The Hashira—both active and retired—were worried. There was still no news of Tomioka, and Shinazugawa was falling apart, though he tried to carry on as normally as he could. The truth was plain: he was unraveling. His recklessness on demon hunts increased with each mission, and he refused to rest, pouring every moment into caring for Giyuu’s children or searching for any trace of him. No human could live like that for long.
Peace had lasted only a month.
After Giyuu’s heat, Sanemi had touched happiness with his bare hands. Not everything was perfect—it couldn’t be, not after the horrors they’d lived through and the things they had seen—but they found solace in small, fleeting moments. Waiting awake for the other to return from missions, checking they were unhurt. Waking up by Giyuu’s side, his dark hair spilling over the pillow, his expression serene, almost angelic. Sleeping at opposite ends of the futon but locking feet, a subtle contact that reassured them both.
The faint laughter of children had begun to seep into those moments of peace. Suki and Aiko had slowly warmed to Sanemi. Suspicion turned into cautious curiosity, and curiosity gave way to trust. Aiko, bold and demanding, would climb onto his back, insisting he carry her to bed like the spoiled youngest sibling she was. Suki, more reserved but no less perceptive, had started allowing Sanemi into her world. At first, they worked in silence when she permitted him to help in the kitchen, but over time, she shared snippets of her day. When Giyuu was away on missions, she gravitated toward Sanemi for reassurance. Sometimes, she’d quietly take one of his shirts, adding it to their growing collection of scented items for the nest she and Aiko had crafted—a makeshift sanctuary to ward off loneliness during heat.
Curiosity between Giyuu and Sanemi had also given way to exploration. What they had thought would only surface during heats and ruts—those raw, primal moments when their walls crumbled—became something neither could stop thinking about, a quiet but constant presence in their lives.
“You knew what to do… during my heat,” Giyuu said one day. He had just returned from a grueling mission, but instead of collapsing into bed, they sat side by side on the engawa, waiting for the sunrise. The soft glow of the moon bathed them in pale light, casting faint shadows across the wooden porch. In the pre-dawn stillness, the world felt smaller, quieter, as though it belonged only to them. Under the cover of darkness, Giyuu was braver—perhaps because the faint light softened his features, or maybe because exhaustion stripped away his barriers.
“Well, it couldn’t be too different from having normal sex,” Sanemi replied. Perhaps Giyuu wasn’t the only one who lost all sense of propriety in the early hours of the morning.
“I never had normal sex,” Giyuu admitted softly, his words barely louder than the whisper of the wind through the trees.
Sanemi froze. “What?”
“I never had normal sex,” Giyuu repeated, his tone steady but his gaze fixed on the horizon, maybe uninterested, maybe avoiding Sanemi’s eyes.
“I heard you the first time,” Sanemi said, sharper than intended, a mix of surprise and frustration bleeding into his voice. “But you told me you’d never shared a heat. So that means that I… Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Did I have to?” Giyuu asked, tilting his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
“How was I supposed to know if you didn’t say anything?”
“Did we do something wrong?”
Sanemi wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. His innocent, beautiful, utterly clueless mate had no idea. If he could rewrite their first time, he would, over and over again, until it was perfect. Giyuu deserved a memory that wasn’t defined by awkward fumbling, a rushed bite, and lingering regret.
“No, nothing was wrong. I just… I wish we’d waited. I wanted to give you something better,” Sanemi admitted, his voice quieter now, tinged with regret.
“I don’t need something better.”
“The first time… you didn’t sleep. You couldn’t eat. I wish we’d waited until you felt more comfortable with me,” Sanemi said, his honesty breaking through the tension. Carefully, he reached out, his rough hand enveloping Giyuu’s, and turned so they were facing each other fully. There was no point in lying; there was nothing to gain from hiding the truth.
“There’s no one better for me than you,” Giyuu said, his voice steady despite the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes.
Sanemi’s throat tightened. Under the soft glow of the moonlight, Giyuu looked almost otherworldly—too perfect, too ethereal for someone as flawed as Sanemi to hold. The quiet conviction in his tone unraveled something deep inside him. A knot of guilt, fear, and longing that had been bound tightly for so long threatened to loosen, though it was so twisted together it felt impossible to untangle.
Tentatively, Sanemi’s hand rose, brushing against the side of Giyuu’s face. His thumb traced the curve of Giyuu’s jaw, rough skin meeting smooth, pale warmth. Sanemi couldn’t recall deciding to move closer; it just happened. One moment, there was a sliver of space between them, and the next, their foreheads were pressed together, their breaths mingling in the crisp morning air.
