Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Genya’s arms tighten around himself as he sinks onto the cold, hard floor of a bathroom stall, his back pressed against the wall. His body trembles slightly, but he’s not crying. He’s not. He doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t need to cry. It’s not a big deal.

It’s just a certificate.

His certificate. 

The one he earned, the one he worked for. The one he practiced shooting every damn day to win. 

And Sanemi just ripped it apart.

Like it was nothing. Like Genya was nothing. Like everything he’d done, all of the work, all of the effort, meant nothing. All because he failed his stupid math exam.

His breath stutters as he curls in on himself, arms wrapping tighter, nails digging into his sleeves. 

He gets it—he knows he’s not smart like Sanemi. He knows he doesn’t get math the way Sanemi does, the way numbers just seem to click for him like they never do for Genya. It’s not like he doesn’t try—he tries so damn hard. He stays up late studying with Tanjiro, gets tutoring from Nezuko, practices problems with Kanao. He does everything he can, but it’s never enough.

Because Sanemi doesn’t see any of that. All Sanemi sees is another failing grade from his dumbass little brother.

Genya’s fingers tighten into fists. He gets it. It must be embarrassing having such an idiot for a brother. Must be humiliating when even your own damn blood can’t pass your class. But he never thought Sanemi would go this far, would stoop this low.

Because no matter how bad things have gotten, no matter how many fights they’ve had, Sanemi has always let him have this. His shooting. The one thing he’s actually good at. The one thing that makes him feel like he’s worth something.

He’s the school’s ace. A dead shot, every time. He’s got a real talent for it, a natural in every sense of the word. Hell, the school even lets him have a haircut that breaks dress code because it helps him shoot better, because he’s just that good. And Sanemi has always seemed… fine with it.

Not that he ever comes to Genya’s tournaments. Not that he ever says anything about his wins, about his first-place trophies, about how he’s the best shooter in the entire school. But he’s never interfered. Never used it against him. Never told him it was a waste of time, that he should be focusing on his math instead.

Until tonight.

Tonight, when Genya won first place in another shooting tournament. When, for once, he had the entire school in attendance—had Sanemi in attendance. And Genya actually wanted him there, wanted him to see that he could be good at something.

But then, just as Soyama was handing him his certificate, Genya froze.

Because there he was.

Sanemi.

Storming up the stage in front of everyone. Expression unreadable, steps purposeful, shoulders tense with something Genya couldn’t place. And before he or Soyama could react, before Genya could even breathe, Sanemi snatched the certificate from their hands and tore it apart.

Ripped it to shreds right in front of everyone. Right in front of his teammates. His classmates. His friends. Tiny, insignificant pieces fluttering to the ground like nothing.

And all Genya could do in that moment was run

His breath shakes now, ragged and uneven, and he presses a hand against his mouth to keep the sound in. His stomach twists, his chest tightens, and he hates it, hates the way the memory replays over and over in his mind, won’t let him breathe.

He squeezes his eyes shut, gripping at his sleeves, his nails biting into his skin. He won’t cry. He won’t. But his throat burns, his vision blurs, and no matter how hard he fights it—a single, silent tear slips free.

The tear is like a dam breaking. 

A sob rips out of Genya before he can stop it—raw, unrestrained, torn from somewhere deep inside his chest. It’s not just the certificate. It’s not just tonight. It’s everything. All at once, all at the same time, crashing over him like a wave too strong to fight.

The grief of that moment, of Sanemi’s fingers tearing apart the one thing he had left. The one thing that had never been touched. And before that—everything else.

Sanemi’s refusal to acknowledge anything good he does. Sanemi’s constant shouting. Sanemi’s anger, sharp and relentless, never letting up, never easing, never changing. How he’s never enough for Sanemi, no matter how hard he tries.

How Sanemi still treats him like a little kid even though he isn’t one, even though he hasn’t been one in years—if he ever truly was one. How Sanemi said—promised—things would get better once they moved out.

But they haven’t. Nothing has changed. Nothing has gotten better.

And worst of all—

Sometimes, late at night, when it gets too hard, when the house is too quiet and he’s left alone with his thoughts, Genya just wishes he could move back in with their Mom. Even if it means going back to parenting his younger siblings.

Because at least there, at least in that house, he never had to wonder if he was wanted.

Genya chokes on another sob, curling forward, his forehead nearly touching his knees. His breath is coming too fast, too uneven, his chest tight, burning, suffocating. His fingers clutch at his pants, knuckles turning ghost-white from how hard he’s gripping, like he’s trying to hold himself together before he falls apart completely.

It’s too much.

Genya isn’t sure how long he sits there, sobbing hopelessly, his breath coming in uneven, shuddering gasps. Loud, wet, embarrassing hiccups break from his throat as he tries—fails—to calm himself down. His chest feels too tight, his head too heavy, and no matter how many times he swipes at his face, the tears just won’t stop.

Then, a knock at the bathroom door.

Genya’s breath catches, his body going rigid, fingers digging into his sleeves. The blood rushes loud in his ears as he stares blankly at the tiled floor, pulse hammering, dreading what comes next.

The door creaks open, and soft footsteps echoing against the cold tile.

Genya holds his breath, bracing himself for some snarky remark. For a scoff, a sharp jab, some kind of biting insult that’ll make him feel worse than he already does.

“Genya?”

It’s not Sanemi’s voice.

It’s Soyama’s, quiet and gentle.

Genya squeezes his eyes shut. His throat clenches, but he can’t bring himself to respond, can’t make his voice work. He wants to say something, anything—but when he tries, all that comes out is a choked, strangled noise.

It seems to be enough. Because a second later, the stall door is easing open—he’d forgotten to lock it in his rush to hide—and Soyama steps inside.

Genya doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to look up. He just bows his head lower, scrubbing at his face with shaking hands, like that’ll somehow erase the mess he’s in. Like it’ll make any difference when his eyes are already bloodshot, his face already red, blotchy, and ruined.

But Soyama doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask any dumb questions like Are you okay? or Do you want to talk about it? Questions Genya doesn’t want to hear right now. Doesn’t want to answer. Instead, Soyama just sits down. Right beside him. Not forcing words, not making him talk. Just there. A quiet, steady presence. And that—that makes Genya break all over again.

Because why is his coach here and not his brother?

Why did Soyama come looking for him, but not Sanemi?

Fresh tears pour out before he can stop them, hot and burning, and even though he hates himself for it, hates how weak it makes him feel, he sucks in a shaky breath and leans in, pressing his face into Soyama’s shoulder. Sobbing into his shirt.

Soyama doesn’t tense from the sudden contact, doesn’t flinch or hesitate. He just moves, wrapping a firm, steady arm around Genya’s shoulders like he expected it. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s okay. And Genya clings to it. Clings to him. Because right now, it’s the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart.

For a long time, neither of them speak.

Genya is still shaking, still choking on the last remnants of his sobs, his body too exhausted to cry properly but too raw to stop completely. His breaths come in uneven hiccups, his face still buried against Soyama’s shoulder, his hands gripping at the fabric of his coach’s jacket like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

And Soyama just lets him.

