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The gentle splashes of hand-warm water gliding over his hands was methodical and all-too-familiar, the cloth sweeping over the several bowls and cups with practised hands– smooth and unblemished and so much unlike those of his brother and of his father.
He reached over to the short stack of pots to his right, finding his mind slithering away to the sparring memories he had to the aloof owner of them, met only with a deep ache and festering guilt at the voiding lack of positive emotions in them. There were rare days in which he would get a grunt or a demand, but he would class himself as lucky if his father graced him with a ‘please’ or ‘thank you’. The patriarch’s food was placed in front of his shoji door when made, and left outside it once again when eaten, the only comfort coming from the fact that the plate was almost always scraped clean, and there was never so much as a drop of tea wasted in the cups.
From where he stood, it seemed impossible to even attempt to pull the man from his well of grief: he couldn’t remember a time when a smile of any sort had crossed his father’s expression. And yet his brother always had this burning hope, was always so sure that things could return to how they were with time, that one day the man he loved and looked up to would take up his honour and his blade again.
It was all so very arduous. His wish to denounce their father for his neglect clung to him like dust on an old picture frame, but his brother’s assertions were like a breath of air banishing the thick layer of darkness to the wind– only for it to choke him up again as it settled…
Reaching up to delicately grasp a picture frame down from a cupboard at his chest height, he attentively dusted the surface, however fruitless it was considering how religiously he cleaned his brother’s room. The only place that wasn’t perfectly tidy was the display where he currently stood, but only because the family hoari and his brother’s katana were out guiding and supporting their master. He could only hope that the display never remained this empty…
The picture frame, however, had never known emptiness– depicting a beautiful family of four, their visage golden under the autumn sun: the father, his hair far shorter and his smile far wider than he had ever seen, stood tall and proud, wearing the family haori securely over his shoulders that stretched over as he laid one hand on the left shoulder of woman beside him and one hand on the boy in front of him, who stood just as tall and proud as the father– but with an even brighter, close-eyed smile. The woman, the mother, had a stern, but loving gaze, and in her arms she held a baby that he recognised as himself, not even seven months old at the time. The tiny fingers of the baby’s left hand desperately clutched to the same hand on the older boy.
It was a scene of an almost perfect model family: the only seemingly off thing was that he had been born a boy, and not an elegant young girl. But history showed that daughters were a rare occurrence in their bloodline, so there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for them..
But things weren’t that picture-perfect…. how could it be when he couldn’t even remember the beautiful woman that had given him life?
Much like his father, he didn’t remember much, if anything at all, about his mother, and much like his father, his brother would regale him with stories of her. She had died of an incurable illness that had slowly sapped her strength and life away, but the way his brother spoke of her made it seem like she was the strongest woman to walk the earth.
And of course, the sparkle in his eyes when he spoke of their darling mother was nothing compared to the dull ember when he spoke of their father…
Rengoku Senjuro’s whole life was his big brother: everywhere he looked in his memories, his darling brother was there. From grappling to raise them both whilst caring for their agony-stricken father, to giving up his own time to train Senjuro in the Flame Breathing swordsmanship style despite having a far more skilled and capable student, to even paying out of his own pocket for cooking and first aid lessons just because he expressed the want to– because he wanted his brother to come home from a mission without ever having to worry about being injured or hungry.
Rengoku Kyojuro was his whole entire world, far more than just a brother. Perhaps it was cruel to think of his brother as more of a father than their true father, but although Senjuro may have been confused about what to feel around the topic of his father, he most certainly wasn’t confused about that.
He liked to think his eyes were watering because of the wisteria incense he was lighting invading his senses, and not because of the dull ache in his heart.
The smoke billowing from the incense drifted down the pathway, fading away into the grey-blue of early night. It was barely halfway through the sixteenth hour of the day, and yet demons already had so much free reign over their world; it was far more dangerous with winter’s fleeting days and tedious nights. Demon Slayers, and Hashira specifically, were pushed to their limit, having to stay awake for hours on end was bad enough, but for people like his brother and Kanroji-san had families they returned to, and would stay awake even longer.
Not to mention how increasingly dangerous it was: the more time demons could roam, the more likely slayers could and would be targeted. He knew how strong the slayers were, how strong his brother was, but exhaustion was something that was universal, it affected every human being regardless of their inherent strength. Kyojuro was prone to pushing himself, worrying not only his caring little brother, but also his fellow Hashira and slayers.