“Tell me to stop,” Sanemi murmured, his voice a fragile thread of sound, more plea than question.
“Don’t stop,” Giyuu replied, and that was all the permission Sanemi needed.
Some might say they had kissed before, but Sanemi would argue otherwise. Those moments had been consumed by the feverish haze of heat and rut, frantic and driven by instinct rather than intention. This, however—this was different. It was deliberate. Thoughtful.
The kiss began slow, hesitant—a tender melding of lips, exploring the unfamiliar with quiet reverence. Giyuu’s breath hitched as his hands found their way to Sanemi’s arms, his fingers curling gently around his wrist. The touch was feather-light yet comforting, a silent declaration of trust that neither of them would take for granted.
Sanemi tilted his head, deepening the kiss with aching care, pouring into it everything he couldn’t bring himself to say: his apologies for the past, his gratitude for the present, and his promises for a future he couldn’t believe he deserved.
Giyuu tasted like hell, purgatory, and paradise all at once—a perfect storm of sweetness, bitterness, and something indescribably his own. It was intoxicating, pulling Sanemi deeper with every moment, it was addicting. There was no ulterior motive, no pretense or expectation. The kiss wasn’t about desire; it was about solace, about holding and being held.
When they finally pulled apart, their breaths came uneven and shallow. Their faces remained close, the space between them heavy with unspoken emotion. Giyuu’s cheeks were flushed, his big eyes half-lidded, and his lips slightly parted, as if inviting more—whatever more might mean for them.
Sanemi exhaled shakily, his gaze softening as he leaned forward to press a lingering kiss to Giyuu’s forehead. The gesture was quiet, reverent—a promise made without words.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world around them faded into irrelevance, leaving only the faint rustle of leaves in the wind and the distant chirping of birds. These were the sounds of a life that continued, even in their stillness.
As the sun climbed higher, its golden light spilling over them and washing the scene in warmth, Sanemi finally broke the silence. His voice was low and rough, thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”
Giyuu’s gaze met his, steady despite the faint flush that lingered on his cheeks. “There is nothing to forgive.”
Sanemi didn’t respond—not with words. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Giyuu, pulling him close once more. This time, it wasn’t about the kiss or the longing. It was simply about being near, about the quiet understanding that they had each other, no matter how much the world stood against them.
Most of all, Sanemi appreciated the effort Giyuu was making to communicate, both in and out of the bedroom. It wasn’t easy for him, but Sanemi could see how much he tried, and that effort alone meant everything.
Giyuu was naturally quiet during intimacy. Words were rare, but his actions spoke volumes. Occasionally, he would let out a soft, breathy “Nemi”—just enough to coax Sanemi into doing something he wanted. A hand tightening around his throat, a palm gently covering his mouth to restrict his breathing—it wasn’t about dominance or submission; it was about trust, about knowing how far they could go together.
His reactions were subtle yet telling. Giyuu’s nails would scrape down Sanemi’s sides when something felt especially good, and the way his toes curled was a silent plea that he was close. But what Sanemi found most captivating—and admittedly, challenging at first—was the way Giyuu’s emotions spilled over.
He would cry. Tears would gather in those impossibly big eyes of his, slipping down his cheeks in streams that caught the dim light. The first time it happened, Sanemi had frozen in place, panic and guilt flooding him. He thought he’d done something wrong, thought he’d pushed too far. But Giyuu had gritted his teeth, frustration evident even as he insisted they keep going. The memory of that moment still made Sanemi cringe; Giyuu had been pissed about what he called “spoiling a perfectly good orgasm.”
Sanemi had never made that mistake again.
Now, he embraced those moments when Giyuu’s face transformed into a raw, vulnerable mess of sensation and emotion. He learned to read the watery glaze of his eyes, the way passion overflowed in the form of tears. It wasn’t sadness—it was intensity, a feeling too big to stay contained. And Sanemi loved it. Loved the honesty of it, the way it stripped away the walls Giyuu so carefully built around himself.
To Sanemi, those moments were the truest expressions of trust, the most genuine form of connection.
Sanemi’s breath always took longer to settle than he liked. His chest still rose and fell unevenly as he studied Giyuu lying beneath him, flushed and trembling yet no longer shy. Silent tears lingered on Giyuu’s cheeks, catching the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the shoji doors. Beneath Sanemi’s palm, Giyuu’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, warm and alive—a soothing reassurance that grounded him in this fragile, fleeting moment.
