Archive of Our Own

1. Ubuyashiki Kagaya

The field was truly beautiful. It stretched in opulent swathes of grass, flowers dotted the green in starbursts of color, pulling every eye to the telling signs of spring. The sun filtered through wispy clouds, bathing the world in a golden glow. It was serene, the grass soft reaching just above the ankles, the smell of warm earth thick and comforting. 

Muichiro sat in the meadows, knees brought up to his chest, head lolled a little to one side as his eyes stared vacantly at his slightly outstretched hand. Bees buzzed softly as they landed upon the mist Hashrira’s hand, sights set on the dab of honey that was smeared on the back of the worn hand. The bees held no aggression, simply humming softly as they gorged themselves. If it would have been anything else, Muichiro’s blank face would have been disconcerting, worrying even, but the bees didn’t care. Maybe that is why he was here, to be with things that didn’t mind his apathetic demeanor. He didn’t know why. 

Muichiro’s gaze wandered, so did his mind into the cloying fog that filled his head. It was quiet in the valley, the omnipresent hubbub of chatter from people gave way to the sound of languid insects and the occasional breeze. It was nice, the peace of this untouched land. Muichiro didn’t know why he was there. It felt wrong, sitting without doing anything but feeding the bees. He should be doing something productive, yet he couldn’t move. Something clung to his bones like cold syrup, keeping him immobilized here in the warm cradles of the grass.

A bee buzzed from his hand to bumble up to the motionless face. Muichiro kept still as its fat little black and yellow body landed upon his nose, curious, exploring the source of its meal. It was only when the bee attempted to crawl from his nose onto one his eyes that Muichiro blew it away, setting the insect aflight once more. The bee hovered for a moment the best it could with its sugar-saturated body before flying away. Muichiro lost track of it almost immediately. 

How much time had passed? The sun was still high in the sky but that did not say much, the sun rose at four and went down at six. There must be a reason he was here. Had he ever liked bees? They certainly seemed to like him. Was he here with anyone? It was a beautiful valley, surely someone else had to be here. Where ‘here’ was, he didn’t even know. 

Muichiro focused on his hand again, a vain attempt to center himself as he felt himself drifting away once more. His hand held numerous scars already even at his eleven years of age. The bees buzzed, annoyed as the Hashira turned over his hand. The palm of his hand was still just forming calluses, tinged pink and raw from training. He turned his head. There was his sword, sheathed and placed beside him securely. A half-full jar of honey sat next to the blade. He must do this often or had been here for a long time for the supply to be so low, he was never fond enough of the taste himself to eat it. 

“Tokito.” It took a moment to recognize the voice that floated to him over the wind and flowers. The Master smiled at the boy serenely as he picked his way closer to the huddled figure. Muichiro finally was able to unfreeze, forcing his legs to move until Muichiro could kneel as the Hashira always did for the Master. He heard the Master's smile now more than saw it as he spoke.

“Hello, my child.” Muichiro let himself sit down regularly once more once Ubuyashiki had settled on the ground next to him, head tilted towards him, a small smile still present as he watched the bees bumble in the air, seemingly drunk off honey. 

“The bees in this meadow are always docile when the first flowers come up. I will miss seeing them here when my sight worsens further among other things. Kanroji came here a few days ago as well. She adores bees, they symbolize love as well she says.” Muichiro nods along with the words. He was drifting again. Nails bit into his hand in an attempt to keep himself centered as the Master spoke, the man not truly expecting a verbal answer from the passive Hashira as more comments of the mundane were given to fill the warm air. 

“Is your uniform to your liking?” A blank-eyed blink makes the man elaborate further. “You requested it to be made looser.” Yes, the uniform was looser. It slipped down Muichiro’s arms when he raised them, like now, pale and scared forearm almost alienly pale in the sun as he held his hand for the insects. 

“Yes, it’s good. Thank you.” The words were soft, a sign he hadn’t used his voice in a long time as he sat. Ubuyashiki gave a small satisfied nod. 

“I’m relieved. You are one of the few who doesn’t wear a haori, Tokito. Did it slip your mind or are you not fond of them?” He had never worn a haori before. It seemed useless to start now. 

“Slipped my mind.” The Master offers another small reassuring smile. 

“Would you like one?” Muichiro shook his head. Ubuyashiki hummed in acceptance. Silence descended comfortably around them. The last of the bees dissipated from around them. The honey was gone from Muichiros hand, leaving only a vague tacky sheen that was easily ignored as Muichiro pulled his hand back in finally. 

“How long have you been sitting here?” 

“I don’t know.” The Master tilted his head in question. 

“Would you like to go back?” The offer was tentative, the Master knowing of Muichiro’s unpredictable moods and self-independence. It was harmless, however, and Muichiro didn’t know where ‘back’ was. He would be even more lost without the master. He had had enough of the meadow. Muichiro answered this time in a soft nod. Both stand, Muichiro retrieving his katana to secure it to himself once more. Ubuyashiki picks up the honey jar. So he was the one who gave Muichiro the honey. He hadn’t come here alone, he was brought here to perhaps rest then while the weather was good and the sun was up. 

  The two walked in silence once more, Muichiro following slightly behind Ubuyashiki, allowing the man to lead him. The Ubuyashiki residence could be seen now in the distance. Muichiro had been at it before. The vague notion he had stayed there for a few weeks come to mind yet he couldn’t remember why or when. It felt familiar as he entered the property, more assured he wasn't out of place by the Master's calm demeanor. 

