snow still fell in heavy, soundless sheets, blurring the world into nothing but white. The wind had softened since the night before, but the cold hadn’t lifted; it crawled in through the stone and bit at everything it touched.

Inside, the air was still and sharp. Frost coated the rocks, thin crystals glinting faintly whenever the light shifted. The fire they’d managed to make sometime before dawn had died down to faint embers, barely giving off heat.

Giyuu sat near the cave’s entrance, shoulders tense, his breathing steady but shallow. His eyes were still bound in white bandages—edges stiff with frost. The scarf Obanai had given him was pulled higher over his mouth, and his gloved hands rested loosely on his knees. Kaburamaru was curled against his shoulder beneath the scarf, occasionally shifting when Giyuu breathed.

Behind him, Obanai stirred. His movements were slow, labored; the stiffness in his injured leg hadn’t faded overnight. He pushed himself upright with one hand, exhaling softly when his knee flared in pain. His gaze went to the mouth of the cave, where snow still fell thick and steady.

“…It’s still snowing,” he muttered, voice rough from sleep.

Giyuu didn’t turn his head, but he nodded slightly. “Heavily.”

A pause. The faint whistle of wind outside filled the quiet.

“You didn’t sleep,” Obanai said quietly—not quite accusing, but close.

Giyuu didn’t answer.

Obanai sighed, leaning back against the cold stone. “You can’t stay awake forever. You’ll collapse before we even make it halfway down.”

The words hung there, half-concern, half-irritation. He meant them as both.

“I’m fine,” Giyuu said simply. His voice carried no edge—just the same calm, grounded tone it always had.

Obanai scoffed under his breath. “You sound like an idiot.” He rubbed his gloved hand over his face, then rested his forearm on his bent knee, wincing when he shifted his left leg. “You can’t see, you’ve barely slept, and you gave away everything that could keep you warm.”

Still nothing from Giyuu.

Outside, the wind picked up again—soft, but hollow, echoing faintly through the mouth of the cave.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t cold either. It was something else—tired, human.

Then, finally, Giyuu moved, tilting his head slightly toward where Obanai sat.
“…You should rest longer.”

Obanai let out a low exhale, quiet but sharp. “You really don’t listen, do you?”

Giyuu’s lips twitched faintly—something that almost passed for a smile, if only for a moment.

Kaburamaru stirred beneath the scarf, lifting his head briefly before settling again against Giyuu’s shoulder, soaking in the faint warmth that still lingered there.

Obanai’s eyes followed the slow movement of the snow beyond the cave’s mouth. It wasn’t falling—it was drifting, twisting in lazy spirals that blurred sky and ground into one endless white. The kind of cold that never truly stopped, even when the air was still.

“How long do you think it’s been?” he asked finally.

Giyuu tilted his head slightly. “Since what?”

“Since we lost the trail. Since the crows stopped following.”

Giyuu’s brow furrowed beneath the bandages. “A day. Maybe two.”

Obanai gave a short hum in response, low and noncommittal. “Feels longer.” He shifted again, his back pressing against the icy wall. A faint wince crossed his face when his left leg protested the movement.

Giyuu heard it—the small intake of breath, the quiet tremor of pain Obanai tried to mask. He turned slightly toward the sound. “You should keep that leg still.”

“I am keeping it still,” Obanai muttered, irritation creeping through the fatigue in his tone. He let out a slow breath and looked toward him again. “You’re in no condition to be giving advice.”

“Maybe not.”

The answer came soft, steady, and frustratingly calm.

A muscle in Obanai’s jaw twitched. He glanced at Kaburamaru nestled under the scarf on Giyuu’s shoulder. The serpent shifted once more, clearly content where it was. The sight drew something tight in his chest—something he didn’t name.

“…That idiot serpent’s grown attached to you,” he said finally, voice quieter now, more thoughtful than annoyed.

Giyuu blinked behind the bandages. “He’s warm,” he replied after a moment.

Obanai almost smiled—almost. “Or maybe he just knows you won’t let him freeze.”

“Maybe.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Obanai muttered, tone softer now, the edge fading from his words. “Freeze before you let someone else suffer for it.”

The words hung between them, neither sharp nor sentimental—just true.

The wind howled again, a low, distant moan that seemed to seep through the cracks in the stone. Snow dusted through the cave entrance in soft bursts, scattering across the ground near their feet.

Obanai let his head fall back against the rock, exhaustion tugging at the edges of his voice. “We’ll wait a little longer. Then we move.”

Giyuu nodded faintly, his hands resting on his knees once more. “All right.”

For a long while, neither of them spoke again. The storm raged outside, unseen but ever-present, while inside the small cave, two men—half-frozen, half-broken—sat in quiet defiance of it.

Obanai leaned his head back against the cave wall, shutting his eyes for a moment. The quiet stretched between them, filled only by the faint hiss of wind outside and the occasional rustle of Kaburamaru shifting under Giyuu’s scarf.

“Once it slows down,” Obanai said at last, “we move.” His voice was lower now, calmer—like he was trying to convince himself as much as Giyuu. “We can’t stay here long. The Corps will be looking, but they won’t find us if we don’t move toward them.”

Giyuu’s head tilted slightly toward the sound of his voice. “You should rest longer.”

“I’ll rest when we’re not buried alive,” Obanai muttered, the sharpness back in his tone, though it sounded more like habit than anger. He shifted, trying to sit straighter, but the motion sent a faint tremor through his leg. Giyuu heard it—the uneven drag of breath, the hiss of pain quickly bitten back.

Without a word, Giyuu reached toward him, his gloved hand brushing the air until it met the rough edge of Obanai’s sleeve. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask—just steadied him for a moment, firm but gentle.

Obanai didn’t pull away this time. His shoulders eased slightly under the touch, and for the first time since the storm began, he didn’t try to hide how tired he was.

“…Tomioka,” he said quietly.

“Mm.”

“When we get out of this,” Obanai continued, voice faint, “you’re explaining to the others how this happened.”

Giyuu’s expression didn’t change, but his tone carried the faintest trace of something close to dry humor. “You think they’ll believe you let me carry you?”

A breath escaped Obanai—something between a scoff and a laugh. “They’ll think you begged me to.”

Kaburamaru stirred again, curling tighter under the scarf. Outside, the wind screamed across the mountainside, but in the cave, it was almost quiet.

Giyuu flexed his fingers slowly. The numbness had set deep, spreading past the tips despite the gloves Obanai had forced back onto him. Every movement was dull, as though his hands belonged to someone else. He hid it well. Obanai, even half-drifting between exhaustion and awareness, caught it anyway.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, not opening his eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Then don’t ask.”

Obanai’s mouth twitched under the fading bruises along his jaw—close enough to a smirk that it almost looked like one. “You really think I’d just let you freeze?”

“You already gave me your scarf.”

“That doesn’t mean you stop taking care of yourself.”

There was no answer. The silence that followed was heavier this time—not awkward, but weighted by everything neither of them was willing to say.

After a while, Obanai’s breathing steadied. He shifted carefully, bracing one hand against the cold ground and the other against Giyuu’s shoulder for balance. His leg trembled as he tried to stand, but Giyuu’s steady grip on his arm kept him upright.

“Storm’s dying down,” Obanai said quietly, his voice lower than before. “If we start moving now, we’ll at least make it to the lower ridge by nightfall.”

Giyuu nodded once, adjusting the scarf around his neck so Kaburamaru wouldn’t slip. “Then we go.”

He crouched slightly, waiting for Obanai to steady himself again before hoisting him onto his back. Obanai said nothing this time—no protest, no irritated comment. Only a low exhale as he settled, his hands resting lightly against Giyuu’s shoulders.

Outside, the wind had softened into a hollow whisper, carrying faint flakes of snow that drifted past the cave’s mouth. The world beyond was white and endless, with no visible path forward—only instinct, memory, and the sound of two breaths echoing against the cold.

And then they stepped out into it again.

———

The cry cut through the silence like a thread pulled tight.

Every Hashira froze. The faint, cracked call of a crow echoed beyond the shōji walls—thin, ragged, and almost buried under the hiss of the wind.

Shinobu was the first to move, her eyes lifting toward the veranda. “That call…” she said softly, voice tightening. “It’s Kanzaburō.”

Mitsuri’s head snapped toward her. “Giyuu’s crow?”

“Yeah,” Sanemi muttered, already shifting upright. “About damn time.”

They rose together, the soft sound of fabric brushing tatami as they stepped out toward the open air. The night wind hit sharp and cold, carrying flurries of snow that glimmered under the lantern light.

There—perched on the engawa—was Kanzaburō. His feathers were dull with frost, his wing drooped at an odd angle, and his eyes blinked slowly, exhausted.

He cawed again, the sound hoarse and desperate. “Kaa—Tomioka! Iguro! Hurt—storm—alive—kaa!”

Mitsuri gasped, taking a step forward. “They’re alive?”

Shinobu’s voice came calm but firm. “Kanzaburō,” she said, crouching down so her eyes met the bird’s. “Where did you see them?”

The old crow puffed up his feathers, shivering. “Snow—too deep—can’t see! Kanzaburō tried—tried to follow! Lost the way—kaa!”

Sanemi scoffed quietly, though his expression darkened. “Figures that fossil-for-brains crow couldn’t keep track.”

Shinobu ignored him, reaching to gently steady the trembling bird. “You did well coming here.”

Gyomei bowed his head slightly. “We cannot wait for daylight,” he said, voice low. “Every moment may decide their fate.”

“Then we go,” Mitsuri said quickly, clutching her haori closer. “Now. Before the storm swallows them completely.”

Shinobu nodded once. “Gather a search team,” she ordered a nearby Kakushi. “Send word to every crow within range. We move before the snow deepens.”

Kanzaburō gave one final, weak cry before slumping tiredly against Shinobu’s hand. “Alive…” he whispered again, softer this time, as if to remind himself. “Alive…”

Shinobu, crouched beside him, one gloved hand gently brushing snow from his wings. “Then we’ll bring them home,” she said softly.

Shinobu’s hand tightened slightly around Kanzaburō’s trembling form, steady but gentle. The others exchanged glances — brief flashes of determination beneath exhaustion and worry.

Sanemi exhaled sharply, stepping forward. “We’ll split the search,” he said. “If they’re alive, they’ll need medical help the second we find them.”

Shinobu nodded. “Agreed. I’ll go east with Mitsuri — the wind’s blowing strongest from that direction. If they took the same path, they’d have been pushed further north.”

“I’ll take the west side,” Sanemi replied. “If they’re not on the trail, the storm might’ve thrown them into the ridges.”

“I’ll help search the lower slopes,” Muichiro added quietly. His voice was calm, but his brows were furrowed — rare emotion flickering through his normally distant tone. “If they fell or tried to shelter near the base, they might still be close to the treeline.”

Gyomei bowed his head. “Then I shall follow the mountain’s base with you. The blizzard will hide much, but I may hear what sight cannot reveal.”

“Then we move,” Mitsuri said quickly. Her voice trembled, not with fear but urgency. “We can’t wait any longer.”

A group of Kakushi ran forward, already preparing cloaks, lamps, and extra blankets.

Shinobu stood, turning one last time to Kanzaburō. The old crow blinked up at her weakly. “Stay here and rest,” she whispered. “You’ve done more than enough.”

The crow gave a slow nod, feathers ruffling as he tucked his head beneath one wing.

Snow began to fall again — soft but unrelenting — as the Hashira stepped out into the night. Their silhouettes disappeared into the white, the faint glow of lanterns swallowed one by one by the storm.

And high above them, the wind carried a sound — faint, distant, but alive.
A second crow’s cry, echoing somewhere deep within the blizzard.

———

The Butterfly Mansion was a rare pocket of warmth against the storm’s reach — faint lamplight flickering through its windows, the scent of medicine and herbs cutting through the sharp chill that crept in from outside.

Shinobu stood at the counter near the infirmary, sleeves rolled up, methodically sorting vials and bandages into a travel crate. Her movements were precise, though her eyes — sharp and thoughtful as ever — carried a quiet tension.

A Kakushi hurried in, brushing snow from his shoulders. “Shinobu-sama, we’ve packed the additional rations and blankets.”

“Good,” she said, tying off a bundle of herbs. “We don’t know how long they’ve been exposed. Anything that can be used for frostbite or infection — take it.”

The Kakushi nodded and darted away.

Shinobu exhaled softly, her hand lingering for a moment on the edge of the crate. Her thoughts flickered back to the meeting — to Sanemi’s urgency, Muichiro’s rare concern, and the old crow’s trembling wings. It had been nearly two days now. Too long.

“Shinobu-san!”

She turned at the familiar voice. Tanjiro burst into the room, snow clinging to his hair and haori. Behind him trailed Zenitsu — shivering, teeth chattering — and Inosuke, who had somehow managed to wedge snow into his boar mask.

“Tanjiro,” Shinobu greeted calmly, arching an eyebrow at the chaos in the doorway. “You’re tracking half the mountain in with you.”

“Sorry!” Tanjiro said quickly, wiping his boots. “We came as soon as we heard. Is it true? Tomioka-san and Iguro-san still haven’t returned?”

Her expression softened, just slightly. “It’s true,” she said. “Some search parties left earlier. They’re doing everything they can.”

Zenitsu swallowed hard. “Th-they’ll be okay, right? I mean, they’re Hashira! They can’t— they wouldn’t—”

Inosuke stomped the snow off his feet and puffed out his chest. “Those two? No way they’re dead! Snake-face and Water-guy are too stubborn to die!”

Shinobu hid a faint smile behind her hand. “Let’s hope you’re right, Inosuke.”

Tanjiro’s expression was serious. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

Shinobu hesitated, glancing toward the half-packed medical kits. “You can start by helping Aoi and Kiyo prepare the extra supplies. If they’re found alive, they’ll need immediate care.”

Tanjiro nodded, determination lighting his eyes. “We’ll get everything ready.”

Zenitsu groaned, pulling his cloak tighter. “I hate this! It’s freezing! What if they’re—”

“Shut it, Blondie!” Inosuke barked, already charging toward the storeroom. “We’re not letting Snake-face or Water-guy die before I get to beat them again!”

Despite herself, Shinobu exhaled a faint laugh — quiet and fleeting. For a moment, the warmth of their energy filled the cold air of the mansion.

Then her gaze drifted back toward the window. Outside, the snow was still falling — heavier now, the wind sharp enough to rattle the panes.

She reached for another set of bandages and whispered, almost to herself,
“Please… hold on a little longer.”

Snow whispered against the paper walls, faint and steady — the kind of sound that filled every silence.

———

Shinobu packed another satchel with salves and ointments, methodically checking every item. Tanjiro, Aoi, and the girls worked beside her — hands moving fast but careful. Even Inosuke, though impatient, had managed to sit still long enough to tie up a bundle of blankets.

Zenitsu paced. “What if the storm gets worse before they even find them? What if—”

“Zenitsu.” Tanjiro’s tone was gentle but firm. “They’ll be okay. They’re strong.”

Shinobu didn’t look up, but she spoke softly. “Strength doesn’t always mean survival, Kamado-kun. Not in this weather.”

Tanjiro’s hands paused mid-fold, and for a moment, no one said anything. The air was still — the kind of stillness that held both hope and dread.

Then Aoi stepped forward with a box of clean cloths. “Shinobu-sama, we’ve finished preparing the warming stones and bandages.”

“Good.” Shinobu nodded approvingly. “Make sure they’re kept near the fire until we leave. We can’t risk the cold setting in too early.”

“Leave?” Zenitsu squeaked. “You’re— you’re going out there?”

“Of course.” She tied the satchel shut with a sharp pull. “I’m not about to sit here and wait while two Hashira freeze to death.”

From the hallway, the soft flutter of wings echoed. A crow — smaller than the others — perched on the window frame, shaking snow from its feathers.

Shinobu glanced toward it, her expression unreadable.
“Another message?”

The crow tilted its head and croaked, voice hoarse but distinct. “No… new… word…”

Her shoulders tensed. “I see.”

Tanjiro looked up, eyes full of worry.
“Shinobu-san…”

She turned to face him, the faintest smile finding her lips again — a practiced one, meant to steady the others more than herself.

“Don’t worry, Kamado-kun,” she said softly, looking back toward the window.
“If there’s one thing I know about those two… it’s that they don’t give up easily.”

Outside, the snow continued to fall — relentless and cold, swallowing every sound until only the faint whisper of the wind remained.

———

Snow whispered against the paper walls, faint and steady — the kind of sound that filled every silence. The Butterfly Mansion, usually filled with the chatter of healers and the footsteps of patients, had grown quiet.

Shinobu worked wordlessly, setting bundles of medicine and herbs into a satchel. Her movements were practiced, steady, yet each measured motion betrayed the tension hiding behind her calm. The faintest furrow lined her brow as she checked through the supplies one last time.

Behind her, Tanjiro and the others helped as best they could. Aoi and Kiyo folded blankets into tight rolls, while Sumi counted rations out loud, brow scrunched in concentration.

Zenitsu’s pacing had already carved a line into the floor. “Why’s it taking so long? They should’ve gone hours ago!”

Tanjiro looked up from the food bundles, his voice firm but even. “Shinobu-san’s almost ready. We’ll leave soon.”

“‘We’ll’?” Zenitsu echoed, eyes wide. “Wait—you mean—”

“Of course we’re coming!” Inosuke bellowed from the doorway, his boar mask tilted proudly. “You think I’m just gonna sit around while some stupid storm wins?”

Tanjiro nodded once. “We’re helping. That’s final.”

Shinobu sighed softly — not quite disapproving, not quite surprised. “You three really don’t rest, do you?”

Tanjiro smiled faintly. “You’d do the same, Shinobu-san.”

That earned him the smallest curve of her lips — barely a smile, but enough. “You’re not wrong.”

When Shinobu stepped toward the door, the winter light spilled across the floor — pale and cold. Outside, the snow fell steadily, and Mitsuri stood beneath the overhang waiting for her, bundled in her own cloak, pink and green hair already dotted with frost.

“Shinobu!” she called, bright despite the cold. “Everything ready?”

“Yes,” Shinobu replied, slinging the satchel over her shoulder. “Thank you for waiting.”

Mitsuri’s smile softened. “I wasn’t going without you.”

Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke appeared behind Shinobu, their packs hastily tied and ready. Mitsuri blinked, tilting her head. “Oh! You’re coming too?”

“Wouldn’t miss it!” Inosuke declared. “I’m better at finding people than birds are anyway!”

Zenitsu groaned. “That’s not comforting…”

Shinobu ignored their bickering as she adjusted the strap on her satchel. “We’ll move fast. Once we reach the forest base, we’ll follow the ridges toward the mountain.”

Aoi stepped forward with a small box wrapped in cloth. “For emergencies,” she said quietly. “Please… bring them back safely.”

Shinobu’s gaze softened. “We’ll do our best.”

Then, with one last glance at the mansion glowing faintly behind them, she stepped into the cold. Mitsuri fell into stride beside her, her breath misting in the air, while the boys followed close behind.

The snow deepened as they moved — quiet, endless, swallowing the sound of their footsteps. The storm hadn’t yet reached its full fury here, but the wind already carried a warning chill.

“Keep your pace steady,” Shinobu said over her shoulder. “We’ll need our strength once the climb begins.”

Mitsuri nodded, clutching her cloak tighter as her hair whipped in the wind. “We’ll find them,” she said softly, as if to herself.

No one replied.

Behind the small group, several Kakushi followed at a careful distance — their black uniforms stark against the snow — each one silent, prepared to aid however they could as the rescue began.

And far above them, half-lost to the dark, a single crow circled once before letting out a long, low cry — its voice carrying faintly over the endless white.

Notes:

Yay two chapters in one day! I’m so tired.

Anyway thank you all so much for the love and support! I’m seriously so flattered 😭

Sorry if this one felt rushed or confusing. I don’t think it does but something about this chapter felt off to me 😅

Chapter 7: Breaking Point

Summary:

Through the worsening storm, Giyuu presses forward with Obanai on his back, both pushed past their limits. The cold grows unbearable, their strength fading with every step—until even Giyuu can no longer stand against it.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem/knyinsomic on tik tok.

Dynamics in this story can be viewed as romantic or platonic.

Snow drifted down in slow, silent flakes — the kind that didn’t fall so much as they hung in the air, carried by the wind before finally giving in. The world around them was nothing but white and gray, a blur of sky and frost that stretched endlessly in every direction. The mountainside had grown harsher the further they climbed, jagged rocks jutting from beneath sheets of ice, and the path — if it could still be called that — had long disappeared beneath the snow.

Giyuu’s breaths came slow and visible, each one a small cloud in the frozen air. His movements were careful, deliberate — a rhythm born of exhaustion and instinct rather than strength. He couldn’t see where he was going, not through the bandages still tied across his eyes, but he could feel the slope beneath his boots, the crunch of packed snow, the faint pull of the wind against his left side.

Obanai rested against his back, his weight heavy but steady. His voice broke through the quiet every so often, soft and low near Giyuu’s ear.
“Shift a little right,” he murmured. “You’re veering too close to the ridge.”
Giyuu adjusted, obedient and silent.

Kaburamaru stirred faintly beneath the scarf around Giyuu’s neck — the serpent’s warmth a fragile, living presence against the freezing cold. It was strange, the comfort Giyuu found in that small weight. Even when the wind screamed, even when his body trembled from cold, that warmth grounded him.

The snow had soaked through the bottoms of his uniform long ago. He could barely feel his toes now, and his fingers — though protected by the gloves — throbbed with numb, aching pain. His shoulders burned from supporting Obanai’s weight, but he didn’t complain. His pace never faltered, even when the ground beneath him dipped unexpectedly or his boots slid on hidden ice.

“Left again,” Obanai said quietly. His tone was weaker now, more breath than sound. “There’s… there’s a drop a few steps ahead.”
Giyuu slowed immediately, his boot probing forward until he felt the edge, then stepped wide as instructed.

The wind picked up again — sharper this time, biting at every bit of exposed skin. It whipped at their clothes and sent loose snow swirling around them in sudden gusts. Obanai’s hold around his shoulders tightened briefly, a reflex more than anything else.

For a while, neither spoke. Only their breathing filled the silence — uneven, heavy, labored. The storm pressed closer, wrapping around them like a living thing. Giyuu could feel the exhaustion creeping deeper into his bones now; his body screamed for rest, but the memory of the night before — of nearly freezing in place — kept him moving.

“Obanai,” he said finally, voice low, almost uncertain.
“Still here,” Obanai murmured after a pause. His voice was muffled, buried against Giyuu’s shoulder. “Keep going forward. We’ll find something soon.”

Giyuu didn’t answer, but his hands clenched slightly against Obanai’s legs — not out of pain, but something quieter. Determination, maybe. Or fear. The cold had already stolen too much warmth, too much color from both of them. Stopping wasn’t an option.

Above them, the wind howled again — long and hollow, echoing through the emptiness of the mountain. Snow spiraled around them like smoke. The horizon had vanished completely now, leaving them stranded in a world that felt endless and closing in all at once.

Still, step by step, Giyuu moved forward — the serpent’s warmth against his throat, Obanai’s faint breath against his ear.

His boot caught on something buried beneath the snow — a rock or a root, he couldn’t tell. The ground shifted under him before he could correct his footing. He stumbled forward, knees nearly giving out as the weight on his back pulled him down.

A sharp breath escaped him. He dropped to one knee, snow spraying up around him, and his gloved hands shot out instinctively to brace his fall. His fingers hit ice first, then sank into the cold, wet slush beneath. The shock of the freezing surface shot straight through him, numbing his arms almost instantly.

Obanai stirred with a startled noise — a faint sound, half-gasp and half-groan — as Giyuu caught himself before collapsing completely. His body twisted just enough to keep Obanai from hitting the ground.

“—Tomioka?” Obanai’s voice was rough and thin, but alert now, pressing through the wind. His grip around Giyuu’s shoulders tightened, his breath shallow near the base of his neck.

“I’m fine,” Giyuu muttered, though his breath came unevenly. His knee burned from where it had hit the ice. “Just slipped.”

Obanai didn’t answer right away. Giyuu could feel the tension in his hold, the faint tremor in his arms. The serpent shifted restlessly beneath Giyuu’s scarf, flicking its tongue against the cold air as if sensing the unease between them.

The wind wailed louder, scattering loose snow across the ground, biting against their exposed faces. Giyuu pushed himself upright again — slow, careful — one leg at a time. His muscles protested, trembling from fatigue, but he forced himself to stand.

“You shouldn’t—” Obanai started, his tone sharper now, though his voice faltered halfway through.
“I’m fine,” Giyuu said softly. “It’s fine.”

For a moment, they just stood there — breathing in the frozen silence, the storm swirling around them. Giyuu’s balance wavered slightly, but he steadied himself, drawing in a long, measured breath. He could feel Obanai’s heartbeat faintly against his back — slow, uneven, but still there.

“Let’s go,” he murmured finally.

And though his legs shook and his hands were burning with cold, he stepped forward again.

The snow crunched beneath each step — uneven, heavy, deliberate. Giyuu’s breath came out ragged and white in the air, his voice quiet against the wind when he finally spoke.

“…Still awake?”

Obanai shifted faintly against his back. “Barely,” he muttered. His voice was rough, quieter than usual, but the dry sarcasm still lingered somewhere beneath the exhaustion. “If you’re trying to lull me to sleep with that tone, it’s working.”

Giyuu almost snorted, a small breath breaking through his otherwise steady silence. “You’d be colder if you were asleep.”

“Then I’ll stay awake,” Obanai said, though his voice shook on the words. He fell quiet for a moment before adding, “You sound like Shinobu.”

“…Do I?”

“She says the same thing whenever someone passes out,” Obanai murmured, faintly amused. “Except her tone is less…” He paused, searching for the word. “…hopeless.”

Giyuu didn’t respond at first — he just adjusted his grip on Obanai’s legs, ensuring his weight was secure. The motion made Obanai wince faintly, and Giyuu immediately slowed his pace.

“You should’ve said something,” Giyuu said after a long silence.

“About what?”

“Your leg.”

“I’m saying something now,” Obanai shot back, his words slurring slightly from fatigue.

There was another long pause — not uncomfortable, but strained by the cold and the weight of everything left unsaid.

The wind picked up again, brushing snow into their faces. Giyuu turned his head slightly, shielding Obanai from it as best he could.

“…You always this stubborn?” Giyuu asked quietly.

Obanai huffed, the faintest trace of a laugh caught in his breath. “You’re one to talk.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of Giyuu’s mouth. He didn’t reply, but the silence that followed wasn’t cold anymore — not entirely.

The quiet stretched between them, thin as the air around them. Giyuu’s breath came harder now — each inhale sharp in his chest, each exhale a mist that vanished almost instantly into the wind. His fingers ached with cold, though he said nothing. The world had blurred into white, sky and ground indistinguishable.

Obanai’s voice broke the silence again, softer this time. “You’re slowing down.”

“I know.”

“You should rest.”

“If I stop, you’ll freeze.”

Obanai sighed, the sound catching slightly in his throat. “You say that like you won’t.”

Giyuu didn’t respond. His steps stayed steady, but his knees trembled faintly with each one. The muscles in his arms burned from carrying Obanai’s weight for so long. He didn’t let it show.

Obanai shifted slightly, his fingers tightening on Giyuu’s shoulder. He was trying to look around, to gauge where they were — but the snow was falling too thickly now, turning everything into a blur of gray and white.

“I can’t see anything,” he muttered.

“Neither can I.”

There was a flicker of movement from Kaburamaru, coiled near Giyuu’s collar. The serpent stirred weakly, its head twitching beneath the scarf. Giyuu reached up instinctively, his gloved fingers brushing over it to keep it tucked in, safe.

“You shouldn’t—” Obanai started, his voice hoarse.

“I said I’m fine,” Giyuu interrupted gently. He kept his pace slow and careful, feeling each step before placing his foot. The snow was deeper now — it pulled at his boots, dragging against his shins.

Obanai leaned forward slightly, resting his forehead against Giyuu’s shoulder for balance. It wasn’t intentional — just exhaustion — but Giyuu froze for a brief moment all the same. He didn’t move or speak, just steadied his stance and kept walking.

The storm roared louder, howling like something alive. Snow lashed at their faces, and the cold had a weight now — a biting, suffocating heaviness that pressed against every inch of exposed skin.

“…Giyuu,” Obanai said after a long pause, his voice lower, rough with fatigue.

“Yeah?”

“You’re shaking.”

Giyuu’s grip tightened faintly. “Keep talking.”

“Why?”

“So I know you’re awake.”

Obanai exhaled, a sound somewhere between frustration and faint amusement. “You’re the one who’s about to collapse, not me.”

But even as he said it, his own voice faltered — the words thinner than before.

“Stop for a minute,” Obanai said finally, his tone low but firm. “You’re stumbling more with every step.”

Giyuu didn’t answer right away. The only sound was the crunch of snow under his boots and the wind clawing through the trees. His breathing had grown ragged, though he tried to steady it.

“Just a moment,” Obanai pressed. “You need to rest.”

“If I stop now,” Giyuu said quietly, his voice rough from the cold, “we’ll both collapse. Then how will they find us?”

Obanai’s fingers tightened slightly on Giyuu’s shoulder. He could feel how tense the other man’s muscles were — how his steps had slowed, how the tremor in his movements wasn’t from fear, but from sheer exhaustion.

“Even you have limits, Tomioka.”

“I know.” His tone was even, but the exhaustion beneath it was unmistakable. “That’s why I can’t reach them yet.”

The wind roared louder, drowning their words for a moment. Obanai turned his head slightly, snow catching in his hair as he looked at the endless white around them. There was no visible path — no sign of the Corps, no trace of life at all. Just cold, and silence, and the sound of Giyuu’s slow, deliberate steps.

He exhaled, the sound shaking faintly. “You’re stubborn to a fault.”