Neither of them spoke at first. The silence between them wasn’t awkward or empty; it felt sacred, a shared stillness where words would only intrude. Sanemi reached out, his thumb brushing away the lingering tears from the corners of Giyuu’s eyes. His touch was rough, his hands calloused, but the gesture was tender, achingly gentle. He didn’t just wipe the tears away—he cradled Giyuu’s face for a long moment, as if trying to memorize the warmth beneath his fingers.
“Sometimes I wish I could see your colors,” Sanemi murmured, his voice quiet and still rough from the haze of intimacy. It wasn’t something he’d planned to say—it had slipped out in the quiet, a thought too honest to keep hidden.
Giyuu, drowsy and pliant in the aftermath, didn’t open his eyes. He often fell asleep long before Sanemi had finished cleaning him up, and Sanemi had assumed this would be no different. But to his surprise, Giyuu’s lips curved into a faint smile, so soft it might have been imagined. “I wish you could see your own colors,” Giyuu replied, his voice low but steady, as if delivering a truth he’d been holding onto for a long time. “They’re beautiful.”
Sanemi stilled, his chest tightening. He doubted they were really talking about colors anymore.
“You cry like it doesn’t even bother you,” he said after a moment, his tone gruff but lacking any edge. It wasn’t a question—just an observation, tinged with quiet wonder.
Giyuu’s lashes fluttered as he opened his eyes, his gaze still glassy with unshed emotion. “It doesn’t,” he said simply, as though the answer were obvious. His voice was quiet but firm, spoken with the kind of conviction that couldn’t be shaken. “It’s… freeing to be able to cry again.”
Sanemi’s chest ached at the words, though he couldn’t have said why. He didn’t know how to respond—not with words, anyway. They didn’t come easily to him for things like this.
So instead, he leaned down, pressing his forehead gently against Giyuu’s. Their breaths mingled, warm and soft in the stillness between them. It was a gesture of solidarity, of understanding. An unspoken vow: Whatever you give me, I’ll hold it with care.
After a moment, Sanemi shifted to sit up. There was cleaning up to do, and though he hated leaving Giyuu’s side, he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the mess. Giyuu made no protest, simply relaxing into the futon and wrapping his arms loosely around Sanemi’s pillow, burying his face in the lingering scent. Yet, despite his exhaustion, Giyuu didn’t fall asleep right away. He lay quietly, waiting for Sanemi to finish, as though he understood the other man’s need to make things right—almost as if Sanemi feared he’d somehow tarnished something as perfect and pure as Giyuu.
The silence between them felt natural, unspoken words filling the space as Sanemi worked. But as he stood to put away the damp cloth, Giyuu’s quiet voice broke through.
“Stay,” Giyuu murmured, his eyes half-lidded and heavy with sleep, fighting to stay awake long enough to ensure he wasn’t left alone.
“Where else would I go?” Sanemi replied, his tone gruff as always, but the softness in his gaze betrayed him.
He returned to the futon without hesitation, settling beside Giyuu. Their bodies instinctively sought each other out, tangling together as if trying to become one. Propping himself up on one elbow, Sanemi let his eyes roam over Giyuu’s face, studying every detail. In the dim light, Giyuu looked softer somehow, his features almost ethereal. Sanemi reached out, his rough fingertips brushing against Giyuu’s cheek before tracing the curve of his jawline, committing the moment to memory.
Sanemi’s calloused hands moved with deliberate care as he reached for Giyuu’s unruly hair. He smoothed it in slow, repetitive strokes, a mindless rhythm that required no thought but carried with it an unspoken tenderness. The silence stretched on, comforting and unbroken, save for the occasional rustle of blankets as they adjusted against each other.
Sanemi’s hand drifted from Giyuu’s hair down his back, then back up again in the same soothing pattern. It was a grounding gesture, easing the tension in his own heart as much as it seemed to calm Giyuu. There was no rush, no urgency—just the quiet reassurance of touch.
Perhaps it was a premonition, or maybe just instinct, that made Sanemi shift even closer. Their bodies were now barely a breath apart. His thumb brushed lightly over Giyuu’s knuckles, a small but comforting gesture that seemed to melt away the last remnants of tension in Giyuu’s shoulders. Within minutes, Giyuu’s breathing evened out, the soft rise and fall of his chest signaling that he’d drifted off.