“You may stay the night if you wish as always, but it would be more like you to return to your residence in the evening.” He was here a lot then. 

“Yes, I will be going back to my estate when night falls. Demons are active in my territory.” The estate had remained uninhabited for some time, the properties festered with demons that sought to use it as hunting grounds. It was Muichiro’s job to clean up the mess now. The Master smiled. Muichiro froze as he felt a gentle hand pat his head. It was foreign, gentle, but foreign. 

“Our newest and youngest Hashira already so responsible. You are doing well, Tokito.” The praise made Muichiro’s lips curl up in a small smile, the show of uncontrollable emotion sweet on his face as the words washed over him. He didn’t know why his eyes stung when the hand retreated, taking the warmth with it. Something felt hollow in his chest as if something was missing. He didn’t know, didn’t remember what he had missed, lost, left behind in the neverending mist of his memory. Muichiro didn’t trust himself to speak. 

Night couldn’t have come quicker. The young boy was nearly desperate to get lost in the omnipresent rage once more when he fought demons. Never-ending anger that he didn’t have a name for was better than the feeling of emptiness and of loss that the Ubuyashiki family brought him when he looked at them, saw their smiles, their joy. He couldn’t remember if he had such people in his life before. 

2. Ubuyashiki Amane

Memories had been lost. Whether it had been recently or late, it didn’t matter, they were still as unreachable all the same. Even with the faces, the purposes, the bonds of the past lost, things still peaked through when something slid into place just a bit too perfectly to be ignored, allowing a feeling, perhaps even a glimpse of a face to slip through the fog in a dazzling wave of familiarity. 

The sun beat down brightly on the small town. The streets were filled with people chattering away to one another, stalls that lined the walls full to bursting with anything from food to trinkets. It all gave the air of a cheerful afternoon, not one thing out of place. 

Well, the small boy in flowy dark teal with a sword at his belt might have been out of place. He definitely drew stares, but the confident purpose in his step kept all away from approaching the child out of worry or curiosity. His vacant eyes slid from stall to shop to person without really seeing, he was scanning for something that no person here knew of. It was questionable at times if he himself knew what he was looking for. 

Muichiro ducked through a simple cloth overhang into a shop that was thankfully empty. The woman at the counter was fanning herself lazily to combat the heat but straightened when she saw the boy. Muichiro had to blink a few times, allowing himself to adjust to the blinding wall of color that cut through the fog for a moment. Cloth lined the wall in swaths, everything from the few bright elegant silks to plane linens and patterned cottons, the tailor shop seemed to have everything. 

“Looking for anything in particular?” 

“Have you seen any abnormal activity recently in the vicinity?” Muichiro’s monotone voice was in stark contrast to the pitched and artificially sweet tone of the women’s. The practiced smile dropped off the woman's face. She sighed, pointing vaguely to the left. 

“North about twenty minutes. A few people from the surrounding villages haven't returned from there. Someone with similar clothes to you came three days ago asking the same thing, he still hasn’t returned.” So definitely a demon then, one that would undoubtedly put up a little more of the usual fight. Muichiro bowed to the women in thanks, turning to leave. Black and white, there, among the reds and blues. Muichiro’s eyes were drawn to it like a moth to a flame. The woman paused, eyebrows raised as the boy froze.

“That cloth.” He pointed to it, his hand appearing out of his long sleeve to motion with a nail-bitten finger. “Could you take it out?” 

 The tailor looked surprised, but climbed on a stool to reach the spool of cloth without protest. She laid the cloth out on the counter to allow the light to shine down on it. 

“Patterned cotton, good for the summer and warmth with is above average thread quality, a fine choice for a working yukata.” Muichiro let one tentative hand smooth over the cotton, it was indeed soft, black like ink, and patterned with pale geometric clouds. Or more like mist, too delicate to be considered fog. One of his small hands curled into a fist, feeling the fabric, feeling the familiarity it brought. This had not been his, but it was close enough that it made his chest feel empty and tight at the same time as his breathing stilled for a moment. 

“Take a sample.” A long thin ribbon about three fingers in width was cut cleanly from the rest of the mass with a snip from the tailor's shears to be offered to the frozen boy from a thin kind hand. Muichiro took the sample in his free hand. He rubbed his thumb over the cloth. It was as if a hand of someone else had slipped into his own. A missing piece.

“I’ll take the bolt.” He had to pry his own fingers away from the bolt of cloth. Something inside him screamed at the action, it was wrong,  something was going to happen if he let go. That he would lose another piece of him again “Please reserve it for me.” 

The tailor raised her eyebrows again, yet once again did not question the strange boy, simply storing the roll under the counter away from sight. Muichiro walked out of the shop. One foot in front of the other. He was calm. He tied the swatch of the memory to his wrist. The majority of the sample fell from the skinny appendage past his sleeve. Muichiro gripped the tails of it in his hand. It felt wrong to let go. 

And he didn’t let go, not when he walked north to the palace where the demon in the lair surely lay, not when he waited for the sun to set and the creatures of the night come alive once more. He pulled it tighter, not caring the way it cut almost painfully into his flesh as he drew his katana. It was somehow easier to give in to the rage when the cloth made his hand tingle. He was desperate not to lose the piece he had gained back. He had to remember it.