Kaname hadn’t seemed too exasperated or distressed when he had dropped by earlier on his way to deliver his master’s report to Oyakata-sama– it was improbable that the crow had gotten into a dispute with Kyojuro about resting, or had been hesitant to leave his side due to injuries, so it was highly likely that nothing was hindering his brother. But Kyojuro was alone now. There was no one to assist him should he get into trouble, and no trusty companion to call for help from nearby. Anything could happen and he would never know.
A shadow crossed over the pathway, and although there was a stab of disappointment (the six foot frame of the approaching person most certainly wasn’t his brother), there was a sense of relief ebbing at Senjuro’s nerves.
Koushirou was a charcoal seller who said he lived on the nearby mountain whose summit was the exact midpoint between the Flame Estate and Butterfly Estate, although Koushirou lived nearer to the foot of the mountain in the North-East quadrant, meaning he was naturally closer to the Flame Estate. He sold his charcoal all over, however, working since before dawn until after dusk. They had hit it off once when Senjuro had been lighting the wisteria incense as Koushirou was passing by– the elder male noticed how despondent he’d been in Kyojuro’s absence and had comforted him. Ever since that day, the man had made sure to pass by almost every night that Kyojuro was gone, to talk to, comfort, and keep Senjuro company.
“Awaiting your brother again, young Rengoku?” The answer was obvious, but the question was more of a formality by way of greeting; Koushirou knew that the polite Senjuro would much rather his brother whisk around the corner than him.
Alas, Senjuro nodded anyway. “It’s always a pleasure to see you as well, though, Koushirou-san!” His smile was small and polite, and as practised as the respectful bow he dipped into.
“Likewise. Rengoku-sama has been gone longer than usual… is he okay?” Koushirou asked hesitantly. At the very least he could tell that there was no confirmation of the eldest son passing: he doubted Senjuro would be coherent had that come to pass, but something was most certainly abnormal about the current situation.
“Kaname said he was okay, so I have to believe he is,” the wavering in Senjuro’s tone was gut-wrenching, but Koushirou held back from comforting him as he continued; “he was on patrol when he got a mission, which took a little longer so by the time aniue got back, he had to go on another patrol. Kaname stopped by and said that he should be back around sundown.”
“I see. He will be quite exhausted when he returns, no? Have you heated a bath and made him a meal?” That was another thing: Koushirou had started giving him amazing traditional cooking recipes ever since Senjuro told him how he liked to cook for his brother.
“I’m going to heat the bath while he’s eating, but I’ve made that gyudon recipe you gave me last time. I’ll tell you how he likes it when I see you again!” Senjuro was finally smiling a little more easily. “I mean, he likes pretty much anything you give him, and is always appreciative, but sometimes he hesitates before declaring how tasty something is– that’s how I know he really likes something.” If he was being honest, his brother was actually quite adorable in such a brief moment, when Kyojuro enjoyed his cooking so much he was genuinely stunned into silence.
“I am sure he is looking forward to it. I assume you both will be attending the fireworks tonight as well?” A bolt of shock sparked through Senjuro: how could he have forgotten?! Kyojuro promised they would go see the fireworks tonight, they went to see them every year– and his brother never broke a promise. Even if he had to crawl through hell itself, Kyojuro would be there to take him to the fireworks.
“Yeah… Aniue promised before he left that he would be back in time so that we could watch them together.” His words were breathy and full of relief, but still tight and hesitant with worry.
“He promised, and it is unlike your aniue to break his promises. Rengoku-sama loves you more than anything, little one, never forget that.” Senjuro felt his eyes water at his friend’s soft-spoken words, his vision blurring and obscuring Koushirou’s image.
Senjuro reached up to wipe his eyes, but by the time they were clear of their tears, Koushirou was gone.
“Senjuro!” All thoughts and questions on his friend flew from his head the moment his brother’s voice reached him, and he immediately turned around– not even minding the bone-crushing hug Kyojuro pulled him into. What did it matter? His brother was finally home; Kyojuro had kept his promise.
“I apologise for being so late!” Kyojuro breathed into his ear, gently prying himself from Senjuro’s iron grasp. His wide eyes looked directly into matching orbs, never wavering, not strained with pain or exhaustion as he held Senjuro’s smoothe, unblemished hands in his larger, calloused ones. “I hurried as quickly as I could.”
Shaking his head with a small smile, Senjuro let his tears of relief fall down his face, not daring to blink for fear his brother’s visage would disappear. “No-no… it’s okay. It was barely a half hour.” He breathed, squinting as Kyojuro reached up to brush his tears away. “I’m just glad you’re okay…” His whispered words barely reached the elder’s ears, but they were read in his eyes easily– and no sooner was he pulling the smaller frame into his chest. Senjuro curled into his brother, one hand reaching to press against where his heart was: beating steadily, it was the one thing that made it all real.