Sanemi didn’t move, even as his arm began to ache from the awkward position. He stayed exactly where he was, watching over Giyuu with an intensity only he could manage. The world outside their quiet bubble seemed distant and irrelevant; all that mattered was the man lying beside him.
It wasn’t until the first rays of sunlight crept into the room, painting the walls in golden hues, that Sanemi allowed his eyes to close. Trusting the dawn to keep them safe, he let sleep take him, his body still pressed close to Giyuu’s, as if to guard him from anything the new day might bring.
But he couldn’t guard Giyuu forever. They were Demon Slayers—Hashira—and their lives were not their own. As much as Sanemi wished he could forget the world and remain hidden away in the quiet sanctuary of the Water Estate, reality would never allow it. They had responsibilities, a duty to protect others, and Sanemi knew he could never forgive himself if he turned his back on the fight for a better world, even if it wasn’t for his own sake.
Still, the thought lingered, heavy and unwelcome: their time together was fragile, borrowed from a world that didn’t care how deeply they cared for each other.
Life, as it often did, had a cruel way of reminding him of this truth.
And then it happened.
The hours stretched endlessly, the silence of the estate amplifying the gnawing unease that had settled in his chest. Sanemi’s eyes remained fixed on the door, his entire body tense, as though sheer willpower alone could summon Giyuu home. He kept telling himself that Giyuu would walk through those doors, wearied but safe. Even if he was injured, it would be fine—Sanemi could take him to the Butterfly Estate or treat him himself.
But the hours bled into each other, the night deepened, and Giyuu never arrived.
As dawn broke, painting the horizon in muted shades of gray, Sanemi remained seated by the door, his legs folded beneath him, fists clenched tightly on his knees. The world outside was waking, indifferent to the weight of dread pressing heavily against his chest. The chirping of birds, the soft rustling of the wind stirring the leaves—everything felt distant, muted, unreal.
When the first rays of sunlight spilled into the room, illuminating the empty space Giyuu should have occupied, Sanemi could no longer deny the truth clawing at the edges of his mind: something had gone wrong on Giyuu’s mission.
His body moved before his thoughts could fully catch up. He stood abruptly, the cool morning air hitting him like a slap, but it wasn’t enough to clear the growing haze of panic. His movements were methodical, practiced—strapping on his uniform, securing his sword at his side. Yet beneath the disciplined veneer, his mind raced, wild with grim possibilities.
Desperation pushed him to do something he had promised himself he’d never do. His hands trembled as he broke into Giyuu’s letter drawer, yanking it open to retrieve the last correspondence. Guilt gnawed at him for violating Giyuu’s trust, but there was no time to dwell on it. He couldn’t read, and he couldn’t write, but he had to know where Giyuu had gone, there was no time to feel shame or to worry about his pride.
“I need to know where Giyuu was going,” he said, thrusting the letter toward Suki. The older of the two twins was more composed under pressure, and Sanemi trusted her to hold herself together better than Aiko would.
There was no lying to those two, Suki took the letter without hesitation, her worry etched plainly across her face. There was no judgment, only concern. She skimmed the contents quickly.
“South East,” she said. “A village was decimated.”
Sanemi stormed toward the courtyard, already readying himself to leave. “Sorai!” he barked, calling out his crow. “Notify the Master.” His voice was sharp, brooking no argument.
“Tell the Master to send a crow in case we need to inform you of something,” Aiko’s voice interrupted, firm and steady despite her clear fear. She had appeared beside her sister and Suki was holding her hand tightly. Both of them were holding themselves together for his sake, trying to give him nothing to worry about except finding Giyuu. Their composure reminded him of how much these girls had endured in their short lives, and how much they’d lost.
“I will bring him home,” Sanemi said, his voice low and rough with emotion. He tried to make it sound convincing, but he could see in their eyes they didn’t believe him. Not fully. They knew the dangers that came with this promise.
“Promise you’ll come back,” Suki replied, her voice breaking slightly. For them, if Giyuu was lost, Sanemi was all they had left. He had become part of their family already, someone they cared for deeply —if not loved. The weight of that love pressed against his chest, bittersweet in its intensity. He had wasted so much time, he could have had a family again, even if he did not deserve it.
Sanemi gave them a sharp nod, unable to speak. There were no words that could soothe them—not when his own resolve felt as fragile as glass.
Giyuu was out there, alone. The thought was a knife to his chest, twisting deeper with each passing second. Sanemi didn’t wait to hear more. He didn’t need to. His jaw clenched as he turned on his heel, heading for the door. His movements were fueled by pure instinct now, driven by the singular need to find Giyuu and bring him home.