There was indeed a demon. Like all the others, it was an ugly thing, twisted and vulgar as it tried to dance out of the way of Muichiro’s blade. It was not successful. Its shrill chattery wails like a demonic bird pierced the air still as its head severed from its neck. The sharp smell of blood couded the air, metallic and hot.

“Shut up.” Mucihiro’s voice cut through the sound, cold, cruel and so very venomous. His sword fell, piercing through one of the eyes of the demon, pinning it to the ground, helpless. Its wails became higher, louder. More desperate. Muichiro watched it without seeing it. He listened without hearing its garbled words that wreaked of toxins and malice. He simply felt, he felt the anger that surged to fill his chest, fill his throat with burning hatred. He felt the cloth in his fingers. He felt how his fingers became warm with his mannerisms as he ran his digits again and again over it. He mustn’t forget. 

It was only when he felt the rays of the sun and the ash floating in the air that he pulled his katana from the earth, allowing it to be returned to its sheath. He had been lazy last night. There was no reason that he needed to leave such a weak thing to the sun. He had toyed with it. Yet he wanted to watch it burn, feel the victorious ash stain his fingers and clothes. He wanted to run his fingers over the cloth again and again without feeling guilty. He was working, he wasn't wasting time. 

“You will face no more problems.” He says the words plainly to the women. She looks over his ash-stained fingers that held out the money to her. She looks at the cloth that was tied on his wrist, the blankness of his face yet the eyes which were filled with something that could only be described as a mixture of desperation and something unnamable. She pulls the bolt of cloth out, wrapping it with coarse paper for transport. 

“You look like someone who once wore this cloth. He was around your age as well.” Muichiro’s passive face did not break. He wanted to go home. He didn’t know where home was.

“I think you may be mistaken.” The bolt is handed over with no more delay. It was twelve meters of cloth, unwieldy to carry. Muichiro didn’t know what to do with twelve meters of cloth, he didn’t know why he needed the cloth, but he just did. Amane might know. So to Amane he went. 

The sun was almost touching the horizon once more when he stepped foot on the Ubiyashiki property. His arms burned from the strain they had been under, his feet hurt from the distance they traversed yet those came secondary in his mind as he knocked at the door. Luckily it was Amane who answered it rather than her children. Their eyes unsettled Muichiro more than he wished to admit at times. 

“Tokito.” She sounded surprised, she looked even more surprised taking in the sight of the young Hashira and the large bolt of cloth. “Come in.” 

The boy stepped gratefully inside. His normally soundless footsteps now had some weight to them as he walked behind the women on socked feet, shoes discarded at the door. His fatigue had seemingly caught up to him. Amane took the bolt from him, gently easing the paper away to reveal his purchase. Her eyebrows shot up again, lips forming a small o as she ran a finger down the pattern. 

“Any idea for what you want to make from it?” A shake of the head. Amane tilted her head, eyes slightly concerned. It was unlike the boy not to know what he wanted. “Do you know why you bought it?” Another shake of the head, slower this time. That was a lie. The truth came out reluctantly, quietly, drawn out like a sole string in a loom flying lone in the winds.

“It felt familiar.” It was a pitiful explanation, even to Muichiro’s own ears. He folded his hands, letting bitten nails cut into his skin. He didn’t know what else to say. 

“I would expect it would. Your twin wore this cloth.” Time froze, just for a moment. A piece of information, a revelation given so casually.

“What?” The boy's voice was small. He looked into Amane’s eyes, the neutrality of his features breaking into an almost pleading look. “I had a twin?” Amane looked at him with pity. She looked at him like he was a lost child in a market, asking where their parents were. Like he was small. The look made him sick.

“Yes.” 

“Oh.” She seemed to sense his next question. Was he really that obvious?

“Yuichiro. That was his name. I saw the two of you only a few times before, but the two of you were always attached at the hand, even when neither of you would say a word to the other.” A stone sank into Muichiro’s stomach. He was alone now. Why was he alone? 

“Demons?” The answer was whispered, hoarse from his throat. A solemn nod sealed the fate of the past, one so common that it shouldn't have been so world-shattering. Everyone was in the corps for a reason. He had only had the insatiable loathing within him for a reason. He now had a name that slipped through the fog to hold, cupped in his hands like river water, to know for a short time until the water slipped through his fingers even as he tried to hold on. 

Sobs, that is the sound that bounced off the walls of the room. They were not loud enough to be wails, but they almost were. His small body curled in upon itself, hands bunched once more in the fabric, tight as a vice. He was insatiable, the kind touches to his shoulders and hair went unnoticed. 

Yuichiro, Yuichiro, Yuichiro. He had had a twin, one that never let go of his hand seemingly until the day he died. How did he look? Did he have the same face as Muichiro, one that was so blank and dead, or was his face different, lively and smiling? He didn’t know, the fog wouldn’t part, it wouldn't give into his screams. The mist curled forward, sure to swallow up any of the grief he felt at its root. Yuichiro, Yuichiro Yuichiro. Gone gone gone. His twin didn’t have a face, only a name lost in amnesia and a pattern that Muichrio held onto, shaking, for dear life. He was dying. There was no other explanation for this feeling. 

Amane wiped his tears. She didn’t speak, just lending a firm warm touch that was the only thing keeping Muichiro from slipping completely into the fog to disappear forever. To join his twin. 