“So are you.”

“Difference is,” Obanai muttered, his voice softening, “I at least know when to quit.”

Giyuu didn’t respond. His pace didn’t change. The words hung between them, lost to the snow as they pushed forward.

Giyuu’s steps grew slower, but he didn’t stop. The sound of his boots crunching into snow had turned uneven—one step dragging slightly before the next. His breaths came out in shallow bursts, misting weakly in the freezing air.

Obanai shifted again on his back, his gloved hands tightening at Giyuu’s shoulders. He could feel the tremor in the other man’s body, the shiver that wasn’t just from the cold anymore but from sheer exhaustion.

“You’re trembling,” Obanai muttered, voice barely audible beneath the storm.

“You said that already.”

“I wasn’t repeating myself,” he snapped back weakly, though his tone had no real bite to it. After a pause, quieter, “You’re freezing.”

Giyuu didn’t reply. His jaw was clenched, breath ragged, but he kept moving. The snow reached nearly to his knees now.

Obanai frowned faintly, his head resting back against Giyuu’s shoulder again. His body felt heavier than before—not just from fatigue, but from the cold seeping through every layer of clothing. He could feel it crawling into his bones, dulling his fingers even through the gloves.

Kaburamaru stirred faintly against Giyuu’s neck again. The serpent let out a soft hiss, so quiet it was almost lost beneath the wind.

“He’s cold too,” Obanai murmured, eyes half-lidded.

“He’s close enough to you,” Giyuu said, voice rough.

“You’re worse off than I am,” Obanai muttered, shifting slightly to look at him. His tone softened, almost reluctant. “You shouldn’t—”

“Keep talking,” Giyuu said again, voice firmer this time, though strained.

Obanai exhaled through his nose. “You really can’t stand silence, can you?”

“Not when it means you’ve stopped answering.”

Obanai went quiet for a long while after that. His hands had gone still on Giyuu’s shoulders. He could feel his pulse faintly through his gloves, sluggish and uneven.

Finally, he said, “You’re a damn fool, Tomioka.”

Giyuu almost smiled—almost. “I’ve been called worse.”

The wind howled around them, burying their voices in the storm. The light had dimmed again—hard to tell if it was dusk or just the thickening blizzard—but the world around them was losing all shape.

Obanai tried to lift his head again, to keep watch, but his vision blurred and his strength wavered. His grip on Giyuu’s shoulder loosened.

“…Iguro?” Giyuu asked quietly, sensing the shift instantly.

No answer.

He stopped walking. His knees bent slightly under the weight, but he steadied himself.

“Obanai,” he said again, louder this time, his voice carried away by the wind.

Still nothing.

He could feel the faint rise and fall of breath against his back—but it was shallow, uneven, barely there.

Giyuu adjusted his footing in the snow, the weight on his back shifting as he gripped Obanai’s legs tighter to keep him from slipping. His breath came out ragged, curling white in the frozen air. The wind had sharpened again, cutting through even the thickest layers of fabric.

“Obanai,” he called over his shoulder, voice hoarse. No reply.

He slowed his pace, turning his head slightly. “You’re quiet again.” Still nothing. Not even the usual irritated sigh or muffled response he’d grown used to. The kind of silence that wasn’t rest—just absence.

His stomach twisted. “Hey,” he said again, louder this time, trying to sound steady. “Say something.”

But the body on his back didn’t stir. The weight was too limp, too heavy in the wrong way. His head lolled slightly against Giyuu’s shoulder, and Kaburamaru, still curled around Giyuu’s collar, shifted uneasily and hissed, the sound slicing through the wind.

That small, anxious sound told him what he already feared—Obanai wasn’t just asleep.

Giyuu’s breath hitched. His legs burned, every step harder than the last, but he tightened his hold and kept moving. If he stopped, if he hesitated, the cold would claim them both.

“Don’t do this,” he muttered under his breath, his words nearly lost to the storm. “Don’t you dare.”

He stumbled forward, forcing his half-numb hands to grip tighter around Obanai’s knees. The other man’s head bumped lightly against the back of his shoulder, swaying with each step. The warmth Giyuu had felt earlier was fading fast, replaced by a cold that seeped through even Obanai’s haori.

“You said you’d guide me,” he whispered, as if the sound alone might pull him back. “So… guide me.”

He kept walking. One step. Then another. The snow came up to his knees now, dragging at his legs, biting at the skin of his face where the wind could reach.

Kaburamaru pressed his head against Giyuu’s neck, as though urging him onward. Giyuu nodded faintly, jaw tightening, and adjusted Obanai’s weight again. His back screamed from the strain, but he refused to falter.

He wouldn’t let go. Not now. Not when the only thing left keeping either of them alive was his own refusal to stop walking.

Giyuu’s steps grew slower, uneven. The snow had turned treacherous beneath his boots — deep, slick, and half-frozen, masking pits of ice that caught his feet every few strides. He could no longer tell where the path was, or if there even was one. Every sound was swallowed by the storm.

He couldn’t see the faintest shape of the world around him — only darkness pressing against the bandages that wrapped his eyes. The wind howled in every direction, disorienting him, making it impossible to know if he was walking forward or in circles. Still, he didn’t stop.

His fingers ached with every movement, burning with that deep, biting cold that meant they’d soon go numb again, even beneath the gloves Obanai had forced back on him. His shoulders trembled from the strain of carrying Obanai’s limp body; each step made his knees threaten to buckle.

“Just a little longer,” he whispered through chattering teeth. The words barely formed, his voice rough and cracked from the cold. He didn’t even know who he was talking to anymore — Obanai, himself, or the silence swallowing them both.

He shifted his grip again, feeling the faint, solid weight of Obanai against him. There was no movement. No quiet breath against his neck this time. Only stillness.

Something inside him tightened painfully — fear or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell which anymore. His lungs burned with every breath of frozen air. His throat stung. His feet dragged. But he kept going.

Every instinct told him to stop — to rest, to fall, to close his eyes and let the snow cover him — but the thought of Obanai motionless on his back kept him moving. He couldn’t stop. Not until he found shelter, or someone found them.

“Don’t… fall asleep,” he murmured weakly, more to himself than the man he carried. His words came out broken, barely a whisper. “I’ll… keep going.”

The storm roared louder, drowning out everything but his pulse and the sound of his boots crunching against the snow.

His balance wavered again. He slipped on the slope of ice beneath his foot, stumbling forward — but he caught himself, tightening his grip around Obanai and forcing his shaking legs to straighten. His breath came out in a harsh gasp, chest heaving.

He stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly, head lowered, snow clinging to his hair and shoulders. His whole body trembled.

Then, slowly, he started forward again.

Step after step. Blind, freezing, and exhausted.

His legs finally gave out.

It wasn’t a fall so much as a slow collapse — his knees buckled, his body folding under the weight he’d been carrying for too long. The snow rushed up to meet him, cold and soft, swallowing the sound as he hit the ground. The air left his lungs in a ragged gasp. For a moment, he couldn’t move.

He stayed there, face pressed into the snow, his breath shallow and uneven. The cold bit into him immediately, crawling up through his clothes, settling deep in his bones. His arms trembled as he tried to push himself up, but they gave out again. The strength just wasn’t there anymore.

“Obanai…” he rasped, barely audible against the wind.

He turned his head weakly, trying to reach for him. His fingers brushed against the familiar fabric of the haori on Obanai — the one he’d given him before. He clung to it, searching until he found the edge of it, then pulled it closer around Iguro’s body. His hands shook violently as he tugged the snow-dusted fabric tighter, trying to cover him as best he could.

The effort made his chest ache, his breathing uneven. His fingers were too stiff to move properly now, clumsy and numb, but he kept going — tucking the haori around Obanai’s shoulders, shielding him from the wind as best he could.

“Stay… warm,” he whispered hoarsely. His voice cracked, fading into the storm. “Don’t… let it take you too…”

He shifted slightly, curling closer to Obanai. The snow pressed in around them, heavy and cold, but he didn’t care. He pressed his arm against Obanai’s side, using what little warmth he had left to try and share it.

His eyelids grew heavy. His breath came slower. Each inhale stung, each exhale burned. But even as everything blurred and the world dulled to white and silence—he refused to let go. His gloved hand remained clenched in the corner of Obanai’s haori, holding it shut.

Then, through the wind — faint, distant, almost imagined — came the sound of movement.

Boots crunching against snow.

Voices.

Muffled, but real.

He tried to lift his head, but his body didn’t respond. His lips parted, his voice barely a breath.

“…Here…”

The word dissolved into the storm — but the sound of footsteps grew closer.

And as the wind howled around them, Giyuu’s body finally gave in. His fingers loosened their grip on Obanai’s haori, his breathing slowed to almost nothing—
and he slipped into unconsciousness beside him.

Notes:

Wrote this at 5 in the morning. Don’t be mad though I fell asleep early and got like 10 hours of sleep so when I woke up I wasn’t able to sleep again. 😭

I would love to post two chapters in one day again but I’m tired today so this is all for the day.

Chapter 8: Found in the Snow

Summary:

As the storm’s aftermath settles over the mountains, the search teams press on through the snow. Shinobu leads her group with unwavering focus while the others fight exhaustion and cold. Across the ridges, determination drives every step — until a faint sign of life shifts everything. What follows is a fragile, quiet struggle between hope and the unforgiving winter.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem/knyinsomnic on tik tok.

Any dynamics in this story can be viewed as romantic or platonic. (As long as they’re legal.)

The storm had eased, but its memory clung to the mountain.
Snow blanketed the world in a harsh, pale silence — a silence so deep it pressed against the ears. Wind still curled through the pines in long, bitter breaths, scattering ice from their branches like dust. The paths were gone, swallowed whole by white.

Shinobu led the eastern group, her eyes fixed on the ridge ahead. Mitsuri walked close beside her, a scarf pulled high across her mouth, her hair tangled with frost. Behind them followed Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke, each step sinking to the knee in snow. Several Kakushi trudged along as well, faces half-hidden beneath thick hoods, carrying lanterns that burned weakly in the cold air.

“Stay close,” Shinobu called over the wind, her voice level but sharp. “Visibility’s still low. If you lose sight of anyone, shout immediately.”

They’d been searching since dawn. The storm had broken, yes — but not the cold. It pressed into their bones, numbing fingers and stealing breath. Mitsuri’s lips were pale, Tanjiro’s nose red from the frost. Zenitsu muttered prayers under his breath with every step, while Inosuke stomped ahead with stubborn determination.

“Do you think they’re still alive?” Zenitsu asked suddenly, voice shaking more from fear than cold.

“Don’t say that,” Mitsuri snapped, too quickly — her tone desperate, not angry. Then softer, she added, “They’re alive. I know they are.”

Shinobu didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed forward, searching the white horizon that seemed to stretch forever. She’d seen mountains like this before — vast, unforgiving, merciless to anyone who lingered too long. But she wouldn’t let her thoughts finish forming. Not yet.

Far to the west, another crow’s cry echoed faintly — one of Sanemi’s search teams. His group had left at first light, pushing into the deeper slopes of the mountain. Even from this distance, his shouting could occasionally be heard carried by the wind.
“Spread out! Check the drifts! They could’ve taken shelter lower!”

No one doubted Sanemi’s drive — he was relentless, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. The Kakushi following him scrambled to keep pace, while the smaller crow perched on his shoulder gave impatient caws every few minutes.

Muichiro’s team was combing the northern edge of the range, where the snow was thinner. The Kakushi there carried signal flares and ropes, calling out Giyuu’s and Obanai’s names between each step.

Gyomei’s team searched the cliffs to the south, where the snow piled in dangerous overhangs. His prayer beads clicked faintly as he walked, each step steady despite the deep snow. The Kakushi with him spoke little — there was something in the Stone Hashira’s calm that didn’t allow for panic.
“If they yet live,” he murmured quietly to the wind, “then let the mountain guide our feet.”

Meanwhile, on Shinobu’s side, Tanjiro’s head lifted suddenly. He inhaled — slow, focused — the air burning his lungs with cold. His brow creased.
“I can smell blood,” he said quietly. “It’s faint, but… it’s definitely human.”

Shinobu stopped, glancing over her shoulder. “How far?”

Tanjiro pointed eastward, past a ridge where the snow deepened again. “That way. Not fresh, though — more than a day old.”

The others froze. Mitsuri’s hands trembled; Zenitsu’s breathing quickened. Shinobu didn’t waste time — she nodded once, then motioned for the Kakushi to follow.
“Then that’s where we search next,” she said, voice calm, clipped. “No one wanders alone. Stay within sight.”

They pressed on again — step by step, breath by breath — through the endless white. Their lanterns swayed weakly in the wind, their voices low and tired. Every few minutes, another faint shout could be heard from somewhere far away — Sanemi’s, or perhaps one of Gyomei’s Kakushi.

But above all that, the mountain itself seemed to hum — the faint, endless whisper of wind through snow and pine.

Shinobu stopped for a moment, glancing up at the peaks.
“They’re out here,” she murmured quietly, barely loud enough for Mitsuri to hear. “We just have to reach them before the cold does.”

The snow deepened as they climbed. What little sunlight broke through the clouds was dull and colorless, fading fast against the white glare.
Each breath came out as mist; each word vanished almost as soon as it left their lips.

“Tanjiro,” Shinobu said after a long silence, “is the scent stronger?”

He shook his head, squinting through the snowfall. “It’s still faint. It could be carried by the wind.”

“Or buried,” she murmured.

Mitsuri stumbled briefly beside her, catching herself on a Kakushi’s shoulder. Her legs ached from the endless uphill climb, but she didn’t complain. Her eyes stayed on the horizon — searching, hoping for a shadow, a footprint, anything.
“They have to be close,” she whispered. “They just have to.”

Inosuke grunted from the front, his breath steaming through the boar mask. “We’ll find them,” he said fiercely. “No mountain’s gonna beat me.”
Zenitsu, trudging behind him, wasn’t as confident. “That’s what you said before we almost fell off a cliff,” he muttered under his breath, clutching his haori tighter around him.

Despite everything — the fear, the exhaustion — the group kept moving.
The sound of their steps was swallowed by the snow, replaced only by the wind’s low howl.

From another ridge, a faint horn signal echoed — one long note, carried far through the cold. Shinobu lifted her head immediately.
“That’s Sanemi’s team,” she said. “They’ve reached the western slope.”

“Does that mean they found them?” Zenitsu asked quickly.

Shinobu paused, listening as the echo faded. The mountains were quiet again. “No,” she said softly. “That was just to mark their position.”

They continued upward, past skeletal trees weighed down with ice. Tanjiro’s crow fluttered ahead occasionally, circling wide before returning, giving small, mournful caws that blended with the wind.

Hours passed.
The sun had already begun to dip, painting the horizon in faint gray and gold, though the light barely reached them through the thick clouds. The Kakushi’s lanterns burned low, their hands shaking as they shielded the flames from gusts of wind.

“We should rest,” one of them said quietly. His voice cracked with cold. “If we keep going like this—”

“No,” Shinobu interrupted gently but firmly. “Not yet.”
Her tone wasn’t sharp, but it left no room for argument.

She turned toward Tanjiro, her breath fogging in the air. “You can still smell blood, correct?”

He nodded faintly. “Yes… but it’s scattered. I think it mixed with snowmelt.” His eyes narrowed slightly.

Mitsuri’s expression flickered with a fragile smile. “Then that means they’re close.”

Tanjiro hesitated, glancing at her. “Or it means they’re hurt,” he said softly.

No one spoke after that. The silence between them was heavier than the wind.

Meanwhile, far down the slope, Sanemi’s team trudged through snow up to their waists. His scarf was pulled tight, his eyes sharp and red from the cold.
He barked orders to the Kakushi without slowing: “Fan out. Ten meters apart. Check under every drift, every rock face. They wouldn’t’ve gone down without leaving something.”

One of the Kakushi stumbled over a buried tree root and nearly fell. Sanemi turned, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him back up with a rough yank.
“Don’t fall. You freeze, you die. Keep moving.”

A short distance away, Gyomei’s group climbed in solemn silence. His presence seemed to steady the Kakushi with him — every word he spoke came quiet, prayerful, carried like warmth against the cold.
“Even snow cannot hide them forever,” he said. “The mountain reveals what it takes — in time.”

Back on Shinobu’s side, the path narrowed again.
The snow was waist-deep now, and each step forward burned in their legs. Mitsuri’s scarf had long frozen stiff; Inosuke’s hair sparkled with frost.
But still, they pressed on.

Because somewhere ahead — somewhere buried beneath all that endless white — two Hashira still hadn’t come home.

———

The mountain had grown eerily quiet.
Even the wind had dulled, falling into soft, breath-like sighs that brushed over the drifts of snow. Their footsteps sank deep with every step — dull, rhythmic thuds against the frozen silence.

Zenitsu walked near the back, shivering so hard that his teeth clicked together. He tried to keep his mind on moving forward, on keeping his eyes open, on not imagining what they might find. But then—

He froze.

“…Wait.”

The others turned. Tanjiro’s brows furrowed. “What is it?”

Zenitsu didn’t answer right away. His hand trembled slightly as he held it up, as if to hush them. He tilted his head, eyes closing, expression going strangely still.
Everyone stopped walking. Even the Kakushi grew silent.

There — faint, barely there — a sound beneath the snow.
At first, he thought it was the echo of his own heartbeat, quick and uneven from exhaustion. But then he heard it again — not his, not theirs — slow and muffled, as though the earth itself was breathing.

His brow furrowed. “That’s… weird.”

Mitsuri stepped closer. “What is it? Do you hear something?”

Zenitsu nodded slowly. “A heartbeat… maybe two.” He turned his head slightly, listening harder. “No, wait — it sounds like one, but…” He winced. “It’s strange. There’s this… rhythm. Like one sound splitting in two.”

Tanjiro’s eyes widened. “Two heartbeats?”

“Yeah,” Zenitsu whispered. His voice trembled, but not from the cold anymore. “But it’s— it’s not steady. They’re overlapping. One’s strong for a second, and then…” He swallowed hard, straining to listen again.
“Now it’s… quieter. One of them’s slowing down.”

The words hit them like a blow.

Shinobu immediately stepped forward. “Where, Zenitsu? Which direction?”

He pointed shakily toward the ridge just below them — a slope of untouched snow broken only by the faintest dip, half-buried under ice and shadow. “There,” he said, his voice suddenly firm. “They’re down there.”

Tanjiro’s crow cried sharply, taking flight toward the direction Zenitsu pointed.
Shinobu didn’t hesitate. “Everyone, move!” she ordered.

The Kakushi surged forward, following her down the slope. Tanjiro was the first to reach the base, digging through the snow with his hands. Mitsuri dropped beside him, scraping at the frozen surface until her nails split and bled.

“Please,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Please, let them be alive…”

Zenitsu stood a few feet above, still listening — the beat had grown faint, but it was there, fragile and fading. His chest tightened. “Hurry,” he said under his breath. “One of them’s barely holding on…”

Snow scattered through the air as they dug—handful after handful, cold stinging their fingers until the pain was all but gone.
Tanjiro’s nails split, Mitsuri’s breath came ragged, and Shinobu’s gloves were already torn at the seams.
No one spoke.
Only the sound of their frantic movements and Zenitsu’s trembling voice filled the quiet between them.

“Here—!” Tanjiro gasped suddenly. His hand brushed against fabric, stiff and crusted with frost.

The others rushed closer. Shinobu helped clear the rest of the snow until two shapes emerged—motionless, pale, and pressed close together in the frozen white.

It was Tomioka they saw first—his face nearly colorless, hair plastered to his skin. His arms were wrapped tightly around another form—Iguro.

Mitsuri’s breath caught. “Iguro…” she whispered, her voice breaking.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Neither of them stirred, their bodies still beneath the soft drift of snow.
Then Zenitsu leaned closer, eyes squeezed shut, listening. “They’re alive,” he said, trembling. “Both of them—but Tomioka-san’s heartbeat is slower.”

The Kakushi moved in, carefully brushing snow away from their clothes. Shinobu crouched beside them, checking for warmth.
“Iguro’s pulse is faint… Tomioka’s barely there,” she said quietly. “But they’re still hanging on.”

Tanjiro helped turn Iguro slightly—and froze. “Wait… that’s Tomioka-san’s haori.”

It was wrapped around Iguro’s shoulders, pulled tight against his body. Beneath it, Giyuu’s uniform was soaked through, his sleeves dark with frost.
“He gave it to him,” Mitsuri murmured, tears gathering in her lashes. “Even when he was freezing himself.”

When Shinobu leaned closer to check Giyuu’s breathing, she noticed the scarf—thicker than usual, two layers intertwined around his neck and tucked beneath his chin. The faint pattern of Iguro’s scarf was still visible, woven with Giyuu’s own.

Her eyes softened. “So that’s what he did…” she whispered. “He layered them together—to keep Kaburamaru warm.”

Tanjiro blinked. “Kaburamaru?”

Shinobu reached forward and gently lifted the edge of the scarf. There, nestled against Giyuu’s collarbone, was the serpent—coiled tightly, scales dulled but still moving faintly with each shallow breath.

“He’s still alive too,” Mitsuri said softly, tears spilling freely now.

Zenitsu’s voice cracked as he took in the sight before them. “How did they even make it this far? Iguro-san’s leg is hurt, and Tomioka-san can’t even see…”

Shinobu didn’t answer. Her expression was quiet, unreadable, but the slight tremor in her hands gave her away.

When the Kakushi shifted Iguro slightly, the faint edge of his face was revealed. Shinobu paused, noticing the bare skin—the missing bandages.
Then her gaze flicked toward Giyuu’s eyes, wrapped neatly in familiar white cloth.

“…He gave him those too,” she murmured. “Iguro must’ve given his bandages to Tomioka.”

No one spoke after that.
The wind howled through the trees, brushing snow past their faces, but the silence between them carried more than words could hold.

“Get them wrapped,” Shinobu finally said. “Carefully. We move now.”

The Kakushi nodded, already preparing stretchers and cloaks to lift the two frozen Hashira from the snow. Mitsuri knelt one last time beside Iguro, brushing the ice from his hair.

“You did it,” she whispered. “You both did.”

And as they lifted them, the blizzard that had swallowed the mountain began to ease—snow still falling, but softly now, like the world itself was exhaling.

Beneath the layers of haori and scarf, Kaburamaru stirred faintly, his tail twitching once before settling again.
And though neither man awoke, there was warmth in the air where their hands nearly touched.

———

Snow carried the sound farther than it should have—thin and sharp, slicing through the white silence.

“Tomioka! Iguro! They’ve been found!”

The crow’s voice rang over the mountainside, harsh but urgent, wings beating hard against the wind.

Sanemi was the first to look up, his breath coming out in visible bursts as he trudged through the snow with the Kakushi trailing behind him. His knuckles were raw from brushing ice off trees, his patience long gone.

He squinted toward the cry, eyes narrowing. “Oi—did that damn bird just say what I think it did?”

The crow circled once overhead, landing messily on a nearby branch, feathers ruffled and beak trembling with the effort.
“Found—found alive! Near the eastern ridge! The Love and Insect Hashira—already with them!”

For a second, Sanemi didn’t respond. Then the corner of his mouth twitched upward in something between disbelief and relief.
“…Tch. Those idiots actually made it.”

Behind him, a Kakushi gasped, dropping his pack. “They’re alive?”

Sanemi didn’t answer—he just turned, gesturing roughly for the others to move. “You heard the bird. We’re heading east!”

Farther down the slope, another crow burst through the storm, gliding low before landing near Gyomei’s team.
The Stone Hashira stood half-kneeling in the snow, hands pressed together in silent prayer when the message reached him.

The crow cawed again, loud and clear. “Tomioka and Iguro—found alive! Eastern mountain!”

Gyomei’s head bowed lower, a sound like a quiet sob slipping between his words of prayer.
“…The gods have shown mercy,” he murmured, voice heavy with emotion. “Let their suffering end soon.”

His team exchanged relieved looks before hurrying to prepare for departure. Even through the snow’s howling, his deep voice carried.
“Gather your strength. We will meet them there.”

On another slope, mist drifted thin and ghostlike over the path where Muichiro’s search group moved. The boy’s expression barely shifted when the crow swooped in front of him, nearly colliding with his shoulder.

“Found—found! The Water and Serpent Hashira—alive!”

Muichiro blinked, eyes wide in the pale light. For a moment, he said nothing, his usual calm breaking just slightly.
“…Alive?” he repeated softly. The faintest smile crossed his lips, brief but sincere. “That’s… good.”

He looked ahead, snow brushing his hair as he turned to his Kakushi.
“Let’s go meet them.”

And so, across three ridges and miles of blinding snow, the message spread—from crow to crow, team to team—
“They’ve been found.”

The mountains still howled, but now the air carried something else beneath the wind’s cry—
hope, small and stubborn, beating faintly like a pulse beneath the storm.

———

The snow had thinned to a slow drift, pale flakes catching in the gray morning light. The wind had finally gentled, though the cold still bit deep enough to burn.

Two Kakushi moved carefully through the white, each step measured and cautious as they bore the weight of the men they carried. One held Tomioka, the other Iguro — wrapped in layers of cloaks and Giyuu’s haori, their heads bowed toward the warmth of makeshift coverings.

Their bodies were motionless, but not lifeless. Every few minutes, Shinobu would pause the group and check for a pulse, her fingers trembling slightly despite her usual composure. “Still steady,” she whispered each time, though her brow stayed furrowed.

Behind her, Mitsuri walked in silence. Her face was streaked with tears that the wind had half-frozen, and she refused to let her eyes drift from Obanai. Even under the frost-stiffened fabric, she could see the faint rise and fall of his chest. Kaburamaru, wrapped within Giyuu’s layered scarf, stirred faintly against his neck — a weak but certain sign of life.

Tanjiro walked beside Giyuu’s carrier, eyes burning red from the cold. His voice was soft when he spoke. “They must’ve been out here for days,” he said, his words fogging in the air. “It’s a miracle they’re even breathing.”

“Miracle or not,” Shinobu murmured, glancing over her shoulder, “we need to keep moving. The frostbite’s already set in. They can’t afford another hour in this cold.”

Zenitsu followed close behind, his usual panic quieted for once. His gaze flicked between the two unconscious men and the snow ahead. “I can still hear them,” he whispered. “Their heartbeats. Slow… but they’re there.”

Inosuke trudged at the back of the group, unusually subdued. His breath came out in short bursts, and though his face was hidden beneath his boar mask, his grip on his swords had softened — tension replaced by something quieter.

The path grew steeper for a time, the snow crunching beneath their feet. Shinobu’s voice cut through the wind again, calm but urgent. “Careful on the slope—don’t jostle them.”

The Kakushi nodded wordlessly, shifting their hold. Mitsuri reached out to steady one of them, her hand brushing the edge of Obanai’s sleeve. The familiar fabric of Giyuu’s haori was draped around him, stiff with frost. She blinked, “Tomioka-san,” she breathed, her throat tightening.

Shinobu’s eyes flicked toward her. “They must’ve shared what they had.”

Tanjiro’s gaze softened. “They were taking care of each other,” he said quietly. “Even when they couldn’t stand.”

No one answered. The wind carried only the sound of boots crunching snow, the rhythmic creak of wood from the Kakushi’s steps — and faint, fragile breathing.

As they began their slow descent from the mountainside, the clouds above started to break. For the first time in days, soft light touched the snow, turning the world around them pale gold.

And between the soft calls of distant crows and the whispering wind, it sounded — for a brief, fleeting moment — like peace.

———

By the time they reached the Butterfly Estate, night had fully settled. The air was sharp and heavy with snow, the light from the lanterns stretching across the ground like thin gold threads. The Kakushi moved quickly through the gates, their breath misting in the cold, arms trembling beneath the weight of the two unconscious Hashira.

The doors slid open at once. Warm air and the faint scent of herbs drifted out.

“Inside,” Shinobu ordered, her tone calm but clipped with urgency. “Be careful when you move them. No sudden temperature changes.”

They obeyed immediately, stepping into the quiet hall lined with soft lamps and polished floors. The Kakushi carried Giyuu and Obanai toward the patient rooms — small, separate spaces with clean white beds and folded sheets waiting.

“Put them here,” Shinobu instructed, motioning toward opposite rooms. “Lay them flat. Remove the wet layers carefully. We’ll warm them slowly.”

Obanai was set down first. His skin was colorless, lips faintly blue against the light. Mitsuri hurried to his side, kneeling beside the bed before the Kakushi had even stepped back. “You’re freezing, Iguro,” she whispered, brushing the edge of his damp sleeve aside as she helped unwrap his snow-soaked haori.

Down the hall, another team lowered Giyuu onto a second bed. His breathing was shallow — steady, but quiet enough to make Tanjiro lean forward in instinctive worry. Shinobu checked his pulse, then moved to inspect his hands. The fingers were cold, slightly discolored, but not beyond recovery.

“They’re both stable,” she said finally, more to reassure the others than herself. “Get dry blankets. No direct heat — slow warming only. Keep them layered.”

Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke stood just beyond the doorframes, the tension in their faces only easing slightly.

“He’s breathing,” Tanjiro said softly.

Zenitsu swallowed hard, eyes flicking from one bed to the other. “It’s faint… but both of them are. I can hear it.”

Inosuke grunted, crossing his arms. “Tch. Those two idiots must’ve been crawling through that storm.”

Shinobu continued giving quiet instructions while the Kakushi worked — adjusting the blankets, replacing the bandages, keeping the air in the rooms warm but dry. Mitsuri stayed close beside Obanai’s bed, her hands hovering uncertainly before finally settling over the edge of the blanket.

Shinobu lingered in the hallway between both rooms for a long moment, “They’ll recover,” she murmured at last.

Outside, the snowfall had softened to a gentle drift. The lanterns flickered against the wind. From far beyond the estate walls, faint and almost ghostly against the quiet, a crow cried — one long, tired call that carried through the still air before fading into silence.