And it was in that very position, Kyojuro kneeling on the ground with Senjuro pulled gently into his lap, in perfect view of anyone who might be passing by, that their father found them. Senjuro, with his keener hearing and disposition to his father’s moods, noticed him first– and tensed up in his brother’s arms, clinging to him in a vain attempt to hamper his shaking.
“Good afternoon, chichiue!” Kyojuro blazoned with every bit of confidence he always carried, and every piece of love he had to give. “I have returned successfully and unharmed for my patrols and my mission! Kaname is giving my report to Oyakata-sama, but he shouldn’t be too much longer!”
“Whatever…! I could care less about what that stupid bird is up to…” Shinjuro grumbled, sneering at the two brothers. “I still don’t understand why you still bother to patrol. Nothing will ever come of it but your death. Might as well just kill yourself before a demon gets to you and does even worse!”
“I intend to do neither of those things, chichiue,” Kyojuro declared, massaging Senjuro’s hair in an attempt to settle him. “It is my duty to save as many people from demons as I can; I will keep my heart burning as long as the gods grace me with breath, and use that flame to–”
Kyojuro was strong; one of the strongest men in the world– he had faced demons, weak and strong, had faced claws, flutes, blades, wolves– and had even stared down the barrel of a gun. Each time he had smiled, and had claimed victory. But even Rengoku Kyojuro had his limits; he couldn’t help his body freezing up the moment Shinjuro’s muscle tensed, flipping his cloak over Senjuro as their father callously smashed his precious jar of sake between him and his sons. The ceramic didn’t have enough force to hurt them, but his hoari was lightly sprinkled with the remaining dregs of sake.
“You naive boy!” Their father growled– growled – at him, but the small moment of weakness had passed and now the eighteen-year-old remained stoic, his smile firmly in place, and his eyes as wide as ever– taking in the environment to check for even the briefest of dangers on the air. “Don’t you see it’s useless?! For every demon you kill, two more are created! The ease at which that man can create them compared to your trials to kill just one is far too great, and the actions far too futile.”
“No, chichiue. Even saving just one human life makes it all worth it. Giving them the power to live, even if it is only for a little while more, is why I fight.” How he would give anything for one more day with his beloved mother– but he would never say such a thing to his father’s face.
Speaking of… the man was either bored, or done trying to sway Kyojuro’s heart. He pinned his son with his gaze for a moment, only for Kyojuro to continue to meet it unyieldingly until finally Shinjuro shook his head and turned away.
“Clean this mess up!” He scoffed, stalking back into the Estate– likely to grab a snack, most certainly to grab more sake. If he wasn’t so habitual in his breathing, perhaps Kyojuro would have breathed a sigh of relief at his father’s retreat– his stomach finally twisting from its tight knot.
Senjuro was still curled in his chest, but they couldn’t remain in the footway forever– lest people get curious as to why they looked so disquieted. Kyojuro gently began to shift Senjuro in his arm; his younger brother as stiff as a statue– not resisting, but so tense that Kyojuro had to be careful not to hurt him by moving too abruptly, because at the end of the day confronting danger was not Senjuro’s job: he was good at cleaning, and cooking, at making sure Kyojuro and their father were always as comfortable as they could get no matter what tax it took on him. Kyojuro was thankful for his patrols and missions because it meant he no longer had to face his father constantly– which is the one aspect of bravery that Senjuro had over him, and one Kyojuro never overlooked…
“Come on,” Kyojuro whispered, finally prying the small frame from him, but he still held Senjuro’s hands, smiling in hopes that his brother would grace him with his own. “Don’t we have a festival to prepare for…?” His tone was mischievous and teasing, and finally the sun dawned over his brother’s face, excitement and happiness bursting through his veins.
“I made you some dinner! It’s a new gyudon recipe that Koushirou gave me!”
Now, Kyojuro had never actually met this ‘Koushirou’, a prevalent thought whenever the stranger was brought up in conversation. He had tried to alert their father to remain vigilant and try to investigate their mysterious stranger; he never got a report back. Taking Senjuro’s only friend away from wasn’t in his to-do list, and perhaps Kyojuro was even too protective, but he didn’t know this man, and his closeness to his brother seriously unnerved him.