The boy cried himself to sleep, exhausted. He woke up, eyes swollen and body aching. He woke up with his hands still entwined with the cloth. Never had he let go. Never again did he remember the true reason for his crying. The mist was too thick, swaddling him in an inescapably tender hold. Amane was there still, of course, she was. He was the one intruding in her house. She offered tea, not an explanation. Muichiro was almost grateful for it. 

It was when he was ready to retreat once more to his estate that the women offered the little pouch to him. It was dark teal like his uniform, able to attach easily to his belt. Muichiro looked at the woman with wide eyes when he pulled back the drawstrings. Inside, a length of the cloth was wound in a neat spiral, a long ribbon as he had before, the edges this time sewn in thin even hems to preserve the cloth from deteriorating. 

Muichiro liked his uniform. It felt wrong to wear the cloth like true clothes, like he was playing dress up. The cloth felt almost sacred, not be mared or touched by anything of this cruel world. But this one strip was enough to keep the fog back when it got too thick, the world too loud. It tied easily on his wrist, was easy to pool into his hand, calming to rub over his fingers and feel that saccharine feeling fill the cavity inside of him with no name. A sparring source of comfort with no face, no past, and no explanation. It was enough, the immortalized hand of someone holding his. 

It was barely enough, but enough that the boiling rage inside him settled, even if it was for only a few minutes. 

3. Tomioka Giyu

He was lost. Again. 

Usually, when Muichiro was lost, it was only a matter of time before he ran into structure he recognized, even if it was vague, to situate himself. But the woods had no buildings, no shrines, just endless dark trees filled with horrors and loneliness. The boy wandered, eyes sweeping, looking yet seeing nothing of importance. Trees, more trees, perhaps the rare creek or outcropping of stones. 

He didn’t know where he was. And neither did anyone else, the Hashira worked alone, he was no exception. His crow was gone, delivering a message he didn’t remember the contents of. Ginkgo, his beloved companion, couldn’t lead him now as she had many times before.

The sun would rise soon, the sky was lightening already. That would give him the east, a scrap of information to use, but that would also mean all Hashria would return to their estates to sleep before their afternoon duties. How many were still here? How many were still on missions? He might not even be in one of the estate territories, out on the north or south wilds. He was stuck. 

The boy sighed, finally stopping. His feet hurt. Months, years even, of being a Hashira and his body had still not fully acclimated to the amount of standing that was required. Unconsciously, Muichiro reached to his wrist, running his fingers over the ribbon as he thought. Wander or wait. Both had the chance of death, both had the chance of good outcomes. Standing still felt wrong, so Muichiro wandered. 

The pace was a slow amble, one foot placed in front of the other as he ambled east towards the sun like a lone pilgrim to their elusive salvation. Left foot, right foot, left foot. A slow trudge that was the only disturbance in the quiet forest.

It was when he saw a great stone did he stop. He touched the surface curiously. It was split in half, cleanly as if someone had cut it with a sword. In mild fascination, Muichiro drew his katana, holding it in the space of the split, head tilted. It lined up well, perhaps another Hashira then. He returned the sword to his sheath, sliding down to settle at the base of the rock. It was surprisingly easy to get comfortable on his knees at the base of the bock, aching legs finally able to rest and the ground surprisingly soft with fallen leaves. This was the closest thing he had to a known landmark for hours, the only thing that had the chance of another finding him. 

Cotton ran through his fingers as if it was watery silk. Again and again, did he repeat the motion. A strand to hang on to for his state of mind, to not give in to the fog to only realize days had slipped by. 

The thought of relying more on his colleagues made his throat burn. He wanted no such debts, he was old enough to care for himself. He knew deep down he had gone through worse things alone yet it was the reason he couldn’t recall what it was that made him so vulnerable. His eyes stung from exhaustion. He forced himself to keep them open. He needed more sleep. Nightmares of blurry faces and words never let him rest.

“You’re new.” The voice was soft, slightly hoarse. Muichiro looked up. Fox mask, head tilted to the side in curiosity. The mask had a scar. He was also a boy from what the mist Hashira could see. He looked familiar, if only just. 

“Your not a true person are you?” The words were blunt. Muichiro would have known if someone had settled themselves on the rock, heard them, felt the vibrations of touch as someone climbed the stone to sit precariously on it. The boy let out an amused chuckle, letting the mask rest on one hand as each gazed at the other. 

“I’m real enough.” A hallucination then. Maybe water loss, maybe from exhaustion. Maybe one of the figures that passed through the fog enough to flit in the corners of his eyes, at last brave enough to face him. 

“What do you want?” Not a demon, not hostile. Curious, like a child that hadn’t yet truly matured. The boy shrugs. 

“To talk, not many come to visit me.” Muichiro turned his face down, looking in the treeline once more for someone who might be approaching. 

“I don’t want to talk to you.” The cold rude words were met with another laugh. The boy dropped down from the rock, feet making no sound on the dead leaves as he walked closer. Muichiro sighed, looking up once more to the face that was upside down above him, far closer as the other stood over him. 

“You’re a Hashira.” A nod. That much was painfully obvious. “What did it feel like to become the best?” He didn’t know. Emotions blurred together easily, one staining another. His mind was unreliable, but his body wasn’t. 

“Painful.” He still ached. The mask retreated. The child settled beside Muichiro, who didn’t turn his head to acknowledge the other. The boy was a hallucination anyway. Maybe he was dying quicker than he expected to see such things, to almost feel the sensation of a hand patting his head, tentative like it was nervous. 

