Chapter Text
Iguro Obanai can’t sleep.
It must be the middle of the night. Sanemi and Giyuu had tucked him into his futon at their shared estate — despite his protests that he wasn’t a baby and didn’t need to be put to bed like one — and extinguished the lantern hours ago now, but no matter how tired he is, Obanai just can’t seem to drift off.
It’s not that he’s uncomfortable; not physically, at least. His little futon is warm and cozy, and his yukata, which had once belonged to Master Kiriya when he had been smaller, fits perfectly and feels soft against his sensitive skin. He knows he isn’t worthy of wearing a garment that once belonged to the Ubuyashikis, but none of the Pillars exactly had any clothing for four-year-olds on hand, and Obanai can’t deny Kiriya’s yukata is very nice.
So no, while he’s not uncomfortable, he is uneasy tonight, perhaps more uneasy than he has been ever since he was hit with that demon’s Blood Art. He doesn’t know why. Maybe he’s just lonely.
He had refused the offer to sleep in the same room as Sanemi and Giyuu, after all. They may be married, but he’s not their child, and he refuses to play house with them.
Sometime during the evening, right after he finished taking his bath, Obanai had noticed that Kaburamaru had left him and slithered away into the deepening twilight, probably to go out in the Wind Estate’s garden and hunt down some mice for his dinner. That in itself wasn’t unusual, but now Obanai can’t help himself from feeling exposed and vulnerable, lonely without his constant companion, especially in this tiny, fragile body.
Nighttime is dangerous, and anything could happen.
Obanai knows that better than most.
He no longer even has a way to defend himself if a demon were to appear — the Master had taken his sword when he had been struck down by that demon. It was too heavy for his weak, four-year-old arms to wield, and there was no way Sanemi or Giyuu would have allowed him to keep it in his current state, especially given how his mind sometimes lapses into that of a child’s, matching his body’s age.
In fact, he wonders if this uneasiness, this deep loneliness, is due to his mind beginning to regress back to that of a four-year-old’s — his thoughts are a little fuzzy around the edges, although that could be because he’s so tired.
He hopes his mind isn’t regressing; it’s humiliating enough being stuck in the body of a small child without having to be one mentally as well.
Obanai knows he would probably feel better, safer, if he just went down the hall and crawled into Sanemi and Giyuu’s futon, but he refuses to be that weak. He’s a Pillar, damn it, even if he’s currently little more than a toddler. He doesn’t need to be coddled or fussed over the way Sanemi and Giyuu have been doing for the past week.
Despite his resolve to remain strong and steadfast, Obanai nearly jumps when he hears a strange noise coming from outside.
It’s just the sound of the wind chimes out on the engawa, he tells himself. There’s a breeze tonight. It’s not a threat. No demon could make it this close to the building without waking Sanemi or Giyuu or alerting their crows. He’s safe; they’re all safe.
He lays there in the dark, eyes closed, listening very closely for what feels like hours but is likely only minutes. All he hears is the sharp clinking of the wind chimes outside.
Maybe it’s all alright.
That fragile feeling of safety is shattered when Obanai catches a second noise, quieter than the first. It’s a soft scraping sound, reminiscent of something scaly and very large creeping across wooden flooring. It sends shivers down Obanai’s spine and he shoots upright in his futon, squinting to try and find the source of the noise, but his eyesight is so weak all he can make out are shadows.
His room is dark, so very dark, illuminated only by the thin streams of moonlight filtering in through the latticed window, falling in a barred pattern on the tatami mats. That makes him freeze, every muscle locking in place.
The shadows produced by the moonlight look just like the bars of a cage.
All of a sudden, all he can think about is being trapped in a cage, locked up like a prized pet and watched by something much bigger than himself from the shadows, something evil and malicious, something that wants to harm him. His breath comes fast and maintaining total concentration becomes harder and harder in his panic.
There’s another creepy slithering noise, the sound of dry scales rustling against the tatami.
He’s scared. He’s so scared. He’s lonely. There’s no one coming to help him. Kaburamaru is gone, he’s all alone and he’s so small.
He’s helpless.
Tiny hands close into fists as Obanai grasps at his own hair, curls into a little ball, squeezes his eyes closed as if that will help him disappear. If he makes himself small enough, maybe the demon won’t find him. Maybe he’ll be safe.
But he can still hear the quiet scratching noise, and he has to stifle a sob rising in his throat.
He’s scared.
All Obanai can do is cower under the kakebuton and try his hardest not to even breathe as a new frightening noise joins the scratching sound and the whooshing of the wind outside. Footsteps, coming toward his room.
Is it his mother? Is she coming to hurt him, to drag him away to present him to the demon?
When the shoji door is pushed open, Obanai flinches and waits to be grabbed and yanked from his futon, but he’s surprised when the kakebuton is gently peeled away from his head and he finds himself looking not into the face of his mother, but instead into a pair of deep blue eyes and an impassive face framed with shaggy dark hair.
Giyuu.
Instinctively seeking out safety and reassurance, Obanai finds himself holding his arms out, and Giyuu doesn’t hesitate to scoop him up and cradle him closely, running a gentle hand over his hair. He’s warm, and he smells like running water and pond lilies. There’s something around his neck, too — something that moves when Obanai lays his head on Giyuu’s shoulder.
“He came and woke me up,” Giyuu whispers, as Kaburamaru cranes his head up and gently nuzzles Obanai’s tear-streaked little face. “He must have been worried for you.”
Obanai is relieved to be reunited with Kaburamaru, but he’s too tired to comment as Giyuu softly paces back to his and Sanemi’s bedroom, pushing open the shoji door and stepping into the darkness that seems so much less threatening than it had only moments before.
Without saying a word, Giyuu pulls back the thick blue kakebuton and settles Obanai down next to Sanemi, placing Kaburamaru on his chest, before laying down on the other side so that Obanai is safely tucked between the two adult Pillars.
Somewhere in his mind, Obanai has a vague impression that he should be annoyed, but he isn’t. He just feels warm. Safe. Peaceful.
“It’s alright,” Giyuu whispers, reaching out to brush a strand of long hair off Obanai’s face and to pull the kakebuton up to his chin. The action seems almost paternal. “You’re safe here with us. I know it must feel frightening to be so small, but Shinobu will find a way to reverse this. And until then, we’ll protect you. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
“Mmm. Sleep,” Sanemi adds in a tired mumble, reaching out a heavy hand to pat Obanai’s hair for a moment, ever the big brother.
Obanai’s eyelids are growing heavy now, as he listens to the quiet sounds of Giyuu and Sanemi breathing on either side of him. He can’t hear any threatening noises anymore; it was probably the wind the whole time. It was silly for him to have such an extreme reaction, to regress back into such a childlike mentality. But he can’t find it in himself to care right now.
He can sleep now; he’s safe here with Kaburamaru, with Giyuu and with Sanemi. He’s safe, even if he’s still trapped in this tiny, vulnerable body.
Obanai’s last conscious thought as he drifts off is how very protected and calm he feels now — this is what it must feel like to have good, caring parents.