Yet he couldn’t deny how happy the man made his little brother, and the thought that someone was here for him even when Kyojuro wasn’t was somewhat of a comfort. And Koushirou’s gyudon recipe was pretty good; he had to take a moment to really appreciate the flavour profile before declaring how tasty it was, but even with his hesitance, Senjuro’s beaming smile was more than enough to spur him into taking another bite, and then another.
“I’m just going to give father a portion, and then I’ll go start heating a bath for you,” Senjuro announced, rushing to continue the second a lonely expression flickered over his brother’s face, “I’ll come grab a bowl when I do. It’ll be warm by the time we finish.” That seemed to be enough to satisfy Kyojuro, who gave a curt nod and hum of agreement. Senjuro gave him one last warm smile before wandering into the house.
It gave him a much needed moment to breathe and think; Koushirou’s visit, Kyojuro’s return, their father’s beratement– it was all so much. To be able to breathe was a relief, and the gentle waves of water as he tested the temperature was comforting, even if it wouldn’t be warm for another little while.
When he returned to his brother, everything, including himself, was calmer, and he managed to enjoy his meal with ease. The simple, but rich earthy taste of the gyudon, mixed with sweet dashi, all brought together with a soft poached egg made for a heavy but flavourful meal. Senjuro would have to thank Koushirou, perhaps he would make the gyudon for when he next passed by…?
Throughout their meal, Kyojuro entertained him with the tale of his most recent outings: the patrols had been rather quiet, but his mission was apparently quite ironic: the demon had been a pyromancer– it would have been a troublesome demon for anyone else to deal with, but for someone who had embodied fire from the moment of his birth, who moved just as flames did, and a Hashira to boot, it was a simple task.
Not that many demons were tricky for his brother, Senjuro thought as he was cleaning away the pots. The last demon that hurt Kyojuro so much he’d been in a coma for two weeks was the Lower Moon Two demon he was tasked with defeating to become a Hashira; burnt from an explosion and shot six times– Lady Kanae had gently told him to not get his hopes up about his brother pulling through. A month later, Kyojuro was already on his way to a new mission. Lady Shinobu had joked that it was like Kyojuro could see into his own body and heal himself from the inside out, but whether that was true or not, the Flame Hashira’s body never failed him– it was just as incredible as he was.
But it still needed rest, and recuperation, and comfort, and so while Kyojuro enjoyed his warm bath softened with salts and essences, Senjuro gently pressed out the creases in the delicate silk of his ceremonial kimono; a beautiful crimson robe with gold embroidery lining the seams. There was more embroidery flickering up from the seams in the shape of flames and splashes that emulated fireworks. Senjuro’s kimono was similar, except where Kyojuro’s was red, his was white, and where Kyojuro’s was gold, his was red. As a Hashira, this year Kyojuro would finally get to wear his haori over the top of his kimono, which would tie their outfits together perfectly.
The last thing that Senjuro did as his brother was bathing was cleaning Kyojuro’s katana. He had expected the first time he asked his brother to clean it that he would be hesitant, or outright deny him since it was something that was so precious and necessary to him and his survival, but he had agreed immediately, thanking him for his proffered help– from then on Senjuro was more likely to clean his blade than Kyojuro was. It was rather therapeutic, he found, and it took his mind off the reason he was cleaning it anyway: because Kyojuro never technically had a day off, the world was never safe from demons.
At the very least it would match his outfit…
Ganjitsu was a very important festival to the Rengoku brothers as it was something that they celebrated together every year: even if Kyojuro had to slip by on his patrol in his uniform, grab some stall food and simply spend half an hour watching the fireworks.
But on days like this when they got to share a small, but heavy meal that would tide them over and save space for as much festival food they wanted, when his brother could come home and enjoy a nice warm bath and properly clean and cleanse himself, when they could wear beautiful, near-matching ceremonial kimonos to show everyone just how close they were, when Senjuro could watch the fireworks curled up in his brother’s lap, wrapped in their family’s haori to the point where he could ignore the katana placed on his brother’s left side? On days like this he could be truly happy. He could forget, and just share the moment with his brother, his brother who was tragically more parent than sibling…
Today they could both forget: no father to tell him no, no demon slayer corps to rip his brother away into increasingly dangerous situations. And it was a day that neither of them would ever take for granted.
The second greatest part of the day was when they would do each other’s make-up; not alot, but enough to accentuate their features. Although, this time Kyojuro painted red and gold fireworks around Senjuro’s left eye, apparently getting the idea from his friend among the Hashira, Uzui Tengen, who wore similar make up around the same eye. Senjuro, however, simply did his usual make-up routine: Kyojuro would wear his mother’s red and gold hairpin whenever he could attend a festival, and Senjuro didn’t want to overwhelm his appearance and take away the weight that the hairpin meant.