He stays there, solid and unmoving, arm steady around Genya’s shoulders, like an anchor in the middle of a storm. He doesn’t say it’s okay, doesn’t tell him to calm down, doesn’t try to fix it—because they both know there’s nothing to fix. Not really.

What’s done is done.

Genya’s breath stutters. His throat is raw, aching, but he forces out, “I—” His voice catches, breaking on itself. He swallows hard, breath shaky, before trying again. “I just wanted him to be proud of me.”

The words come out small. Barely there. But Soyama hears them. His grip on Genya’s shoulder tightens, just slightly. An acknowledgment. A silent I know.

Genya sniffles hard, hastily scrubbing at his face, but it doesn’t do much. His hands are trembling too badly, his chest still tight.  He lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. 

“Stupid,” he mutters. “I dunno why I—” His voice cracks, and he clenches his fists. “I should’ve known better.”

Soyama exhales, slow and steady. “It wasn’t stupid.”

Genya squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah, it was.”

“It wasn’t.” Soyama’s voice is calm but firm, like there’s no room for argument. “It’s not stupid to want your brother to be proud of you, Genya.”

Genya sucks in a sharp breath, something in his chest twisting violently. He wants to argue. Wants to say it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that he’ll just get over it. But he can’t.

Because it does matter. It does hurt. And Soyama already knows that. Genya’s fingers tighten in Soyama’s sleeve, his shoulders curling inward. 

His voice is quiet when he finally asks, “Why’d he do it?”

Soyama is silent for a moment. Each second stretches unbearably, sinking heavy into Genya’s chest, pressing down like a weight he can’t shake.

Finally, he sighs. “I don’t know.” he admits. “But I know it wasn’t your fault.”

Genya doesn’t answer right away.

He just stares blankly at the floor, his fingers still curled tightly into Soyama’s sleeve. His breathing is steadier now, no longer rattling with sobs, but his chest still aches, the weight of everything sitting heavy in his ribs.

He wants to believe Soyama. Wants to believe that this wasn’t his fault. That Sanemi’s anger, his disappointment, his decision to humiliate him in front of everyone—wasn’t something he caused.

But it feels like his fault.

Because if he were smarter, if he were better, if he didn’t keep screwing up in the one thing Sanemi actually cares about, then maybe—maybe—none of this would’ve happened.

Maybe Sanemi would be proud of him.

The thought settles deep in his gut, bitter and hollow, but before he can even try to put it into words, Soyama shifts beside him, pushing himself to his feet. Genya pulls back instinctively, his stomach twisting, his fingers loosening their grip as Soyama moves away. He quickly wipes at his face again, scrubbing at his cheeks, even though it’s useless.

Still, he looks up, heart sinking slightly—only to find Soyama watching him, that same kind, patient smile on his face.

Then he holds out a hand. “C’mon.” 

Genya hesitates only for a moment before reaching up, gripping Soyama’s hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. Soyama doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask if he’s okay or tell him to pull himself together—just tilts his head toward the door, gesturing for Genya to follow as he steps out of the bathroom.

Genya trails after him awkwardly, keeping his head down as they walk through the halls. His uniform still feels stiff, his throat still burns from earlier, but at least no one’s around to see him like this. The award ceremony had been at the end of the school day, and he must’ve been crying longer than he thought, because the halls are nearly empty now.

The silence stretches between them, but this time, it’s not so heavy.

As they near the back of the school, Genya finally finds his voice, speaking quietly, hesitantly. “We going to the range?”

Soyama lets out a short snort, shaking his head. “God, no. You think I’m putting a gun in your hands right now?” Genya huffs a laugh before he can stop himself. It’s a little broken, a little rough around the edges, but it’s still a laugh. Soyama smiles in response, and without a word, he places a firm, comforting hand on Genya’s back as they keep walking.  

Eventually, they turn toward a pair of double doors, and Genya instantly knows where they are. The gym. Soyama guides him through the large room, his hand dropping from Genya’s back as he steps ahead to unlock one of the side doors. With a push, he swings it open, nodding for Genya to step inside.

Genya hesitates, then walks in, glancing around.

He’s never been in here before, but judging by the setup, it must be where the boxing or wrestling club practices. There are punching bags hanging from the ceiling, mats spread across the floor, and other equipment he doesn’t recognize. He almost forgot that Soyama was in charge of those clubs, too.

Soyama leans against the wall near one of the punching bags, arms crossed, a small smirk forming on his face. Genya frowns.

Before he can ask, Soyama speaks up. “You know how to throw a punch?”

Genya blinks. “What?”

Soyama tilts his head. “Do you know how to throw a punch?” he repeats, slower this time, as if Genya somehow didn’t hear him the first time.

Genya hesitates, unsure where the hell this is going, before finally shrugging. “I guess?”

“Show me.”

Genya stares at him like he’s lost his damn mind. “You serious?”

Soyama just gestures toward the bag, completely unfazed. “Go on.”

Genya huffs, stepping closer to the punching bag, though he still doesn’t really get why he’s doing this. He balls his fist, glancing back at Soyama, who gives him a small nod. With a breath, he throws a punch at the bag.

The impact stings more than he expects. It’s not his best punch, not even close—his stance feels off, his weight uneven—but he wasn’t exactly prepared for this.

Soyama hums, pushing himself off the wall. “Not bad,” he says, stepping closer. “But your form’s sloppy.”

“Oh, great,” Genya grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest, “That’s real helpful.”

But Soyama just grins, shaking his head. “That’s why I’m gonna teach you how to throw a punch properly.”

Genya stares at Soyama like he’s grown a second head.

“…You what?”

Soyama only grins wider, stepping up beside him and gesturing toward the punching bag. “You heard me.”

Genya blinks again, his brain still trying to catch up, but Soyama is already moving, clearly ready to jump straight into the lesson like this is normal. Like dragging a kid out of the bathroom after an emotional breakdown and teaching him how to throw a punch is just another Tuesday for him.

“Alright,” Soyama starts, tone casual but firm. “First things first—your stance is all over the place. You throw punches like you shoot, but this isn’t about precision. You need balance.”

Genya frowns but adjusts his feet, shifting his weight like he would when bracing for a shot. “Like this?”

Soyama snorts. “No. You’re stiff as hell.” He taps Genya’s foot with his own, nudging it slightly to the side. “Wider stance. Knees loose, not locked up.”

Genya follows the instruction, widening his stance, bending his knees just a little.

“Good,” Soyama nods. “Now, keep your dominant foot slightly back. You’re right-handed, yeah?”

Genya nods.

“Then your right foot stays behind your left, just enough to give you stability.”

Genya adjusts again, shifting his weight. It feels weird—he’s used to grounding himself differently, used to the stillness of lining up a shot. This is the opposite—loose but steady, like he’s ready to move at any second.

Soyama steps in, lifting his fists into a proper guard. “Now, your hands.” He taps Genya’s shoulder lightly. “Don’t just throw a punch from your arm. You want power? You use your whole body. Start from your legs, twist at the waist, and drive it through your fist.”