“Do good.” A crack of a twig in the surrounding forest made the two look around. The boy stood as quickly as he sat. Muichirio glanced at the mask. It almost seemed to be smiling at him, scar and all. 

“Visit me sometime again. It gets lonely with people who can’t see me.” He was gone.

“Tokoto.” Tomioka was frozen as he saw the kneeling Hashira. The small widening of his eyes was the only telling of his surprise to see Muichiro here. Muichiro looked right back at the water pillar. That was why the boy was familiar. He wasn’t the only one to have the unnamed past dragging onto him in the form of patterned cotton.

“I got lost.” Mucihriou stood, legs protesting. He only teetered to the side once before stabilizing himself fully. “Take me somewhere else.” 

Tomioka didn’t wait for Muichiro to fully catch up to him. He didn’t reach to catch one of his loose sleeves to help lead him. The boy was grateful for it, even knowing that Tomioka simply had not thought to do such gestures. The two walked in silence, letting the sounds of footsteps and the forest fill the large gap between them. 

Tomioka was different from his other colleagues. He was similarly quiet, slipping out the door just before Muichiro would when meetings devolved into loud chatter and alcohol. He was more like one of the pretty vases Amane kept rather than a person at times. 

The water estate came into view, Muichiro didn’t know where he was expecting to be led. The stoic man was more of a hermit than himself, even more of a workaholic if possible. That was maybe why he had found Muichiro, he had been looking for more prey in the middle of the day. 

“Do I have to send a crow for medical supplies?” Tomioka motioned to Muichiro’s arm. It was bleeding, he hadn’t noticed before the bloody crescent moons that were carved into the flesh starkly. 

“Do you have none here?” Both surprise and humorless amusement leaked into Muichiro’s tone. Tomioka led him into the estate. Muichiro could see why. The place was more unfurnished and empty than he had ever seen any estate be before. 

“No.” Tomioka toes off his shoes. He looks blankly at Muichiro, waiting. It’s unnerving, the dead eyes, how unmoving he was. Like a statue. 

“I’m leaving.” The pillar only glances once more at the injury. The marks had less to do with pain, more with it being a small window it provided into the youngest’s mind. Tomioka turns away, walking farther into the house. 

“I’ll send Kocho to you.” It’s a statement, not a demand. Even the loner of the Hashiras cares for their youngest.

Muichiro leaves. He feels like he is drowning. Something must surely be wrong with him. Maybe Kocho will know. 

4. Iguro Obanai

Evenings were nice. The moon was nice. The night was not. The night brought demons, pain, and sorrow, and the insatiable rage that blocked his vision and hazed his mind until all he could recall would be the path back to his estate as the sun rose. 

It was one of the few days that he didn’t have to go hunting. He had returned from a conjoined mission with Kanroji and Iguro. It was rare for three Hashira to be in one place, but a particularly tough knot of swarming demons had called Iguro and Kanroji there by request of Muichiro. His sword had broken, all he could do was flee, leaving the remaining demons for his seniors to finish. He had requested one Hashira, the last of the demons being barely worthy for a single Hashira, but the two tended to come together. 

The air was jovial as they walked in a little group back to report to the Master. Muichiro walked ahead, ignoring the loud laughs and chatter of Kanroji as she spoke animatedly with Iguro who replied in a much quieter tone. He glanced back sometimes, taking in the two. 

Love, that was what was palpable between the two. It was in Kanroji’s words of praise and small talk that she threw at Iguro, it was in what was shown of the serpent Hashira’s face. His eyes crinkled at the corners a little as if he was smiling under his bandages. They were full of adoration. Muichiro always turned away quickly. It felt too private, too far to reach for him. He fiddled with the ribbon. 

The Master was pleased when he heard of their victory. His eyes softened as he heard of the broken sword. Even with the bad news, he still patted Muichiro’s head reassuringly, praising the boy in a proud voice. Muichiro dipped his head to allow the comforting action. 

“Our youngest needs a stronger sword it seems.” Muichiro scrunches his nose in indignation for a moment as he heard Kanroji beside him coo at the words. He didn’t need to be treated like a child by her. The master huffed out a small laugh at the expression on his face. One more pat before the hand retreated. 

“You all have done very well. Uzui and Shinazugawa have also returned from their assignment an hour ago as well. Kindly make sure they aren't killing each other in the pavilion.” Kanroji squeals. The master answers the question before it can be asked. “Yes, there will be alcohol.” 

Uzui and Shinazugawa weren’t killing each other, but the amount of noise that was coming from the little courtyard because of them was louder than if they would have been.

“Shut up.” Iguro’s voice snapped like a whip over the two, stopping the shouting match to draw attention to the little group that entered. 

“Stuff it, bandage boy.” The glare that Iguro sent Shinazugawa could have killed. Uzui was much more polite in greeting the newcomers. He glanced with a raised eyebrow at Muichiro before turning to Kanroji for an explanation, for which she only shrugged. The love Hashira lowered herself next to the table where there was already an empty bottle of alcohol. She opens a new one, motioning for more glasses to be brought out. Uzui didn’t dwell on it long, eager to get back to the blooming festivities. 

The low flat table was enough for the five of them to be settled comfortably. Muichirou sat at one of the shorter ends in between Iguro and Uzui. He felt out of place. He blinked a few times when Shinazugawa called his name. The wind pillar had a twisted smile on his face as he offered a glass to the boy.

“Want to try?” A crude offer, giving alcohol to a child. Muichiro had never tried alcohol. He accepted the glass. 