Notes:

I’ve had this ready for a while but I hate proofreading 😭

I can’t wait any longer for you all to read the next chapter so I might post the next one later.

I think I messed up the day and night timing. I couldn’t tell.

Chapter 9: Still Breathing

Summary:

Obanai awakens to a world of warmth and silence after the storm, his memories fractured and his body weak. Surrounded by familiar voices and quiet care, he begins to piece together what happened — and who still lies unseen beyond the next room. As the day passes, visitors come and go, carrying with them relief, worry, and the fragile comfort of survival. But beneath the stillness lingers a question that refuses to fade.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem/knyinsomic on tik tok.

Any dynamics in this fic can be viewed as romantic or platonic as long as they’re legal.

The world drifted back to him in pieces.

First came sound — faint, uneven. The soft patter of footsteps, the distant shuffle of fabric, the quiet clink of glass. Then came scent: sharp herbs, clean water, the faintest trace of antiseptic sweetness that clung to the air. Somewhere close, paper walls creaked as someone passed.

A low breath escaped him — hoarse, unsteady. His throat burned.

Warmth pressed against his skin, foreign and heavy after so long in the cold. The blanket’s weight felt strange, almost suffocating. Beneath it, his arms ached, his legs throbbed with a dull, spreading pain that seemed to pulse with every faint beat of his heart.

He tried to move, but the world tilted. His eyes fluttered open to muted light — soft and hazy, filtered through the shoji screens. It was quiet here. Too quiet.

The ceiling was unfamiliar. Smooth wood. No snow. No wind. No white swallowing the world whole.

For a moment, he didn’t breathe. He just stared, listening to the faint hum of life around him — slow footsteps, whispered voices, the careful rhythm of care. His mind lagged behind, struggling to catch up with where he was, when he was, why he could still feel warmth at all.

Then it hit him all at once. The cave. The cold. The dark.

Giyuu.

His pulse jumped, sharp and unsteady. The sound of his own heartbeat filled his ears — too fast, too alive — and his hand twitched weakly against the blanket. He tried to sit up, but his body refused to obey, every muscle heavy and trembling.

As he moved, something tugged faintly at his skin — the familiar press of cloth against his face. His hand brushed over it. Bandages. Fresh ones, carefully wrapped around his mouth and jaw. Someone had redressed them while he was unconscious.

Somewhere to his right, a door slid open. Light footsteps crossed the floor, quiet and deliberate.

“Ah. You’re awake,” came a calm voice — measured, careful, and unmistakably Shinobu’s.

Obanai turned his head toward it, slow and unsteady, breath shallow. The world wavered for a moment before settling again. The voice was warm, but distant, like hearing someone speak through fog.

His lips moved beneath the bandages, dry and cracked. The words came out low, rough, barely audible.

“…Tomioka.”

The sound of his own voice startled him. Weak. Fragile. A stranger’s.

The room fell still.

Shinobu paused mid-step. For a heartbeat, even the soft rhythm of the mansion’s hallways seemed to fade. The name hung in the air, brittle and trembling — as though saying it had cost him something.

Her expression softened. “He’s here,” she said quietly, folding her hands before her. “You both were found together.”

Obanai’s eyes flickered — a small, fractured relief that didn’t reach his face. He blinked hard, as though trying to focus, but his vision blurred again. His breaths came unevenly; the air in his lungs still felt too thin.

Shinobu moved closer to the bedside, her footsteps barely making a sound on the wooden floor. “You’ve been unconscious for almost three days,” she continued, her tone even but gentle. “You were both hypothermic when we found you.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze had drifted to the edge of the blanket, fingers curling weakly against it. His hands were still pale, faint purple marks clinging to the skin. The words took time to reach him, to make sense. Three days.

Slowly, he rasped again through the dryness of his throat. “…And him?”

Shinobu hesitated — not cruelly, but with a kind of gentleness that told him the truth before she spoke it. “He’s still asleep,” she said. “Stable… but he hasn’t woken up yet.”

Something flickered behind Obanai’s tired eyes. He turned his head away, the motion sluggish but deliberate, his jaw tightening beneath the bandages. His breathing hitched once before he stilled it.

The silence that followed was thick — not empty, but heavy with everything left unsaid.

After a moment, Shinobu straightened, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You should rest,” she murmured. “You’re safe now, Iguro. Both of you are.”

Her footsteps retreated softly toward the door.

When the door clicked shut, the room fell quiet again.

Obanai’s hand clenched into the blanket. The faint tremor of his fingers betrayed what his voice couldn’t.

“Then why…” he whispered, barely breathing the words against the fabric covering his mouth, “…am I the one who woke up?”

The silence stretched, the weight of it pressing against Obanai’s chest until he could hardly breathe. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, unfocused — the faint light seeping through the paper screens painted everything in soft, washed-out gray. The warmth of the room felt wrong somehow, almost suffocating after so long in the cold.

Something brushed lightly against his shoulder.

He turned his head, slow and careful, and there — curled on the blanket beside him — was Kaburamaru. The serpent’s scales looked duller than usual, but his body rose and fell in slow, steady movements. When Obanai shifted, the little creature stirred, slithering weakly toward his arm and wrapping himself around it with a tired sort of determination.

“…You made it too,” Obanai murmured, voice muffled beneath his bandages. His tone cracked on the last word, soft and quiet — almost like he hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

Kaburamaru lifted his head faintly, tongue flicking against the back of Obanai’s wrist before settling again.

Obanai closed his eyes. The warmth of the snake’s small body seeped faintly through the bandages and blanket, grounding him in the present — proof that he wasn’t still lying somewhere beneath the snow.

But even as his breathing steadied, his thoughts refused to. Each time he let his mind drift, he saw flashes of white — the storm, the sound of labored breathing against his shoulder, the last time Giyuu’s voice had answered him.

He turned his face toward the wall, Kaburamaru still coiled loosely around his arm.

Sleep wouldn’t come. Only the quiet, and the echo of his own heartbeat, slow and uneven in his ears.

———

The light outside had shifted by the time the door slid open again — late afternoon sunlight spilling across the floorboards in a soft, golden wash. Obanai had drifted in and out of uneasy sleep, the scent of herbs thick in the air. Kaburamaru lay curled against his arm, breathing faintly.

The quiet broke with the sound of quick, light footsteps.

“Obanai!”

Mitsuri’s voice — breathless, familiar, trembling with emotion — filled the room before she even stepped inside. Her usual brightness was dimmed, eyes puffy from lack of sleep and worry. She stopped beside his bed, one hand over her mouth as if holding back a sob.

Obanai turned his head slightly toward her. “Kanroji,” he rasped, his voice hoarse under the fresh bandages around his mouth.

She moved closer but didn’t reach for him, afraid to cause him pain. “You’re awake,” she breathed, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. “Thank goodness… I—” Her words broke, and she pressed her lips together.

Obanai blinked slowly, studying her face. “You were there,” he said, the realization sinking in. His voice was barely a whisper.

Mitsuri nodded quickly. “Yes,” she said. “I was with Shinobu when we found you. You both looked…” Her voice faltered, and she trailed off, eyes glistening. “I thought—” She stopped herself, taking a shaky breath. “But you’re here. You’re safe now.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the far wall — away from her, toward where he somehow knew the next room must be. “Tomioka?” he finally asked.

Mitsuri hesitated, her hands tightening around her skirt. “He’s still asleep,” she said gently. “Shinobu’s been checking on him every few hours.”

Obanai’s hand twitched faintly against the blanket, his expression unreadable. “Still alive, then,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Alive,” Mitsuri confirmed quickly. “He’s strong. You both are.”

Obanai gave a slow, unsteady exhale — the closest thing to relief she’d seen on his face in a long time. Kaburamaru stirred faintly on his arm, as if sensing his owner’s calm returning.

Mitsuri smiled faintly, brushing her sleeve across her eyes. “You should rest more,” she whispered. “You scared all of us.”

He didn’t respond, his eyes already growing heavy again, but the faintest sound — something between a sigh and a hum — left his throat.

Mitsuri stayed beside him in silence, watching the light shift lower across the room. Outside, the wind moved softly through the garden, carrying the distant murmur of the estate — gentle, steady, alive.

Mitsuri stayed beside the bed, fingers absently tracing the edge of the blanket that covered Obanai.
His breathing had steadied, though every inhale still carried the faint rasp of fatigue. Kaburamaru had tucked himself comfortably against his throat again, the small rise and fall of his scales matching Obanai’s breaths.

The room was quiet — soft lamplight spilling across the tatami, the faint rustle of nurses moving through the hallway beyond the door.
When Shinobu returned, the scent of medicine and disinfectant followed her in. She set a small tray beside the bed, her movements deliberate and practiced, the faint clink of glass cutting through the still air.

Mitsuri turned her head slightly. “He’s sleeping again,” she said, though it came out almost like an apology.

Shinobu nodded, glancing briefly toward the bed. “That’s good. His body needs the rest. He was half-frozen when they brought him in.”
Her tone stayed gentle, professional — but there was a flicker of something beneath it. A trace of surprise that hadn’t quite faded yet.

After a pause, Shinobu added quietly, “He woke once before you arrived.”

Mitsuri blinked, surprised. “He did?”

Shinobu gave a small nod, folding her hands before continuing. “Just for a few minutes. He was disoriented… and barely able to speak.” Her eyes softened, the smallest hint of amusement in her tone. “But the first thing he asked me was where Tomioka was.”

Mitsuri’s breath caught for a moment. “Really?”

“Mm.” Shinobu’s smile curved faintly. “I didn’t expect that. Given how those two usually act around each other.”

Mitsuri looked down at Obanai, her chest tightening a little.
She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear and said softly, “He… doesn’t always say what he feels. But I think he really does care.”

Shinobu hummed, thoughtful. “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe he just recognized someone who’s as stubborn as he is.”

That earned a small, tired laugh from Mitsuri — one that quickly faded into a sigh. “Do you think Tomioka’s going to be alright?”

Shinobu hesitated before answering. Her gaze lingered on Obanai, then shifted toward the closed door as if she could see the next room beyond it.
“He’s stable,” she said carefully. “But he hasn’t woken yet. His condition was worse when they arrived — lower body temperature, slower pulse. He must have shielded Iguro in the snow.”

Mitsuri’s eyes softened, shimmering with quiet grief and gratitude. She whispered, “Then… they really saved each other.”

Shinobu nodded once. “Yes,” she said simply. “And perhaps that’s why they’re both still here.”

The two women sat in silence after that.
Outside, the wind had stilled — no longer howling like it had in the mountains, but whispering faintly through the paper windows. The candle beside the bed flickered low.
Obanai stirred once, faintly, his fingers twitching against the blanket before falling still again.

Kaburamaru lifted his head at the movement, tongue flicking in the dim light. Shinobu reached forward, gently adjusting the covers higher around Obanai’s shoulders, then stood and glanced toward Mitsuri.

“You can stay a little longer,” she said quietly.

Mitsuri smiled, small but sincere. “Thank you, Shinobu.”

Shinobu’s smile warmed in return — faint but genuine — and for a long moment, the two of them simply stayed there, the soft sound of Obanai’s breathing filling the room.

Time passed quietly.
Mitsuri stayed by Obanai’s side for a while longer, watching the slow rhythm of his chest rise and fall beneath the blanket. The faint color had returned to his face — pale still, but no longer lifeless. She could almost pretend he was just resting after another long mission, not after days lost in a storm.

Shinobu checked his pulse again, her touch light but steady. “He’s healing faster than I expected,” she murmured. “The frostbite hasn’t spread. He’ll need time, but… he’ll be fine.”

Mitsuri let out a shaky breath of relief, her shoulders softening. “Thank goodness…” She smiled faintly, eyes bright.

Shinobu chuckled softly.

That drew a small laugh from Mitsuri, the tension in her chest finally easing. But before she could say more, the door slid open with a gentle creak. One of the Kakushi stepped in, bowing slightly.

“Kanroji-san,” the young man said, “a messenger crow arrived. You’re being requested to lead a team to assist a nearby patrol. They need a Hashira.”

Mitsuri blinked, caught between hesitation and duty. “Now?”

The Kakushi nodded. “Yes, ma’am. They’ve been waiting for confirmation.”

For a brief moment, Mitsuri’s gaze lingered on Obanai. He hadn’t moved, though Kaburamaru shifted slightly against his throat, sensing her eyes on them. She smiled faintly, leaning closer to whisper, “You better rest up, okay? I’ll come right back.”

Her voice was soft but firm — the same tone she used before battle, threaded with warmth and unspoken promises.

She stood, straightened her uniform, and turned to Shinobu. “Please look after him while I’m gone.”

Shinobu inclined her head. “Of course. I’ll make sure he’s here when you return.”

Mitsuri smiled again — bright, though a little wistful. Then, before leaving, she reached out and brushed a few fingers gently against Obanai’s blanket, as if in reassurance.

“I’ll see you soon, Iguro,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

With that, she slipped from the room, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall until only the faint rustle of her haori remained.

Shinobu lingered by the bedside for a few moments longer, adjusting the candle’s wick before sitting back down.
The room settled into stillness again. Kaburamaru curled closer beneath Obanai’s chin.

Outside, the night pressed soft and calm against the Butterfly Mansion — a rare silence that seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next to wake.

———

The door opened with a soft wooden scrape, letting in a faint wash of afternoon light and the subtle scent of herbal medicine. Obanai stirred, his mismatched eyes narrowing slightly against the brightness. He’d been half-dozing, one arm draped across his abdomen, the steady rhythm of Kaburamaru’s breathing the only sound in the room.

A familiar, gentle voice broke the silence.
“Ah—Iguro-san! You’re awake!”

Kamado Tanjiro stepped in, his face bright with relief. Behind him came Inosuke, already muttering under his breath, and Zenitsu—who looked like he’d been pushed into carrying a tray of food.

Obanai blinked once, slowly. “…Kamado.” His voice rasped faintly beneath the cloth wound back around his lower face, his words quieter but still sharp.

Tanjiro smiled as if the greeting were a warm welcome. “We wanted to visit! Shinobu-san said you’re recovering well.”

Inosuke leaned forward, squinting at him. “You look like a snake that fell asleep in the snow too long.”

Kaburamaru immediately lifted his head from Obanai’s shoulder, tongue flicking sharply toward Inosuke with a warning hiss.

“Oi! It’s doing it again!” Inosuke barked, stepping back a little.

Zenitsu nearly jumped out of his skin. “I told you to stop saying weird things!” He stumbled forward and set the tray down on the side table with trembling hands. “Here! Soup—Shinobu-san said it’ll help your strength come back!”

Steam curled from the small bowl, carrying a faint scent of miso and herbs. Obanai’s eyes softened slightly, though his posture didn’t change. “…Thank you,” he said at last. His voice was rough, the words short but sincere.

Tanjiro took a few steps closer, hands clasped in front of him. “You’ve been asleep for a few days. Everyone’s been worried, especially Mitsuri-san. We found you and Tomioka-san both in really bad shape.”

Obanai’s gaze shifted faintly at that, his expression unreadable. Beneath the blanket, his fingers curled slightly against the fabric. Kaburamaru moved, coiling closer to his neck as though sensing his unease.

“Shinobu-san said Tomioka-san hasn’t woken up yet,” Tanjiro added gently. “But she’s confident he will.”

For a long moment, Obanai didn’t respond. The quiet filled the room, broken only by the faint rattle of the paper window as wind brushed against the frame.

Zenitsu tried to break the silence, his nervous chatter spilling out before he could stop himself. “B-But you’re both alive, right? I mean, that’s what matters! Anyone else would’ve been done for in that storm! It’s honestly—”

“Quiet,” Inosuke cut him off, waving a hand. “You’re talking too much again.”

Zenitsu deflated instantly, clutching the tray for comfort.

Inosuke snorted and turned back to Obanai. “So, how’d you even make it back here anyway? Water guys blind, and your leg’s busted. That’s—”

“Inosuke,” Tanjiro said softly, cutting him off before he could continue.

The correction wasn’t harsh, just enough to silence the question. Even Inosuke seemed to feel it — the subtle shift in the air when Tanjiro’s usually warm tone carried a quiet edge.

Obanai’s eyes flicked toward them, one amber and one green-gray, reflecting faint light. He didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. The serpent beneath his chin flicked its tongue, then slipped down toward his shoulder, as if to remind them all that he wasn’t as fragile as he looked.

Tanjiro smiled again — smaller this time, more thoughtful. “We’ll tell Shinobu-san you’re awake.”

He hesitated, then added, “And… thank you, Iguro-san. For keeping Tomioka-san safe.”

Obanai looked away, his gaze turning toward the thin sliver of light spilling through the window. “It wasn’t a favor,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t plan to let either of us die there.”

Tanjiro’s expression softened even more. He bowed, a deep, respectful motion. “Still… I’m glad you didn’t.”

Zenitsu finally exhaled in relief, hurrying toward the door.

Inosuke was already halfway out the door, muttering under his breath about “weak-looking snakes.” Kaburamaru’s tongue flicked at him once more, and the boy jumped.

Tanjiro lingered for just a moment longer, offering one last smile before sliding the door closed behind them.

The room grew quiet again. Only the faint ticking of a clock and the rustle of the curtains broke the silence.

Obanai let out a slow breath and leaned back, his body sinking into the futon’s thin mattress. His limbs ached dully; the cold seemed to have settled deep into his bones.

Kaburamaru coiled lightly against his neck, his head nestling just below Obanai’s chin.

“…They’re loud,” Obanai murmured at last, voice barely audible.

The serpent flicked its tongue, as if in amused agreement.

Obanai closed his eyes, exhaustion creeping over him again. His mind flickered briefly to Tomioka — motionless, silent — in another room of this same mansion.

He exhaled, the breath faint but steady. “Don’t die now,” he whispered under his breath.

Then the light from the window shifted as the sun dipped lower, and the room fell still once more.

Notes:

I’m sorry I took long to post I’m sick and didn’t feel the motivation to finish this chapter. I apologize that it’s short and not much happens.

I may not update for a day or two. Sorry 😭

Chapter 10: Still Snowing Outside

Summary:

In the quiet of the Butterfly Mansion, Obanai slowly adjusts to recovery — his leg bound, his body heavy with lingering cold. Shinobu tends to his injuries, calm and methodical, while Obanai hides worry behind irritation.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem/knyinsomiac on tik tok.

Any Dynamics in this story can be viewed as romantic or platonic, as long as they’re legal.

The world outside was white again.

Obanai could tell without looking — he could feel it in the air. The faint chill that crept through the paper seams of the window, the muted quiet that always came when snow blanketed the earth. Even here, within the warmth of the Butterfly Mansion, winter’s breath found its way in.

He sat half-upright in bed, one arm resting atop the blanket, Kaburamaru curled in a loose coil along his shoulder. The faint smell of herbs hung in the room — sharp, clean, the scent of healing. A kettle somewhere in the hallway whistled softly before being lifted from the fire.

Obanai’s eyes drifted to the window. Thin white light filtered through the paper screen, pale and diffused, like the world itself had lost its color. He could hear the muffled sounds of the estate — soft footsteps, quiet laughter from one of the attendants, the occasional flutter of wings from somewhere down the hall.

It should’ve been peaceful. It almost was.
But beneath the warmth of his blankets, a dull ache pulsed through his bandaged leg — and beneath that, an echo of cold that wouldn’t quite leave his bones.

He lifted a hand, tracing the edge of the bandages wrapped around his fingers, and then touched the cloth over his mouth. Shinobu had rewrapped it herself; neat, precise, the faint smell of antiseptic still clung to the fabric.

Kaburamaru shifted, raising his head to look toward the door. A faint rattle of footsteps followed, soft but distinct — practiced, steady.

A knock.
“May I come in?”

He recognized the voice immediately.

“Do as you like,” he murmured.

The door slid open, and Shinobu stepped inside carrying a small tray of supplies. Her expression, as always, was calm and unreadable, though her eyes softened slightly when she saw him sitting upright.

“Well,” she said lightly, setting the tray down beside his bed. “It’s good to see you awake and not trying to leave already. That’s progress.”

Obanai’s gaze followed her movements. “I don’t recall being given permission to walk yet.”

“Good,” she replied simply, standing beside the bed. “Then I won’t have to remind you.”

Kaburamaru flicked his tongue toward her, then settled back against Obanai’s shoulder. Shinobu’s smile twitched faintly.

“I’ll check your leg,” she said, pulling back the blanket and carefully unwrapping the lower layers of bandages. Her hands moved with practiced ease — steady, sure, but gentle in a way that felt almost deliberate.

Obanai watched her work in silence. The room filled with the quiet sound of fabric rustling and the faint drip of melted snow outside the window.

After a moment, Shinobu spoke again. “It’s healing faster than I expected. You’ll have some stiffness for a while, but no lasting damage.”

Obanai gave a quiet hum. “That’s fortunate.”

“Yes,” she agreed, rewrapping the bandages neatly. “But you should still rest. Don’t push yourself too soon.”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes lingered on the pale light spilling across the floor — the faint, flickering reflection of snow beyond the window.

“…It’s still snowing outside,” he said finally, voice low.

Shinobu glanced toward the window, her tone softening. “It is. Though I suppose it’s gentler now than the storm you endured.”

Obanai’s gaze lowered, his hands tightening slightly on the blanket. Kaburamaru nudged his jaw as if sensing the change in him.

“It doesn’t feel gentler,” he murmured. “Just quieter.”

Shinobu didn’t reply right away. She adjusted the bandages once more, her movements deliberate. “Sometimes quiet can be just as heavy as noise,” she said at last.

Her words lingered in the air — light, but weighted somehow.

Then she stood, smoothing her uniform. “You should try to sleep again. I’ll check on you later.”

Obanai inclined his head slightly. “I’m not tired.”

“Then pretend,” she replied, her tone faintly amused.

Before she left, she glanced once more toward him — perhaps to be sure he really was all right — then slid the door closed behind her.

The faint echo of her footsteps faded down the hall.

Obanai leaned back against the pillow, eyes fixed on the dim light through the paper window.

Snow still drifted outside — slow, endless, soundless.

The room felt even quieter once Shinobu’s footsteps faded.

Obanai sat for a while, listening to the faint sounds that replaced her — the rustle of wind through the garden trees, the distant creak of the mansion’s old wood. Somewhere nearby, a kettle clattered softly as someone poured tea. All the ordinary noises of life continuing around him, steady and calm.

It should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, tracing the faint grain of the beams above him. Every breath he drew still came out slightly uneven, each inhale carrying that ghost of cold air — the kind that settled deep and stayed. No matter how warm the room was, part of him couldn’t quite believe they were safe now.

Kaburamaru slid down from his shoulder, curling across his chest instead, the small weight grounding him. Obanai absently raised a hand to rest beside the snake’s coils.

“…We made it back,” he muttered quietly. The words didn’t sound real even to him.

The room offered no answer. Only the faint tap of melting snow against the window frame.

He shut his eyes briefly. The darkness behind his lids didn’t bring rest — only flashes of that endless white, the muffled sound of footsteps, the heavy drag of his own breathing. And the steady presence behind him, the voice that had kept him moving long after he should’ve stopped.

Obanai’s fingers curled into the blanket.

For a man who prided himself on composure, he hated how the memory still made his chest tighten.

He turned his head toward the window. Outside, the snow continued to fall — soft and pale, so deceptively gentle it almost mocked the storm that had nearly taken them.

Kaburamaru stirred again, flicking his tongue toward the window as if sensing the shift in his mood.
Obanai reached up, running his thumb along the scales at the base of the snake’s head. “I know,” he murmured, voice faint. “I’m thinking too much.”

A pause.

“…He’s probably still asleep.”

He didn’t need to say who.

The words drifted out with his breath, vanishing into the still air. There was no one to answer, but Kaburamaru’s slow movement was enough — quiet, steady, alive.

Obanai exhaled, letting his shoulders sink a little into the pillow. The ache in his leg pulsed in time with his heartbeat, dull but constant — a reminder that he wasn’t done healing yet, no matter how much he wanted to stand and see for himself that everything was fine.

Outside, the wind picked up, making the paper door tremble. The snow whispered against the frame, restless and soft.

He watched it for a long time, until his vision blurred and the white beyond the paper began to melt into the soft glow of the lantern light.

Only then did he close his eyes again — not to sleep, but just to rest them.
And in that faint, drifting quiet, the world held still — waiting, it seemed, for something to break the silence.

⸻

The quiet stretched on until it became almost heavy.
Obanai wasn’t good at stillness — not this kind. Recovery demanded patience, and patience meant time to think. Too much time.

He shifted slightly, wincing at the dull throb in his leg. Shinobu was right — it was healing faster than expected, but it still burned when he tried to move it. The kind of pain that reminded him he was alive.

Kaburamaru stirred again, sensing his discomfort. The snake slithered up, curling loosely around his neck the way it used to when he traveled. The familiar weight drew a faint exhale from him — almost a sigh.

“I said I’m fine,” he murmured, voice muffled by the bandages that once again covered his mouth.
He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Kaburamaru or himself.

The door slid open before he could dwell on it.
A familiar voice followed — quiet but firm, threaded with the usual calm.

“You’re awake again.”

Obanai’s head turned slightly. Shinobu stood in the doorway, a tray balanced in her hands. The faint scent of medicine and tea followed her as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

“You should be resting,” she said, setting the tray down on the small table near his bed.
“I rested enough.”

“I doubt that,” she replied with a small smile, standing beside the table. “You’re pale. And Kaburamaru looks more alert than you do.”

The snake flicked his tongue in response, and for a moment, Shinobu’s smile softened even further. Then she gestured toward his leg. “Let me see it.”

Obanai hesitated but obeyed, shifting the blanket aside. The bandages gleamed faintly under the lantern light — clean, tightly wrapped. Shinobu untied them with practiced care, checking the skin beneath.

The silence between them was easy, almost clinical. Until Shinobu finally spoke, her tone gentler this time.

“It’s healing well,” she said, rewrapping the leg. “You’ll walk again soon. But no unnecessary strain.”

He gave a faint nod. “I’ve heard.”

“I’m sure you have,” she said. “Still — hearing and listening aren’t the same thing.”

He didn’t answer that, though the faint twitch in his brow suggested he understood.

Shinobu tied the last strip of bandage neatly, then stepped back a little, studying his face. “When you woke up,” she began, her voice quieter now, “you asked about Tomioka.”

Obanai’s gaze shifted to her, unreadable behind the thin line of cloth over his mouth.

“That surprised me,” she continued, her tone thoughtful. “Given your usual… lack of enthusiasm toward him.”

Obanai exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes lowering. He let the worry show in the only way he knew how — by smothering it behind irritation. “If he dies after dragging me through half a blizzard,” he said, voice low and clipped, “I’ll kill him myself.”

Shinobu blinked, a fraction of surprise passing over her face before she composed herself. The edges of her mouth softened into a faint, almost humorless smile. “That sounds like you,” she said quietly. “Though I’d rather you keep both of you alive to bicker about it later.”

He didn’t respond, but the hand resting on the blanket tightened minutely, a small admission of how much the thought of losing him had weighed. Kaburamaru shifted, pressing warm scales into the hollow of Obanai’s wrist.

Shinobu’s expression softened. “You both returned alive. That’s enough for now,” she said.

Obanai looked toward the window again. The snow was still falling, faint and steady.
“…We’ll see.”

The quiet stretched between them — steady, almost too steady.
Shinobu hadn’t left after checking his leg. She lingered near the small table, her hands folded neatly in front of her, eyes thoughtful in the soft light.

Obanai noticed her hesitation. “You’ve been staring for a while,” he said finally, voice rasping against the bandages that covered his mouth again.

Her lips curved faintly. “I was debating whether to ask something,” she admitted. “You don’t seem like the type to appreciate questions.”

“I’m not,” he said flatly.

“Good,” she said, taking a seat beside the table instead of leaving. “Then this will be quick.”

Obanai adjusted his position against the pillows, Kaburamaru shifting sleepily across his shoulder. The little serpent flicked his tongue once, tasting the air, before curling closer to his neck.

“When we found you and Tomioka,” Shinobu began, “there were a few things that didn’t quite make sense.”

Obanai gave her a sidelong look. “Such as?”

“You both still had your gloves,” she said simply. “Yet Tomioka’s frostbite was far worse than yours.”

Obanai’s gaze flicked away, toward the window. “He gave me his,” he said, almost too quiet to hear. “Before I even noticed how bad his hands were getting.”

Shinobu didn’t seem surprised. “And he never took them back?”

“No,” Obanai said. “I… forced them back on him later. In the cave.” His voice dropped lower, as if admitting it felt strange. “His fingers were already turning purple.”

Shinobu nodded slowly, absorbing the detail without comment.

For a while, she said nothing — just studied him, her expression unreadable. Then, softly: “You both made it farther down that mountain than I expected. I’m curious how.”

Obanai’s jaw tightened. He’d known this question would come. “He carried me,” he said after a long pause.

Shinobu’s brow lifted slightly. “Carried you?”

“I couldn’t walk,” Obanai muttered. “My leg was useless by then. He… couldn’t see. Not with the state his eyes were in.” He exhaled quietly through his nose. “So I told him where to go. Which way the slope turned, how far the wind sounded.”

“And he followed your voice,” Shinobu finished gently.

Obanai gave the smallest nod. “That’s how we moved. Step by step.”

There was silence again — heavier this time, though not cold. Shinobu’s gaze softened, and for a rare moment, her tone held no trace of her usual teasing calm.
“You both should’ve died up there,” she said quietly. “But you didn’t.”

Obanai didn’t look at her. “When you found us,” he said instead, “was I—?”

“You were beside him,” Shinobu said, her voice still soft. “Under his haori. He must’ve pulled you closer after collapsing.”