Genya watches as Soyama demonstrates, throwing a slow, controlled punch at the bag. His entire body moves with it—the weight shifting through his stance, the motion fluid and strong. The bag swings slightly from the impact.

Genya exhales sharply. “Alright.” He balls his fists again, setting his stance.

Soyama nods in approval. “Now hit it.”

Genya throws a punch. It lands solid, harder than before, the bag shifting under the force.

Soyama grins. “Better. Again.”

Genya throws another. And another. Each one lands stronger, smoother, more right.

Soyama steps behind him, adjusting his arm slightly. “Keep your wrist straight, or you’ll sprain the thing.”

Genya rolls his eyes but listens, adjusting his form. He throws another punch, and this time, it feels different—more natural, more powerful.

Soyama claps him on the back. “There you go. Knew you could do it.”

Genya scoffs, shaking out his hands, but he doesn’t fight the small flicker of satisfaction curling in his chest.

“Now,” Soyama smirks, stepping back. “Keep going until you stop thinking about it.”

Genya huffs but turns back to the bag, his fists tightening.

And then he swings again. And again. And again.

His fists fly, each hit landing harder, more deliberate than the last. His knuckles sting, but he doesn’t stop. Not when every sharp, biting comment Sanemi has ever made is still playing in his head.

"How the hell do you still not get this? It’s basic math, Genya."

Another punch.

"Maybe if you actually studied instead of wasting time with your friends, you wouldn’t be failing."

Harder.

"God, is there anything you can do right?"

Faster.

"If you can’t even make a damn rice ball without screwing it up, don’t bother trying."

His breath comes in short bursts, his body coiled tight, wound up too much, but he welcomes it. It’s better than sitting with the anger, better than feeling that helpless, sinking weight settle in his gut.

"I don’t have time to babysit you, Genya."

Another hit.

"You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?"

His form falters.

The angle is off, his wrist twisting in just the right way to send a sharp, white-hot pain shooting up his arm. Genya grits his teeth, stumbling back a step, shaking out his hand with a frustrated growl.

Before he can brace for another punch, Soyama steps in.

“You’re gonna break your hand like that,” he says, voice flat, unimpressed.

Genya scoffs. “Tch. I’m fine.” He rolls his wrist, biting back a wince.

Soyama raises a brow. “Oh yeah? And what happens when you do break it? Think the school’s gonna let you shoot one-handed?”

Genya scowls but doesn’t answer.

Soyama doesn’t move, just stands there between him and the bag, arms crossed. “That’s enough for today.”

Genya clenches his fists, stubbornness flaring hot in his chest. He’s not done. He still has more to work out, more anger to burn, more words to drown out—but Soyama just looks at him, unwavering. Not telling him to stop, not forcing him, just waiting. Waiting for him to make the choice.

Genya exhales sharply, chest heaving, and after a long, tense second—he steps back.

Soyama nods, stepping past him, grabbing a towel off a nearby bench and tossing it straight at Genya’s face.

Genya barely catches it in time, scowling. “Seriously?”

Soyama smirks. “Wipe your face. You look like you’ve been crying.”

Genya glares, his face heating up as he grips the towel tighter. “Asshole.”

Soyama just laughs, shaking his head as he heads toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll buy you something from the vending machine.”

Genya trails after Soyama, the towel still clutched in his hands, his body aching in a way that feels good—not the exhaustion of crying his eyes out for who knows how long, but the kind that comes from doing something. From burning out all the anger and frustration before it can eat him alive.

They step into the hall, the silence stretching between them, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Soyama doesn’t say anything, and Genya doesn’t feel like he has to. There’s no expectation, no forced conversation—just the steady sound of their footsteps echoing through the empty corridor.

When they reach the vending machines, Soyama stops, digging into his pocket for some change. “Pick something.”

Genya mutters something under his breath but steps forward, scanning the selection. His stomach twists slightly—he hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now, how empty his body feels after everything that just happened. He punches in the code for a bag of chips, and as it falls into the tray below, Soyama hums approvingly.

“Solid choice.” He punches in his own selection—a granola bar—before grabbing both and handing Genya his.

Genya takes it, tearing open the bag immediately and shoving a chip into his mouth. The savory crunch settles deep in his stomach, grounding him in a way he hadn’t even known he needed.

For a while, neither of them speak. They just stand there—Genya eating his chips, Soyama leaning against the vending machine, chewing on his granola bar. The quiet between them feels easy.

Then, after a moment, Soyama asks, “Feeling better?”

Genya chews slowly, thinking. Then he shrugs. “Dunno.”

Soyama sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look. I know today sucked, but…” He hesitates, glancing at Genya. “You do know you’re good, right?”

Genya frowns. “What?”

“At shooting,” Soyama clarifies, like it should be obvious. “You’re the best in the school. Hell, probably the best in the whole region.” He shakes his head. “Just ‘cause one person doesn’t see that doesn’t make it any less true.”

Genya swallows hard, his fingers tightening slightly around the bag in his hands.

“He’s not just anyone,” he mutters. “He’s my brother.”

Soyama exhales slowly, like he expected that answer. “Yeah,” he says simply. “And he’s a dumbass.”

That actually pulls a breath of laughter from Genya—quiet, small, but real.

Soyama smirks. “See? You’re getting it.”

“…Thanks,” Genya mutters after a moment, the word barely audible.

Soyama just claps a hand onto his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. And, hey, if you ever wanna punch something again, you know where to find me.”

Genya rolls his eyes, but the tension in his chest feels just a little lighter. “…Yeah. Okay.”

Soyama grins, pushing off the vending machine. “Good. Now let’s get out of here before the janitor kicks us out. I’ll drive you home.”

Genya freezes, his stomach sinking all over again.

He looks away, muttering, “I don’t wanna go home.”

Soyama lets out a low sigh, rubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah. I get it,” he says, voice quieter, less teasing than before. “But if I keep you out any later, Sanemi’s gonna call the cops on me.” Grinning, he adds, “And, y’know—I kinda like my job.”

Genya huffs, a small twitch of his lips threatening to form at that. He nods in understanding. The two of them walk off together, Soyama resting a hand against Genya’s back again, guiding him toward the parking lot. 

It doesn’t take long to reach the lot, the cold air settling over them in a way that makes Genya’s skin prickle. Soyama leads them toward his car, parked in one of the far corners—a beat-up old thing, the paint chipping in places, but still running strong.

With a click, Soyama unlocks it, jerking his head toward the passenger side. “Get in.”

Genya doesn’t argue. He tugs the door open and slides into the seat, the fabric cold against his skin. Soyama gets in a second later, tossing his granola bar wrapper into the back before starting the engine.

For a moment, neither of them speak.

The soft hum of the radio fills the space, some quiet, low-bass melody playing that Genya doesn’t recognize. It’s not loud, not overwhelming—just background noise, something to fill the quiet.

Soyama leans back against the headrest, glancing over. “Address?”

Genya blinks, caught off guard for a second. “…Oh. Right.” He rubs the back of his neck, rattling off the address quickly.

Soyama nods, shifting gears as he pulls out of the parking lot, the car rolling smoothly onto the empty streets.