“How flamboyant, Tokito! Drinking already so young-” The loud man was cut off when Muichiro reached up, tugging at a clump of his hair sharply, snapping the sound Hashira’s head to one side. The man recoiled back with a hiss. Both Iguro and Shinazugawa snickered. A small spark of smug satisfaction lit in Muichiro’s stomach. 

“Your lucky I have a soft spot for kids.” Uzui sounded indignant as he reached for his own glass. 

“I have killed more demons than you, you impertinent peacock.” Another indignant sound matched by quiet chuckles. It was true, however. Kanroji swooned appreciatively, eyes bright. Muichiro saw from the corner of his eye how Iguro stared at her.  

“To be so young and strong already.” She finally finished pouring the alcohol. The liquid was clear, a mere finger width in his glass. It smelled like Kocho vaguely, sharp and clinical, but having an almost saccharine edge like fruit. Maybe yuzu. 

“Go quick.” Muichiro tried to take the advice. It took as much nerve to slice a head off a demon for the first time as it did bringing the glass to his lips. Another moment of hesitation before he tilted the glass back, allowing him to take in a mouthful of the substance. The effect was instantaneous. The boy spluttered, the new sensation of burning crawling down his throat like smoldering ash, coating his esophagus and not leaving, choking him. It went up to his eyes, his nose. It felt like the ash that came to smother him in his dreams, thick and pungent. He spat the liquid back into the glass. If he would have drank kerosene, it would have given him the same effect. Someone thumped him on the back as he coughed. 

“Oh dear,” Kanroji tittered at his reaction. “You’ll like it when you're older.” Muichirou shot her an incredulous look. How anyone would like to drink gasoline would be beyond him. 

“Yes! Drink your milk so you can grow taller, Tokito!.” Luckily or unluckily, Iguro caught Muichiro’s wrist as he drew it back, ready to launch the glass at the sound pillar. It would be wrong to make a mess on the Master’s property.

“Stop patronizing him.” That’s now Muichiro ended up watching with Iguro as Kanroji, Uzui, and Shinazugawa become increasingly drunk. Empty bottles littered the floor, more was brought by quiet attendants. One of them set a normal glass of water in front of Muichiro, for which he was grateful to sip on, still trying to get rid of the last remnants of the burning that warmed his stomach and body in the worst way possible. It was entertaining to watch the three pillars make fools of themselves at least. 

“For the last time, I do not need a wife!” Shinazugawa yelled after Uzui brought up the subject for the third time. His face was flushed, lilac eyes still as crazed as they always were. He pointed an accusatory finger at the sound pillar, who looked beyond smug at this point. “I will never be getting a wife!” 

“Because you are still smitten with Tomioka?” Oh? Muichiro straightened up. Iguro looked, if possible, even more smug. Shinazugawa looked furious. Uzui snorts, taking another large gulp of alcohol. 

“I do not like that stuck-up idiotic bastard!”

“You stare at him in meetings.” 

“Because I hate him!” 

“Sure, and you don’t look away when you get caught because you like his blue blue eyes.” Iguro rests his chin on one hand, tilting his face towards Kanroji yet kept his gaze on Shinazugawa. “Those were your own words.” 

That made Shinazugawa look downright murderous, but it was the thing that shut him up finally to take a long drink of his alcohol. Kanroji sighed, standing only to stumble to the side. She moved, plopping herself down between Iguro and Muichiro. Delicate hands found the mint and black hair, playing with the strands absentmindedly as the love Hashria talks. 

“I think it’s sweet, Shinazugawa. Sure, he might be as dense as a rock but he certainly is pretty. Such small dainty features, so very stoic.” She sighs dreamily, leaning back onto Iguro who turns to accommodate her better. “You have such pretty colored hair, Tokito. You would look so good if you would braid it.” 

“He would look like you then.”

Kanroji’s words were slurred slightly. She had drunk her weight in alcohol, cheeks rosy and eyes unfocused as she clumsily began to braid Muichiro’s hair, ignoring the comment. The boy blinked, but allowed the drunk women to do so. There was no stopping her in this state, but internally Muichiro groans at the thought of getting the tangles out. 

“Love is so confusing. We can love the people we hate, we can love the people who we have lost. Memories are what love is built off of.” Muichiro tries to block out the drunken babbles. “But love is love. We know what it is even if we don’t want to admit it or don’t know why.” 

Mist muffled her words. The fog curled in to muffle the world. The anger was more present, it wanted blood, it wanted to hunt. Muichiro couldn’t move. He moved his gaze to stare at the half drunk glass of water. His reflection starred, dead-eyed, back. It was distorted, his features blurred from the liquid within. He stared at it. It stared back. It almost was like someone else with no name was staring back, looking at the one who was the reason for their loss.

Breathes came faster, thinner. He couldn’t pull his eyes away. Something was wrong, something was missing and he didn’t know what it was. He knew it was his fault. The fog rolled in thicker, pressing, insistent. It clamored. A thin hand moved forward, pulling the glass away, taking the petrifying reflection of the past with it. 

Iguro said nothing as Muichiro looked up into his eyes. He didn’t need to say anything. He knew without having a name, he knew how to vanquish the wraiths that rose without being needed to be asked. 