Obanai’s hands clenched faintly at that. He looked away again, eyes tracing the faint cracks in the plaster wall. “Idiot,” he murmured. “He could’ve—”

He stopped himself, jaw tightening. The rest of the sentence died in his throat.

The only sound was Kaburamaru’s soft shifting, the quiet hiss of wind against the paper screens.

After a moment, Shinobu stood, smoothing her haori sleeves. “You should try to rest, Iguro,” she said lightly. “You won’t help him by running yourself ragged.”

Obanai didn’t respond — his eyes had turned toward the window again, where the world outside was pale and faintly moving.

Shinobu followed his gaze, her voice quieter now. “It’s still snowing outside.”

Obanai’s reply came muffled behind the bandages. “Figures.”

Her smile softened at that, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She set the untouched cup of tea near his bedside before stepping back. “Call if you need anything,” she said, tone as even as before.

As she left, the faint scent of medicine and herbs lingered behind her.
Obanai exhaled, eyes half-lidded, his thoughts heavy — somewhere between guilt, relief, and something he refused to name.

Kaburamaru stirred once more, curling close to his collar.
The room went still again, save for the faint whisper of snow against the windows.

⸻

The night deepened, though it was hard to tell how late it was inside the Butterfly Mansion.
The air was still, carrying the faint hum of cicadas from somewhere beyond the paper walls. The lantern by Obanai’s bed had burned low, its wick shrinking to a dim, steady glow that barely reached the far side of the room.

He hadn’t slept.

Kaburamaru had, curled in the hollow of his neck beneath the edge of the blanket. The serpent’s warmth was faint but constant — a small, living weight against the chill that lingered even inside the room.

Obanai’s leg throbbed dully beneath the bandages. It wasn’t pain he couldn’t bear; it was the silence. He’d grown used to the sound of wind, to the crunch of snow beneath Giyuu’s steps, to the small, steady rhythm of someone else’s breathing near his shoulder. Now there was only the creak of the house settling.

He exhaled through his teeth. “You stubborn idiot,” he muttered softly, voice muffled against the bandages.

Kaburamaru stirred, flicking his tongue sleepily, then settled again.

Obanai shifted his weight and glanced toward the door. He could hear faint footsteps in the hall — Kakushi moving supplies, quiet murmurs from the next room where other patients rested. Somewhere down the corridor, a crow gave a single call before falling silent again.

He thought of the mountain, the cold, the slow, endless sound of breathing behind him when Giyuu carried him step by step through the dark. The memory was sharp enough to make him press his hand briefly to his eyes.

He hated how clear it was — how it hadn’t faded, even now.

When the door slid open a few minutes later, it wasn’t Shinobu this time but Aoi, carrying fresh bandages and a basin of water. She froze when she saw him awake.

“You should be resting,” she said, though her tone softened when she noticed he wasn’t even pretending to sleep.

“I’ve done enough of that,” he muttered.

Aoi hesitated, then moved closer to set the basin down. “Would you like me to rewrap your leg?”

He shook his head. “It’s fine.”

She looked like she might argue, but after a moment she simply bowed her head and turned to leave. When the door closed again, the silence returned — soft, almost fragile.

Obanai leaned back against the pillow, staring toward the ceiling.
He hadn’t prayed in years, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he found himself thinking — If he’s alive, let him stay that way.

The thought burned quietly, almost against his will.

Outside, snow continued to fall — soundless and steady — painting the garden in pale light through the narrow sliver of the window.

Obanai’s eyes stayed fixed on that faint, distant glow until exhaustion finally pulled him under.

⸻

The hall outside Shinobu’s office was dim, lit only by the pale lanterns hung between doors. The Butterfly Mansion was quieter at night — just the faint rustle of wind through paper screens and the occasional creak of floorboards as someone passed on light feet.

Aoi stopped at the door and gave a soft knock before sliding it open. Shinobu looked up from the desk, her sleeves neatly rolled, a brush poised above a half-finished chart.

“Aoi,” she greeted. “Is something the matter?”

Aoi stepped in, bowing slightly. “No, Shinobu-san. I just wanted to report—Iguro-san’s awake again. He doesn’t seem to sleep much.”

Shinobu’s eyes lifted slightly, interest flickering behind her calm expression. “Again? He’s only been conscious since yesterday.”

“Yes,” Aoi said, adjusting the small tray in her hands. “He rests, but only for a little while. Then he’s awake again, just… quiet. Staring at the window or the floor. He won’t say if he’s in pain.”

Shinobu hummed softly, setting her brush aside. “That sounds like him.”

Aoi hesitated before adding, “He did thank Sumi earlier when she brought his tea, though. It startled her.”

That drew a faint smile from Shinobu — barely there, but genuine. “Then he must be feeling a little better.”

Aoi nodded once. “Should we keep someone nearby tonight?”

Shinobu thought for a moment, eyes distant. “No. Let him rest on his own for now. He’s safe here, even if he doesn’t feel it yet.”

The younger girl lingered a second longer before bowing again. “Yes, Shinobu-san.”

When Aoi left, the office grew quiet again, save for the whisper of the wind outside. Shinobu reached for a fresh chart, hesitated, then placed it down untouched.

Her gaze drifted to the window — faint snow still falling beyond the glass, the same pale flakes that had nearly claimed two of her fellow Hashira days before.

She exhaled softly and stood, gathering a medical kit. “Awake again already,” she murmured under her breath, half-amused, half-concerned. “You don’t know how to rest, do you, Iguro-san?”

She slid the door open, her steps light as she turned down the hall toward his room.

The hallway air was cool, still carrying the faint smell of herbs from the infirmary. Snow brushed softly against the windows, whispering as it fell. Shinobu’s footsteps made almost no sound as she stopped outside Iguro’s room and slid the door open.

Inside, the light was low. A small lamp burned on the floor, its glow spilling faintly across the tatami and catching on the pale edge of bandages.

Iguro was awake. His back rested lightly against the wall, legs still under the blanket. Kaburamaru was coiled near his shoulder, half-asleep.

“You’re not making it easy for your body to recover,” Shinobu said softly, stepping inside.

He looked over, expression unreadable. “I’ve slept enough.” His voice was quiet, rough from disuse.

“Three days unconscious, one day mostly awake,” she corrected, setting her medical kit beside the lamp. “That’s not quite the same thing.”

Kaburamaru stirred slightly at her voice, lifting his head. Shinobu smiled faintly at him before glancing back to Iguro. “Pain?”

“Only when I move,” he answered, tone clipped.

“That’s progress,” she replied simply, kneeling to check the bandages along his leg. He didn’t flinch, though his fingers tightened slightly on the blanket.

Shinobu noted the steady healing, the color returning to his skin. “You’re recovering fast.”

He didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on the paper screen window — snow still falling beyond it, just visible through the thin light.

After a moment, Shinobu spoke again, quieter. “Aoi tells me you haven’t been resting much. If it’s discomfort, I can adjust your medication.”

“It’s not that,” he said.

“Then what is it?” she asked, though her tone remained gentle, clinical.

He hesitated. “The silence,” he admitted finally. “It’s too quiet.”

Shinobu studied him for a moment before nodding slowly. “You’ve been listening for too long — for danger, for movement, for something to go wrong. When it doesn’t, the quiet feels wrong too.”

He didn’t answer, but his gaze lowered slightly — not in shame, but acknowledgment.

“Try to rest anyway,” she said, rising smoothly to her feet. “Your leg will thank you for it.”

As she turned to leave, he spoke again — barely above a whisper. “Has Tomioka woken up?”

Shinobu paused, her hand resting on the doorframe. “Not yet,” she said softly. “But he’s stable.”

Iguro nodded once. Shinobu didn’t press further. She only looked back at him — at the tired, sharp lines of someone who still couldn’t bring himself to believe safety was real — and smiled faintly.

“Goodnight, Iguro-san.”

When she left, the door slid quietly shut, and the room returned to stillness.
Kaburamaru shifted again, curling close to his neck.
Outside, it was still snowing.

Notes:

Hi sorry if this chapter was short or boring.

I’m also sorry I hadn’t posted anything in a few days. I’m just going to let you know I may not update as much as I use too.

Because of a recent discovery I’m focusing more on my physical and mental health but don’t worry I won’t forget about this fic. I’ll do my best to post every other day.

Thank you for your patience <3

Chapter 11: A Failed Attempt

Summary:

Night stretches long in the Butterfly Mansion. Restless and uncertain, Obanai’s worry pushes him to act when he should be healing. The snow falls, the halls stay quiet, and recovery — both physical and emotional — begins with reluctance.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem/knysincomiac on tik tok

Any dynamics in this story may be viewed as romantic or platonic

The Butterfly Mansion was quiet at night — the kind of silence that settled deep into the walls, where even the faintest sound carried. The paper doors rustled softly as the wind slipped through cracks, and the steady rhythm of rain — or maybe snow — tapped against the wooden veranda outside.

Obanai lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The faint lamplight from the hall bled in through the gap beneath his door, tracing thin lines across the floor. He’d dozed on and off throughout the evening, but sleep refused to stay — every time his eyes closed, he’d hear the muffled echoes of the mountain: the crunch of snow, the rasp of Giyuu’s breathing, the sound of wind like whispering voices.

He shifted, wincing at the dull ache in his leg. The wound was healing, yes — Shinobu had said as much — but it still felt raw when he moved. The bandages around his mouth tugged slightly as he exhaled, the faint cotton taste lingering on his tongue.

Kaburamaru stirred beside him, coiled loosely atop the blanket. The serpent’s head lifted slightly, tongue flicking the air before settling again, as though sensing Obanai’s unrest.

He turned toward the window. The world outside glowed faintly, washed in pale light — moonlight reflecting off snow. It was still falling. Of course it was.

He could feel it again — that same restless pull in his chest. The same one that had haunted him since waking. He told himself it was just habit, that he was simply uneasy being confined to a bed. But even as he thought it, his eyes drifted toward the door.

Somewhere beyond it, down the hall and to the right, was another room.

Giyuu’s room.

Obanai exhaled slowly, the air leaving him in a shaky sigh. He told himself he wouldn’t move. That it was stupid — reckless, even. But the thought didn’t fade.

He rubbed at the edge of the blanket, fingers twitching slightly. Then, almost without realizing it, he started to sit up.

Obanai pushed himself upright, the motion slow and uneven. The sheets rustled softly beneath his hands as the room tilted faintly around him. When he shifted his weight, pain shot up his left leg — sharp and deep, the kind that made his breath hitch behind the bandages. He stilled, fingers tightening around the blanket until the ache ebbed into a dull, rhythmic throb.

Kaburamaru stirred at his side, tongue flicking as if tasting the unease in the air. When Obanai swung one leg — the uninjured one — over the edge of the bed, the serpent slithered after him, looping around his arm with quiet insistence.

“Stay,” Obanai murmured under his breath, voice muffled but firm. The snake ignored him, tightening its hold, scales cool against his wrist.

He sighed through his nose. “Fine. Do what you want.”

When his feet met the floorboards, the cold went straight up his legs. He reached for the nightstand, using it for balance as his injured leg trembled under him. His left knee buckled slightly, forcing him to shift his weight to the other side. The motion sent another spike of pain through the limb, and he bit down on a quiet sound of frustration.

The room was dim, moonlight tracing pale outlines across the walls — the folded robe on the chair, the basin of water, the faint shimmer of glass beside it. Every sound felt amplified in the stillness: the soft rattle of the window in the wind, the faint rustle of Kaburamaru adjusting his coils.

He breathed slowly, steadying himself.

He knew he shouldn’t be standing. Shinobu would have his head for this if she found out. But the thought wouldn’t leave him — the same restless pull that had been gnawing at him since he woke.

He just needed to see for himself.

Not yet, he told himself. Just… not yet.

Still, his gaze lingered on the door — that thin frame of shadow against the light — as if waiting for it to open first.

Obanai stood there longer than he meant to, one hand gripping the edge of the nightstand for balance. The ache in his left leg burned dully, a steady reminder that his body wasn’t ready for this. Kaburamaru’s weight shifted as the serpent adjusted around his shoulders, tongue flicking toward the door.

“You too, huh?” Obanai muttered quietly. His voice came out hoarse, worn thin by days of silence and sleep.

The serpent’s head tilted, eyes catching the faint light from the window. It wasn’t an answer, not really — but Obanai understood it as one.

He took a slow breath and eased a step forward. The first was cautious, testing. The second sent a tremor up his thigh, pain blooming hot under the layers of bandages. He nearly lost his balance, catching himself on the wall with a quiet grunt. Kaburamaru tightened around him again, the serpent’s body bracing lightly against his neck, as if urging him back to bed.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. But the lie sounded hollow in the still air.

The floorboards creaked under his uneven steps as he reached for the doorframe. His fingers brushed against the wood — smooth and faintly cool. He hesitated there, his head dipping forward as if the weight of exhaustion itself had found him.

From outside came the faint sound of the night — wind stirring through the trees, the soft clatter of distant movement from the Kakushi tending to late duties. The Butterfly Mansion never truly slept, even when it was quiet.

Obanai swallowed, his throat dry. “Just one look,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

Kaburamaru shifted again, coiling tighter — uneasy.

The serpent’s warmth was faint, but grounding. Enough to make him pause, his fingers still resting on the door.

His left leg gave another sharp protest when he tried to take a step, and the sudden pain nearly buckled him. He caught himself before falling, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

He pressed his shoulder against the wall, breathing through the pain, jaw tight beneath the bandages. For a long moment, he stayed there — suspended between impulse and reason.

If he left this room, Shinobu would know by morning. But the thought of staying — of not knowing — was worse.

Still, he didn’t move yet. He just stood there, head bowed, the moonlight catching faintly on the serpent’s scales and the tension in his trembling hands.

Obanai steadied himself against the wall, drawing a slow breath that stung on the way in. The ache in his leg had dulled to a heavy throb, but every step sent another wave of pain rippling up through it.

Kaburamaru slithered down partway along his arm, tongue flicking anxiously toward the darkened hallway beyond the door — as if trying to gauge how far his master meant to go.

The corridor was quiet, washed in pale light from the paper lamps set at even intervals. Shadows stretched long and thin across the floor, and the faint scent of disinfectant still hung in the air.

Obanai hesitated again. He knew which room was Giyuu’s — just a few doors away. The knowledge pulled at him like gravity. He didn’t know what he expected to see, or hear, only that not knowing gnawed at him far worse than the pain.

He took another step. The floor creaked faintly. Kaburamaru’s tail tightened against his shoulder in protest, but Obanai ignored it.

His breath came shallow now, the hall seeming to lengthen with every slow movement. He reached the next lantern — one more door down — before the pain spiked sharply again, flashing up his thigh to his hip. The world tilted.

He caught the wall with both hands, gasping against the burn in his leg. His vision wavered — the edges darkening, the light ahead smearing faintly.

“Damn it…” His voice came out rough, barely more than a whisper.

Kaburamaru hissed low, a sound that almost carried panic.

Obanai tried to take another step — just one more — but his leg gave out completely this time. His knee hit the floor with a muted thud, followed by his shoulder as he slipped sideways against the wall.

The world blurred around him — the dim corridor, the flicker of lamplight, Kaburamaru’s movement across his chest. He clenched his jaw, trying to push himself up, but his body refused to obey.

He could hear the faint sound of footsteps somewhere deeper in the mansion — distant, maybe imagined.

His breath trembled as he let his head fall back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. “Not… yet…” he murmured. But the exhaustion that had been pressing at the edges all night finally pulled him under.

Kaburamaru coiled close against his neck again, tongue flicking once before settling — guarding him quietly in the dim, still hall.

The pain hit harder now that he’d stopped moving — sharp and throbbing, radiating from his left leg up through his side. Every pulse of it made his breath catch. Obanai tried again to push himself upright, but his arm trembled beneath his weight and slipped uselessly against the smooth wood of the wall.

Kaburamaru hissed again, more insistently this time, his body tense where he rested against Obanai’s shoulder.

“Quiet,” Obanai muttered through gritted teeth, though even that came out weak, barely a whisper. His head felt heavy, and the cold sweat running down the back of his neck made him shiver despite the warmth of the hallway.

Then — a sound.

Soft footsteps, almost silent but not to someone trained to listen for them. Obanai’s eyes lifted, sluggish, toward the faint movement at the far end of the hall.

Kanao.

She stood just beyond the pool of lamplight, eyes wide in surprise as she took in the sight of the Serpent Hashira half-slumped against the wall, pale and trembling. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved — Kaburamaru’s head lifted warily, tongue flicking toward her.

“K–Kocho-san!” Kanao called softly over her shoulder, instinctive, but she didn’t wait for an answer before rushing forward.

Obanai tried to wave her off — or at least he thought he did — but the motion came out weak, unconvincing. His breath hitched again when she knelt beside him.

“I don’t need—” He winced mid-sentence, jaw tightening as pain lanced up his leg again.

Kanao hesitated only a moment before slipping an arm behind his shoulders, steady but cautious. “You shouldn’t be walking,” she said quietly, her tone even but edged with concern. “You’ll reopen the injury.”

Her words were simple, but something in her voice — soft, almost maternal despite her calm — made him glance away.

“I wasn’t…” He paused, breath shaky. “…wasn’t trying to leave.”

Kanao glanced toward the end of the hallway, where the other rooms were. Her expression softened slightly, though she said nothing. It didn’t take much to guess where he’d been heading.

“You should be resting,” she said instead, her voice firmer now. “Can you stand?”

Obanai grimaced, testing his leg only to immediately regret it. “…No.”

She nodded, quiet but decisive. “Then don’t move.”

With surprising strength for her size, Kanao eased his arm around her shoulder and lifted — slowly, carefully — until he was upright again. Kaburamaru adjusted himself automatically, slithering to the other side for balance.

As they started back toward his room, Kanao spoke softly, just above a whisper:
“If you wanted to see him… you should’ve waited until morning.”

Obanai didn’t answer. His throat felt tight, his pride and exhaustion warring with the simple truth of her words.

By the time they reached his door, the pain had dulled to a deep, relentless ache. Kanao helped him sit back on the edge of the bed, then straightened, brushing her hair back with a quiet sigh.

She didn’t ask why he’d gone. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she said gently, “Try to rest, Iguro-san. I’ll tell Kocho-san you’re awake.”

Obanai didn’t reply — only leaned back slowly against the headboard, Kaburamaru curling close again under his chin.

As Kanao slid the door shut, the faint sound of wind against the windows returned — the muffled, rhythmic hush of snow still falling outside.

———

Kanao moved swiftly down the quiet hallway, the hem of her uniform whispering against the polished floorboards. The lanterns had burned low, their light dim and soft, casting long shadows against the walls. She glanced back once toward Obanai’s door before turning the corner toward Shinobu’s office.

Through the papered door, a faint glow was still visible — Shinobu was awake, as usual, her hours stretching far later than anyone else’s. Kanao hesitated only briefly before sliding the door open.

Shinobu looked up from the papers scattered across her desk. “Kanao? It’s late,” she said gently, though her tone was more curious than scolding. “Is something wrong?”

Kanao stepped inside, bowing her head slightly. “It’s about Iguro-san,” she began, her voice even but quiet.

That caught Shinobu’s full attention. The pen she’d been holding stilled in her fingers. “What about him? His condition?”

“He’s awake,” Kanao replied. “He’s been awake for a while, I think… but I found him in the hall just now.”

Shinobu’s brows lifted slightly, though her expression remained calm. “In the hall?”

Kanao nodded. “He was trying to walk on his own. It looked like he was heading toward Tomioka-san’s room.”

Shinobu exhaled softly, setting her pen down. For a moment she said nothing, her gaze lowering to the half-finished reports on her desk — then back to Kanao.

“Did he say anything?” she asked finally.

Kanao shook her head. “Not really. Just that he wasn’t trying to leave.” She paused. “…He seemed… determined. Even with the pain.”

A faint smile touched Shinobu’s lips, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That sounds like him.” She rose from her seat, brushing her haori sleeves smooth. “Thank you, Kanao. You did well to bring him back.”

Kanao hesitated as Shinobu moved past her toward the door. “Will you check on him?”

“Yes,” Shinobu said softly, pausing in the doorway. “He shouldn’t be pushing himself yet. Especially not tonight.”

Kanao glanced out toward the windows lining the corridor, where a pale light flickered beyond the paper screens — the reflection of moonlight on snow still falling. “It’s still snowing,” she murmured.

Shinobu followed her gaze for a moment, thoughtful. “…Then it’s colder than I thought.”

With that, she stepped quietly into the hall, the door sliding shut behind her with a muted click.

The mansion was still. Only the soft rustle of her footsteps broke the silence as she walked toward Obanai’s room — the snow outside falling in steady rhythm, the night deep and calm, holding its breath.

———

Shinobu slid the door open quietly, careful not to startle him if he’d drifted off. The lantern inside burned low, its glow soft and golden, casting thin shadows across the walls. Obanai was awake — she could tell even before she stepped inside. He sat half-upright against the headboard, his breathing shallow but steady, Kaburamaru coiled loosely around his right arm.

Shinobu closed the door behind her with a quiet click. “You really should be resting, Iguro-san,” she said, her tone calm but edged with something between reproach and concern. “Kanao said she found you in the hall.”

Obanai didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted to the window, where flakes of snow still fell against the faint outline of the garden. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said finally, voice muffled beneath the bandages around his mouth. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“You didn’t,” Shinobu replied, moving closer. She stopped beside his bed, folding her hands before her. “But you shouldn’t be walking yet. Your leg isn’t ready to bear weight, not fully. You’re lucky Kanao was nearby.”

He looked away, irritation flickering across his features. “I wasn’t going far,” he muttered. “Just needed to move… clear my head.”

Shinobu’s gaze softened. She didn’t press — she didn’t have to. “Tomioka-san is still resting,” she said quietly. “His condition is stable. You’ll see him soon enough.”

There was a pause. Kaburamaru lifted his head slightly, tongue flicking out as if to taste the air between them.

Obanai leaned back against the headboard, shoulders stiff. “You make it sound like I’ll break if I stand.”

“You nearly did,” Shinobu replied, her tone matter-of-fact. “You’ve been awake for a day after three unconscious. Your body’s still catching up.”

He didn’t argue, though his silence said enough — irritation masking exhaustion, guilt sitting heavy under both.

Shinobu stepped closer, adjusting the blanket that had slipped from his lap. “Try not to test your limits so soon,” she said more softly. “You’ve both been through more than enough.”

At that, Obanai’s gaze flickered upward, sharp but uncertain. “Both?”

She met his eyes. “You and Tomioka-san.” Then, quieter still, “He’s still asleep, but he’s breathing steadily now. That’s something.”

For a long moment, Obanai said nothing. The room fell silent except for the soft rustle of snow against the window and Kaburamaru’s faint movements.

Finally, he exhaled, slow and careful. “…I see.”

Shinobu lingered a moment longer, studying him, then turned toward the door. “Get some rest, Iguro-san. Please.”

And with that, she slid the door closed behind her, leaving him once again in the dim light — the snow still falling, quiet as breath.

———

Morning came slow.
A pale gold light seeped through the thin curtains, brushing across the wooden floor and the edges of the bed where Obanai lay. The warmth wasn’t much — barely enough to chase away the chill that clung to the Butterfly Mansion’s rooms — but it was the first light he’d seen in days that didn’t feel hostile.

Kaburamaru stirred before he did, uncoiling from the crook of his neck and gliding lazily across his shoulder. Obanai blinked himself awake, the motion tight from stiffness and interrupted rest. His leg ached sharply when he shifted — not unbearable, but enough to remind him that the night before hadn’t been some fevered dream.

He glanced toward the small table beside his bed. A bowl of soup sat there, long gone cold, and a folded cloth rested beside it. Someone — Shinobu, probably — had been in to check on him while he slept.

“…Persistent woman,” he muttered under his breath, though the complaint lacked its usual bite.

He adjusted his sitting position, leaning his good arm on the wall behind him. The air smelled faintly of herbs and disinfectant, the scent that never quite left this place. It was familiar, but not comforting. Nothing about comfort came easily to him.

Kaburamaru raised his head, flicking his tongue toward the door.
“Nothing’s coming,” Obanai murmured, though he reached for the serpent anyway, letting it curl loosely around his wrist. The silence pressed in. He could hear faint voices from the hall — Aoi’s sharp tone, the soft shuffle of Kakushi carrying laundry or medicine — the small, steady rhythms of people who didn’t know what it meant to freeze halfway to death.

He’d been one of them once. He wondered when that stopped feeling true.

A knock came at the door — soft but deliberate.
Obanai straightened, ignoring the pull of pain in his leg.
“Come in.”

The door slid open, revealing Shinobu with her usual composed smile, though the faint lines of fatigue around her eyes gave her away. She carried her medical tray in one hand and a small notebook in the other.

“Good morning, Iguro,” she said lightly. “You actually slept this time. That’s a good sign.”

Obanai gave a low hum, something between a grunt and reluctant agreement. “Didn’t have much of a choice. I was exhausted.”

“That’s progress,” she replied, moving closer. She set her things down and knelt beside the bed, careful hands lifting the blanket just enough to check his bandaged leg. “No swelling. The color’s returning nicely.”

Kaburamaru shifted toward her, tongue flicking curiously. Shinobu chuckled faintly. “Good morning to you too. Still keeping watch, I see.”

Obanai’s gaze dropped to her hands as she worked — precise, steady, never lingering longer than needed.

“How long?” he asked quietly.

She glanced up. “How long until you can walk again? A few days, maybe less if you keep resting.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the window, where the snow outside still drifted softly down.

“…How long has he been out?” he finally asked.

Shinobu paused, the briefest flicker of understanding crossing her features. She didn’t ask who he meant.

“Four days,” she said gently. “But he’s stable.”

Something tightened in Obanai’s jaw, but he gave a single nod, more to himself than to her.

“That’s good,” he said quietly.

Shinobu finished rewrapping the bandage and straightened. “Keep it elevated for the morning. I’ll have someone bring you something warm to eat soon.”

When she turned to leave, Obanai’s voice stopped her.
“Kocho.”

She looked back, one eyebrow raised.

“…Thank you.”

For once, there was no edge in his tone — just weary sincerity.

Shinobu’s smile softened. “You’re welcome, Iguro.”

And with that, she left, the door sliding quietly shut behind her.

Obanai stared at the window again, the snow beyond it falling thinner now — not gone, but easing.

Still snowing. Still breathing.

Notes:

I’m really sorry I haven't posted guys. I’ve had some stuff going on and haven’t had the motivation to write.

Sorry it’s short.

I didn’t proofread this one so let me know if there’s any problems.

Chapter 12: The Long Silence

Summary:

Confined to recovery in the Butterfly Mansion, Obanai struggles with restlessness and the weight of unanswered questions. Visits from familiar faces test his patience and reveal the worry he tries so hard to hide. Between uneasy silences and quiet conversations, he’s forced to confront what it means to wait — and what it means to care.

Notes:

This fic idea came from Clem/knyinsomniac on tik tok.

Any dynamics in this story may be viewed as romantic or platonic.

Morning bled into afternoon with no distinction — just the same muted light, the same steady snowfall outside the window. Obanai sat propped against the headboard, arms crossed tightly over his chest as though bracing against a cold only he could feel.

His left leg throbbed beneath the blankets. The ache was duller than before, but still enough to remind him why he was stuck here like this — useless, immobile, and monitored every hour as if he were a reckless child.

Which, apparently, he was.

Kaburamaru was wrapped loosely around his shoulders, head resting on Obanai’s collar as though sensing his simmering frustration. The serpent flicked his tongue now and then, a reassuring rhythm in the otherwise suffocating stillness.

Obanai exhaled sharply through his nose.

Confined again.
Confined when he should be out searching.
Confined when he didn’t even know if—

He stopped the thought before it could finish.

No. Giyuu was alive. Shinobu had said so. His heartbeat had been there. His breathing. Slow… but there.

Still.

The silence of the estate felt like a held breath. Too quiet. Too expectant.

A soft knock interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

The door slid open before he could respond, and Mitsuri stepped inside — her hair still slightly damp from training outdoors, cheeks flushed pink with cold and worry. She carried a tray of food, hands careful but hopeful.

“I brought breakfast!” she said with a small smile, trying — and failing — to hide how nervous she was.

Obanai looked away immediately, jaw tightening.
“I’m not hungry.”

Mitsuri’s expression fell, but she approached anyway, placing the tray beside his bed.

“You should still eat,” she murmured gently. “Your body needs strength to heal.”

“I’m healing fine,” Obanai muttered. He didn’t mean for it to sound sharp — he just didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to explain the restlessness gnawing under his skin.

Mitsuri hesitated… then sat on the edge of the bed with quiet determination.

“You haven’t asked yet,” she said softly.

Obanai frowned. “…Asked what.”

She met his eyes — steady, kind, and far too perceptive.

“How Giyuu is doing today.”

His breath hitched. Barely. But she noticed anyway.

Obanai looked away, hiding the flash of alarm tightening his chest. “There’s no point asking every hour. The answer hasn’t changed.”

Mitsuri’s lips pressed into a thin line.
“But you still want to know,” she said — not a question, but a truth laid bare.

Obanai grit his teeth. “It wouldn’t change anything.”

“But it might make you feel better,” she countered quietly.

He refused to respond. If he opened his mouth now, he wasn’t sure irritation would be the only thing that came out.

Mitsuri stood after a moment, smoothing her uniform.
“I’ll go get the nurse and ask for you anyway.”

He tensed. “Don’t—”

“I want to,” she said simply, cutting him off. “You’re worried. Even if you won’t say it.”

Obanai stared at the blanket, anger burning beneath his ribs — not at her, but at how easy he was becoming to read.

Mitsuri offered him a final warm smile.
“I’ll be back soon.”

When she left, the room fell quiet again.

Kaburamaru lifted his head, nudging Obanai’s cheek with a scales-soft nose.

Obanai reached up, steadying the serpent with gentle fingers.