The drive is mostly silent.

Genya watches as the city lights blur past the windows—streaks of gold and white against the dark pavement. It feels surreal, almost, the way the world keeps moving, so normal despite the absolute mess of a day he’s had.

It doesn’t feel real.

Like he should still be back in the bathroom, knees curled against his chest. Or still standing on that stage, staring at the shredded remains of his certificate on the floor.

His stomach twists at the thought, but he swallows it down.

Soyama doesn’t talk much, and Genya is grateful for it. But as they turn onto the road leading toward his neighborhood, Soyama exhales, stretching one hand against the steering wheel.

“Listen,” he says, voice casual, but there’s something steadier beneath it. Something firm. “I meant what I said earlier. You’re good at what you do. What Sanemi did was shitty, but that doesn’t change anything.”

Genya stares at the dashboard, fingers curling against his jeans. “Right,” he mutters, noncommittal.

Soyama doesn’t press. He just hums, nodding like he expected that answer.

“Just… don’t let this make you stop,” he says after a beat. “Shooting’s your thing, yeah? Don’t let anyone else make you hate it.”

Genya swallows hard, staring down at his hands.

“…Yeah,” he finally says. “I know.”

Soyama nods once, satisfied. “Good.”

They pull up in front of Genya’s house a minute later. The lights inside are on—meaning Sanemi is home. Genya stares at the front door, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. His fingers tighten around his bag.

Soyama watches him for a second before reaching over and unlocking the door. “You want me to stick around?” he asks, not quite joking.

Genya snorts. “Yeah, that’d go over well.”

“I could take him in a fight,” Soyama shoots back with a smirk.

Genya scoffs but shakes his head. “Nah. It’ll be alright. Sanemi’s not like that.”

Soyama doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push it. Instead, he claps a hand onto Genya’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before pulling away. “Alright. Get some sleep. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”

Genya nods, grabbing his bag before stepping out of the car. The cold air hits him immediately, but he barely notices.

He turns back just as Soyama shifts the car back into drive. “Hey,” Genya says, voice quieter now.

Soyama raises a brow.

Genya shifts on his feet, glancing away before muttering, “…Thanks.”

Soyama grins, easy and familiar. “Anytime, kid.”

Then, with one last nod, he drives off, leaving Genya standing there, staring at the front door of his house. His chest feels tight again, but it’s different now. Not as suffocating. Not as hopeless.

With a steadying breath, he steps forward and heads inside.

The house is quiet when Genya steps inside.

Too quiet.

Sanemi’s definitely home, but there’s no yelling, no footsteps, no sound of the TV playing in the background. The air feels heavy, thick with something unspoken, and Genya’s stomach twists as he shuts the door behind him.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting—not really.

Maybe for Sanemi to be waiting for him in the kitchen, arms crossed, already gearing up for another argument. Maybe for him to storm out of his room the second he hears Genya come in. Maybe for him to just say something about what happened tonight.

But nothing comes.

Genya clenches his jaw and takes a slow breath, forcing his shoulders to loosen as he heads for the hallway. And that’s when he sees him. Sanemi is sitting on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together like he’s been waiting. Like he’s been thinking.

Genya stops in his tracks, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag.

Sanemi lifts his head, expression unreadable, and for a second Genya thinks maybe this will be different. Maybe Sanemi will actually say something, explain himself, apologize—

"Where the hell were you?"

The words are sharp. Cutting. Genya’s shoulders go rigid, something cold settling in his stomach. Of course. Of course that’s the first thing out of his mouth. Not Are you okay? Not I’m sorry. Just that.

Genya exhales slowly, schooling his face into something blank. “Out.”

Sanemi scowls, pushing himself up from the couch. “Out?” His voice is clipped, irritated. “You disappeared after that stunt you pulled. You didn’t answer your phone. You just ran off.”

Genya’s fingers curl into fists. “Stunt I pulled?” His voice comes out quieter than he intends, but it’s sharp. “Are you serious?”

Sanemi glares. “Yeah. I am.”

Genya laughs—cold, bitter. “You tore up my certificate in front of the whole school, and I’m the one who pulled a stunt?”

Sanemi’s jaw clenches. “Maybe if you actually put that much effort into your grades, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

And there it is. Genya takes a slow, steady breath, forcing the burn behind his eyes to stay down. This is pointless. So pointless. He knew Sanemi wouldn’t see what he did wrong. He knew it.

So he’s done.

“You think I like failing your class?” Genya asks, his voice low and steady, too tired to even raise it. “You think I like the constant reminders about how stupid I am? How I can’t even understand basic math?” His hands tremble slightly at his sides, but he doesn’t unclench them. “You think I don’t stay up late every single night trying to understand it? Trying to learn?”

Sanemi doesn’t answer. Just stands there, arms crossed, watching him.

Genya lets out a slow breath, looking away. “But it doesn’t matter. Because nothing I do will ever be good enough for you.” His voice wavers, but he doesn’t stop. “No matter how much I study, no matter how hard I try, it’ll never be enough.”

He lets out a humorless laugh, shrugging. “So fine. You win.”

He looks back at Sanemi then, gaze empty. “I’ll quit the shooting club. I’ll stop seeing my friends. I won’t do anything but study math. And maybe then—” his lips curl, bitter and exhausted—“Maybe then I’ll finally be good enough for you.”

Sanemi opens his mouth, his expression shifting, something uncertain flickering across his face. “That’s not what I—”

Genya doesn’t let him finish.

“It’s fine, Sanemi.”

Not Aniki. Not Nii-san. Not even Nemi.

Just Sanemi.

And maybe that’s what makes him pause, what makes his lips press into a thin line, what makes that flicker of uncertainty tighten into something unreadable in his eyes. But Genya doesn’t care. He’s done.

“I get it,” Genya says, his voice steady, too steady, too controlled, because if he doesn’t keep himself together now, he won’t be able to at all. “I know I’m a disappointment.”

Sanemi’s brows pull together slightly, but Genya keeps going, voice unwavering even as the pressure builds behind his eyes.

“I know I’m an embarrassment,” he continues, swallowing around the lump forming in his throat. “I know you’re sick of taking care of me. I know you wish you hadn’t let me move in with you.”

Sanemi’s mouth parts, like he’s about to say something, but Genya shakes his head sharply, forcing himself to keep going before he loses the nerve.

“I know you’d be happier if you didn’t.”

The words feel heavy, like they’ve been waiting to be spoken for too long, like they’ve been sitting in his chest, weighing him down.

He sniffles, biting the inside of his cheek, shaking his head slightly as he forces out, “I know you hate me.”

Sanemi’s face changes then—his body tensing, his expression shifting into something Genya can’t read, something wide-eyed and wrong, but Genya doesn’t let himself focus on it.

“So fine,” he breathes, the words barely making it past the tightness in his throat. “I’ll leave. I’ll move back in with Mom. I’ll get out of your hair.”

His breath is shaky, his fingers trembling slightly at his sides as he blinks hard, trying to push back the tears that won’t stop. “It’s fine.”

The silence that follows is thick. Too thick.

Genya doesn’t look at Sanemi. He can’t.