The air in the courtyard was silent. Shinazugawa had left to vent off his rage in the forest. None of the others were worried for him, the wind pillar was too stubborn to die. Uzui laid with his head on the table, fast asleep in a fitful stupor because of the alcohol. Kazroji was also asleep, much more elegantly than the other, her head cradled by Iguro gently. That left only he and Muichiro. They didn’t talk for some time, just listening to their comrades' steady breaths. 

“Did you ever love someone?” It was a question said quietly, sincerely. Muichiro thought it was the least scathing thing Iguro had ever said to someone who wasn’t Kanroji. He watched how the heterochromic eyes gazed at the woman in his lap. 

“I think once.” Muichirou raised his wrist. The black and white ribbon was as clear on his wrist along with the crescent moons above it. “Someone, sometime, somewhere. I don’t have a face, or a palace. I don’t even have a name.” SIlence descends. Muichiro lets his wrist get taken by Iguro, allows the fingers to brush over the sacred cloth, over the scars above them before he lets go, as quick as it started. He brushed a finger over Kanroji’s cheek, light as a petal in the breeze. There was nothing but that timeless emotion that had caused so much grief in his gaze. His words were hushed, a soothing whisper for a frightened animal.

“I wish one day you will remember that love, remember what it was like to have the world in a single person. To be in a world without it is more tortuous than if the sky were to fall.” Muichiro pulled his knees up to his chest. He touched the cloth. The remnant. The lifeline in a field of burning ash and fiery blood. His voice is full of grief. 

“Yes, yes it is.” 

+1. The twins

Pain. That was all that Muichiro felt. Blinding pain.

His feet dangled, useless in the air as the demon in front of him kept speaking. It had too many eyes, too many words that tried to go through the maze of what remained of the fog in his mind. The fog was soft now, most of it had burned off by the sun, a sun by the name of Tanjiro Kamado. The fog wasn’t all gone, it was lighter. It was light enough that it wrapped his ears, his mind in a soft blanket, letting his rage guide his body while his mind stayed unaffected. It didn’t protect him from the pain. 

Muichiro wheezed, his remaining hand gripping the handle of the blade pinning him to the pillar. The demon already took his arm and now it wouldn’t shut up. 

“Never would I think to see a descendant of mine.” Muichiro screamed through his teeth as he felt something touch the bleeding stump of his arm. It was trying to bandage him. He felt sick. This creature was sick.

“You will be a glorious demon for the Lord, I am sure he would approved of you.” A hand cold like corpse flesh brushed with mock tenderness along his cheek. Muichiro flung his head back, hard. He saw stars when it ricocheted off the pillar, back into the demon’s hand. Too many eyes. All looking at him.

“Humans are so fragile, I hope you survive.” The hand caresses his face. Muichiro tries to bat it away, letting himself be solely suspended by the blade piercing his chest feet above the ground. It hurt so much. The demon catches his wrist, head tilted curiously. Muichiro tried to pull his hand back as the demon fingered the ribbon, picking at the slightly worn seams. The demon didn’t budge. Muichiro was helpless, strung up like a butterfly in a case for the other’s amusement. He felt like he was eleven again, vulnerable and alone as he embraced his brother's corpse, exhausted and mourning as the maggots crawled over them, as his body and mind deteriorated. Somehow, the rage within lent Muichiro the strength to spit words of the most potent venom he can muster at the demon through the pain.

“My twin died because of you. Never will another live with your legacy, I’ll rip you to pieces.” The demon froze, hand suspended still imprisoning the boy’s like a vice. 

“You had a twin?” Muichirou bared his teeth. They were stained pink with blood. “Yuichiro, died so his little brother could live. Never will you separate siblings again. Never. ” His wrist was released. Muichiro braced himself, bringing a hand back to the handle. He had to pull it out. He could die. He could see his twin again. His friends would die. He had to help them. He had to pull out his sword.

Muichiro couldn’t move before the cold vile hands grabbed his head, slamming it back. More stars burst into his vision, colors blinding him as he cries out. Darkness began to descend, imminent and unstoppable. A blurry figure darts out. The crack of gunfire pierces the air. Kokushibo is gone, taking his violating touch with him. That could only mean his friend would pay the price. 

“Genya!” It’s a fruitless warning, too late. Muichiro can only watch as Genya is cut down with sterile precision. Tears pool in his eyes. He can’t move. He can’t keep conscious. 

He drops.

A warm breeze makes Muichiro open his eyes. It was a gentle caress, so very different from the cold iron tinged air of reality. Leaves fell around him. He stood in a river, bare legs wracked with chills as the water churned around his ankles in a fierce current. He was wearing the same white sleeveless yukata as he did when he was a child.

“Muichiro!” An angry voice saying his true name, one he hadn’t heard for so long. Loud splashes, the hands, tense and so very very warm close across his shoulders, pushing him back to stumble in the water. His same face, sleeveless yukata of black with those geometric mist patches. His sibling’s face was full of anger, of worry. Muichiro touches his twin’s wrists reverently as they came to give him another shove. 

“Yuichiro-” his voice gave out. His twin was right here, alive. His twin shoved him again back towards the other shore. Away from him.

“Go back! Go back! What are you doing here?!” Yuichiro’s voice is full of panic. “You aren’t supposed to die!” Muichirou stumbles, falling into the river completely. He looks up at his twin. Yuichiro knelt down, trying to fitfully lift the other to continue across the river. Muichiro’s eyes filled with tears.

“Yuichiro, why? Why? I’ve done so much?” The questions were desperate. Why was his twin pushing him away? Mist krept in around them. 