He closed his eyes.

The room was swallowed by the silence of the room — unheard by anyone but the snake who had always known the truth before he did.

The quiet did not last long.

A heavy, impatient knock rattled the door — a dramatic contrast to Mitsuri’s soft entrance from earlier.

Before Obanai could even respond, the door slid open.

Sanemi Shinazugawa stepped inside, arms crossed and expression already annoyed, as if Obanai himself had personally offended him by existing in a bed.

“You look like hell,” Sanemi said by way of greeting.

Obanai stared flatly.
“I’m flattered you made the trip to tell me that.”

Sanemi snorted, pulling up a stool and sitting like he owned the place. “Shinobu asked me to check in. Said if she came herself, you’d just glare and hiss at her again.”

Kaburamaru raised his head, tongue flicking at Sanemi.

Sanemi flicked a finger at the serpent. “Yeah, you too, worm.”

Kaburamaru hissed — indignant.

Obanai stroked Kaburamaru’s head once, a silent warning. “Say what you came to say.”

Sanemi leaned back, examining him with a sharp, discerning eye.
“So. You’re awake. That’s good.”

A beat of silence.

Then — casually, but with intent:

“Asked about Tomioka yet?”

Obanai’s jaw tensed.
“There’s no reason for you to bring him up.”

“Oh really?” Sanemi raised a brow. “Because Shinobu said the first thing you did when you woke up was ask if he was alive.”

Obanai glared.
“She should mind her own business.”

Sanemi smirked — the smirk of someone who had found a very amusing weakness.
“He’s still out cold. Stable, though. Which is more than I can say for your head.”

Obanai’s fingers dug into the blanket. Relief — violent and uninvited — shot through him at the word stable, but he swallowed it down before it could show.

Sanemi tapped his own temple.
“I’m not judging. If I nearly froze my ass off in the mountains with someone, I might be a little attached too.”

Attached.

Obanai’s breath stuttered.
Attached sounded too real, too close to something he didn’t want spoken aloud — especially by Shinazugawa of all people.

“You talk too much,” Obanai muttered.

Sanemi stood, stretching. “And you care too much.”

Obanai shot him a venomous look, but Sanemi only smirked wider — satisfied.

He took one step toward the door, paused… then added without turning back:

“Tomioka’s tough. Stupidly tough. He’s not going anywhere.”

Something inside Obanai loosened — just barely.

Sanemi opened the door fully, letting in a cold draft from the hallway.
“In the meantime… don’t be an idiot again. If I see you dragging yourself down the hall on one leg like a tragic worm, I will laugh.”

Kaburamaru hissed louder this time, offended on Obanai’s behalf.

Sanemi chuckled and left, sliding the door shut behind him.

Silence rushed back in — but not the same kind.
Not quite as heavy.
Not quite as sharp.

Obanai let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Kaburamaru coiled a little tighter around his neck, and Obanai rested a hand atop the serpent again.

Stable.

He clung to that word like a lifeline.

Because until Giyuu opened his eyes…

…it was all he had.

The moment Sanemi’s footsteps finally faded down the hall, Obanai sagged back against the pillow — exhausted more from the conversation than the injury. Kaburamaru coiled protectively around his shoulder, sensing the tension that never seemed to leave him.

He barely had a second to breathe before the door slid open again.

Mitsuri slipped inside — quickly, like she’d rushed back the moment she got news. Her eyes were soft with concern.

“I talked to the nurse,” she said right away, no hesitation, no preamble. She’d been waiting for a chance to tell him — he could hear it in her voice.

Obanai straightened automatically, grip firming on the blanket though he tried not to show it.
“And?”

Mitsuri clasped her hands tightly in front of her chest.
“Giyuu’s still unconscious… b-but he’s okay. His breathing is steady, and Shinobu says his body’s responding well to treatment.”

Relief struck Obanai so sharply it almost hurt. His nails dug deeper into the blanket to hide the tremor in his fingers.

“That’s… good,” he managed — the words dragged reluctantly from somewhere deep.

Mitsuri stepped closer, smiling — not cheerful, but reassuring.
“I knew you’d want to hear right away. I didn’t want you worrying while Sanemi was here yelling at you.”

Obanai straightened slightly at her gentle tone, grip tightening on the blanket.

“He wasn’t yelling,” he muttered.

Mitsuri giggled softly. “You’re both terrible at showing you care.”

Obanai’s shoulders stiffened, the tips of his ears warming.
“Sanemi doesn’t care,” he said quickly, too defensive.

Mitsuri tilted her head, eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit — soft, thoughtful.
“And you?” she asked carefully.

Obanai looked away at once, jaw tightening beneath the bandages.
He didn’t snap. He didn’t argue. He just avoided her gaze like the truth might burn.

“…I’m not scared,” he murmured — a lie so unconvincing even he could hear it.

Mitsuri nodded gently, accepting his pride for what it was.
“Of course. Then I’ll keep bringing you updates anyway. Just in case.”

His gaze flickered back to her — a small, restrained look of gratitude.

“…Thank you,” he said quietly.

Her expression bloomed into something warm and bright — not loud, not overwhelming. Just comfort.

“I’ll be back soon. Rest a little, okay?”

She slipped out, and silence returned — leaving Obanai alone with a heart pounding far too fast, and fear he refused to admit wasn’t his.

———

Aoi stood beside Shinobu’s desk, clipboard hugged to her chest. The only sound in the room was the gentle scratch of Shinobu’s pen as she wrote.

“How is he?” Aoi finally asked.

Shinobu paused — pen hovering for a moment — before answering.

“He’s stable,” she said first.

She set the pen aside, folding her hands neatly. Her tone remained calm, but not cold.

“His frostbite has stopped progressing. We managed to save every finger and toe — though sensation will take time to return.”

Aoi exhaled quietly, anxious tension easing — until Shinobu continued.

“The head injury is still concerning.”
She glanced toward the door, as if looking through walls to the patient beyond them.
“He’s breathing better. His pulse has strengthened. But he hasn’t woken yet.”

A beat.

“He responds to pain stimuli,” Shinobu added, softer.
“That’s a good sign.”

Aoi nodded, though the worry stayed etched between her brows.

“What about… his eyes?” she asked.

Shinobu’s expression tightened — just slightly.

“The wound cut dangerously close,” she said. “The swelling and damage from the cold are making it worse.”
She paused, considering the right balance of honesty.
“When he wakes, we’ll know more.”

Aoi swallowed. “Will he be able to see?”

Shinobu didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stood and walked to the shelves, selecting a fresh file. Her voice, when it returned, was gentle:

“There’s hope. And that is what we will work with.”

She turned back, a small, determined smile curving her lips.

“He’s strong. Stronger than he realizes.”

Aoi nodded, gripping her clipboard a little tighter.

“Should we tell Iguro-san?” she asked.

Shinobu considered that carefully.
“He doesn’t need something to obsess over yet,” she said lightly — but her eyes betrayed her understanding.
“He’s already pushing himself harder than his body can handle.”

Aoi nodded reluctantly. “He asked about Tomioka twice.”

“I’m sure he’ll ask a third time,” Shinobu said lightly, though her eyes softened with understanding.
“When Tomioka-san wakes… they’ll have much to explain.”

Aoi bowed slightly. “I’ll continue monitoring him.”

“And I’ll check on him again within the hour,” Shinobu replied.
Her voice gentled even further, almost a whisper:

“He’s fighting. He hasn’t stopped — even now.”

———

The room was still again. The faint smell of medicine clung to the air, sharp and sterile. Obanai lay on his side, one hand resting lightly on Kaburamaru’s coils, the other over the blanket that covered his bandaged leg. He should have been asleep. Shinobu had said rest would help the wound heal faster.

But every time he closed his eyes, the silence turned back into wind.

It was faint at first — a ghost of sound, the low rush of snow carried through memory. The cold came with it, crawling under his skin like it hadn’t really left. He remembered the sting in his lungs, the way his voice kept catching on his breath.

And behind it — another sound.
Steady. Heavy. Giyuu’s breathing.

Obanai’s fingers tightened around the blanket. He could still feel the slight sway of being carried, his weight balanced against Giyuu’s back, the faint rhythm of the other’s steps breaking through the snow. There had been nothing but white then — no sky, no road, no sense of direction. Only Giyuu’s voice, calm and slow, saying things he could barely remember now.

He frowned and shifted his head, the pillow rustling. His mouth hurt where the bandages pressed against the healing skin, but that pain at least was real — not something left over from the storm.

Kaburamaru stirred beside him, brushing against his wrist as if sensing his unease.

“I’m fine,” Obanai muttered under his breath, though the words came out hoarse.

The serpent stilled again, curling into itself.

Obanai stared up at the ceiling until the shapes in the wood blurred. The wind faded. The world was quiet again — too quiet. But the sound of those footsteps wouldn’t leave him, echoing somewhere deep in his chest, steady as a pulse.

The sound of the door sliding open was soft enough that Obanai almost didn’t hear it. He turned his head, expecting Shinobu or Mitsuri — but instead it was Aoi, carefully balancing a tray in both hands.

“You should eat something,” she said, her voice steady but cautious. She was used to stubborn patients; that much was clear.

Obanai pushed himself up slightly, the movement pulling at his left leg. Pain throbbed down his thigh, dull but persistent. He didn’t wince — he refused to — but Aoi’s eyes caught the tension anyway.

She set the tray down on the table beside his bed. Rice, miso soup, pickled vegetables. Steam rose faintly from the bowl, curling into the air before fading.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

“You haven’t eaten since last night,” she said, hands folding neatly in front of her. “You won’t heal if you don’t.”

Obanai didn’t respond. He looked at the food for a long time before finally reaching for the chopsticks. His hand hovered for a second, then dropped again.

Aoi hesitated, glanced toward the door, and quietly excused herself. When she returned, Kanao was with her — silent as always, eyes calm and unreadable. She stepped closer, setting down a small cup of tea.

For a while, neither spoke. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint rustle of Kaburamaru shifting beside him.

Obanai finally looked at her. Something in the way she stood — her posture, her stillness — tugged at a memory he couldn’t push aside. It wasn’t her face, but the quiet. The same kind of quiet Giyuu carried, steady and restrained, like words held back before they could be spoken.

He didn’t realize his hand had tightened around the blanket until Kaburamaru brushed against his wrist.

Kanao met his gaze briefly — calm, unafraid — then looked down, bowing politely before following Aoi out.

When the door closed again, the silence returned heavier than before. The food sat untouched.

Obanai leaned back against the pillows, jaw tight, forcing his breath through the unease pressing against his chest.

———

Shinobu moved quietly around the room, her steps light, almost soundless. She didn’t speak for a while — she didn’t need to. The tension sitting between them was enough to fill the space.

Obanai watched her in silence, eyes following the precise movements of her hands as she checked the wrappings on his leg. The pain was duller now, but it still throbbed beneath her touch — a faint reminder of how close he’d come to not walking again.

“You’re healing well,” she said softly, adjusting a strip of gauze. “Though not well enough to be testing your luck wandering the halls.”

He didn’t answer.

“You weren’t just going for a walk, were you?”

Her voice wasn’t accusing, just quiet — too understanding for his liking.

He looked away, jaw tightening, and said nothing.

Shinobu let the silence linger for a moment before continuing, “Kanao said you were heading toward Giyuu’s room.”

His hand curled slightly in the blanket. “She talks too much.”

“She said almost nothing,” Shinobu replied, amused. “But you can’t really blame her for being observant.”

She tied off the last bandage and sat back slightly, studying him. “You could’ve asked me how he was.”

“I did.”

Her smile deepened just enough to be teasing. “Once.”

He scowled but didn’t look at her. Kaburamaru shifted restlessly near his shoulder, sensing the tension.

Shinobu set her hands neatly in her lap. “You’re worried.”

Obanai’s shoulders stiffened. “I’m not.”

“I see,” she said, voice light. “You’re simply attempting to sneak into the room of a fellow Hashira in the middle of the night for… no reason at all.”

His glare sharpened, but it lacked real heat.

Shinobu tilted her head slightly. “You don’t need to explain it to me. I just want to make sure you don’t tear your stitches trying to stand.”

That silence stretched again — long enough that she almost thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Then, finally, he exhaled sharply. “He dragged me through half that mountain,” he muttered, voice low. “Could barely see. Could barely breathe. And he didn’t stop.”

Shinobu’s eyes softened, but she stayed quiet.

Obanai’s hands tightened over the blanket. “He should’ve left me. Anyone else would have.” His jaw clenched, the words rough around the edges. “And now he’s lying there, half-frozen and blind, and I—” He broke off, breath catching somewhere between anger and guilt. “I’m sitting here doing nothing.”

Shinobu let out a quiet sigh, the kind that wasn’t quite pity, but close. “You’re healing,” she said simply. “That’s not nothing.”

“It feels like it.”

“I know,” she murmured.

She stood then, smoothing her haori and giving him one last look — not a lecture this time, but a quiet understanding that made it worse somehow.

“I’ll tell you when he wakes,” she said. “Until then… try to stay in bed, please.”

She turned to leave, pausing only once at the doorway. “And Iguro?”

He looked up.

Her expression softened just slightly. “He wouldn’t want you hurting yourself over him. You know that.”

The door slid shut with a soft click.

Obanai stared at the empty space for a long time, the sound of the wind slipping through the eaves filling the silence.

Kaburamaru stirred, flicking his tongue against Obanai’s wrist.

“…I know,” he muttered finally.

But he didn’t sound convinced.

Kaburamaru slithered closer, curling against the crook of his neck. Obanai reached up absently, fingers brushing the serpent’s scales. The room was still — too still.

He let out a slow breath, shoulders sinking back into the pillow. “Sleep,” he muttered to himself, as if saying it aloud would make it easier.

But the second he closed his eyes, the sound of the storm crept back into his head — the crunch of snow, the ragged breathing beside him, the weight of another body keeping him upright. He turned on his side, trying to push it away.

The candle by his bed had nearly burned down to the wick, its light flickering weakly against the walls.

Eventually, exhaustion won. His breathing slowed, uneven but steady, and Kaburamaru shifted once before going still.

Outside, the wind eased. The night deepened. Somewhere else in the Butterfly Mansion — quiet but not silent — another breath caught.

And for the first time in days, it wasn’t Obanai’s.

Notes:

Hiii I’m so sorry I’ve taken so long to post. So much wa happening and I just want feeling up to writing.

Next chapters already half way done so I’ll get it posted within the next day or two. Thanks for the love and thank you for being patient!

Chapter 13: When He Breathes Again

Summary:

After days of unconsciousness, Giyuu finally wakes to find himself under Shinobu’s care. As he adjusts to his injuries and the world around him, he starts to realize what survival truly cost. Elsewhere, Obanai’s patience begins to fray as he waits for news that never seems to come.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem/Knyinsomiac on tik tok

Any dynamics in this fic may be viewed as romantic or platonic.

It was the sound of water that reached him first.

A soft, steady drip — somewhere close, somewhere real. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been hearing it. Maybe minutes. Maybe days. The world was quiet, and his body felt impossibly heavy, as though the snow had followed him here and settled inside his bones.

Giyuu tried to move. The smallest shift sent dull aches up his arm and through his chest. His throat was dry, and when he breathed in, the air carried the faint smell of medicine and clean bandages.

He opened his eyes — or tried to. Everything was dark.
Not just dim — dark.

His pulse jumped. Then he realized: something was wrapped around his head. A bandage.

He exhaled shakily. Not blind. Not yet.

The memory of the last thing he’d seen flickered in his mind — a flash of white, Obanai’s voice cutting through the wind, and then the world falling away into silence.

Footsteps broke the quiet now, light and measured. A door slid open with a soft click.

“Oh,” a voice breathed. It was Aoi. “You’re awake.”

Her words were soft but startled, as if she’d been half-dreading this moment. Giyuu tried to speak, but all that came out was a low rasp — the ghost of a sound.

She was beside him in an instant, the rustle of her apron brushing against the bed.
“Don’t try to sit up,” she said gently. “You’ve been unconscious for almost five days. We thought…” She trailed off. “You’re at the Butterfly Mansion. You’re safe.”

He nodded faintly, the motion small and stiff. His throat worked before another sound came, quiet, barely audible:
“…Obanai?”

There was a pause. Then Aoi’s tone softened.
“He woke three days ago. He’s still resting, but his condition’s stable.”

Something in Giyuu’s chest eased — not relief exactly, but a release of tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He turned his head slightly toward the sound of her voice. The bandages over his eyes felt thick, warm, pressing down on him like a reminder.

“I remember…” His voice came out rough, a whisper strained by disuse. “He was talking… guiding me.”

“You both made it down the mountain,” Aoi said quietly. “Barely, but you did. You saved each other.”

The words lingered, faint and fragile.

Giyuu’s fingers twitched against the sheet, searching unconsciously for his haori, for something familiar. “Is he… okay?” he murmured at last.

“Yes,” Aoi said after a beat. “He’s healing. Though… he hasn’t been sleeping much.”

He nodded again, the smallest motion, but his breathing faltered.

Silence settled between them — not uncomfortable, just heavy.

Aoi adjusted his blanket, and her movements were careful, deliberate, as though afraid any sudden sound might pull him back under. When she finally stood to leave, the room felt too quiet again, and the faint sound of her retreating steps left only the slow, uneven rhythm of his own breath.

Giyuu lay still long after she’d gone. His body was weak, his limbs leaden, but his mind wouldn’t settle. Fragments of the blizzard clung to him — snow biting his skin, Obanai’s voice sharp and distant through the wind, and the weight of another heartbeat against his shoulder as the world dimmed.

“…Iguro,” he whispered to the dark, the name little more than air.

No answer came, but something deep inside him — an echo of memory, or maybe instinct — told him he wasn’t alone. Not really.

And somewhere down the hall, Kaburamaru stirred awake.

The next time Giyuu woke, the light felt different.
Warmer, faintly gold through the bandages — a shift that told him it was day. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but his throat didn’t burn quite as much when he breathed.

The door opened again, slower this time. The sound of soft footsteps followed — lighter than Aoi’s, deliberate, confident.
He didn’t need to see to know who it was.

“Good morning, Tomioka,” Shinobu said gently.

Her voice carried that same lilting calm he remembered, only softer now. Not mocking. Not teasing. Just… quiet.

He turned slightly toward her voice, still too tired to lift his head much. “Kocho.”

“That’s good,” she said, almost to herself. “You’re aware enough to respond. You gave everyone quite the scare.”

She was closer now — he could feel the faint stir of air from her movement, hear the rustle of paper as she set something down beside him. The smell of her work followed: herbs, salve, something faintly floral and antiseptic.

“I need to check your bandages,” she said, her tone businesslike again but not unkind. “Don’t move.”

He obeyed, still and silent, as her fingers worked deftly against the cloth at his temple. A few layers came loose, and cool air brushed against his skin.

“Your eyes are still healing,” she continued. “The damage from the injury was… severe. But the frost didn’t worsen it as much as we feared.”

Giyuu said nothing.

She adjusted the wrapping slightly, letting him feel the light through one corner — still dim, but there. Just enough for his mind to remember what light was.

“You might regain full vision,” she said, as though she didn’t quite believe her own optimism. “Or you might not. It’s too soon to tell.”

He gave a small nod. “I see.”

Her hands stilled. “Not yet,” she replied, and there was the faintest trace of humor in her voice.

He almost smiled, but it faded before it could form.

Shinobu’s voice softened again. “You’ve been unconscious for a long time. You’re still weak. It’ll take some time before you can sit up.”

He wanted to ask — how long exactly? what happened after? — but the words didn’t come. The exhaustion pressed too heavily against him.

“You should rest,” she murmured, standing again. “Aoi and I will bring food soon. Try to eat something when you can.”

He listened to the sound of her steps as she turned toward the door. Then, quietly, he spoke:
“…Was anyone else injured?”

Shinobu paused. “Some of the search teams returned with mild frostbite and exhaustion,” she said after a moment. “But everyone’s stable now.”

Her answer was careful. Neutral.

He didn’t question it — just gave the smallest nod.

When she left, the room settled into silence again. The kind that seemed to hum faintly, filled with the echo of his own pulse.

He lay still for a long time, eyes closed behind the bandages. The faint warmth from the window touched his cheek, but he couldn’t shake the lingering chill under his skin — the ghost of the storm that still clung to him.

Outside, somewhere far beyond the paper walls, snow was still falling.

———

The afternoon light filtered pale and thin through the shoji doors, falling across Shinobu’s desk in quiet strips. The Butterfly Mansion was hushed — only the faint shuffling of feet in the corridors, the muted clink of glass jars as Aoi tended to her supplies nearby.

Shinobu set her brush aside, finishing the last note in her logbook:

Tomioka Giyuu – vitals stable. Motor response weak. Visual prognosis uncertain. Orientation intact.

The ink bled slightly into the paper before she closed it.

It should have felt like progress. Days ago, both men had been half-frozen, beyond her reach. Now, one had woken. Yet the weight in her chest hadn’t lifted.

She exhaled quietly and turned as Aoi entered, carrying a tray with tea. “You should rest a little, Shinobu-san,” Aoi said. “You haven’t left your office since morning.”

Shinobu gave a small, practiced smile. “Resting is for the ones who don’t have patients trying to escape hallways with half-healed legs.”

Aoi sighed. “Iguro-san hasn’t tried again, I checked. He’s asleep.”

“That’s something,” Shinobu murmured, accepting the cup. The warmth was pleasant against her hands. “And Tomioka?”

“He’s awake again, a little. Didn’t eat much, but he drank some water.”

Shinobu nodded, gaze unfocused. “Good.”

Aoi hesitated before speaking again. “When I changed his bandages earlier, he asked how long it’s been. I think he was… confused. Maybe worried.”

“That’s normal,” Shinobu replied softly, but her tone betrayed her own unease. “He’s only just come back to himself. It will take time.”

A pause lingered between them before Aoi spoke again, quieter now. “Should we tell him about Iguro-san?”

Shinobu’s eyes flicked to the window, where snow was still drifting down beyond the glass. “Not yet,” she said finally. “He’s still recovering. There’s no need to burden him until he’s strong enough.”

Aoi nodded, though she looked unconvinced. “And Iguro-san?”

“He deserves to know, too,” Shinobu admitted, almost under her breath. “But… not tonight.”

She took another sip of tea, the silence stretching comfortably between them.

After a while, she stood. “I’ll check on him again before sundown,” she said.

“Which one?” Aoi asked, though the answer was obvious.

Shinobu’s smile returned — faint but genuine. “Both.”

———

The Butterfly Mansion was quiet again. Too quiet.

Obanai sat half-upright in bed, the blanket folded neatly over his legs, though his left one still throbbed with dull pain if he moved too much. Kaburamaru was coiled around his shoulders, the snake’s body warm and faintly shifting with each slow breath.

He’d grown familiar with every sound this place made — the soft padding of slippers, the squeak of the sliding doors, the faint whistle of the evening wind through the cracks in the wood. But tonight, there was something different.

Down the hall — the same hall he’d memorized days ago — a door opened. Once, twice. Then again, slower this time. Voices. The door shutting again.

Giyuu’s room.

They’d been quiet there since the day the rescue team brought them back, but tonight, it sounded busier. People moving in and out. Checking. Talking.

Kaburamaru lifted his head, flicking his tongue as though to confirm it. Obanai’s jaw tightened.

When his own door opened, he already knew who it was.

“Still awake, Iguro-san?” Shinobu’s voice was calm, carrying the faint scent of medicine and the cool air from the hall.

Obanai didn’t look at her right away. “Why are they going into Tomioka’s room so much tonight?” His tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried something heavy underneath — suspicion, worry, maybe both.

Shinobu paused mid-step, glancing at him with that unreadable smile she always seemed to wear. “You’ve been paying close attention,” she said softly.

He turned toward her, his bandaged mouth shifting as he muttered, “You’re not answering the question.”

She sighed quietly, brushing her sleeves back as she crossed to his bedside table, where a small lamp burned low. The light caught on her eyes as she finally said, “He woke up.”

Obanai’s breath hitched just slightly — almost imperceptible — but enough for Kaburamaru to stir.

“When?”

“This morning,” Shinobu replied.

His brow furrowed, and for a second, silence filled the room again. Then, low and tight, “And you’re just telling me now?”

Shinobu met his glare with practiced calm. “He needed rest. You do too.”

“That’s not the point,” Obanai said, voice rougher now. “I had to hear it from the noise in the hallway.”

Shinobu didn’t argue — she just watched him, reading the flicker of irritation behind his words. “You would’ve gone straight to his room if I’d told you sooner,” she said quietly.

He looked away at that, expression hard to read.

“Don’t strain yourself, Iguro-san,” she added after a moment, her tone softening. “He’s weak, but he’s awake. That’s what matters.”

His fingers were curled slightly over his knee, the effort of holding still almost visible.

“You shouldn’t be getting worked up,” she said quietly. “You’re still healing.”

“I’m not worked up,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the far wall.

Kaburamaru shifted restlessly at his collar, betraying him.

Shinobu stepped closer, her sandals whispering against the floor. “Your leg’s not ready to bear weight yet. You were lucky it didn’t reopen after last time.”

Obanai’s jaw tightened. “You think I care about that right now?”

“That’s exactly the problem.” She folded her hands neatly in front of her. “You’ll do more harm than good if you push yourself tonight.”

He didn’t respond — just exhaled slowly through his nose, the muscle in his jaw twitching. The faint lines under his eyes deepened; exhaustion was catching up, though his mind clearly refused to stop turning.

After a pause, Shinobu continued, gentler now. “If you rest tonight, I’ll help you to his room tomorrow. You have my word.”

Obanai’s head turned at that, eyes narrowing slightly, studying her as though trying to find a trick behind the offer.

“You’re serious,” he finally said.

“Of course.” She gave a faint smile. “I’d rather assist you than have to scold you again for collapsing in the hallway.”

He looked away, the tips of his ears reddening just faintly — whether from irritation or embarrassment, even he didn’t seem to know.

“I don’t need help,” he muttered.

“Then think of it as supervision,” she countered smoothly. “I’ll make sure you don’t fall flat on your face in front of Tomioka.”

That earned her a quiet huff, almost a laugh but not quite. He turned his gaze toward the window instead, where moonlight spilled faintly across the floorboards.

“…Tomorrow,” he said after a long silence. “Fine.”

Shinobu nodded, satisfied. “Good. Try to sleep now, Iguro-san. You’ll need the strength.”

When she finally left, closing the door softly behind her, the quiet returned — but it wasn’t quite as heavy as before.

Obanai leaned back against the headboard, Kaburamaru settling into the crook of his neck. He didn’t close his eyes right away.

Tomorrow.

The thought lingered, restless and sharp — somewhere between hope and dread.

———

The mansion was silent but for the low hiss of wind brushing against the walls. A lantern burned faintly in the corner, its light flickering across the room in uneven pulses. Obanai lay still on the bed, his right arm draped over his stomach, eyes open to the dark. He’d told Shinobu he would rest, and he’d meant to. But every time he closed his eyes, the quiet turned sharp — full of memory, full of things he didn’t want to remember.

Kaburamaru stirred from the pillow beside him and slipped onto his chest, tongue flicking once before curling under his chin. Obanai exhaled slowly.
“Go back to sleep,” he muttered, voice low and rough. The serpent didn’t move.

He shifted slightly, grimacing as pain flared up his left leg — a dull, constant ache beneath the bandages. He’d gotten used to pain over the years; it was the helplessness that gnawed at him. The idea of Giyuu lying somewhere down the hall, still half-buried in that same cold they’d both escaped, clawed at him worse than the wound itself.

From outside, footsteps passed — soft, rhythmic, fading down the corridor. He listened to them until they disappeared, counting the seconds after in case they came back. Nothing. Only wind again.

Obanai’s hand drifted toward the edge of the blanket, fingers curling and uncurling. His skin still felt cold, even here under the covers. In his head, he kept hearing the storm — the crunch of snow under Giyuu’s boots, the sharp pull of breath through chapped lips, that faint voice he’d followed when everything else had gone quiet. He pressed his good hand against his temple as if to still it.

“Pathetic,” he whispered under his breath, half to himself. Kaburamaru lifted his head at the sound. “I know,” he said quietly, eyes flicking toward the ceiling, “I should be asleep.”

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that — eyes open, the lantern burning low, counting the steady pulse of pain in his leg. At some point, the glow dimmed further, shadows rising up the walls until the room seemed to breathe with him, shallow and uneven.

For a moment, he thought he heard something else — faint movement down the hall, a door sliding softly open and shut. He held still, listening. Then, when it didn’t come again, he closed his eyes and told himself it was just a nurse.

Kaburamaru settled again. The serpent’s slow warmth against his collarbone was the only thing keeping him tethered — small, rhythmic, alive.

He didn’t sleep. But eventually, the edges of thought began to blur, and he let his eyes stay closed, the cold in his memory finally fading to quiet.

———

The room smelled faintly of herbs and antiseptic. Lantern light brushed faint color across the shoji walls, enough to glint against the edge of the cup Shinobu set down beside the bed.

Giyuu sat half upright against the pillows, the band of cloth over his eyes newly changed. His breathing was steady, but his hands rested too still on the blanket — one curled faintly, the other open, palm upward as if searching for balance.

Shinobu’s steps were soft. “The medicine should ease the pain,” she said gently, adjusting the blindfold’s tie. “But I need to talk to you about your eyes.”

He didn’t move. His head tilted slightly toward her voice, unreadable.

“You already know they were damaged,” she went on. “The frost made it worse, but the real cause was the wound across your face — deep enough to scar, and close enough that I wasn’t sure you’d keep sight at all.”

There was no reaction at first. Then his fingers flexed once, briefly.

“I’ve done what I can,” Shinobu continued, her tone even. “The left eye…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “It’s responding, though the vision will likely remain blurred. The right—” she hesitated again, “—the injury went too deep. I’m not certain how much you’ll recover there.”