His hands are clenched at his sides, his breath still unsteady, his chest still tight from everything he just said, from everything he can’t take back. The weight of it all presses down on him, makes his skin prickle, makes his stomach churn.

And Sanemi…

Sanemi doesn’t say anything. And that—that’s worse than anything else. Worse than shouting. Worse than anger. Worse than another insult thrown his way.

Because silence means agreement.

And the thought—the realization—that he’s right, that Sanemi really does hate him as much as he thinks, is too much.

A choked noise tears out of Genya’s throat—somewhere between a sob and a gasp, raw and broken, shaking through his body. His breath stutters, his vision blurs, his chest aches.

And before he can think any better of it—he runs.

Turns on his heel and bolts for the door, his feet moving before his mind can catch up. He barely hears the sound of Sanemi jolting behind him, barely registers his name being called, because his pulse is too loud, his thoughts too jumbled, everything too much.

The door swings open with a sharp crack against the wall.

And then he’s gone.

The night air is sharp against Genya’s skin as he stumbles down the front steps, his breath coming too fast, too uneven. His chest is tight, his pulse hammering in his ears, but he doesn’t stop.

Can’t stop.

His feet pound against the pavement, aimless, desperate, carrying him away from the house, away from Sanemi, as fast as they can. His vision is blurry, whether from the tears still stinging his eyes or the frantic pounding in his skull, he doesn’t know.

Doesn’t care.

His mind is a mess, thoughts spiraling too fast, crashing into each other—

He didn’t say anything.

He just sat there.

He just let me go.

Genya swallows down the sob climbing up his throat, blinking hard, but it doesn’t help. He thought—for a second, for a fleeting, stupid moment—that maybe Sanemi would stop him. That maybe he’d say something, anything, that would make this feel less real.

But he didn’t.

Because he agrees. He wants Genya gone.

His chest aches at the thought, a raw, ugly pain settling deep inside him, sinking into his ribs, coiling in his stomach. He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t really care as long as it’s away.

He runs for what feels like hours, but can’t have been more than twenty minutes. His lungs burn, his chest heaving with each movement, but he still can’t make himself stop.

His foot catches on a rock.

He’s going too fast to stop, too fast to brace himself. His body lurches forward, and before he can react, he slams into the pavement.

The impact is brutal.

Pain explodes through his body, the force of the fall knocking the wind out of him. For a moment, all he can do is lay there, gasping desperately for air, his chest seizing, his body trembling too hard to move.

The cold concrete presses against his skin, rough and unyielding. The night is too quiet, the distant hum of the city barely reaching him, making the ringing in his ears that much louder.

When his body finally cooperates, he sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath, filling his lungs with air that burns on the way down. His hands twitch against the sidewalk, his fingers scraping against rough ground as he slowly pushes himself up.

And that’s when he notices the pain.

Not just in his knees, not just in his hands, but in his face.

A sharp, throbbing ache pulses through his cheek, spreading down to his jaw. His head is still spinning when he lifts a shaky hand, pressing it against his face. His fingers come away wet.

Not just with tears—blood.

Genya stares at the crimson smeared across his fingers, his breath catching in his throat. For a second, he doesn’t move. Just watches as the blood drips down his hand, vivid against his skin. His pulse pounds in his ears, too loud, too fast, drowning out everything else.

Great. Just great.

As if tonight hadn’t already been a complete disaster. As if he didn’t already feel like absolute shit. Now he’s bleeding too.

Genya exhales sharply, forcing his hand away from his face, clenching it into a fist. His body still aches from the fall—his knees scraped, his palms stinging—but he forces himself to move, shifting until he’s sitting up properly.

He tucks his knees to his chest, like somehow that will keep him together.

He stays like that for a long time—knees drawn in tight, arms wrapped around himself, fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeves. His cheek throbs. His hands sting. His breath still feels unsteady.

But none of it feels worse than the hollow, aching pit in his chest.

He should get up, move, go somewhere. 

But where?

Not home.

Home.

That word feels far away now, like it belongs to someone else. Like it was something he tricked himself into thinking he had. But he was stupid to think that.

Sanemi never wanted him there. At least now Genya knows for sure.

His breath shudders out of him, and he presses his forehead to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. His pulse still pounds in his ears, but the rest of the world feels too quiet, like everything is closing in around him.

But still…

He needs to get out of here before Sanemi finds him—if he even comes looking. 

Genya reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He doesn’t bother checking his notifications. Doesn’t want to know how many texts there are from Sanemi—doesn’t want to know if there aren’t any at all.

His thumb hovers over his contacts, scrolling through names, trying to think of who he can possibly turn to.

Tanjiro is great, his best friend, but he just...doesn’t get it. And that’s a good thing, the way he can’t even imagine siblings not getting along, but right now it’s not exactly helpful. Zenitsu and Inosuke are out of the question. He and Aoi aren’t close like that. And Kanao...well, Kanao isn’t exactly known for her conversation skills.

Then, his eyes land on one contact.

Soyama.

He shouldn’t have his teacher’s number, not technically, but it became impractical not to with how many tournaments, ceremonies, and other events Soyama has to escort him to. He stares at the name for a long moment, thinking. Considering.

He presses call.

The phone barely rings twice before Soyama picks up.

“Hey.” His voice is easy, casual—like he hasn’t just been pulled into Genya’s worst night. “Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you this soon. You forget something in my car or—”

Genya tries to speak, but his throat locks up. Nothing comes out.

His fingers tighten around the phone, his breath shuddering in his chest, and suddenly, he’s aware of himself—of the way his hands are still shaking, of the lingering sting of his scraped palms, of the blood drying tacky against his cheek.

He shouldn’t have called. This is stupid. He’s being stupid—just like always. Just like Sanemi always says. 

Soyama exhales, and something shifts in his tone. “Genya?”

Genya swallows, forcing himself to breathe. He should say something, should explain why he called.

“I—” His voice comes out rough, shaky. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his forehead harder against his knees. “I don’t—I don’t know where to go.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, Soyama speaks again, voice quieter this time. “Where are you?”

Genya blinks, glancing around, realizing for the first time that he’s not even sure where he ran to. He’s on a sidewalk, somewhere in the middle of a residential street, streetlights flickering on above him as the sky darkens. He must’ve been moving on instinct, letting his feet carry him wherever they wanted.

He sniffs, swiping the back of his hand over his face. “Uh—” He turns slightly, squinting at a street sign a few feet away. He rattles off the name, his voice rough, barely above a mutter.

Another pause.

Then, a quiet rustling on the other end of the line. Keys jingling, a low murmur to someone else, a door opening.

“Stay put,” Soyama says, tone firm. “I’m coming to get you.”

Genya’s chest tightens. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.” The sound of shifting gears filters through the receiver, tires rolling against pavement. “But I’m going to.”

Genya presses his lips together, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “…Okay.”

“Good.” Soyama exhales, something lighter in his tone now, something familiar. “I’ll be there in ten.”

And just like that, the call ends. Genya lets the phone drop into his lap, staring down at the screen as the minutes tick by.

The minutes stretch out longer than they should.