“You would throw your life away at fourteen for a cause that brought you nothing but misery! Your death would be pointless to them. Go, run away Muichiro, live.” Muichiou can feel the tears in his eyes fall. He can feel his brother's tears on his as well as they drop down. 

“People rely on me now,I am the only one who can end this hell for people. Other siblings with no parents, Yuichiro! I would lay my life down for those who made me smile, made me happy! Please Yuichiro, please.” Muichiro didn’t know what he was begging for. To cross the river, to be carried back. To be held by a twin ripped away from him too soon. He didn’t know His twin did. Warm arms envelop him. Both bodies shake with sobs. 

“Fourteen. You would die at fourteen.” Muichiro wrapped his arms around his heartbroken twin. He buries his head into the other’s shoulder. 

“You died at eleven. Just this one thing, this last thing, then we can go home.” He knew unconsciously what he was asking for. He knew where home was now. Precious seconds ticked by as the two didn’t move. Shaking, Yuichiro pulled his twin up, Muichiro didn’t protest. He feels his brother's lips press a kiss to his forehead, a goodbye. A small sad smile curls on his lips at the final sweet action of acceptance. 

“Thank you.” He reaches the bank, supported by his brother, He crosses. 

The sound of battle greets him as well as the smell of blood. He forces his eyes open. His body ached, adrenaline finally dulling the pain in his arm and chest. His face is wet with tears. 

Muichiro reaches for the handle once more. Shuddering breath in, face screwed up in preparation, he braces his legs against the pillar. He pushed away from the structure against his own sword. He screams. It was agony. All the torment he had ever faced in one action, forced to push himself on his own sword off of his place of helplessness. The scream evolved into wailing sobs, loud and broken as finally, finally the sword moved. It moved, inch by painful ince until once more his feet reached the ground. Muichiro collapse to his knees, gasping, hand still on the handle. 

He pulled, pure brute force and muscle to pull the steel finally out of his chest. Torture. That was what he was in, pure torture. Metal clanging against the ground was the sound that could have made Muichiro cry with relief if he wasn’t doubled over in pain. His hand gropes, pressing a handful of bandages to try and stem the bleeding. It was pointless.

“Help me.” The words were whispered, made to go unanswered by the cruel gods above. Blood loss was surely making him hallucinate again. His twin’s voice was in his ear, commanding and familiar, so very there as Muichiro charged towards death’s door. 

“Sit up.” Muichiro’s body obeys. “Stem the bleeding.” Bandages wrapped round and around. Blood stained his hands, making the air smell more and more putrid. Breathes still shuddered shakily out of his small chest. Finally, the bleeding slowed. It wouldn’t stop but it gave him enough time. Muichiro tried to catch his breath. It wasn’t working. He looked at his lap, the blood stained everything. The red staining the black and white cloth. Muichiro wanted to cry again. It was almost fitting, his brother now with blood on his hands as well. He was the one who gave into his brothers last request, who would help the suicide mission.

“Be happy.” The words were almost condescending. They were sad and angry. They were full of grief as Yuichiro’s other half dies. They were as much Muichiro as they were Yuichiro. The boy picked up this sword. He shudders as he stands. 

 He feeds Genya the hair. Genya ties his sword to his shaking hand. Breath in breath out. Breath in.

Muichiro joins the battle again. A suicide for those who had cared for him so fiercly in his time of weakness. 

“Tokito!” Shinazugawa, Muichiro pulled the other out of the way. He saved his life. Muichiro turned to the battle. Four against one. Muichiro prayed that the three would come out alive. He prayed to the sun that it would shine as early as it always had on a new world that he sacrificed himself for. 

He charged. The others adapted to him. He plunged his sword into the body of his ancestor. He smelled the repulsive death on him as his mint eyes, alight with adrenaline and fury met the many pairs of the other. He would die as a last act of defiance. A half truth to his promise, never would another Tokito be born. 

Muichiro held the blade tighter. 

It is with the anger from seeing his brother's rotted corpse infested with maggots, feeling those maggots crawl to him next to eat him alive that Muichiro grips his blade. It is the name he now has to the roaring rage inside of him, bone deep and invulnerable to amnesia that gives him the strength to hang on. It is the wrath and rage of a broken younger brother and the ghostly hands of the older one that takes hold of the handle above his own, the hands of twins finally together once more, that they squeeze it with all their might. The desperation, the drive is the thing that makes the blade turn red. Muichiro knows he has won when he smells burning, the sticky saccharine ash ready to drown him. 

He had his other half at last. He had filled the unpayable debt he had to the others who loved him so dearly. Muichiro would die painfully, in agony, but happy. 

Pain is indeed the only thing that greets him. He loses his lower half, it’s mind numbing. He looked at the sky, or where the sky would have been if there was not the ceiling. He wanted to see the sky one last time. See the stars. But the world was too cruel. 

There are no friends to cry over him as he passes. No one who would comfort him as tears poured down his face. It was a selfish desire, to be held by the living for a final time and dotted on just once more. The battle still raged around him. He was useless now, the others still had a demon to kill. But all three were alive because of him. 

Ghostly hands warmer than the sun cup his face, hold his hand as he drifts for the last time in the fog. It welcomes him into its depths.

He lost everything. His death was one of thousands, a slum guarantee for true victory. He couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. 

He did his best. He was going home. Gentle, familiar, patient hands guide him there at last. 

The boy smiles.