For their hair, Kyojuro tied Senjuro’s in a classic half-up, half-down, plaiting the tiny ponytail as much as he could, and in return, Senjuro plaited Kyojuro’s bangs before tying them back into his half-up, half-down, delicately securing the hairpin into his hair tie before slightly adjusting the positions of plaits. The pin, of course, suited him gracefully, and when they stepped out onto the footpath, his hair floated around it like flames licking up a wall.
Talking with his brother was easy, and soon they were already walking under the festive arches of the town centre. A master was handing out sticks to people who passed, and Kyojuro immediately lit up in excitement, practically dragging Senjuro over to the man, who handed him his own stick before holding a lit incense stick to the tip–
Kyojuro’s gentle chuckles echoed around them as Senjuro jumped out of his skin, the stick suddenly bursting into sparks. The elder Rengoku kneeled in front of his skittish brother, who refused to look away from the threat right in front of his very flammable self . He tried putting distance between him and his brother, who gently grabbed his hand and slowly handed the sparking stick to him.
“It’s called a sparkler– Mitsuri says they’re a recent invention of the Western world!” He said, slowly pulling away from Senjuro and grabbing his own ‘sparkler’. They stepped off to the side, allowing the gawking and awwing crowd to move forward. “Hey, watch this!” Senjuro finally managed to tear his eyes away to watch Kyojuro write his name in the air, the sparks leaving perfect after images of the elegant kanji. “Isn’t that cool?”
“Yeah…” Senjuro breathed in wonder, stepping beside his brother to write his own name in the sky, his smile slowly widening as they continued to write various names and words in the sky, blocking out all the stares and gossipers around them.
By the end of the sparkler, Senjuro will admit that he got scared and passed his back to Kyojuro, who took a step back and kneeled in front of Senjuro to show him how they simply burnt out at a safe length from his hand, showcasing that there was nothing to really fear before handing them back to the master, who placed them in a cup of water that sizzled from the heat. With a thank you from both the brothers and the master handing out the sparklers, they continued on through the streets.
There were lanterns everywhere, posters and advertisements and directions lining each side of the street to the point that the stars in the sky were blotted out; it almost appeared to be daytime! Senjuro would swear that the city put more and more effort into the festival each year. But if there was one thing that was always a guarantee, it was the mochi stand.
The mistress who owned the stand ran it every year, an off-shoot of her restaurant that the Rengokus tended to favour. Every time Rengoku came home they would go there at least once, and every ganjitsu they were got to her mochi and osechi stands that her and her husband ran– both right next to their young children’s sweet stand where the nine-year-old daughter and thirteen-year-old son would create small, custom cloth bags of various hard candies.
Kyojuro brought three bags of candy, one for himself, one for Senjuro, and one for their father, before moving on to buying two portions of five mochi; a mango set for himself and a sakura set for Senjuro, all of which were stacked onto their osechi boxes, and all of which Kyojuro effortlessly held in one hand as he led his younger brother through the crowded streets to find a place where they could enjoy their collection.
They found a beautiful spot in a quieter area of the festival where the couples would go for a ‘romantic moment’, but the Rengoku brothers rather enjoyed the quiet chatter around them, not really talking outside of Kyojuro’s “umai”s and Senjuro’s hums of agreement. Most of their conversing was done before, over Senjuro’s beautifully crafted gyudon. And despite the ungodly amount of people staring at them, it seemed as though it was just the two of them, sharing a peaceful moment. Their status in the community didn’t matter, Kyojuro’s rank of Hashira didn’t matter, Senjuro’s duties in their household didn’t matter . Nothing in the world mattered but each other, even for just a moment.
And it was just as they finished their last mochi piece that a spark lit in Kyojuro’s veins, a bright, excited smile lighting up his features, so beautiful that it blinded Senjuro to the mischievous hand wrapping around his wrist. Before he knew it, his confident brother had pulled his very unconfident self into a crowd of dancers, threading his fingers into his tightly clenched fist
“Come on! Let’s dance!” He urged, giggling with his own delight and completely bypassing Senjuro’s deep blush of embarrassment and his stutters begging his brother to hold up. Kyojuro didn’t. But Senjuro slowly found himself easing into it as he saw his brother's graceful, fluid movements. Apparently Flame Breathing was good for more than just swinging a katana at demons– or so Senjuro guessed because his brother’s footwork was impressive, and perfectly to the beat of the music thrumming through the air.