Genya stays curled up on the sidewalk, arms wrapped tight around his legs, phone still clutched loosely in his hands. The cool night air presses against his skin, settling into his clothes, but he barely feels it. His body aches—his scraped palms sting, his cheek throbs, his knees feel stiff from the fall—but he doesn’t move.

He just waits.

The quiet hum of distant cars passing by fills the silence, along with the occasional flickering buzz of a streetlamp overhead. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Someone laughs faintly from a house down the street, too far away to matter.

But Genya feels removed from it all.

Like he’s not really here. Like he’s still standing on that stage, watching Sanemi tear his certificate apart. Like he’s still in the house, saying too much, spilling out all the words he should’ve kept locked inside. Like he’s still running.

A pair of headlights rounds the corner, the soft glow stretching across the pavement. Genya barely has time to register it before the car slows to a stop in front of him. Soyama’s car. The engine hums low, steady. For a second, Genya doesn’t move.

Then, the driver’s side door opens. Soyama steps out, his gaze sweeping over Genya from where he’s still curled up on the sidewalk. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just takes him in—the torn uniform, the raw scrapes on his hands, the bruise already forming along his cheek.

Genya tenses under the weight of it. Soyama kneels down beside Genya, close but not too close, giving him space. 

“You alright?” he asks softly, not demanding, just concerned.

Genya stares at the pavement, then shrugs slightly. “Yeah. Just tripped.” 

Soyama doesn’t press. He just nods, like that’s enough, like he won’t make Genya explain himself if he doesn’t want to.

Then, he pushes himself to his feet and extends a hand. “Come on.”

Genya hesitates for just a second before reaching out, gripping Soyama’s hand and letting himself be pulled up. His knees protest the movement, his body trembling slightly, but he forces himself to stand steady.

They walk back to Soyama’s car in silence, the sound of their footsteps the only thing filling the space between them. The car is still running, the headlights casting a faint glow against the street.

Genya pulls open the passenger door and slides in. The familiar hum of the engine settles into the background, grounding him. Before he can even ask anything, Soyama speaks.

“I’ll take you to my place,” he says casually, like it’s not a big deal. “Get you cleaned up.”

Genya blinks, caught off guard, but doesn’t argue. He just nods, exhaling quietly as he sinks into the seat, letting the tension in his shoulders ease just a little as Soyama shifts the car into drive and pulls away from the curb.

The drive is quiet, but not uncomfortably so.

Soyama doesn’t push for conversation, doesn’t ask anything he’s not ready to answer. He just drives, the occasional hum of the turn signal the only sound between them. It isn’t until they turn onto a side street, pulling into the driveway of a surprisingly nice house, that Genya finally speaks.

“This is your place?” he asks, blinking at the well-kept front yard, the warm porch light glowing against the dark.

“Yeah,” Soyama says, throwing the car into park. “Why? Were you expecting  me to live in a dump or something?”

Genya snorts. “Kinda.”

Soyama smirks, shaking his head as he steps out of the car. Genya follows, shifting his bag onto his shoulder as he trails behind him toward the front door. The second it opens, a familiar voice calls out from inside.

“Hakuji? That you?”

Soyama barely gets a word out before a woman steps into the entryway. Genya recognizes her immediately—Soyama Koyuki.

He’s seen her before, in passing, but they’ve never really talked. But she’s got the same easy confidence as her husband, and something about it makes the tightness in his chest ease—just a little.

“Oh! Genya, right?” She smiles warmly. “It’s nice to finally meet you properly.”

Genya shifts awkwardly. “Uh. Yeah. You too, Soyama-san.”

Her smile immediately turns teasing. “Oh no, none of that. Just call me Koyuki.”

Genya blinks in surprise, but nods quickly. “Um…Okay.”

Soyama steps past her, already making his way toward the bathroom. “Grab the first aid kit?”

Koyuki hums, nodding as she disappears down the hall. A moment later, she’s back, handing a small white box to her husband before turning back to Genya.

“Go ahead and sit,” she says, motioning to one of the chairs at the dining table. “Let him clean you up.”

Genya considers arguing but ultimately sits down, resting his forearms against the table as Soyama sets the kit down with a thud.

Soyama doesn’t waste time, flipping open the lid and pulling out antiseptic wipes. “Alright, hold still.”

Genya winces when the alcohol-soaked wipe makes contact with his scraped palms, hissing through his teeth.

“Yeah, yeah, suck it up,” Soyama mutters, unfazed, working quickly as he presses bandages over the worst of the damage before moving on to his face.

“Gonna be sore in the morning,” he mutters, tilting Genya’s chin to the side to get a better look at his bruised cheek. “Could’ve been worse, though.”

Genya grumbles under his breath but doesn’t pull away.

Once the last bandage is in place, Soyama leans back, satisfied. “There. Good as new.”

Before Genya can respond, Koyuki steps in again. “Have you had dinner?”

Genya hesitates. “…No.”

“Then you’re eating,” Koyuki says firmly.

Genya shifts uncomfortably. “I—uh, I’m good, really—”

“Oh, you’re not getting out of it,” Soyama cuts in with a grin, already closing up the first aid kit. “Just accept your fate.”

Genya sighs, but doesn’t argue further.

Koyuki nods in approval. “Good. We have some extra, anyway.”

She disappears into the kitchen, and Soyama pats Genya’s shoulder. “Alright, all done.” Then, before Genya can react, Soyama stands, pulling his phone from his pocket as he heads for the door. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Genya watches him go, anxiety curling in his stomach. He doesn’t ask where Soyama’s going, but something unsettles him about it, his gut twisting in a way he can’t name.

Before his thoughts can spiral, Koyuki sets a plate down in front of him, distracting him.

“Eat,” she says simply, sliding into the seat across from him.

The food smells good—really good. Warm, freshly made, not something just thrown together. His stomach twists, and it’s only now that he realizes just how hungry he actually is. The exhaustion in his limbs feels heavier, his body reminding him that he’s been running on nothing but adrenaline and a single bag of chips for hours.

He takes a bite.

The warmth spreads through him instantly, settling deep in his stomach, grounding him in a way he didn’t realize he needed. Koyuki doesn’t say anything. She just sits across from him, idly sipping from a cup of tea, watching him without staring—giving him space, but not leaving him alone.

It’s different from the silence at home. It’s not heavy, not thick with tension or unspoken words. It’s just…there. Comfortable. Genya doesn’t know what to do with that, so he focuses on eating instead.

After a few minutes, the front door opens again, and Soyama steps back inside. His expression is unreadable as he shoves his phone into his pocket. He shares a look with Koyuki—one Genya can’t quite understand—before stepping further into the house and dropping into the chair beside him.

He leans back slightly, crossing his arms. “You can stay the night,” he says, tone light. “If you’re comfortable with it.”

Genya swallows hard, chewing the last of his bite before setting his chopsticks down. He thinks about it, guilt curling in his stomach at the idea of imposing, shoving himself into a space where he doesn’t belong. But the thought of going back home, of going back to Sanemi…

It’s too much.

So he nods.