The silence that followed stretched thin. Giyuu’s hand drifted up, touching lightly at the edge of the bandage — not pulling, just feeling the fabric.
“So,” he said finally, his voice quiet and dry, “partly blind.”

“Partially, yes.” Shinobu folded her hands in front of her. “It’s possible the blurring will lessen, but I can’t promise anything.”

He nodded once, slow, as if the movement itself took effort. Then, after a moment:
“I see.”

The faintest curl of a smile tugged at Shinobu’s lips — humorless, tired. “That’s one way to put it.”

He didn’t answer. The quiet returned — the sound of the wind through the trees, the faint creak of the wooden frame.

After a while, she said softly, “You’re healing faster than expected. That’s good. But you’ll need to be careful for a while — no sudden strain, no training. I’ll change your bandages again in the morning.”

He inclined his head, obedient but distant. His fingers had stilled again, folded loosely over his chest.

Shinobu lingered a moment longer, studying him — the faint furrow of his brow, the way his breathing hitched as though the air itself carried weight.

“You were lucky,” she said finally, quieter now. “If the wound had been any deeper—”

“I know,” he interrupted, voice barely above a whisper. “I remember.”

For a heartbeat, something else flickered across his face — something between memory and regret. But it passed as quickly as it came.

Shinobu didn’t press. She just nodded once, collected the empty cup, and said softly, “Try to rest.”

When she left, the lantern flame dipped with the movement of air. Giyuu sat motionless for a long time after, fingers ghosting once more over the bandages before falling still.

Outside, the wind continued its low hum through the trees — steady, distant, and cold.

Notes:

Yayy he woke up!!

Anyway someone told me I didn’t mention Iguros scar, I do believe I did especially during the blizzard chapters but my apologies if I haven’t. I just haven’t seen a need to mention it in these recent chapters.

Chapter 14: The Reunion

Summary:

Obanai wakes to a quiet morning, restless and impatient, as he waits for news. With Mitsuris company he finally visits Giyuu, their reunion is tense and understated — a fragile mix of relief, frustration, and unspoken feelings — leaving the weight of near-loss hanging between them.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem/Knyinsomniac on tik tok

Any dynamics in this story may be viewed as romantic or platonic

Morning had come slowly, slipping through the shoji screens in thin streaks of light that cut across the tatami floor. Dust drifted in the air — soft, aimless — and Obanai sat with his back pressed against the wall, half-wrapped in a blanket he hadn’t bothered to fix.

He’d given up on sleep hours ago. The room was too quiet, the kind of stillness that left space for thoughts he didn’t want. Every small sound — footsteps in the corridor, the clink of dishes from the kitchen — made him lift his head, just for a second, before he realized it wasn’t who he was waiting for.

Kaburamaru lay coiled near the window, tongue flicking in and out as if reading the air. Obanai reached out absently, running a finger down the curve of the serpent’s back. “It’s just morning,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “That’s all.”

But it wasn’t just morning — it was the first one that didn’t feel like the others. He couldn’t explain it. Maybe it was how the air seemed lighter, or how the nurses outside were speaking in quieter tones than usual. Maybe it was nothing. But every time he caught himself listening for movement down the hall, he told himself to stop — and couldn’t.

The door slid open after a while, breaking the stillness. Shinobu stepped in, her usual calm wrapped around her like a second uniform. A clipboard rested in her hand, but her expression softened the moment she saw him awake.

“Good morning, Iguro-san,” she said, closing the door gently behind her. “You’re up early again.”

“I haven’t been asleep,” he answered flatly.

“I assumed as much.” She crossed the room, setting the clipboard on the small table beside his bed. “You don’t make it easy for your leg to heal when you refuse to rest properly.”

He didn’t respond to that — just watched her as she checked the bandages, her movements practiced, efficient. After a few moments, she spoke again, quieter this time.

“Your condition’s stable enough now.” She paused, glancing toward the door before meeting his eyes. “If you’re still intent on seeing Tomioka, I’ll allow it today.”

The words settled slowly, almost too carefully spoken.

Obanai didn’t react right away. His throat worked as if he’d tried to say something, then stopped himself. Eventually, he asked, “So… when can I see him?”

Shinobu looked up from where she was checking his bandages, her expression calm but knowing. “You’re persistent, Iguro-san.”

“I’ve been waiting since last night,” he muttered. “You said today.”

“I did.” She straightened, brushing her hands clean. “And I’m keeping my word. But you’re still recovering — I want you steady before you move anywhere.”

He exhaled through his nose, a faint sound of irritation. “You’ve said that every day since I woke.”

“And every day, it’s been true,” Shinobu answered lightly. “But today’s different. You’re stronger. I’ll let you go once your leg’s rechecked and bandaged properly.”

Obanai turned his face away slightly, the light catching against the faint shadows under his eyes. “…Fine.”

Shinobu sighed softly, though not unkindly. “You collapsed once already trying to do this alone. I’d rather not see a repeat of that.”

He didn’t answer. His grip on the blanket tightened, the fabric bunching beneath his fingers.

“His recovery’s slow,” Shinobu continued, her tone softer now. “But he’s awake. You’ll see for yourself soon.”

Kaburamaru lifted his head, tongue flicking once toward Shinobu before coiling back against Obanai’s arm.

After a pause, Obanai muttered, “Then hurry up and finish whatever you need to.” His voice cracked faintly, betraying something more than impatience.

Shinobu gave a faint, unreadable smile. “Rest until I return. I’ll come back soon.”

———

The morning light slanted through the paper screens, soft and pale, washing Shinobu’s office in muted gold. The air smelled faintly of herbs — drying leaves hung neatly along the shelves, the sharp tang of antiseptic cutting through the sweetness of tea that had long gone cold.

Aoi stood at the low table, hands folded in front of her as Shinobu scribbled something in a ledger. The scratching of the brush was the only sound until Shinobu finally spoke.

“Make sure Iguro-san eats this morning,” she said without looking up. “He’s been skipping half his meals again.”

Aoi nodded. “He says the food’s fine. Just that he’s not hungry.”

“That’s not surprising.” Shinobu set her brush down, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “Still — even if he insists, stay until he eats something. He won’t argue much if you wait him out.”

A knock sounded at the door. Before Aoi could answer, it slid open, and Mitsuri leaned in, a bright smile already softening the quiet of the room.

“Good morning, Shinobu! I came to see Obanai!”

Shinobu’s expression eased, the faintest trace of a smile touching her face. “Good timing, Kanroji-san. I was just talking about him.”

“Ah— you were?” Mitsuri blinked, then straightened when Aoi lifted the small tray she’d prepared — rice, miso soup, and a bit of grilled fish.

“I was going to take this to him,” Aoi said.

“Oh! Then let me!” Mitsuri beamed, stepping closer. “I was heading there anyway — I can make sure he eats. He always listens when I tell him to.”

Aoi hesitated, glancing to Shinobu for confirmation.

Shinobu gave a small, knowing nod. “That might work better, actually. He’s less likely to ignore you.”

Mitsuri took the tray carefully in both hands, balancing it as though it were something fragile. “I’ll make sure he eats everything. And I’ll tell you how he’s doing!”

Shinobu watched her go, the faint sound of Mitsuri’s footsteps fading down the corridor.

Aoi turned back to her. “Do you think he’ll actually eat?”

Shinobu let out a quiet breath, almost a sigh. “If anyone can make him, it’s her.”

———

Mitsuri opened the door with her usual cheer, though her smile softened the moment she saw Obanai sitting upright in bed. He looked better than the last time she’d seen him — color had returned to his skin, the exhaustion around his eyes lighter — but his left leg was still wrapped in thick bandages, and Kaburamaru rested coiled near his shoulder, as still as if he, too, were keeping watch.

“Good morning, Obanai!” she said gently, holding up the tray. “I brought breakfast. Aoi said you haven’t been eating properly.”

Obanai didn’t look at her right away. His gaze flicked to the tray, then back down to his hands. “She sent you to make sure I do, didn’t she?”

Mitsuri smiled sheepishly as she crossed the room. “Maybe… but I volunteered!” She set the tray down carefully beside the bed. “You should eat while it’s still warm.”

Obanai’s fingers twitched where they rested on the blanket. He shifted slightly, as if to reach for the food — then stopped. His eyes moved toward her, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

She noticed, of course. She always did.

“Oh—” Mitsuri said softly, straightening. “You don’t have to worry about me. I can turn around if you want.”

He didn’t answer at first. Kaburamaru lifted his head slightly, the little snake flicking his tongue in the air before settling again.

“You don’t need to do that,” Obanai muttered finally, voice low, almost rough. “It’s unnecessary.”

“I don’t mind,” she said brightly, though quieter now. “I just want you to eat something. You’ll heal faster if you do.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The faint winter light filtered through the window, silvering the edges of the tray — the bowl of rice, the steam curling faintly from the miso soup. Finally, Obanai exhaled a slow breath.

“…Fine.”

Mitsuri turned her back to him without another word, facing the shoji doors. The faint clatter of dishes followed — careful, deliberate movements. Then, quieter still, the faint rasp of fabric and tape being loosened. She didn’t look, but she could picture it: Obanai undoing the bandages from his mouth with the same precision he used for everything, movements quick but methodical, avoiding even the sound of hesitation.

The room fell silent for a few heartbeats before the faint scrape of chopsticks broke it. The smell of miso drifted through the air, warm and steady. Mitsuri’s hands rested neatly in her lap as she listened — the sound of him eating slow, measured, but real.

When the faint click of the chopsticks stopped, there was another pause, and then the soft, practiced rustle of fabric again. Mitsuri waited until she heard the faint tug and tie of the bandages being secured once more before she spoke.

“All done?”

“…Yes,” came his quiet reply.

She turned then, smiling brightly as if she hadn’t heard the careful restraint in his tone. “Good! You’ll feel stronger in no time.”

Obanai averted his gaze slightly, setting the empty bowl back on the tray. “Satisfied?”

“Very,” she said, her voice soft but full of relief. Kaburamaru lifted his head then, slithering toward her hand, tongue flicking in greeting. Mitsuri’s smile turned warmer as she let him curl lightly around her fingers.

“You and Kaburamaru both need your strength,” she said quietly. “It’s snowing again outside — so you’ll be stuck here with me for a while.”

Obanai almost smiled — almost — before glancing away again. “Lucky me.”

Mitsuri stayed seated beside his bed, her hands folded neatly in her lap after he’d finished eating. The quiet was gentle — not strained, just easy in the way it often was with her. Eventually, she tilted her head, her curls brushing against her shoulder as she smiled.

“So,” she said, tone bright, “how are you feeling today? You look a little better!”

Obanai adjusted the blanket around his leg, avoiding her eyes. “I’m fine,” he said simply.

“Just fine?” she teased, but not unkindly.

He made a low sound — not quite agreement, not quite protest. Then, after a pause, he added, “Tomioka woke up.”

Mitsuri blinked, then gasped. “He did? Oh, that’s wonderful!” Her face lit up with relief. “I was so worried after what Shinobu told me! That’s amazing news, Obanai!”

Her excitement met silence. Obanai’s hand brushed against Kaburamaru’s scales, slow and deliberate. He didn’t look at her.

“Obanai?” she asked softly.

“…Shinobu told me I can visit later,” he said.

“That’s good!” Mitsuri smiled again, though this time her expression softened when she saw the way his jaw tightened. “You don’t seem happy about it, though.”

“I didn’t say that.” His voice was calm, maybe too calm — the kind of tone he used when he didn’t want to be read.

Mitsuri’s smile faded into a small, concerned pout. “Then what’s wrong?”

He hesitated. His fingers stilled where they rested on Kaburamaru’s body. For a long time, he didn’t answer, and when he finally did, his voice was low. “It’s just… strange.”

“Strange?” she repeated gently.

Obanai exhaled through his nose. “He nearly froze out there,” he said. “Carried me down half a mountain while he could barely stand himself. And now I’m the one sitting here, waiting for someone to tell me when I can move.”

Mitsuri’s chest ached a little at the way he said it — quiet, almost detached, but the edge underneath it was unmistakable.

“Obanai…” she started, but he shook his head before she could continue.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “He’s awake. That’s what matters.”

Mitsuri watched him for a moment longer — the way he kept his eyes averted, the way his hand had curled just slightly into the blanket. She wanted to say something comforting, but she knew he wouldn’t want to hear it, not yet.

Instead, she gave a small, tender smile. “Then maybe seeing him will help with that ‘fine’ you keep saying.”

He glanced at her, almost in spite of himself. “…Maybe.”

“Good,” she said softly. “Then I’ll make sure you’re ready when Shinobu says you can go.”

Kaburamaru flicked his tongue once, as if agreeing, and Mitsuri’s smile warmed again. She didn’t push further — just sat there quietly with him until the tea had gone cold.

A knock came a short while later, gentle against the wood.

Mitsuri looked up from where she’d been absently watching Kaburamaru crawl near Obanai’s pillow. “Come in!” she called.

Aoi stepped through the door, carrying a folded towel and a small tray of supplies. “Good morning, Kanroji-san, Iguro-san,” she said, her tone polite but focused. “I need to check your leg again. Shinobu-sama said once the bandages are changed and everything looks stable, we can help you move for a short while.”

Mitsuri brightened. “Oh, that’s good news!”

Obanai only hummed, eyes following Aoi as she set the tray down on the low table beside the bed. She moved with quiet precision, pulling a stool close. Mitsuri stood to give her space, folding her hands behind her back as she watched.

“This might sting,” Aoi warned softly.

He didn’t respond, but his fingers curled slightly in the blanket when the first layer of bandage came free. The cool air hit the healing skin — pale and tight, with faint scars still ridged across the calf. The old frostbite marks looked better, though some of the discoloration lingered.

“You’re healing well,” Aoi murmured, inspecting her work. “But you shouldn’t try walking on your own yet, Iguro-san. It’s too soon — even short distances could reopen the wound.”

From her spot near the wall, Mitsuri nodded quickly. “You hear that? No trying to get up without help.”

Obanai didn’t answer, though the small twitch in his jaw suggested he’d thought about doing exactly that.

Aoi began to wrap fresh, clean cloth around his leg, tightening it with practiced movements. “I’ll ask one of the attendants to bring a crutch later today,” she said. “Something sturdy enough that you can lean your weight on without straining the leg.”

“Fine,” Obanai muttered quietly.

Once she tied the final knot, Aoi leaned back a little and gave a small nod of approval. “There. That should hold well enough until tomorrow.”

Mitsuri smiled at her, grateful. “Thank you, Aoi-chan.”

“You’re welcome, Kanroji-san.” Gathering the old wrappings, Aoi rose, balancing the tray neatly in her hands. “Shinobu-sama will be by soon. She said once your leg’s checked, she’ll talk to you about visiting Tomioka-san.”

At that, Mitsuri’s face softened, and she looked toward Obanai. “See? I told you it’d be soon.”

Obanai shifted slightly, his gaze falling to the floorboards. “…We’ll see.”

Aoi offered him a small bow before slipping quietly out, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

The room fell quiet again — the faint scent of antiseptic in the air, light pouring across the floor through the window. Kaburamaru had slithered onto Obanai’s sleeve, his scales cool against the fabric.

Mitsuri watched him for a long moment, then said softly, “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

Obanai turned his head, his mismatched eyes narrowing faintly. “Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t teasing this time,” she said with a small, knowing smile.

He didn’t reply — but the way his hand stilled on the blanket, the faint tremor that followed, said more than words would have.

———

Mitsuri sat cross-legged on the chair beside Obanai’s bed, her hands folded in her lap, voice low but full of the same gentle energy that always seemed to follow her. She’d been talking for a while — stories about the gardens outside, about how Kanao had helped prune the camellias, and how Aoi kept scolding her for stealing sweet buns from the kitchen.

Obanai listened, though his responses were little more than nods or quiet hums. Kaburamaru rested loosely around his shoulders, the serpent’s head tucked under the folds of his haori, as if even he was tired of the waiting.

It was late morning now. The faint scent of herbs and antiseptic drifted from the hallway — the constant hum of the Butterfly Mansion’s quiet order. The world beyond his door was alive with footsteps and muted chatter, but here, it felt almost too still.

Mitsuri, ever determined to fill silence before it became uncomfortable, smiled through her words. “Kanao said the snow’s starting to melt a little,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “You can see the first patches of grass again. Isn’t that nice? Maybe by the time you’re walking without help, the whole garden will be green again.”

Obanai’s gaze flicked toward the window — pale light filtering through thin paper screens. “…Maybe,” he said quietly, voice muffled behind his bandages.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care for her small talk. If anything, the way she tried to keep things light helped keep him from thinking too much — but that didn’t stop the restlessness from gnawing at him. His left leg still ached when he shifted, wrapped tightly in fresh bandages Aoi had changed that morning. He hated feeling confined. He hated waiting even more.

Mitsuri glanced toward the door. “She said she’d come soon, right?”

He gave a small nod. “That’s what she said.”

Mitsuri sighed softly, then smiled again, though it carried a trace of worry. “You’ll see him soon, Iguro-san.”

He didn’t answer that — didn’t trust himself to. Instead, he turned slightly, pretending to check Kaburamaru’s position.

Just then, the door slid open. Shinobu stepped inside with her usual quiet grace, the faint rustle of her haori cutting through the still air.

“Ah, you’re still awake. Perfect timing,” she said with a small smile. Her eyes flicked briefly to Mitsuri before settling on Obanai. “How’s the leg?”

“Sore,” he answered plainly.

“That’s expected.” She crossed the room and examined the notes Aoi had left on the small table by the bed. “Your recovery’s steady. The stitches are holding well. Still, I’d prefer you don’t push yourself too far today.”

Mitsuri brightened. “Does that mean he can go see Tomioka-san now?”

Shinobu gave a single nod. “Yes — with help. He’ll need a crutch, and I don’t want him on his feet longer than necessary.” She looked at Obanai, her tone soft but firm. “If you feel lightheaded or your leg starts to ache, tell someone immediately. Understood?”

Obanai nodded once.

“Good.” She glanced at Mitsuri. “You can help him if you’d like, Kanroji-san — but slowly, please. I’ll have someone bring the crutch.”

Mitsuri smiled brightly. “Of course!”

Shinobu’s expression softened slightly as she looked back at Obanai. “He’s awake and aware, but still weak. Don’t overwhelm him — and don’t stay too long.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Obanai said, adjusting the edge of his sleeve.

Shinobu gave a small, knowing hum, though she didn’t press further. “I’ll let Aoi know you’re cleared. She’ll come by in a few minutes to help you down the hall.”

With that, she turned and left, sliding the door shut behind her.

Mitsuri waited until her footsteps faded before looking back at Obanai, her voice quiet but hopeful. “You ready?”

Obanai looked down at his wrapped leg, then at the floor ahead of him. “…As I’ll ever be.”

A few minutes later, Aoi arrived with a single wooden crutch tucked under one arm. She bowed politely before stepping inside.
“Shinobu-sama said you’re cleared to move, but you’ll need this for now,” she said, handing it carefully to Obanai.

He accepted it without a word. When he shifted forward to sit at the edge of the bed, Mitsuri was already beside him, ready to steady his shoulder.
“Careful,” she murmured.

“I’m fine,” he replied quietly, though his grip on the crutch tightened. The first few seconds upright were harder than he wanted to admit — his leg stiff and uncooperative.

Aoi watched closely. “Take it slow, Iguro-san. I’ll walk with you in case you lose your balance.”

He didn’t answer, just gave a small nod and focused on steadying his breathing. It wasn’t the pain that unsettled him — it was how weak it made him feel.

The hallway beyond the door was bright compared to the quiet of his room. Morning sunlight spilled in from the open shoji screens, pooling along the polished floorboards. The faint smell of medicine and herbs followed them as they walked — Aoi ahead, Mitsuri close by his side, her hand hovering just above his arm, ready to help if needed.

They passed a few attendants, who paused to bow respectfully before hurrying out of the way. No one said much — the silence had a way of filling itself, heavy but expectant.

When they finally reached the familiar door at the end of the hall, Aoi opened it for them.

The room inside was dimmer, the light soft and filtered. Giyuu was awake — sitting propped up slightly against his pillows, a blindfold still covering his eyes. His breathing was even, though his hand rested lightly against the edge of his blanket, as if grounding himself.

Aoi stepped aside. “I’ll give you some privacy. Call if you need anything.”

Mitsuri gave a small nod of thanks as the door closed behind her.

For a moment, neither man spoke. The quiet stretched, filled only by the soft creak of floorboards beneath Obanai’s crutch as he took a careful step forward.

“…Tomioka.”

The name came out low, rougher than he intended. Giyuu’s head turned toward the sound immediately — not perfectly aligned, but close. A small breath left him, steady but faint.
“Iguro,” he said, voice quiet and raw from disuse.

Mitsuri smiled faintly between them, warmth flickering behind her eyes.

Obanai’s gaze lingered on the bandages — the way the fabric pressed lightly against Giyuu’s temple, the edges of bruising still faint beneath. Seeing it hit harder than hearing about it.

“You’re awake,” Obanai muttered finally, the words simple but weighted.

Giyuu gave the smallest nod. “So are you.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of Obanai’s mouth. Not quite a smile — but something close.

Mitsuri looked between them, her voice soft. “I’m glad you’re both okay,” she said. “Really.”

Neither answered right away. The silence this time wasn’t uncomfortable — just heavy, full of things neither quite knew how to start saying.

Mitsuri was the first to move again, breaking the stillness with a soft clap of her hands.
“Alright, let’s get you off that leg before Shinobu finds out and scolds us both,” she said gently, her tone bright but careful.

She motioned toward the chair near Giyuu’s bed — one of the few that hadn’t been used since he’d fallen unconscious. Obanai hesitated, glancing at it like it might collapse under him, but Mitsuri was already there, holding an arm out in case he needed it.

“I can manage,” he muttered.

“I know,” she said with a small smile. “But humor me, okay?”

With a quiet exhale, Obanai let her steady him. He lowered himself onto the chair, his injured leg extended slightly to ease the pressure. The crutch leaned against the bedframe beside him.

The air was warmer here — the faint scent of herbs and ointment lingering from where Shinobu had likely been earlier. Giyuu hadn’t moved much, though his head tilted toward them as if following the sound of their steps.

“You can sit too, Mitsuri,” he said quietly, his voice still a little rough.

“Oh— thank you! But I think I’ll stand for now.” She fidgeted with her hands before smiling again. “It’s good to see you awake, Tomioka-san. You gave everyone quite a scare.”

“I heard,” Giyuu replied, tone mild but sincere. His hands were folded over the blanket now, fingers twitching slightly — as though testing the sensation of movement. “I’m sorry for worrying everyone.”

Mitsuri shook her head quickly. “No, no—! Don’t apologize! You were injured, and it’s not your fault. We’re all just relieved you’re alright. Well, mostly alright,” she added with a small laugh, catching herself.

Giyuu’s lips curved faintly. “Mostly,” he echoed.

Obanai watched them silently. There was something almost grounding about Mitsuri’s voice — the way she spoke like she could hold the room together by sheer warmth. Giyuu seemed calmer with her talking, even if his expression barely changed.

“So,” Mitsuri went on, hands clasped behind her back, “have you been resting? Shinobu said you’ve been doing better, but she didn’t say much else. I didn’t want to bother her too much—she always looks so busy.”

“I’ve been resting,” Giyuu said after a pause. “I think she’s been… keeping an eye on me more than she lets on.”

“That sounds like her,” Mitsuri replied cheerfully. Then, quieter, “She’s been checking on you both a lot, actually.”

Obanai’s gaze flicked away at that, toward the shoji screens where morning light filtered through in soft, uneven stripes.

Mitsuri noticed, though she didn’t say anything. Instead, she turned back to Giyuu with that same easy smile — her voice steady, gentle, and light enough to keep the air from feeling too heavy.

Mitsuri continued chatting for a little while — small, easy things about the others around the mansion, about Aoi chasing Zenitsu out of the kitchen again, about how warm it was getting outside despite the snow refusing to melt completely.

Giyuu listened, nodding occasionally, quiet as always. Obanai stayed silent. The rhythm of her voice filled the space — light, comforting — but beneath it, tension hummed faintly, a quiet thing that neither man acknowledged.

After a while, Mitsuri hesitated, realizing she might’ve been talking too much. She smiled sheepishly. “Ah— sorry! I’m just so glad to see you both awake. I’ll go check if Shinobu wants to see you yet, okay?”

She excused herself, footsteps soft as she slipped out the door.

The silence that followed felt heavier than before.

Giyuu tilted his head slightly toward Obanai. “She’s… been visiting often,” he said quietly, like it was more an observation than conversation.

Obanai’s arms were crossed, his expression unreadable behind the loose bandages. “She worries too much.”

A faint pause. “You don’t?”

The question caught Obanai off guard, though his tone didn’t show it. “You nearly froze to death, Tomioka. Of course I was—” He stopped himself, clicking his tongue as though the word had betrayed him. “…You shouldn’t have pushed that far.”

Giyuu’s expression didn’t change, though his fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the blanket. “I didn’t have much choice. You couldn’t walk.”

“I could’ve made it,” Obanai muttered.

“You couldn’t even stand.”

The words hung in the air — not harsh, but simple fact. It made Obanai’s jaw tighten. He looked away, his voice dropping lower. “You nearly killed yourself doing it.”

“I knew the risk.”

“That’s not the point,” Obanai snapped, more sharply than he meant to.

For a long moment, the only sound was the faint rustle of Kaburamaru shifting on Obanai’s shoulder. Giyuu didn’t argue further, though his head dipped slightly — not in apology, but quiet understanding.

When he finally spoke again, it was soft. “I would’ve done the same for anyone.”

Obanai’s eyes narrowed. “…Don’t say that like it makes it better.”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

Obanai looked at him — at the bandages still covering his eyes, the calmness that somehow made him angrier. He wanted to say something — to demand why Giyuu didn’t think his own life was worth the same — but the words caught in his throat.

Instead, he just muttered, “You should’ve thought about what would happen if you didn’t make it.”

Giyuu exhaled, slow and tired. “I did.”

The silence stretched, long enough for Obanai to hear the soft rhythm of Giyuu’s breathing — steady now, but thinner than before, a fragile sort of calm that made something in his chest twist uncomfortably.

He shifted on the chair, the wooden legs creaking softly under his weight. Kaburamaru moved with him, curling closer around his shoulder, as if sensing his agitation.

Finally, Obanai said, voice low, “You could’ve stopped.”

Giyuu’s head tilted slightly toward him. “…Stopped?”

“Carrying me.” His tone sharpened, clipped by the effort to keep his emotions down. “You should’ve stopped before it got that far.”

“I told you,” Giyuu said quietly, “I couldn’t.”

“You wouldn’t,” Obanai corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Giyuu didn’t argue. He just sat there, still as stone, the faintest hint of a frown forming under the bandages that wrapped around his face. The lack of reaction only made Obanai more tense.

“You could’ve died,” Obanai muttered, leaning forward slightly, his voice rough now. “If the others hadn’t found us, you would’ve.”

“I know.”

That calm, simple answer made Obanai’s hands tighten around the edge of his blanket until the fabric creased. “Then why did you do it? You couldn’t even see, Tomioka. You were—” He stopped himself, breath hitching. His next words came quieter, harsher. “You were already half gone.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you,” Giyuu said.

Obanai stared at him — the steady, quiet tone, the same expression that always looked one step away from resignation. It made his chest ache in a way he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“You think you’re some kind of martyr?” Obanai asked, the edge in his voice thin and dangerous. “That throwing yourself away for someone else is just—acceptable?”

Giyuu’s head lowered slightly. His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the room. “That’s not what it was.”

“Then what was it?”

A pause.

When Giyuu finally spoke again, his tone was softer than before — hesitant, but without regret.

“You were worth it.”

The words landed heavy. No hesitation. No explanation. Just quiet conviction.

For a second, Obanai didn’t breathe. He wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else that made his throat close up. His pulse thudded in his ears.

He wanted to argue — to say something cutting, something that would break the weight pressing on his chest — but nothing came. His jaw locked, his hands trembling.

For a heartbeat, the room was utterly still.
The faint sound of the wind outside. The rhythmic tick of something metal cooling on a tray. Obanai’s breath, sharp and uneven.

He didn’t look at Giyuu—couldn’t. His jaw tightened beneath the bandages, the muscles in his neck shifting as if he were trying to swallow something down.

“…You’re an idiot,” he muttered finally, voice rough. His hand found the crutch propped against the wall, grip tightening until his knuckles blanched. “A reckless, self-sacrificing idiot.”

He didn’t wait for a response. The chair scraped lightly as he pushed himself up, movement stiff but determined. Kaburamaru stirred at his shoulder, hissing softly as Obanai turned away from the bed.

By the time Giyuu thought to speak again, the door had already slid shut behind him.
His hand lifted slightly—hesitant, searching for a moment in the air—before falling back to the blanket.

Outside, the hallway felt colder. Obanai’s pulse still hadn’t steadied. He leaned a little harder on the crutch than he meant to, breath coming unevenly through his teeth.

He’d barely made it halfway down the corridor when soft, hurried footsteps approached.

“Obanai!” Mitsuri’s voice was a whisper but full of worry as she appeared around the corner, her expression lighting with relief—only to falter when she saw his face. She rushed to his side, hands hovering near his arm but careful not to grab him too roughly. “What happened? Are you okay? Did something—”

“I’m fine,” Obanai said quickly, sharper than intended. He exhaled through his nose, glancing away. “…It’s nothing. Just—tiring.”

Kaburamaru coiled tighter around his shoulder as if to echo his discomfort. Mitsuri frowned, not fully believing him but choosing not to press. She shifted closer anyway, ready to steady him if he stumbled.

“Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

Obanai didn’t argue this time. The two walked back in silence, the sound of their steps—one uneven, one careful—fading slowly down the hall.