Slowly, Senjuro got into the groove too, once again blocking out the people around them to just enjoy the moment with his brother; though now that he did, he thought that the people must have been looking at Kyojuro this whole time– few could dance with such grace and beauty as a demon slayer swordsman, and even fewer had his brother’s beauty, especially under the gold and crimson festival lights.
And yet, his brother seemed so unaware of this fact– unaware of his beauty, unaware of the stares men and women alike gave him. Like the only thing that mattered to him was Senjuro, having a good time, and just enjoying the moment to himself, like no one else around them existed. Realistically, he was hyper-aware, always on alert for demons hidden among the crowd, but there was an undeniable innocence to him….
Senjuro had no idea how his brother could balance both those things… but then again, his brother had been balancing everything in his life from the day their mother passed…
Including time; between the dancing, the periodic breaks to rest and rehydrate, and of course the many more snacks and sweets, it was just as they were starting to feel full, and exhaustion was pulling at Senjuro’s legs that Kyojuro pulled them off to the edge of the lake, slipping into a narrow alleyway between two of the buildings.
“A-anuie?! What are you doing?!” Senjuro whisper-shouted, tugging back on his brother’s hand as he was pulled to a small stacking of crates.
“Getting the best view.” Mischievous wasn’t a word Senjuro would commonly ascribe to his brother, but the look that Kyojuro gave him was so full of boyish deviltry that it spurred an even deeper giddiness into Senjuro. Yet he still couldn’t shake the nauseating feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“What if we fall…?” He hadn’t intended his brother to hear him, even trying to keep the movement of his lips as small as possible so as to not give Kyojuro the chance to see his fear.
He should have known better…
“I won’t let you fall, Sen.” The strength of Kyojuro’s determination was enough to finally clear away his anxiety, like a warm summer’s breeze blowing away the winter clouds. He didn’t even need to tell his brother that it was okay, almost as if Kyojuro could read his mind, and he was quickly nudged up onto the roof, his brother right behind him, not even engaging the thought of Senjuro slipping.
There were a few moments that Senjuro feared moving as Kyojuro adjusted himself, setting his katana to the side and situating himself cross-legged so Senjuro could curl up in his lap, and once he did, there didn’t seem to be even an inch of air between them. Kyojuro’s natural higher body temperature in combination with the flame haori was enough to drive away the mid-winter chill, and in such a remote area, there was a calming stillness blanketing over them.
And if Rengoku Kyojuro was good at anything, it was most certainly making the most of every moment, so it wasn’t too much longer before light and sound were blooming out over the lake in initial bursts of red and gold, sparking into green– and blue and orange, purple– the colours blending together to make a hundred more! And a part of him, deeply smothered in the depths of his heart, thought of his dear… friend and fellow Hashira:
Uzui Tengen– Kyojuro knew he was celebrating tonight; there was no way such a loud and ‘flashy’ man would miss the opportunity to enjoy a festival. And if Kyojuro got immense happiness from spoiling the living daylight out of Senjuro, he wondered how Uzui-san’s box of happiness hadn’t exploded from spoiling not one, but three wives. After every festival, minor or otherwise, the elder Hashira always boasted of the night and the gifts he collected to give to his wives. He even would buy souvenirs when it wasn’t a festival– when he had a mission in a more exotic area of Japan the girls had never been to, he would get a small memento for each of them. Uzui-san had been a Hashira for nearly five years, and a demon slayer for nearly seven– the jewellery boxes of his wives were probably overflowing. Kyojuro prayed for their continued wealth and prosperity.
A particular fondness filled Kyojuro the moment after when a flash of green looked close to the green-tipped hair of his former student. As a Hashira, Kyojuro’s activities and location were kept secret, even from family and dear friends, and with her own missions and family, the times he got to spend with Kanroji Mitsuri were few and far between. Most likely she was out having a picnic with her family, all seven of them greeting the new year together. He knew it would be unbecoming for him to feel jealous, so Kyojuro instead prayed for the longevity of the Kanroji family, so that they may never know the pain of loss and the loneliness that plagued those who remained…
He knew it was selfish of him to complain of loss when every day he met people far younger and far less prepared for loss than he was, going through something far more painful than he had. The case that immediately cropped into his mind was that of young Iguro Obanai; well, maybe ‘young’ was the wrong word, the boy had been older than him by just over a year, but he had been so small, even more skittish than Senjuro had been. Kyojuro couldn’t help but feel protective of him. It also appeared to go both ways– he would never forget the look of stony determination of Obanai’s face when the older boy tried to convince him to take Senjuro and to run away with him to train under a Water Cultivator… Kyojuro prayed that Obanai’s growing abilities would continue to aid him going forward.