Soyama nods back, as if he already expected the answer. “Good.” Then, shifting slightly in his seat, he adds, “I canceled practice for this weekend.”

Genya almost chokes on his food. “What? Why?”

Soyama raises a hand before he can argue further. “Because I said so.” He gives Genya a pointed look. “I’m not comfortable putting a gun in your hands right now, and I’m definitely not leaving you alone all day tomorrow. So no practice.”

Genya scowls, frustration bubbling up on instinct—but it’s weak, half-hearted. He knows Soyama isn’t going to change his mind.

“…Fine.”

Soyama smirks. “Good. Knew you’d see reason eventually.”

Genya just rolls his eyes, but something in his chest feels a little lighter.

He eats a little more, the warmth of the meal settling in his stomach, grounding him. He can feel the exhaustion creeping deeper into his limbs, the weight of the night catching up to him, but for now, he focuses on eating.

Then, Koyuki speaks up.

“So, Genya,” she says, tone light. “How’d you get into shooting?”

Genya blinks, surprised by the question. He swallows his bite, shifting slightly in his seat. “Uh…I dunno. It was just something I tried for fun, I guess.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing down at his plate. “Didn’t really expect much from it, but…I ended up being kinda decent.”

Soyama snorts. “Decent?”

Genya frowns, looking up just as Soyama leans forward, resting an arm on the table. “You weren’t decent, you were incredible. Even on that first day of practice.” His lips twitch into a smirk. “I knew then I had to have you on my team.”

Genya’s face warms instantly. “Tch. That’s—” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re exaggerating.”

Soyama leans back, crossing his arms. “Nope. I’d never seen someone shoot like that right out of the gate.”

Genya flushes deeper, staring at his plate as he mutters, “It wasn’t that good.”

But Soyama doesn’t give in. “It was. You’re a natural, and you work hard. It’s why you’re the best in the whole school.”

Genya’s ears burn, and he opens his mouth to argue, but Koyuki chimes in before he can. “He’s right, you know.”

Genya looks up, startled, and finds Koyuki watching him with a small, knowing smile.

“I’ve been to a few of the tournaments,” she says, tilting her head. “You always do such a great job.”

Genya shifts in his chair, shoulders drawing up slightly. He’s not used to this—people talking about him like that, praising him so openly. Especially not adults.

“Uh,” he mumbles, poking awkwardly at his food. “Thanks.”

Koyuki’s smile grows, and Soyama gives a brisk nod of approval, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear. The moment drifts by, and Genya busies himself with finishing off the last of his meal, the comforting weight of it settling in his stomach.

Eventually, Koyuki stands, gathering her dishes and glancing back at him. “Need anything else? Another serving?”

Genya shakes his head quickly. “No, I—I’m good. Thanks.”

She nods, then disappears into the kitchen, leaving behind the low murmur of water running and the quiet clink of plates. Soyama stays put, drumming his fingers lightly on the tabletop. 

“How you feeling now?” he finally asks.

Genya exhales slowly, taking stock of everything. The dull ache in his cheek. The sting in his palms. The exhaustion in his entire body.

“Tired,” he admits, voice low. “Really tired.”

Soyama nods. “Yeah. Figures. It’s been a…long day.”

“That’s an understatement.”

A faint chuckle escapes Soyama, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he drops his arms and pushes himself to his feet. “C’mon,” he says, nodding toward a hallway off to the side. “Let’s get you set up for the night.”

Genya stands, stretching his sore limbs, and follows Soyama down the hall.

Soyama leads him to a small but comfortable guest room, flicking on the light. “Alright, this is you for the night.” He crosses the room, opening a dresser drawer and pulling out a folded shirt and sweatpants. “These should fit well enough. Bathroom’s down the hall—feel free to take a shower if you want.”

Genya nods, taking the clothes. “Thanks.”

Soyama hesitates for a second, standing near the doorway. Then, after a brief pause, he glances back at Genya, his voice shifting slightly. “You wanna talk about it?”

Genya freezes for a fraction of a second. His grip tightens slightly around the borrowed clothes. He should’ve expected that. Of course Soyama would ask.

“I…” Genya swallows, staring down at the fabric in his hands. “I dunno.”

Soyama doesn’t let the conversation drop. He doesn’t push, not harshly, but he doesn’t just let Genya shut down either. 

“You don’t have to,” he assures, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “But sometimes talking helps.”

Genya exhales sharply through his nose, jaw clenching. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Start with whatever’s easiest.”

Genya lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Nothing about tonight was easy.”

Soyama gives a slow nod, considering. “Then start with whatever’s smallest.”

Genya shifts on his feet, staring at the floor. His throat feels tight again, like the words are there, caught somewhere deep in his chest, but he doesn’t know how to pull them out.

Soyama waits. Not impatient, not expectant, just there. And somehow, that makes it harder to ignore.

Genya exhales sharply, tilting his head back slightly as if the ceiling might have answers he doesn’t. “It was quiet when I got home,” he finally mutters. “Too quiet.”

Soyama says nothing, letting him go at his own pace.

Genya licks his lips, shifting his weight. “I saw the lights on, so I knew Sanemi was home, but…” His fingers tighten. “There was no yelling. No…anything.”

His chest constricts as he remembers standing in that doorway, waiting for something—anything—that never came.

“And then I saw him,” he continues, voice quieter now. “Just…sitting there. Like he’d been thinking.” His jaw clenches. “And for a second I thought maybe he was gonna say something. Apologize.”

Genya huffs out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “But he didn’t. He just asked where the hell I was.”

Soyama exhales, the sound quiet but sharp.

Genya shakes his head again. “Like—that was what mattered. Not the fact that he humiliated me in front of the entire school. Not the fact that I ran off after. Just the fact that I didn’t answer my phone.” 

He lets out a sharp breath, barely holding back a scoff. “And then, somehow, it was my fault. I pulled a ‘stunt,’ apparently. Like he didn’t just rip up the one thing I was actually proud of right in front of everyone.”

Genya lets out a slow, controlled breath, rubbing at his face, careful around the sore spot on his cheek. “And I just—I lost it. I told him I’d quit shooting, that I’d stop seeing my friends, that I’d do nothing but study his stupid subject—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard, pushing past it. “Because no matter what I do, it’s never enough for him. It never will be.”

Silence stretches between them.

Genya forces a breath, pressing his fingers into his temples. His voice drops to something barely above a whisper. “I told him that I knew he hated me.”

Soyama’s expression doesn’t change, but his posture shifts, something subtle. “Did he say anything?”

Genya scoffs quietly, shaking his head. “No. He just stood there. Didn’t argue, didn’t deny it, didn’t say a damn thing.” His fingers curl tighter around the fabric of his borrowed clothes. “And I thought—” He swallows. “I thought maybe… if I said something like that, something would change. That he’d get mad, or… something.”

His voice cracks slightly.

“But he just let me walk out the door.”

And there it is. The thing that’s been sitting heavy in his chest since he ran. Sanemi let him go. Genya exhales, rubbing a hand over his face again, like that’ll somehow push all of this down, make it less than what it is.

Soyama is quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, his voice comes steady and certain.