Notes:

I had fun writing this one lol. The first half especially, it felt so heartwarming!

Anyway I’m going to start another fic soon! It’s on Alien Stage, JockEmo IvanTill with a twist. So if you enjoy my writing look out for that!

And thank you all for the kind words! You all remind me why I enjoy writing in the first place.

Chapter 15: Recovery Training

Summary:

Obanai’s recovery officially begins, and Giyuu’s slow, guided stretches mirror his efforts. Both Hashira heal at their own pace — and neither can fully ignore the other.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem/Knyinsomniac on tik tok!

Any dynamics in this fic may be viewed as romantic or platonic! (As long as it’s legal!)

Obanai had lost track of how many times he’d been told the same thing: “Rest. Don’t overdo it. Recovery training will start once you’re stable.”

He hated every word of it.

Two days had passed since he’d spoken to Giyuu — if their clipped, strained exchange even counted as speaking. Two days of being confined to his room, forced into stillness while his leg knit itself back together and the Mansion hummed on around him.

He sat propped against the headboard now, arms folded, Kaburamaru draped over his shoulders like a warm scarf. The snake let out a soft, concerned hiss every so often, picking up on his agitation.

“I’m not sulking,” Obanai muttered to him, despite the fact that, yes, he very much was.

Outside his door, the Butterfly Mansion was alive with its usual rhythm:
light footsteps, distant chatter, the creak of floorboards as nurses carried supplies from room to room. Every so often he thought he heard someone stop near his door — hesitating — but no one came inside.

Mitsuri had visited briefly yesterday, but even she had seemed unsure of what to say to him. And Shinobu… Shinobu had simply told him his vitals looked “better than expected” and left him to rest.

Nothing about this felt like rest.

He shifted his injured leg carefully, irritation prickling at the back of his throat. Two days since the argument — or whatever it had been — with Tomioka. Two days since the idiot said something so—

Obanai cut the thought off before it finished forming.

On the other side of the Mansion, Giyuu was being forced to rest too — eyes still bandaged, movements limited, voice kept low when anyone checked on him. They weren’t allowed to train yet, not until their bodies could handle the strain.

Obanai told himself it didn’t matter.
That he didn’t care.
That he wasn’t thinking about that stupid, reckless water pillar who couldn’t stop throwing himself into danger.

Kaburamaru nudged his cheek in quiet disapproval.

“…Traitor,” Obanai murmured, but he reached up and scratched the top of the snake’s head anyway.

The hours stretched slow. Irritatingly slow.

Then, sometime near midday, a soft knock came at his door — hesitant, as if the person wasn’t sure whether they should disturb him.

Obanai’s head lifted immediately.

The knock came a third time — too polite to be annoyed, too persistent to ignore.

Kaburamaru lifted his head first, his tongue flicking at the air.

Obanai sighed. “…Come in.”

The door slid open, and Shinobu stepped inside with the kind of calm that made Obanai feel even more irritable than he already was. Her eyes swept over him quickly — his posture, the wrapped leg, the untouched water cup on the bedside table. Assessing everything. Judging everything.

“Iguro-san,” she greeted gently. “Good morning.”

“It’s almost noon,” he muttered.

“Mm,” she said, unbothered. “And how are you feeling?”

He gave her a flat, unimpressed look.
She met it with a pleasant smile, like always.

“Restless,” Obanai answered. “And tired. And irritated. If that’s useful to your medical records.”

Shinobu’s smile didn’t falter. “Actually, it is. Irritation means you’re regaining your usual energy.”

Kaburamaru hissed softly, and Shinobu gave the snake a tiny bow of acknowledgment, as if this was a normal part of medical rounds.

She approached his bedside, posture sharpening.
“I’m here to examine your leg — and give you an update on your recovery timeline.”

Obanai’s shoulders stiffened.
He didn’t show anticipation well, but it flickered across him anyway.

“…Go on.”

Shinobu crouched beside the bed, unwrapping the lower bandages with quick, practiced hands. Her eyes narrowed as she inspected the bruising, the swelling, the healing cuts.

“It seems,” she said, “you’re healing remarkably well, considering you nearly passed out trying to walk a few days ago.”

He scoffed and looked away. “That was poor timing. And low blood pressure.”

“And your own stubbornness,” she added sweetly.

Obanai said nothing. But Kaburamaru nudged him as if agreeing with her.

Shinobu rewrapped the bandages, checking the stability of the splinted ankle before standing.

“You’re not ready to walk normally yet,” she said. “But… you’re closer than I expected.”

Obanai kept his eyes trained on the blanket, waiting — impatient, tense.

Shinobu clasped her hands neatly in front of herself.
Her tone shifted — more formal, more decisive.

“I believe you can begin recovery training soon.”

His breath stilled in his chest.

“How soon?” he asked, voice low.

“If you feel strong enough,” she said, “you can begin later today.”

Obanai blinked at her — surprised, though he tried not to show it.

“…Today?” he repeated.

“Yes. Or tomorrow morning,” she clarified. “I’ll leave the choice to you. But the sooner you begin, the sooner you’ll regain full mobility.”

Obanai’s fingers curled slightly at his sides.
Finally. Something he could do. Something other than lying in a bed thinking too much.

“Good,” he muttered. “About time.”

“I thought you’d be pleased,” Shinobu said, smiling lightly.

She turned toward the door, but paused before stepping out.

“I’ll send Aoi to change the compression wrap and check the swelling again before you start. Your leg should be properly supported.”

Obanai rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to overdo it.”

“You always overdo it,” Shinobu replied calmly, hand resting on the door.
“That’s why we’ll be supervising.”

He scowled — but it wasn’t real.
Not entirely.

As she opened the door, she added, “Rest for a little while. Training is tiring, even at the most basic level.”

Kaburamaru flicked his tongue again as Obanai watched her leave.

The room fell quiet.

Obanai let out a slow, controlled exhale, sinking back against the pillows.

“…Today,” he muttered, almost testing the word.
“Finally.”

Kaburamaru curled comfortably against his chest — and Obanai reached up to rest a hand on the snake’s head.

Recovery training meant progress.
Progress meant movement.

Movement meant… less time stuck alone with thoughts he didn’t want.

Especially the ones that kept circling back, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them.

Tomioka.

The door slid open again — softer this time.

Obanai didn’t look up at first. Kaburamaru did.

Aoi’s voice followed a beat later, quiet but brisk.
“Iguro-san? Shinobu-sama said to prepare your leg for recovery training.”

Obanai exhaled through his nose. “Come in, then.”

Aoi stepped inside carrying a small tray with clean bandages, ointment, and a new compression wrap. Her movements were efficient as ever, though there was a faint hesitation when she glanced at him — the kind that came from working with Hashira too stubborn for their own good.

“You can set it there,” Obanai said, tilting his chin toward the table beside the bed.

Aoi nodded, placing the tray down before kneeling beside him.
“Shinobu-sama said your swelling has gone down, so the wrap needs to be adjusted.”

“Mm.”

She reached for his injured leg, pausing only long enough to warn,
“This may pull a little.”

“It won’t be a problem.”

Aoi didn’t comment. She simply began working, unwrapping the old bandages with careful, practiced hands. Obanai kept his expression neutral, though the removal tugged sharply at a few tender spots.

Kaburamaru slithered slightly higher on his chest, as if observing the process.

Aoi’s brows drew together. “Does that hurt?”

“No,” Obanai said immediately. Then, after a beat: “…Not more than expected.”

She nodded, accepting that, and continued.

The room settled into quiet except for the soft rustle of bandages and the distant sounds of the Butterfly Estate’s morning bustle. After a moment, Aoi spoke again:

“You’ve been moving better today.”
A neutral statement, not praise — meant simply as an observation.

Obanai shrugged. “It’s about time.”

Aoi gave a tiny sigh, not quite annoyed, not quite amused.
“You should be careful not to rush it. Even Hashira have limits.”

“Most do,” he said. “Some of us just ignore them.”

She paused for half a second — then resumed wrapping with just a touch more firmness, as if that was her very polite way of retaliating.

When she finished cleaning the cuts, she began applying a new layer of bandages, her voice quieter this time.

“Your leg is healing better than we expected. With the compression wrap, it should hold steady enough for basic training. But you still need support when you walk.”

Obanai’s jaw tightened. “I know.”

“We’ll bring a crutch set for you after this,” she added.

He didn’t respond, which Aoi took as acceptance.

She wound the last of the wrap, securing it neatly before sitting back on her heels.

“There,” she said softly. “It should feel more stable now. Try moving your foot a little.”

Obanai shifted his leg, testing the pressure. The bandage held firm — supportive without squeezing too tightly.

“…It’s fine,” he said.
Which, coming from him, meant good.

Aoi let out a faint breath of relief. “I’ll tell Shinobu-sama it’s done.”

She gathered the used bandages and stood. Before leaving, she paused — just for a moment — glancing back at him with something like caution.

“Iguro-san… don’t push yourself too hard on the first day.”

He turned his head away slightly, eyes drifting toward the window.
“I’m not an idiot.”

Aoi didn’t argue, though her expression said she wanted to.

Instead, she bowed lightly.
“I’ll return shortly with the crutch. Please rest until then.”

Obanai didn’t answer, but Kaburamaru flicked his tongue in her direction, and Aoi seemed to take that as the closest thing to a polite goodbye she would get.

When the door clicked shut, the room fell quiet again.

Obanai let his hand drift to rest lightly on his newly wrapped leg.

Training.
Movement.
Finally.

But underneath all of that…

A quiet, unwelcome thought crawled back in.

Tomioka… I’ll have to see you again soon.

And he wasn’t entirely sure whether that made the weight in his chest lighter — or heavier.

⸻

The late morning light drifted through the thin paper screen — soft, warm, and almost too bright against the blindfold wrapped over Giyuu’s eyes. He sat propped up with pillows, posture stiff from both the injury and the stubborn effort to appear more awake than he truly was.

Today had been quieter.

Until he heard hurried footsteps approach his room.

The door slid open with an almost reverent gentleness.

“Giyuu-san!”

Tanjiro’s voice hit him first — bright, warm, relieved.

Nezuko made a small, happy sound as she followed him inside.

Giyuu straightened instinctively.
“…Tanjiro. Nezuko.”

Tanjiro stopped at the side of the bed, and Giyuu could feel — more than see — the warmth of his presence. There was a tremble of emotion underneath Tanjiro’s breath that made Giyuu’s chest tighten.

“We were so worried,” Tanjiro said softly. “You’ve been asleep for so long… I’m glad you’re awake. Really glad.”

Nezuko brushed her fingers lightly over the back of Giyuu’s hand — careful, sweet. He managed a faint smile.

“I’m… sorry,” he murmured.
His voice was still so quiet it barely filled the space between them.
“I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Tanjiro shook his head, and even without seeing it, Giyuu could hear the motion in his voice.

“We’re just happy you’re safe.”

Silence settled for a moment. Giyuu shifted slightly, feeling the slow ache in his ribs and the familiar pull of exhaustion. Tanjiro noticed — he always did.

“You don’t have to talk too much,” Tanjiro said kindly. “We just wanted to see you.”

Nezuko nodded once, her hand still resting gently against his.

Giyuu exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing a little.

They talked softly for a few minutes — Tanjiro mostly, filling the silence with gentle updates and careful stories. Giyuu listened, his responses brief but sincere.

Eventually, Tanjiro’s tone shifted — quieter, dipping into something almost… hesitant.

“Oh — Giyuu-san,” he said. “I almost forgot. Aoi told me something earlier.”

Giyuu lifted his head a little. “What is it?”

“It’s about Iguro-san.”

Something in Giyuu’s chest tightened — sharp, involuntary.

Tanjiro blinked, his nose twitching almost instinctively.
“…Your scent changed,” he said softly. “Are you worried?”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

Tanjiro continued, gentle but direct:

“He’s starting recovery training today — or tomorrow. They finished rewrapping his leg a little while ago.”

A quiet breath escaped Giyuu before he could stop it — a subtle sound, but enough for Tanjiro to smell the sudden shift in emotion: relief, tension, something complicated and warm.

“…I see,” Giyuu said.

Tanjiro misread the restraint as simple concern.

“He’s doing a lot better,” Tanjiro reassured him. “Aoi said he’s healing quickly. He still needs a crutch, but they think he’ll walk normally soon.”

Nezuko nodded firmly.

Giyuu lowered his head, processing the information slowly.

Obanai was walking. Improving. Training.

Good.
Good.
And yet—

Something tightened again, subtle but real.

Tanjiro hesitated before speaking, then said:

“You’ll be starting again too, Giyuu-san. Shinobu-san wants you to go slow, but she said light stretching is already helping.”

“I know.”

Tanjiro smiled softly.
“You’re both getting better.”

Giyuu swallowed, his breathing uneven for a moment.

“…Tanjiro.”

“Yes?”

“Did Iguro—”
The words caught.
He tried again, quieter, almost inaudible.

“Did he… say anything?”

Tanjiro blinked… then his nose twitched again, detecting nervousness, something fragile.

“About you?” Tanjiro asked.

Giyuu didn’t respond — but the silence was confirmation enough.

Tanjiro’s expression softened with understanding.

“Well… I don’t know everything,” he admitted. “But he asked Shinobu-san a lot of questions after he first woke up.”

Giyuu went very still.

“Questions…?”

“Yes.” Tanjiro smiled. “About how you were doing. Whether the injury was serious. When you might wake up.”

Giyuu’s lips parted — a faint, shaky breath escaping.

Tanjiro added gently, “He sounded worried, even if he was trying very hard not to.”

Nezuko nodded, agreeing.

Giyuu lowered his head, unable to fully steady the sudden warmth blooming in his chest.

“…I see.”

Tanjiro sensed the emotion spike again — subtle, sharp, almost disbelieving.

He softened even more.

“You’ll probably see him again soon,” Tanjiro said reassuringly. “Maybe when you’re both stronger.”

A long pause.

Giyuu’s voice came out barely above a whisper.

“…Yes,” he murmured.
Soft.
Uncertain.
But honest.

“I would… like that.”

Tanjiro and Nezuko exchanged a relieved smile.

And for the first time since waking, something heavy in Giyuu’s chest loosened.

———

Obanai braced a hand against the courtyard railing, jaw tight as he shifted his weight onto his injured leg. The morning sun was gentle, but every muscle in his body felt like it was grinding against grain. Aoi stood nearby with her arms crossed, watching him with a level, clinical patience that somehow made the ache sharper.

“Slowly,” she warned. “If you rush it, you’ll tear the muscle again.”

“I’m not rushing,” Obanai muttered, even though he absolutely was.

Sumi, Kiyo, and Naho hovered a few steps away, each holding something—water, a towel, and a wooden crutch—like tiny attendants waiting for the emperor to give orders. They watched him with huge, anxious eyes.

“You’re doing great, Iguro-san!” Sumi chirped.

“Very steady!” Kiyo added.

Naho nodded so hard her hair bounced. “Aoi-san said your balance is improving!”

Aoi’s eyebrow twitched. “I didn’t say it like that.”

Obanai exhaled through his nose, focus returning to the movement. He shifted forward, bent his knee, then pushed upright again. The pull in the healing muscles stung—but it held. The triplets clapped softly at the small victory.

“Good,” Aoi said, stepping closer. “Again.”

He did—three more times, each one a little less painful. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck.

By the time she finally said, “That’s enough for today,” Obanai had to mask the relief in his shoulders. Sumi darted forward with the towel, which he accepted with a nod. Kiyo offered water next, and Naho handed him the crutch with a proud smile as if she’d forged it herself.

He took it, leaning lightly as he caught his breath.

Footsteps approached along the path, light and familiar. Tanjiro appeared first, Nezuko just behind him, staying tucked in the shade near the walkway to avoid the sunlight. Tanjiro raised a hand in greeting.

“Iguro-san! Sorry to interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Aoi said before Obanai could. “He’s done.”

Tanjiro let out a tiny, relieved breath.

Nezuko gave a small wave to everyone—Aoi, the triplets, and Obanai alike—without stepping into the sun.

Tanjiro scratched his cheek, smile small but sincere. “We were heading out and wanted to stop by. It’s… good to see you up and moving again.”

“Hn.” Obanai straightened slightly, careful not to make it obvious. “It’s nothing impressive.”

“It is,” Tanjiro said softly—too softly for anyone but Obanai to hear.

Aoi cleared her throat. “Don’t keep him standing long. He’s supposed to rest now.”

Tanjiro flushed. “Ah—sorry!”

Nezuko tugged lightly at Tanjiro’s sleeve, reminding him they still needed to go. Tanjiro dipped his head politely to Obanai one more time.

“We’ll come back again soon.”

The siblings turned down the path, Nezuko drifting along the shaded side and glancing back once with a small smile before disappearing around the corner.

Obanai let out a slow breath. Aoi folded her arms again.

“You did well,” she said. “We’ll increase the exercises tomorrow.”

The triplets beamed at him like he’d just completed Final Selection.

Obanai clicked his tongue and looked away.
“…Fine.”

———

The room was warm with late-morning light, filtered through the curtains so it didn’t glare too sharply. Giyuu sat on the floor, his bandaged shoulder sloping slightly, his posture straight but cautious. The wraps across his torso and arms tugged faintly whenever he breathed too deep.

Shinobu knelt a short distance away with her clipboard, eyes flicking between his movements and her notes. She wasn’t smiling—just watching, that quiet, unreadable version of her expression she reserved specifically for medical work.

“Let’s start with the arms today,” she said, voice light but firm. “Slowly, Tomioka-san. I know that’s difficult for you.”

Giyuu didn’t comment. He lifted his right arm first, stretching it upward until the muscles trembled. It wasn’t painful—but it wasn’t far from it. A tight pull ran down his side, the remnants of overexertion and cold still clinging to him like a shadow.

“Good. Hold it.”

He did.

Shinobu scribbled something down.

Then, because she couldn’t help herself:
“You know, most people grimace a little when they feel strain. You really are impossible to read.”

Giyuu lowered his arm, breath steady. “You asked me to stay relaxed.”

“I asked you to stay slow,” she corrected.

He didn’t argue. He shifted to the next stretch, leaning forward, palms bracing on his knees. His forehead dipped down, breath soft, and the dull ache in his back slowly unwound.

Shinobu’s eyes narrowed slightly—not annoyed, but observing him with an almost uncomfortable level of precision.

“You’ve been pushing yourself even when no one’s watching,” she said. “I can tell.”

Giyuu paused mid-stretch.

“…A little,” he admitted quietly.

“A lot,” she countered.

He didn’t deny it.

Shinobu clicked her tongue. “You only woke up a few days ago. Your body isn’t ready for full training, no matter what you think.”

“I’m only doing what I can,” he said, lifting his head. “Nothing more.”

“That’s the problem.” She set the clipboard down. “Your ‘nothing more’ is still more than most people would attempt.”

Silence. Giyuu returned to sitting upright again, hands resting loosely in his lap.

After a moment, Shinobu’s voice softened.

“…Tanjiro told you, didn’t he?”

Giyuu blinked. “About what?”

“Obanai starting recovery training.”

He didn’t answer immediately, but his shoulders shifted—just barely. Shinobu caught it.

“Mm. I see.”

Giyuu exhaled slowly. “It’s good news.”

Her brow arched. “You don’t sound relieved.”

He didn’t respond.

She leaned back slightly, studying him. “Tomioka-san. You should focus on your recovery, not his.”

“…I know.”

“But it’s bothering you.”

“…No.”

“It is.”

He looked away.

Shinobu released a quiet breath—half exasperated, half amused.

“You stretch like someone carrying a conversation they refuse to have.”

Giyuu’s lips tightened, but he didn’t argue again.

Shinobu picked up her clipboard.

“Alright. One more set. Slowly this time. And afterward, you rest. No sneaking extra training when I leave.”

Giyuu nodded. “Understood.”

“And Tomioka-san?”

He looked up.

Shinobu’s expression eased just a fraction.

“You’re recovering. Whether you think so or not. Don’t rush.”

Giyuu lowered his gaze and began the stretch again, his movements gentler this time.

“…I won’t,” he murmured.

Shinobu didn’t believe him—but she let him try.

Notes:

I’m so sorry that I havnt updated in so long. I lost the motivation to write but with this fic coming to end in a few more chapters I will do my best to post more often!

Thank you so much for the love and support you all give! I’m so glad you’re enjoying reading this.

Also if you like ALNST and IvanTill I did publish the first chapter to another fic I’m doing! It is a psychological horror! Second chapter will be out some time this week.

Chapter 16: Frost Between Them

Summary:

Cold air settles over the Butterfly Estate. The Hashira drop by in a parade of noise and warmth, dragging old tensions into the open and leaving awkward silences in their wake. When everyone else conveniently clears out, Obanai and Giyuu are finally left alone — and the conversation they’ve been avoiding finally catches up to them.

Notes:

This fic idea comes from Clem/Knyinsomniac on tik tok.

Any dynamics in this fic maybe be viewed as romantic or platonic as long as they’re legal!

Obanai woke to pain.

Not sharp, not unbearable — just that deep, dragging ache that sat in the bone and refused to let him forget anything for even a breath. His left leg throbbed in steady pulses, like a reminder of exactly how much it hated him this morning.

He exhaled through his teeth, slow and irritated, eyes narrowing at the ceiling.

So this was what “taking it easy” felt like.
He already despised it.

Outside his door, the Butterfly Mansion was beginning its morning rhythm — quiet footsteps, hushed voices, the faint creak of floorboards as the residents moved through the halls. Usually, Obanai had learned to block out such noises… but today, every sound seemed sharper. More intrusive.

Maybe because he’d slept badly.
Maybe because recovery training yesterday had wrung out every remaining thread of patience he had.

He shifted, trying to sit up, and pain bloomed up his thigh in a hot, ugly line.

“Tch…”

Kaburamaru lifted his head from where he’d been coiled near Obanai’s hip, flicking his tongue once in sleepy irritation, as if scolding him for moving so early.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Obanai muttered under his breath. “It’s not like lying here will make the damn muscle heal faster.”

Kaburamaru flicked his tongue again — unimpressed.

Obanai ignored him.

He pushed himself upright slowly, bracing on his elbows until he could get fully seated. The movement pulled at the half-healed skin around the surgery stitches, and a flash of discomfort made him clench his jaw. His breath stilled for a moment. Then, as always, he forced it steady.

The room was dim. Soft morning light filtered in through the shoji screen, painting pale rectangles across the floor. Dust hung suspended in the quiet air. Nothing had changed from yesterday, and somehow that annoyed him too.

He hated stillness.

Stillness meant thinking.
Thinking meant remembering.

And remembering meant—

He pressed a hand against his thigh, grounding himself.

Not going there.

Not right now.

His crutch leaned against the wall near the bed — a stark reminder of how little he could do on his own. He glared at it as if it were personally insulting him just by existing.

Ridiculous.

He’d survived a blizzard, a demon, being half-dead in the snow. Yet here he was, caged in a quiet room with morning sunlight and a throbbing leg, being defeated by the simple act of standing up.

The mansion outside grew louder — distant chatter, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, quick footsteps of the attendants beginning their routines. Somewhere down the hall, he thought he heard Tanjiro’s voice in passing — absurdly cheerful for this hour.

Obanai clicked his tongue and looked away.

Kaburamaru nudged his arm gently, as if sensing the shift in his mood. The snake curled slightly tighter against him, warm and steady.

“…I know,” Obanai muttered. “I’m being impatient.”

A beat passed.
He added, quieter:

“And yes, I’m aware that I’m terrible at resting.”

Kaburamaru flicked his tongue in what could only be agreement.

Obanai leaned back against the headboard, his breathing finally evening out, the ache dulling a fraction. His fingers traced absent patterns along the blanket — restless, aimless.

He didn’t know whether he wanted today to move quickly or not at all.

He didn’t know if he wanted to see anyone.

He didn’t know how he’d react when he eventually—

He cut the thought off sharply, jaw tightening.

That was later.
Not now.

This morning was just… quiet.
Too quiet.

And Obanai hated how much space that left for thoughts he didn’t want.

He rested his forearm across his knee, exhaling slowly, grounding himself again in the silence, in the pain, in the slow tick of time as the mansion came alive outside his door.

He would get through the morning.
He always did.

Whatever came after — he’d handle it when it arrived.

For now, he just sat there, the weight of his own breathing the only movement in the still room, Kaburamaru curled against his side like a silent, loyal shadow.

Waiting.

Obanai stayed where he was for a long while, half-sitting, half-slumped against the wall, letting the morning settle around him. The air in his room felt still, heavy in the way that only followed after a bad night’s rest.

He was finally starting to drift—not into sleep, but into that blank space where his thoughts stopped clawing at him—when a faint sound broke through the quiet.

A shuffle. A muted thump. The creak of old floorboards being asked to hold more weight than usual.

Obanai tensed, head lifting slightly.

It wasn’t loud. If anything, the noises were careful—measured, like someone trying not to disturb the house. But they were close, just outside his room. Movement, fabric brushing, the soft exhale of effort. Not the sharp collisions of real training, but something gentler… controlled. Almost like stretching drills, or the lightest form practice.

He couldn’t place the pattern at first. It was too soft, too… polite.

Then, slipping between the dull taps of footwork, he heard a voice. Just for a moment. Low, firm, unmistakably irritated at something.

Not Giyuu. Definitely not him. This voice had actual volume… and attitude.

Obanai’s jaw shifted against the inside of his bandages. He let his eyes fall half-shut again, listening despite himself as the movements outside continued—slow, restrained, familiar in a way that made his chest tighten.

He didn’t move to check.

Not yet.

Not when he didn’t trust what he’d let show on his face if he saw exactly who was out there.

The noises didn’t fade. If anything, they grew steadier—quiet breaths, fabric shifting, the dull tap of someone adjusting their footing. Too deliberate to be an accident. Too familiar to ignore.

Obanai exhaled through his nose.

He wasn’t going to get any peace like this.

With a soft grunt, he braced a hand against the wall and pushed himself upright. His leg protested instantly—a sharp pull where the healing muscle tightened, followed by a deep, throbbing ache. He paused, jaw clenching beneath his bandages until the worst of it eased.

Slow. He had to move slowly if he didn’t want to re-tear anything.

One careful step. Then another.

The boards were cool under his feet, the room still dim. It took him longer than he’d ever admit to cross to the door, breath steady but tighter than usual. Every shift of weight sent a quiet reminder through his leg: not healed, not ready, not yet.

He reached the doorframe and rested his fingers against it for balance before sliding it open.

Light filtered into the hall—not harsh sunlight, but the softer lantern-glow from the common room. It was enough to outline movement. Figures. Three shapes he recognized instantly in the way they held themselves, even without seeing faces.

But he didn’t step out yet.

Instead, he lingered half-hidden behind the door, watching silently as those restrained, careful motions continued. Hands guiding another’s arm into a stretch. A faint thump as someone shifted footing a little too fast. A sigh—frustrated but controlled.

His chest tightened.

It felt intrusive to watch, but he couldn’t look away. And he wasn’t ready to announce himself—not when his voice would give away too much.

So he remained there, steadying his breathing, leg aching in a dull, insistent pulse, as he decided whether he was ready to let the three of them realize he was awake.

Obanai eased into the hallway, the ache in his healing leg flaring enough to make his breath hitch. He ignored it. The sounds from the common room were clearer now—soft, careful movements, the rustle of fabric, a faint grunt of exertion.

Not sparring.
Guided movement.
Recovery work.

Someone—light-footed, cheerful even when trying to whisper—shifted her weight.

Mitsuri.

And someone else—sharp, restless, incapable of standing still for more than a second—clicked his tongue.

Sanemi.

A quiet voice responded, low and controlled, the kind of tone used only when someone was concentrating through discomfort:

“…No, that’s fine. I can manage.”

Giyuu.

Obanai’s hand tightened on the frame.
Those three. Of course.

It wasn’t surprising they’d stayed. With Shinobu away on a mission, the idea of leaving Giyuu alone—blindfolded, still weak, barely a day into moving again—would bother Mitsuri. And Sanemi wouldn’t admit it, but he looked after people by hovering, grumbling the entire time.

Obanai took another slow step, then another, moving closer until the common room came into view.

He stopped just short of entering.

Through the partly open door, he could see them—Giyuu seated on a floor mat, posture stiff, arms raised as he followed instructions. Bandages wrapped around his eyes, tight and clean. Mitsuri knelt beside him, counting softly under her breath, offering encouragement without crowding him. Sanemi stood off to the side with arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t invested, though every time Giyuu swayed even slightly, he shifted like he was ready to catch him.

Giyuu exhaled, slow but strained, lifting his arm higher.

“Good, Tomioka!” Mitsuri whispered.

“Tch. Don’t praise him for breathing,” Sanemi muttered—but Obanai noticed the way he angled closer anyway.

Giyuu didn’t reply.
He just kept moving.

Obanai stayed hidden in the doorway, watching silently, his leg throbbing but his focus fixed entirely on the scene before him.

He didn’t announce himself.

He didn’t step forward.

He simply watched—unseen—for reasons he couldn’t quite name.

Mitsuri leaned in a little as Giyuu slowly lowered his arm again.

“That was really steady,” she said gently. “You’re doing amazing, Tomioka.”

Sanemi snorted. “That wasn’t steady. I’ve seen leaves in a storm hold still better.”

Giyuu paused, head tilting slightly toward the sound. “…Then you’ve been watching very impressive leaves.”

Mitsuri slapped a hand over her mouth—trying not to giggle.
Sanemi stared, brows shooting up. “Did—did you just talk back?”

“I’m injured, not dead,” Giyuu murmured.

“Well, maybe if you weren’t moving like an old man—”

“Shinazugawa,” Mitsuri warned lightly.

Sanemi threw up his hands. “I’m just saying! If we’re doing this recovery stuff, he should—”

“He is doing it,” Mitsuri interrupted, her voice warm but firm. “And you’re helping just by being here, you know.”