He guessed Iguro-san wouldn’t be celebrating Ganjitsu as much as Mitsuri or Tengen were, but he knew that Shinazugawa Sanemi was certainly still out hunting demons; the cold nor the festivities would be enough to stop that man. Kyojuro’s encounters with the Wind Hashira had been… well he’d only seen him three times: his initial Hashira meeting in which he took his father’s place, in the Butterly Mansion a few days later whilst he was recovering, and at the second biannual Hashira meeting a few months earlier. It was to say that he didn’t know much about the man– except that the look he gave to the Flower Hashira was the same gentle gaze his father would frequently offer to his mother. Kyojuro prayed that Sanemi could work through his feelings calmly enough to realise what was so glaringly obvious…
But on the topic, he was sure that Kocho Kanae and her butterfly girls were all cosied up in their Butterfly Mansion for the night; perhaps making a feast for the patients to enjoy, playing a few games, exchanging a few gifts. Nothing that would be too straining that not all the patients would be left out, creating their own little community, a family for one night, because more often than not the people there didn’t have a home to return to, or family that could come and visit them in such a remote location. But Kyojuro would pray for every one of them, that they would have good fortune and swift recoveries.
The one person he couldn’t wholeheartedly say was doing one thing or another was Himejima Gyomei; it was likely that due to the many off-duty Hashira that the mountain of a man was hunting demons, just as Iguro-san and Shinazugawa-san were– then again, Kyojuro had never met another so deeply connected to the Gods and Buddah as the Stone Hashira was– perhaps he was taking this night to pray? Kyojuro knew that the man was incredibly strong, incredibly capable, and incredibly independent, and so he simply prayed for the Gods to continue to bless and guide him.
There was one person, however, that bore no confusion to his actions: Tomioka Giyu. That man had a one-track mind; to kill demons. A festival wouldn’t change that. Although, Kyojuro’s father had received a letter from the former Water Hashira, Urokodaki Sakonji. The elder sent letters and updates all the time, probably trying to motivate him, or to simply check up on him, even though the latter never read them. Kyojuro took it upon himself to read his father’s letters and verbally deliver the information to him, at least then he could make sure he heard it. He’d also reply to the senders, apologising for his father’s lack of sociability. Urokodaki-san’s most recent letter proclaimed that he had taken on another student for the first time in six years; a ‘Kamado Tanjiro’. Kyojuro prayed for each one of them, for their safety and building strength.
Tokito Muichiro was also likely out hunting demons– five Hashira on duty, four off was a reasonable ratio, and with his amnesia and tendency to remain around headquarters and the Butterfly Estate in his downtime gave him the impression that the twelve-year-old had no one to welcome the new year with. It was a thought that pained Kyojuro– Senjuro was only a few months older than the Mist Hashira, and as different as they were, he couldn’t help but see one in the other. Kyojuro prayed that the Gods would bless the boy with a home, a found family, where he could return to and always feel welcome.
And at last, his mind came to Oyakata-sama and his family. He took a longer moment to pray over them; pray that the Master’s will would continue to shine through them all, that it may protect them, and that his illness doesn’t prematurely rip him from them. He prayed that Lady Amane would continue to have the strength to care for her husband, and that their children have the chance to breathe, even if it was for another mere moment. Kyojuro prayed that the Gods would give him strength enough to ease his Master’s burden.
There was no doubt in anyone that Kyojuro held respect for his friends and seniors, but there was one person that he always thought of last, and always thought of the longest– and who he always prayed would guide him more than any God or Budda…
His mother– as strong as she was kind, the one person that grounded him in reality and sanity even so long after her passing. Not a day went by that he didn’t think of her, but it was this one night of the year that he went through every memory of her, even the inconsequential little moments where she would simply sit in the corner of his vision, five months pregnant and drinking tea as he and his father trained. Kyojuro would pray for her to continue to guide him, he would pray that his actions, his determination to keep his promise to her, allowed her spirit to rest easy. Realistically, Kyojuro knew that he could only ever do his best, that if something was going to happen, likely it was inevitable– but he would never let the fire in his heart die. He would always keep it burning for his mother, and he would always keep doing his very best–Because what else could he do…?