“Well,” he says. “He’s a dumbass.”

Genya lets out a startled, breathy laugh, too exhausted to hold it in. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice still rough but just a little lighter. “Yeah, he is.”

Soyama lets the silence settle for a moment, lets Genya breathe. Then, with an easy motion, he reaches out and ruffles Genya’s hair—not rough or teasing, just… something steady. Something solid.

Genya tenses at first, instinctively bristling, but Soyama doesn’t pull away. “For the record,” he starts, voice certain. “You don’t have to prove anything to him.”

Genya swallows hard, his fingers still curled around the borrowed clothes. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”

“Good.” Soyama pats him lightly on the shoulder before pulling away. “Because you are enough, kid. And if he’s too thick-headed to see that, that’s his problem, not yours.”

Genya exhales slowly, some of the tightness in his chest easing just a bit. He stares at the floor, letting the words sink in, before finally muttering, “…Thanks.”

Soyama just grins, ruffling Genya’s hair again before standing up. “Anytime.”

The room falls into a more comfortable silence, the weight of the conversation still lingering but not pressing as much as before.

After a minute, Genya shifts, rubbing a hand over his face, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. “I just…I just wanna go to bed.”

Soyama nods, not pushing, not asking anything else. “Yeah. You should get some rest.”

Genya gives a tired nod, gripping the clothes a little tighter as he turns toward the bathroom. But before he can step away, Soyama pauses. 

“Hey, one more thing.”

Genya stops, glancing over his shoulder.

Soyama exhales, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I gotta call your brother.”

Genya’s stomach drops.

He stiffens on instinct, fingers tightening around the fabric in his hands again. “What?”

“You can still stay here,” Soyama assures him quickly. “That’s not changing. But I do need to let him know where you are. That you’re safe. That’s all.”

Genya’s jaw tightens, his exhaustion momentarily overridden by something sharper, something that burns just beneath his ribs. “He doesn’t care.”

Soyama gives him a look. “He might be an ass, but he does care.”

Genya clenches his fists, staring at the floor. “He let me walk out.”

“He did,” Soyama agrees, tone even. “And that was stupid.”

Genya doesn’t say anything.

Soyama sighs. “Look, I get it. You don’t want to talk to him, that’s fine. But if I don’t tell him where you are, he will tear the whole city apart looking for you.”

Genya scoffs, bitter. “Doubt it.”

Soyama raises an eyebrow. “You wanna bet on that?”

Genya doesn’t answer.

Because a small part of him—one he really doesn’t want to acknowledge—knows Soyama’s probably right. Still, the idea of Sanemi knowing where he is twists something in his chest, makes him feel raw all over again. 

But he doesn’t have the energy to fight. Not now.

So, finally, he exhales sharply and mutters, “…Whatever.”

Soyama nods, taking it as the closest thing to agreement he’s gonna get.

“Alright,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “Go take a shower and then get some sleep.”

Genya doesn’t respond. He just turns, shoulders tense, and heads for the bathroom.

Sanemi sits on the couch, elbows braced on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair.

The house is silent.

He should be relieved. He should be grateful that there’s finally some goddamn peace in this place, that Genya isn’t stomping through the halls or slamming doors, that there’s no grumbling or stupid complaints about math assignments or late-night study sessions.

But all he feels is hollow.

Sanemi exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. His mind won’t stop replaying it, won’t stop shoving it in his face—

“I know you hate me.”

The way Genya’s voice cracked, the way his hands shook, the way his whole body just collapsed in on itself like it was already over, like he had already made up his mind about what Sanemi felt about him. And the worst part—the part that really makes Sanemi’s stomach twist—is that he didn’t say anything.

He just let him go.

His gut churns as he checks his phone again, scrolling through the unanswered messages, the missed calls. He doesn’t even remember how many times he’s tried at this point. 

No response.

Genya’s never been great at answering his phone, but this—this is different. He’s not at Kamado’s or Tokito’s or even Hashibira’s. He’s not with any of his friends. No one’s seen him. No one’s even heard from him.

Sanemi rubs his face again, tension thrumming through his body, and before he can stop himself, he’s already pushing to his feet, already grabbing his jacket, already moving—

His phone buzzes.

Sanemi stills, heart jumping into his throat as he yanks it out of his pocket, expecting—hoping—it’s Genya.

Unknown number.

He answers immediately. “What?”

The voice on the other end is not Genya’s.

“Nice. That’s how you answer the phone? No wonder the kid ran out on you.”

Sanemi’s grip tightens. “The hell do you want, Hakuji?”

A sharp exhale. “Well, I’d love to waste time chewing you out right now, but I’ll make this quick—Genya’s with me.”

Sanemi’s breath catches for half a second, but he shoves the feeling down. “Where? I’ll come—”

“He’s here,” Hakuji cuts him off. “At my house. Injured, exhausted, and convinced you hate his guts.”

Sanemi grips the edge of the table, his chest tightening. “I don’t—”

“Well, he sure as hell thinks so,” Hakuji snaps. “And I wonder why that is, huh? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you shredded his damn certificate in front of the whole school like some middle school bully.”

Sanemi flinches. He knows what he did, he doesn’t need Hakuji to remind him.

“That’s none of your damn business.”

“Oh, fuck you with that,” Hakuji snarls, his voice raising. “You made it my business the second you pulled that bullshit in the middle of the auditorium.” 

Hakuji scoffs through the phone, the sound bitter. “You think that wasn’t my business when I had to watch your brother run out of the building, looking like he was gonna fucking break? Or when I had to find him bleeding on the sidewalk because he ran himself into the ground trying to get away from you?”

Sanemi’s whole body goes rigid. “Bleeding?”

“He fell,” Hakuji bites out. “Running so damn fast that he tripped and hit the pavement. Scraped up his hands, busted up his face—” His voice lowers, sharp, like a blade pressing into an open wound. “You really did a number on him, Sanemi.”

Sanemi clenches his jaw so hard it hurts. He can see it now—Genya, hands scraped raw, his cheek raw and bruised, curled up somewhere alone, convinced Sanemi doesn’t want him anymore.

His breath shakes, but he forces it steady. “Let me talk to him.”

Hakuji laughs—but there’s no amusement in it. “Yeah, not happening. He’s barely holding himself together, and I’m not about to let you make that worse.”

Sanemi's fist tightens into a ball. “I need to—”

“No, I’ll tell you what you need to do,” Hakuji cuts him off, voice sharp as a knife, “You need to sit your ass down and think about what the fuck you’re gonna say when he is ready to hear it. Because I promise you—if you show up at my door looking for a fight, I will put you through a wall.”

Sanemi’s fingers twitch at his sides, his breath sharp. He doesn’t argue. Because he knows he deserves this.

Hakuji exhales, the anger still there but slightly restrained now. “He’s staying here tonight. I told him already. I’ll bring him back when he’s ready.”

Sanemi’s throat feels tight. He wants to say something—anything—but his mind feels scrambled, his chest tight in a way he can’t loosen.

After a pause, Hakuji speaks again, voice quieter but still firm. “Fix this, Sanemi.”

And then the call ends.