Sanemi’s ears turned the faintest shade of pink. “I’m not helping. I’m supervising. Someone has to make sure he doesn’t fall on his face.”

“I can hear you,” Giyuu said.

“Good,” Sanemi shot back, crossing his arms tighter. “Means you’re not dying.”

Mitsuri smiled brightly. “See? That’s practically encouragement coming from him!”

Giyuu let out a short, baffled exhale. Almost a laugh—but not quite.

Mitsuri signaled gently, “Okay, let’s try raising your right arm again. Slowly this time.”

Giyuu nodded and started to move, concentrating on the movement, jaw set in quiet focus.

Sanemi watched him with an expression that was far softer than his voice.

“You’re still tilting your shoulder,” he muttered. “You’ll strain it.”

“I know,” Giyuu replied, calm. “I’m correcting it.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Sanemi,” Mitsuri sighed again—though her tone carried more affection than reprimand. “You’re very protective today.”

Sanemi sputtered. “I—what— I am not—”

But then his gaze flicked past Mitsuri.

He stilled.

Eyes narrowing.

“Oi.” He jerked his chin toward the doorway. “You gonna lurk there all day, Snake?”

Mitsuri blinked—and turned.

Giyuu froze mid-movement, sensing the shift in the room.

And Obanai, caught in the half-shadow of the doorframe, realized the moment of being unseen was over.

Obanai stepped fully into the room, posture stiff, weight uneven as he leaned on his crutch.
Sanemi raised a brow, Mitsuri brightened—but the air between Obanai and Giyuu tightened instantly, subtle as a thread pulled too taut.

“Iguro-san!” Mitsuri chirped. “You’re up! How’s your leg feeling?”

“Fine,” he answered shortly. Not rude, but clipped—carefully controlled. His gaze flicked briefly toward Giyuu, then away, as if the sight might burn.

Giyuu’s hand, halfway lifted from his previous stretch, dropped slightly.
“…You’re walking today,” he said quietly.

“Obviously.” Obanai’s voice was flat. “That is the point of recovery training.”

Giyuu nodded once, slow, unreadable behind the bandages. “That’s good.”

A beat of silence.

Then another.

Mitsuri shifted nervously, hands clasped in front of her—hopeful but uneasy, sensing something she didn’t quite understand.

Sanemi, of course, noticed everything. And chose violence.
“Did you two fight or something?” he asked bluntly.

Obanai’s jaw tightened. “No.”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

Which, naturally, said a lot.

Mitsuri flinched a little at the sudden tension, but stepped between them gently, palms raised in a soft, calming gesture. “Ah—um—maybe everyone’s just a little tired…? It’s been a long week…”

Sanemi snorted. “Please. You can cut this tension with a damn shovel.”

Mitsuri let out a tiny, nervous laugh—trying to ease the mood. “Let’s… maybe not use shovels near injured people…”

Giyuu finally spoke—gentle, but dense with unspoken meaning.
“Obanai. I didn’t expect you to visit.”

“You weren’t expected to be out of bed,” Obanai replied. Still not looking at him directly. “Yet here you are.”

Giyuu’s fingers curled faintly on the futon. “Shinobu said a little movement would help.”

“Hn.” Obanai’s response was noncommittal. A wall built of one syllable.

Sanemi muttered, “This is worse than I thought.”

Mitsuri quickly, quietly, touched Sanemi’s arm—not scolding, just a worried plea for him not to make it worse.

Obanai shifted his crutch, straightening. “You shouldn’t strain yourself.”

Giyuu’s head turned a fraction—surprised, almost.
“…You told me not to be reckless,” he murmured. “I’m not being reckless.”

“That’s debatable,” Obanai muttered.

Giyuu’s jaw tightened just slightly. “I’m doing what I’m told.”

Another quiet stretch, tension humming between them like a plucked string that refused to settle.

Mitsuri stepped forward carefully, voice soft as she tried to warm the room.
“I—I think you’re doing wonderfully, Tomioka. And Iguro… it must be reassuring to see he’s improving, right?”

Obanai finally looked directly at Giyuu.

Just for a moment.

Enough to see Giyuu’s cautious movements, the careful way he carried pain.

His voice was quieter when he spoke.

“…I suppose.”

Giyuu dipped his head faintly, acknowledging something between them neither could name.

Sanemi groaned loudly. “Alright, this is boring as hell. Either argue properly or stop staring dramatically.”

Mitsuri almost choked on air—half laugh, half panic. “S-Shinazugawa… maybe… maybe let’s all just breathe?”

Obanai shot him a glare.
Giyuu didn’t move.

But the tension didn’t break.

It just shifted—sharper, quieter, electric.

Like the beginning of something neither of them was ready to face.

Obanai adjusted his crutch again, as if he needed something to anchor himself.
Giyuu, still seated on the thin training mat, stayed painfully still—head angled in Obanai’s direction even though his eyes were bound.

The silence pressed in.

Mitsuri cleared her throat softly. “Um… Giyuu, are you tired? Do you need a break?”

“I’m fine,” Giyuu murmured.

Sanemi scoffed. “You look like a wet dishrag. Just say you’re tired.”

Giyuu didn’t rise to it—he rarely did. He only said, “Shinobu told me to rest when I felt dizzy.”

“Do you feel dizzy?” Mitsuri asked gently.

“…No.”

But Obanai’s voice cut in, sharper than intended. “You paused a moment ago. You were unsteady.”

Giyuu’s back stiffened.

Sanemi blinked. “What, you keeping score?”

Obanai didn’t look at him. “He’s clearly not ready for anything strenuous.”

“It wasn’t strenuous,” Giyuu said quietly. A tiny edge of defensiveness threaded through the softness. “I’m not pushing myself.”

“You were swaying,” Obanai said. “If Shinobu saw that—”

“She didn’t,” Giyuu replied.

“That isn’t the point.”

Another thick pause.

Mitsuri wrung her hands—trying to find the peace in this but sensing the storm beneath.

Sanemi smirked. “You two always like this, or is this some new brand of awkward?”

Obanai’s eye twitched. “Shinazugawa.”

“What? Can’t help it if this is entertaining.”

Giyuu exhaled slowly, controlled but strained. “Obanai… I understand you’re worried.”

“I’m not worried.”

Mitsuri and Sanemi both went silent at that.

Even Giyuu seemed to hesitate, as if weighing his next breath.

“…You sound worried,” he finally said.

Obanai looked away sharply, jaw tightening beneath his bandages. “If you collapse again, it will be my problem to deal with.”

“That isn’t—”

“You nearly died,” Obanai snapped, louder than intended.

The words landed heavy.

Too heavy.

Giyuu’s hand tightened on the mat. “And you would have died if I hadn’t—”

“Don’t,” Obanai cut in, voice low. “Do not finish that sentence.”

The air froze.

Sanemi’s brows shot up.
Mitsuri’s eyes widened, lips parting—but no sound came.

Giyuu didn’t move. But his shoulders lowered slightly, as if whatever he was going to say had slipped through his fingers.

Obanai stepped back half a pace, suddenly aware of how harsh he’d been—how close he’d let something slip.

Mitsuri, soft and careful, took a tiny step closer. “Obanai…? Maybe you should sit down? You’re still healing…”

He didn’t answer her.

He didn’t answer anyone.

Instead, Obanai exhaled once—slow, controlled, masking the tremor beneath—and forced his voice steady.

“I didn’t come to lecture.”

“But you are,” Giyuu murmured.

Obanai flinched.

Sanemi looked between them, then muttered, “This is ridiculous.”

Mitsuri tried again, voice bright but worried. “Well! Maybe it’s just… emotions running high! Everyone’s been through a lot—”

Obanai ignored it all.

He met the bandaged direction of Giyuu’s eyes one more time—something sharp, conflicted, unreadable flickering through his gaze—

Then he shifted his crutch and said stiffly:

“I’m going back to my room.”

Giyuu’s head turned slightly, following the sound.
“…Obanai.”

But Obanai didn’t look back.

He walked away with slow, uneven steps—each one loud in the quiet room.

Mitsuri bit her lip hard, watching him go.

Sanemi scratched the back of his neck. “Well. That was a mess.”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

He only sat there—hands resting loosely on his knees, posture steady but breath faintly unbalanced—as if the space Obanai left behind still echoed in his chest.

———

Obanai didn’t make it far down the hall before he had to stop.
Not because of his leg—though it throbbed sharply—but because something in his chest felt raw and too tight.

Kaburamaru nudged his jaw gently, concerned.

“…I know,” Obanai muttered. “I know. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

He leaned against the wall, gripping his crutch too tightly.
Every word he’d said replayed louder in his head.

You nearly died.

Do not finish that sentence.

He sucked in a breath, hating how shaken he felt—how easily Giyuu could pull this out of him without even trying.

Distantly, he could still hear faint voices from the training room.

———

Back inside, Mitsuri slowly crouched down beside Giyuu.

She kept her tone soft, warm—like she was afraid of pressing too hard on a bruise.

“Giyuu… are you okay?”

He didn’t answer at first.
He sat very still, hands resting in his lap, fingers pressed together almost rigidly.

“…Yes,” he said finally.

Sanemi snorted. “You’re terrible at lying.”

Giyuu’s brow tensed beneath the bandages. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Sanemi cut in. “It’s written all over your stupid quiet face.”

“Shinazugawa,” Mitsuri said gently, nudging him with her elbow.

“What?” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “I am being gentle.”

Mitsuri gave him a look that clearly said you absolutely are not.

Then she turned back to Giyuu.

“Obanai’s just… scared,” she said softly. “Worried. He won’t admit it, but that’s what it is.”

Giyuu exhaled—barely audible.
“…I know.”

“Then why’re you two talking like you’re about to break each other’s noses?” Sanemi demanded.

“We aren’t,” Giyuu said quietly.

“Oh really? I could feel the tension from across the room,” Sanemi said. “Thought you two might kiss or kill each other, wasn’t sure which.”

“Shinazugawa!” Mitsuri gasped.

Giyuu went very still.

Sanemi blinked. “—What? It’s not like I meant—”

Mitsuri flailed her hands. “Sanemi, stop talking.”

He threw his arms up. “I don’t know what I said!”

Giyuu finally moved—just a small shake of his head. “…It’s fine.”

But his voice had gone softer.
More fragile around the edges.

Mitsuri watched him quietly for a moment. Her expression turned almost sad.

“Tomioka… did it bother you? Iguro leaving like that?”

He swallowed.
Barely.

“…He’s angry with me,” he murmured.

“Oh please,” Sanemi scoffed. “If Iguro was actually angry, he’d be hissing like a cornered cat. That was—” he waved a hand vaguely, “—something else.”

Mitsuri nodded earnestly. “He was worried.”

Giyuu didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The way his fingers curled slightly—tightening just once in his lap—said enough.

———

In the hall, Obanai forced himself to start moving again.
Pain shot up his left leg, but he kept going—slow, uneven steps dragging him away from the lingering sound of Giyuu’s voice.

“Stupid,” he muttered beneath his breath.
“Stupid, stupid—why did you say any of that…”

Kaburamaru coiled tighter across his shoulders, like he was trying to hold him together.

Obanai exhaled sharply.

“…It doesn’t matter. He’s fine now.”

But the words tasted like a lie.

He stopped again, leaning his forehead briefly against the cool wooden pillar.

He didn’t know how to talk to Giyuu without wanting to shake him.
He didn’t know how to not think about the snow, the cold, the way Giyuu had dragged him step by step until his own legs gave out.

He didn’t know how to handle being grateful—for something that could’ve easily gotten them both killed.

And worse—

he didn’t know how to handle the way Giyuu had said:
‘You were worth it.’

Obanai shut his eyes, breath catching despite himself.

“…Idiot,” he whispered.
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

He wasn’t sure if he was talking about Giyuu—

—or himself.

———

Back in the training room, Sanemi finally sighed.

“Well. This was a disaster. I’m getting tea.”

Mitsuri nodded rapidly. “Yes! Tea sounds good.”

Sanemi jerked his head toward Giyuu. “You want anything?”

“No,” Giyuu said.

Mitsuri smiled gently. “You should drink something warm, Giyuu. Your hands are cold.”

He hesitated.
“…Tea is fine.”

Sanemi snorted. “There we go. Actual communication.”

He stomped off.

Mitsuri stayed kneeling beside Giyuu, voice dropping soft again.

“…He’ll calm down, you know.”

Giyuu tilted his head slightly. “Iguro?”

She nodded. “Once he’s not so emotional.”

“I’m not sure he—”

“He is,” Mitsuri said firmly. “He just shows it very… intensely.”

Giyuu went quiet.

After a long moment, he murmured—

“…He sounded hurt.”

Mitsuri’s smile dimmed, warm but sad.
“Then maybe you two just need time.”

Giyuu didn’t reply.
He simply sat there, breathing slow, hands still faintly trembling.

And somewhere down the hall, Obanai leaned heavily on his crutch—breathing just as unsteady.

⸻

By midday the sun had burned off the last of the morning chill, but winter still clung to the air—a fresh, crisp cold that slipped beneath sleeves and made every breath feel clean. The courtyard was brighter than it had been in days, no snow left on the ground but the hint of it still lingering in the light.

Giyuu sat on the engawa with Sanemi and Mitsuri. Or rather—
Sanemi and Mitsuri sat in the sun, while Giyuu stayed tucked in the shade, where the light wouldn’t overwhelm his bandaged eyes. The three of them were mid-conversation—well, Mitsuri was mid-conversation. Sanemi was mostly grunting in agreement, and Giyuu was listening in that quiet way he always did, hands tucked into his sleeves to keep out the cold.

That’s when two shadows approached down the path.

Muichiro was first—light steps, breath faint in the cold air, holding a small wrapped box in both hands. Gyomei followed behind him, pace steady, prayer beads shifting softly with each exhale.

Mitsuri’s face lit instantly.

“Tokito! Himejima-San! You came!”

Muichiro gave a small nod as he stopped in front of them. “I brought something.” He lifted the little box slightly. “It’s fruit.”

Mitsuri melted, hands clasping under her chin. “That’s so thoughtful!”

Sanemi scoffed under his breath, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he didn’t hate it. “Kid’s more polite than half of you.”

Gyomei bowed his head toward them, voice low and warm.
“It is relieving to see you all in good health. I prayed for swift healing for Iguro earlier this morning.”

Giyuu nodded. “He’s been awake. A little tired.”
He glanced toward Muichiro. “He’ll appreciate the fruit.”

Muichiro blinked up at him. “Can you show us where he is? I don’t want to wander into the wrong room again. Shinazugawa got mad last time.”

“That was your fault, kid,” Sanemi muttered. “You walked straight into my bathhouse.”

“It wasn’t labeled,” Muichiro countered blandly.

Mitsuri let out a tiny laugh, bright and airy. “Why don’t we all walk together? I’m sure Obanai would be happy to see everyone.”

Giyuu hesitated—a small, weighted pause, cold air catching in his throat. The tension from his last conversation with Obanai still lingered, sharp in his memory. But he shifted his weight and nodded.

“…Alright.”

Sanemi slapped Giyuu’s shoulder on the way past him, not gently. “Try not to look like someone kicked your dog when you go in there. He’s the one who chewed you out last time, not the other way around.”

Mitsuri lightly tapped Sanemi’s arm—more of a gentle correction than a scold. “Shinazugawa, please…” she whispered, trying to ease the mood without pushing anyone.

Gyomei smiled faintly. “Let us all be gentle today.”

The group began moving toward Obanai’s room—footsteps tapping softly against the winter-chilled boards of the engawa, breath misting in the cold, and Giyuu trailing a half-step behind, trying to steady himself before facing Obanai again.

———

The walk down the engawa was slow, the winter air nipping at their ankles where their robes didn’t fully cover. The boards were cool underfoot, and Giyuu stayed a step behind the others, fingers brushing the wall just enough to orient himself without looking unsteady.

Mitsuri kept glancing back at him every few seconds. Not obvious—she didn’t want to embarrass him—but gently watchful, the way someone checks that a lantern flame isn’t about to blow out in a draft. Each time Giyuu’s foot hesitated near a raised board, Mitsuri shifted just slightly toward him, ready to catch his elbow if he needed it.

He never asked. She never said anything. But she was there.

Muichiro padded ahead of them, steps light, cradling the fruit box carefully with both hands. Sanemi walked beside him, arms crossed, muttering under his breath about how “these hallways are a damn maze.” Gyomei’s presence anchored the group, his measured pace giving them all an easy rhythm to follow.

The closer they got to Obanai’s room, the quieter things became. The air seemed to hold its breath. Even Sanemi stopped muttering.

Mitsuri slowed as they reached the sliding door. “He might be resting,” she whispered, though the hope in her voice said she wanted him awake.

Muichiro gently set the fruit box against the wall. “Should we knock?”

Before anyone could answer, Sanemi slid the door open with a single sharp motion.

Inside, Obanai was sitting up against the wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent, a book half-open in his lap. His mismatched eyes flicked instantly toward the doorway—then sharpened with mild annoyance at the group clustered there like lost ducklings.

“…What is this?” he asked flatly.

Mitsuri brightened. “A visit!”

Gyomei bowed at the entrance. “We are grateful to see you recovering, Iguro.”

Muichiro lifted a hand. “I brought fruit.”

Obanai blinked at the box on the floor. “I can see that.”

Sanemi’s mouth twitched. “You look like hell, Iguro.”

“So do you,” Obanai shot back, calm as ever.

And then his gaze drifted—past them—landing on the shape hovering just behind the others. Giyuu stood a step back from the doorway, head angled slightly as though listening to every shift in the room, his posture careful, cautious.

The air tightened.

Obanai’s fingers closed the book without looking away.

“…You came too.”

Not warm. Not hostile. Something between.

Giyuu bowed his head slightly. “Mitsuri asked.”

Sanemi snorted. “He wanted to come.”

Mitsuri flapped her hands softly. “Shinazugawa—please—”

Obanai’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on the book loosened just a fraction.

“Come in,” he said finally, voice quieter. “You’re all letting the cold in.”

They filed inside—the room filling with winter air, light footsteps, and the faint, unspoken tension tracing between Obanai and Giyuu like a thread pulled too tight.

The room warmed with quiet footsteps before anyone spoke.

Gyomei entered first, his presence filling the space with a calm gravity. Muichiro followed, drifting in like the winter air—silent, distracted, but observant in the way only he understood. Then Mitsuri appeared in the doorway with Giyuu’s sleeve lightly between her fingers.

“This way, Tomioka-san,” she whispered, guiding him with gentle pressure so he wouldn’t misstep.

Giyuu moved slowly, cautious even with the bandages covering his eyes. When she brought him close enough, Mitsuri touched his arm again and eased him to sit at the very edge of Obanai’s bed. He settled stiffly, back straight, hands clasped in his lap.

Obanai watched the whole process in silence, not saying a word as Mitsuri adjusted the blanket so Giyuu wouldn’t sit on it wrong.

Gyomei folded his hands. “It brings me joy to see you both recovering,” he said warmly. “The Corps is grateful you are still with us.”

Obanai gave a respectful nod. Giyuu murmured something soft—too quiet for anyone but Gyomei to hear.

Muichiro placed the small offering box he’d brought on Obanai’s table.
“I brought something.” he said simply.

Obanai nodded once. “Thank you, Tokito.”

Muichiro didn’t add more; he just sat near Gyomei, legs tucked neatly beneath him, eyes drifting to the window where pale winter light crept along the floor. His quiet presence made the room feel even softer, like the air itself was thinking.

Mitsuri, still standing close to Giyuu in case he wavered, beamed at everyone. “It’s so nice to see everyone together! It feels… peaceful.”

Sanemi—leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed—snorted. “It’s only peaceful ’cause the bug’s not here to nag.”

Mitsuri gave him a tiny frown and shook her head like she was used to his tone. “We’re guests, Shinazugawa. Be nice.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Obanai’s eye flicked to Giyuu without turning his head. Giyuu sat perfectly still, breathing shallowly, as if trying not to disturb the room. His fingers flexed once against the blanket near Obanai’s knee—barely noticeable.

Gyomei angled his head slightly. “Tomioka. Your recovery seems steady.”

Giyuu nodded. “Slow, but… steady.” His voice was thin. Strained. “Shinobu said my eyes might be fine.”

Mitsuri leaned a little closer, careful not to startle him. “You’re doing so well, Tomioka-san. Really.”

Giyuu’s lips twitched—a faint, almost nervous attempt at acknowledgment.

Obanai didn’t speak, but his fingers curled subtly against the mattress beside him, unseen beneath the blanket.

Muichiro finally spoke again, quiet and airy.
“The wind outside is cold today,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Mitsuri smiled. “It is! But at least there’s no snow.”

Gyomei gave a soft, thoughtful hum.

Obanai wasn’t sure who Sanemi had been looking at, but eventually the white-haired Hashira’s attention flicked between him and Giyuu—sharp…and far too knowing.

Sanemi let out a short, derisive huff.

“If you two are gearing up for another argument,” he said flatly, “just get it over with. All this weird quiet is annoying.”

Mitsuri nearly choked on air.
“S-Shinazugawa! They’re not— I mean—”

Giyuu’s shoulders stiffened. Obanai felt the tension twist through his spine, heat prickling low in his chest.

“No one is arguing,” Obanai muttered, too quickly.

Sanemi raised an eyebrow.
“Sure. And I’m the picture of patience.”

Muichiro tilted his head from where he stood, silent the whole time.
“…I didn’t notice anything,” he said mildly.

Gyomei, hands folded, offered a quiet hum—neutral, unreadable beneath the steady rhythm of his prayers.

Giyuu turned slightly toward Obanai, though the bandages over his eyes made it a vague gesture.
His voice was soft, subdued.
“…We’re fine.”

It only made the tension more obvious.

Sanemi clicked his tongue.
“Tch. Whatever. Just don’t make it awkward for everyone else.”

“You’re the one making it awkward!” Mitsuri whispered harshly, flustered but still not scolding him—only trying to rein in the edges of his bluntness.

Sanemi shrugged like this was all painfully normal.

Obanai exhaled slowly, fingers tapping once against the blanket under his hand, jaw ticking behind the bandages.

Giyuu shifted as if to steady himself on the edge of Obanai’s bed, but he hesitated—hands hovering in the air, unsure where the frame was until Mitsuri gently guided his arm.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.

It was tight, stretched thin, like one wrong word would snap it.

And Sanemi—sensing it, savoring it, or simply bored by it—leaned back against the wall with a smirk.

“See? Awkward.”

Sanemi’s smug little “awkward” hung in the air a moment too long.

Obanai felt his pulse climb, irritation scraping under his skin.
And maybe it was the staring…or the tension…or simply Sanemi’s presence fraying his last nerve—

—but he spoke before he could stop himself.

“…He shouldn’t even be out of bed yet.”
Sharp. Too sharp.

Giyuu turned his bandaged head toward him—subtle, but unmistakably hurt.

The room tightened instantly.

Mitsuri’s breath caught.
Muichiro blinked, as if realizing oh, this is uncomfortable.
Gyomei’s prayer faltered for half a second—just barely.
Even Sanemi raised his eyebrows.

And Giyuu—quiet as ever—simply said:

“…I didn’t want to sit alone.”

That was all.
Soft. Honest.
And somehow heavier than any argument.

Obanai felt the words hit him square in the chest.
His grip tightened around his sheets; Kaburamaru shifted against his shoulder, sensing the spike of emotion.

No one knew where to look.

Sanemi coughed once.
Muichiro drifted his gaze to a wall.
Mitsuri wrung her hands, eyes darting between them with growing worry.

Then—salvation came from the hallway.

Aoi’s voice, a little strained, floated down the corridor:

“—No, please wait inside, Uzui-san, I’ll get Shinobu-sama—”

Mitsuri lit up instantly.

“Oh! That must be Uzui!” she chirped, far too loudly.
Then she clapped her hands together, feigning sudden urgency.
“We should go help! Yes—let’s all go greet him, right now, immediately!”

Sanemi squinted.
“What? Why—”

“No time!” Mitsuri insisted, already pushing him not-so-gently toward the hall.

Sanemi stumbled.
“Hey—Stop—Woman, I can walk on my own—”

Gyomei nodded graciously.
“It is courteous to welcome our comrade.”

Muichiro followed simply because everyone else was moving.

Mitsuri looked back only once—eyes sparkling with unmistakable intention—before ushering the entire group down the hallway.

The door closed shut behind them.

And suddenly—

Silence.

Giyuu and Obanai sat alone in the room, the air thick and fragile as spun thread.

Kaburamaru curled a little closer around Obanai’s shoulder.
Giyuu’s hands rested uncertainly on his knees, posture guarded, waiting.

Neither spoke.

Silence settles immediately — not heavy, not tense, just… aware.

Obanai hears their footsteps fade down the hall, leaving only the faint rustle of the tatami when Giyuu shifts beside him. Mitsuri really hadn’t been subtle, but he pretends not to know that.

Giyuu sits on the edge of the bed exactly where Mitsuri guided him, posture straight, hands resting on his knees. There’s a calmness to him, but Obanai can see little things — the way his fingers curl slightly, the way his head tilts as if listening for something familiar.

“…They’re obvious,” Obanai mutters finally. It’s dry, but not hostile.

Giyuu huffs — a tiny exhale, almost a laugh but not quite. “Mitsuri doesn’t hide anything well.”

Obanai glances at him. “No. She doesn’t.”

Another quiet moment. Then Giyuu turns his head slightly, in Obanai’s direction.

“You don’t have to sit all the way over there,” he says softly. “If it’s uncomfortable.”

Obanai freezes for half a second — not visibly, just internally — before shifting closer on the bed. Not touching, but no longer a whole arm’s length away.

“…Better?” he asks, sounding far more casual than he feels.

Giyuu nods. “I can… hear you better from here.”

Obanai watches him for a moment. The bandages around Giyuu’s eyes are clean, tied neatly. He’s still, but not the cold kind of stillness Obanai used to mistake for apathy — it’s cautious, thoughtful.

“…They’ve been hovering over you,” Obanai says, tone low. “All day. Like you’re going to fall apart the moment they look away.”

Giyuu tilts his head. “You included?”

Obanai looks away abruptly. “…I was being practical.”

Giyuu’s lips twitch — almost a smile, subtle enough that Obanai questions whether he imagined it.

“I didn’t mind,” Giyuu says quietly. “It was… comforting.”

That word shoots straight through Obanai’s chest. He swallows.

“I wasn’t trying to comfort you.”

“I know,” Giyuu replies. “That’s probably why it worked.”

Obanai’s eyes flick back to him, startled — then something gentles in his expression. A long moment passes, neither of them looking away.

After a moment, Giyuu breathes out. “…It’s good to hear your voice.”

Obanai goes still — surprised, but not flustered, not exactly. More like he’s trying to interpret the meaning behind the words and finding too many options.

“…You’ve always heard it.”

“I mean recently.”

Obanai exhales through his nose, something like relief buried inside it.
“I’m not going anywhere. If that’s what you meant.”

Giyuu nods, accepting that answer without pushing for more.

They don’t move closer. They don’t say anything dramatic.
They just sit there — two people who’ve survived too much, sharing space again for the first time in too long.

And for now, that’s enough.

A sudden thump in the hallway shatters the quiet.

Followed by a hushed, frantic whisper:

“Mitsuri, you’re stepping on my foot—!”

“I’m not— oh! Sorry, Shinazugawa!”

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Muichiro adds flatly.

“Hush,” Mitsuri hisses. “We’re just checking if they’re— you know— talking.”

Gyomei’s calm baritone tries (and fails) to ground them. “It is wise to give them space, but perhaps we should not crowd the doorway…”

Obanai and Giyuu exchange a look — or in Giyuu’s case, a tilt of the head that says I definitely heard that.

Obanai pinches the bridge of his nose.
“…They’re unbelievable.”

A beat later the door slides open just an inch — then immediately slams shut again.

Mitsuri whisper-yells, scandalized, “SHINAZUGAWA! You opened it too much!”

“I barely touched it!”

“You kicked it!”

“I didn’t—!”

Muichiro sighs in the background. “This is exhausting.”

Inside the room, Obanai mutters, “I should have pretended to be asleep.”

Giyuu’s lips twitch. “…It wouldn’t have stopped them.”

Before Obanai can argue, Mitsuri’s voice rises with bright, nervous cheer:

“Okay! Everything sounds good in there! Let’s— um— go help Aoi! Yes! Aoi definitely needs us!”

Gyomei gently redirects, “Let us give them privacy.”

Sanemi grumbles, “They’re not even— whatever, fine.”

Their footsteps shuffle away—some reluctantly, some gratefully—and the hallway slowly quiets again.

Left alone, Obanai lets out a long exhale. “They planned this.”

“Yes,” Giyuu says simply.

“For what reason?”

Giyuu takes a moment to think. “Maybe they worry.”

Obanai snorts. “They worry too loudly.”

“True.”

The silence that returns is softer than before, almost comfortable.
No pressure. No expectations. Just a small shared understanding that wasn’t there a week ago.

And somewhere down the hall, Mitsuri whispers far too loudly:

“SEE? They’re fine! I told you this would help!”

Sanemi groans. Muichiro says he wants a nap. Gyomei offers a prayer.

Obanai closes his eye.

“…We’re never going to hear the end of this.”

Giyuu’s answer is calm, almost amused. “Probably not.”

Notes:

AAAAAHHHH ITS ALMOST DONE. IM NOT READY IVE HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING AND SEEING YOUR SUPPORT!!

Anyway sorry if any characters felt off. I saw something on twitter/X of Giyuu, Sanemi, and Mitsuri as a trio and wanted to see what that would look like.

I’ll hopefully get the last chapter out this week.

Notes:

First fan fic imma be devoted to finishing so please don’t let this flop and hope yall liked it 😅