Perhaps that was why he did not notice…
Did not notice the figure not too far, a few miles over the river on the opposite side of the fireworks, sitting and looking up at the fireworks with confusion and astray distress…
Akaza, Upper Moon Three– he had no idea why he was even here! He had far better things to do; training, seeking out strong opponents to fight and consume, finding more information about the blue spider lily. He’d had the same conversation with himself every single year on this very same day for the last two hundred years– there was no point to watching fireworks, there was no progress to be had in sitting here doing nothing! But he didn’t know why he couldn’t find it in himself to move away…
No… that wasn’t quite true: he knew he was looking for something– a person– in his memories–
The first person to jump to his mind when he gazed up at the rainbows blowing up the sky was Douma, how could he not? The bursts of colours matched every detail in that bastard’s eyes. But he knew that the Upper Moon wasn’t the source of his frustration– well, he was! He most certainly was– but Akaza felt anger and irritation when he thought of Douma. The person he was searching for… there was a bittersweet feeling to them.
He had seen someone, a young child, cowering from the loudness of the fireworks, whimpering and crying and curling into the side of their parents– not unlike how Hantengu would constantly curl in on himself whenever something even slightly threatening cropped up. But Akaza was disgusted by Hantengu’s cowardice– the person in his memories held his admiration…
Someone else he had passed was gossiping about the ins and outs of fireworks and how they worked, rambling about how many colours and shapes and effects could be applied in different ways to make a spectacle of a show– Akaza had to admit, it was kinda interesting. As was the way Gyokko spoke of his pots; Akaza didn’t like Gyokko any more than he liked Douma; his methods were disgusting, but his dedication to his artwork was not unlike Akaza’s dedication to his training, and that was something he could respect– but the person in his memories couldn’t perform a single movement of his Soryu style, and they didn’t create various pots, and they didn’t know how fireworks were made…
Not being able to perform something, however, didn’t mean there was an absence of appreciation: perhaps that’s where the sweet feeling was coming from? But when Akaza thought of Upper Moon One, who could most definitely appreciate a fellow warrior, he found only competition between them– the age-old hand-to-hand versus swordsmanship battle. He felt like the person in his dream admired him, a far cry from Kokushibo’s constant ‘mightier than thou’ attitude.
So instead of focusing on the sweet feeling, he tried to figure out why he was so bitter. It was a similar feeling he got when around the Upper Moon Six duo, the feeling of knowing someone went through great, nearly unbearable pain, and yet not being there to help them. Daki may be over a century old, but she was still just a child. It made Akaza feel protective of her, granting him the bonus of Gyutaro’s favour; a hard-earned treat that even Lord Muzan had yet to receive. Yet Daki lacked the maturity of Akaza’s person, and Gyutaro was far too overbearing– a feeling that was familiar in a different sort of way. Regardless, they weren’t who he was thinking of…
Perhaps it was a futile endeavour– perhaps he would never know who this person was who shone with so much benevolence and strength that it blotted out the sun. In just a few hours he would cower from the sun, and rouse once more in the mid evening. It wasn’t like he could defy orders, he may not particularly like Lord Muzan, but what else was there to do? He had his strength, and could forever attain more, and he had time. The least he could do was spend some of that time asking around and investigating– even if it was for some mythical flower he wasn’t even sure actually existed…
Eventually the fireworks began to fizzle out, but there was still a burning fire directly opposite him over the river. He basked in the flames, oddly entranced– there was no warmth in the blaze, but every nerve in his body was set ablaze in its presence–
That was when Akaza realised: it wasn’t a fire– it was a fighting spirit! Something real and tangible, unlike the blue spider lily– a bittersweet feeling overcame him, an admiration for a finely honed warrior with so much talent that they were this strong at only around a quarter of their potential. The spirit of competition shook Akaza to his bones– but then something broke through the bliss.
The beautiful, blazing spirit was blinding him to something else: a fighting spirit so small and tiny that it was… honestly pathetic, hiding in the overbearing protectiveness of the inferno. The disgust he felt almost overpowered the excitement to face such a foe–
Almost .
Akaza wouldn’t fight that blaze tonight– he had stayed in this area too long in anticipation for the fireworks, and if he didn’t start getting serious in his questioning or move on to a new area, his Master would be most displeased. But he swore, to himself and to that warrior, that they would one night meet– and on that night, they would fight…
The new year dawned over Japan; over Demons and Demon Slayers alike, and events set in motion by the cogs of fate clicked ever onward: second-by-second, minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour, and day-by-day…