The landscape blurred around him as Sanemi sprinted toward the village, his feet pounding relentlessly against the earth. Trees, fields, and winding paths faded into a haze, swallowed by the singular focus driving him forward. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow, even as his muscles burned and his body screamed for relief. None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was getting to Giyuu, bringing him back to safety—somewhere he could heal, somewhere Sanemi could protect him.
The air grew heavier the farther he ran, unnervingly still. His breath came harsh and ragged, his pulse hammering in his ears like a relentless drumbeat.
By the time Sanemi reached the village, the sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows across the uneven terrain. The scene before him was bleak, a tableau of devastation. The air was thick with the metallic stench of blood and death, choking his senses. His stomach twisted, but he pressed forward, his grip tightening on his sword as he scanned the desolation.
Homes were reduced to rubble, their remnants scattered like broken bones across the scorched and scarred earth. The silence was deafening—not a single voice, no cries for help, no signs of life. Only the loud screaming of his own thoughts echoed over the deafening silence of the dead.
Sanemi’s heart sank, his chest constricting painfully as the truth clawed at the edges of his mind. He forced his legs to move, to push past the dread threatening to paralyze him. His steps quickened when he spotted faint traces of a struggle—broken branches, gouged earth, splatters of blood that hadn’t yet dried. The trail led him deeper into the ruins, into the suffocating stillness that made the air itself feel hostile.
And then he saw it.
A katana.
It stood upright, firmly embedded in the earth, the blade gleaming almost cruelly in the sunlight. Sanemi's breath hitched as he stumbled forward, falling to his knees beside it. His gaze locked onto the weapon, its hilt smeared with blood. Droplets slid slowly down the length of the blade, pooling at the base near a familiar arm guard.
His world shrank to that one horrifying detail, his mind refusing to process what his eyes were seeing.
"Giyuu..." he choked out, his voice raw and breaking under the weight of his fear.
“We’ll get him back, Shinazugawa.”
The voice, calm but cutting, jolted him like a blade against his skin. Sanemi turned sharply, his breath still caught in his throat. Obanai stood just a few paces away, his expression uncharacteristically grim. There was anger— that much was normal—but also something new, something he rarely associated with Iguro: worry.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Sanemi growled, though the bite in his tone faltered, overtaken by the tremor of rising panic.
Obanai’s gaze shifted to the katana, his jaw tightening. “The girls,” he said simply. “They contacted the Master. He sent me. I would’ve come regardless.”
Sanemi clenched his fists, his nails cutting into his palms. His whole body trembled—not with fear, but with barely contained frustration. “I don’t need backup, Iguro,” he snapped, his voice hoarse. I need him, he wanted to scream.
“You’re not going to find him alone,” Obanai retorted, his tone sharp but steady. He stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on the hilt of his own blade. “We don’t know what we’re up against. You rushing in blind won’t help anyone—least of all Tomioka.”
The words cut deeper than Sanemi wanted to admit. His chest heaved as his eyes fell once more to the bloodied katana, as if sheer willpower could conjure Giyuu’s presence.
“We’re going to find him,” Obanai continued, his tone softening just enough to carry reassurance. “But you need to rest. The girls need you well and we need you focused. You can’t help him if you lose yourself first.”
Sanemi didn’t respond. His trembling hand reached for the katana, gripping it tightly as though the familiar weapon could anchor him, ground him in the storm of emotions raging inside. He wrenched it free from the earth.
“I’m not leaving this place without a lead,” he finally said, his voice low, trembling with determination.
Obanai studied him for a moment before nodding. His own eyes burned with resolve. “Then let’s go.”
The Serpent Hashira readied his blade, prepared for whatever lay ahead. No matter what it took, he knew with unshakable certainty that Sanemi wouldn’t stop until Giyuu was safe. But Obanai wouldn’t let him burn out—no matter what it cost, even if that meant having a physical altercation against who he considered his only friend.
Hours later, they arrived back at the Water Estate. Sanemi’s legs were trembling, threatening to give out beneath him, his body was drenched in sweat. He pushed forward, though they’d found no trace of Giyuu. No leads. Nothing.
Iguro was saying something—maybe soothing words, maybe another lecture—but Sanemi couldn’t hear it over the sound of his fist slamming into the floor. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the tatami. Bloodied fingers curled into a fist as tears spilled silently down his face, pooling on the floor beneath him.