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The house is half hidden behind wisteria vines and half reclaimed by moss. It sits close enough to the river that the sound of water runs through every room. Most mornings, Sanemi wakes before the sun climbs over the ridge, out of habit more than need. He lies there for a few minutes, staring at the wooden ceiling, until he hears it—the faint, uneven rhythm of someone filling a pail outside.
He sighs, rolls out of bed, and pads across the floor.
When he slides open the door, the smell of damp soil greets him. Giyuu is already there, barefoot in the garden again. His sleeves are pushed past his elbows, hair flowing loosely, a soft halo of sunlight gathering around him. He tips the bucket carefully, letting the stream pour over the roots of the lilies they planted last autumn. The air is cold enough that Sanemi can see his breath.
“Oi,” he says, voice still rough. “You trying to catch a cold before breakfast?”
Giyuu looks over his shoulder. There’s a beat of silence—always a beat, as if he’s choosing which words are worth saying. Then he smiles, small and genuine. “Good morning, Sanemi.”
It still catches him off guard, that.
For years, it had been Shinazugawa, clipped and distant, spoken with that same even calm that used to drive Sanemi up the wall. He can’t even remember when it changed. Maybe sometime after the war ended, when the world stopped needing their titles and they stopped needing to yell to be heard.
He remembers it vaguely—an early spring, like this one. The two of them replanting the plum trees that had burned near the fence line. Giyuu had been kneeling in the dirt, hair tied loosely, hands steady even as the rain started to fall. He’d said something quiet, “Pass me the trowel, Sanemi”, like it had always been that way.
No hesitation, no glance up to see if he’d said something wrong. Just his name, unadorned and certain.
Sanemi hadn’t answered at first. He’d only looked at him, the way one might stare at sunlight after too long underground. Later, when he’d found his voice again, he’d grumbled something about not making it weird.
Giyuu never did. And yet somehow, every time he says it now, it still makes Sanemi’s chest ache in a way he doesn’t quite have the words for.
Sanemi snorts, shaking off the thought. “Morning. Now get inside before I drag you.”
“It’s not that cold.”
“It’s freezing.”
“Your tolerance just got worse.”
Sanemi squints at him. “You’ve been talking to Uzui again, haven’t you?”
Giyuu hums, evasive, which is answer enough. Sanemi mutters a few choice curses, but doesn’t move to stop him. The man’s ridiculous—still barefoot, still calm, standing there like the cold doesn’t touch him. The light catches on his hair, and for a second Sanemi forgets what he was mad about.
He finds himself watching the water instead. How it catches the sunrise. How it soaks the dark soil until the lilies tremble. The garden’s small, but stubborn, and everything in it thrives because Giyuu does.
“You’ve got dirt on your cheek,” he says eventually.
Giyuu wipes the wrong side.
“The other one,” Sanemi grumbles, walking over. He reaches out without thinking, thumb brushing the speck away. His skin meets coolness. Giyuu blinks at him, startled but not pulling back.
“Better,” Sanemi mutters, stepping away quickly. “Come eat.”
Giyuu hums in response, the sound soft and amused, and follows him inside. The tatami creaks under their steps; the morning air smells faintly of woodsmoke and grilled fish.
By the time Sanemi settles by the low table, steam’s already curling up from the soup. The meal isn’t fancy — it never is — but the simplicity of it feels right. After years of half-cooked rations and blood-slick mornings, even miso and leftover rice taste like a feast.
Sanemi made it, of course. He always does these days. Giyuu still offers to help, but one-handed work takes twice the time and three times the stubbornness, so Sanemi shoos him away and tells him to set the table instead.
Breakfast is simple: grilled fish, miso soup, leftover rice. Giyuu sits with his knees tucked beneath him, the early light catching in his short hair — cropped neat now, the uneven ends still soft from where Sanemi cut it.
He eats slowly, in his quiet, deliberate way, though the table tells a different story. Rice grains cling to his sleeve, to the edge of his bowl, to the tatami like little ghosts of his effort.
Sanemi watches, chopsticks poised halfway to his mouth. “You’re making a mess again.”
Giyuu blinks, follows Sanemi’s gaze, and hums. “It’s fine.” He lifts another bite anyway, and another speck of rice slips from his chopsticks, landing on his lip.
Sanemi sighs, a sound halfway between fondness and defeat. He leans forward, thumb brushing against the corner of Giyuu’s mouth — soft, practiced — and before Giyuu can even react, Sanemi pops the grain into his own mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The silence that follows stretches thin and golden. Giyuu blinks at him, startled, and then smiles.
“Waste not,” Sanemi mutters, ears pink, trying not to look at him.
“It’s unsanitary,” Giyuu says, but there’s laughter tucked under his voice now, small and fluttering. “You complain about my manners, but you do that.”
“I’m fixing your mess,” Sanemi grumbles, hiding his grin in his rice bowl. “And you should be thanking me.”
“I will,” Giyuu says simply, as if that’s enough. And somehow, it is.
They fall into a soft rhythm after that. Chopsticks tapping, soup ladled out in quiet turns. Giyuu hums under his breath, tuneless but content, while Sanemi pretends not to notice how the sound seems to settle the whole house.
When Giyuu finishes, Sanemi automatically reaches for his empty bowl. Their fingers brushing, brief, ordinary, but Giyuu’s hand lingers a moment longer, warm and steady.
“Thank you,” he says again, voice quieter this time.
Sanemi looks at him. The light caught in his lashes, the small curve of his smile, the easy peace that took years to earn, and his chest tightens with something he doesn’t have words for.
He snorts, finally, to break the spell. “You’re welcome, idiot.”
Giyuu laughs again, soft and bright, like wind stirring petals.
After breakfast, Giyuu insists on washing the dishes.
Sanemi argues for the sake of it. Says it’s his turn, that Giyuu should rest his arm but Giyuu only gives him that calm look of his, the one that could quiet a storm if he tried. “You cooked,” he says simply, rolling up his sleeve. “It’s fair.”
There’s no winning against that tone. Sanemi grumbles, wipes his hands on a cloth, and goes to open the windows instead. Morning air drifts in, cold and sweet, carrying the scent of earth after rain. Outside, the cherry tree is shedding blossoms again. The wind catches the petals, scattering them like snow across the veranda.
By the time he looks back, Giyuu’s already halfway through the dishes, sleeves wet, strands of hair sticking to his cheek. He’s humming something under his breath, faint, familiar, the kind of half-remembered tune that sounds like sunlight through paper walls.
“You’re getting water everywhere,” Sanemi mutters, leaning against the doorway.
Giyuu doesn’t turn around. “Then mop it.”
The bluntness makes Sanemi snort. He grabs the rag anyway. There’s no real heat in the argument. It hasn’t been for years. They’ve both learned how to fight without drawing blood, how to speak in grumbles that mean I’m here.
When the last dish is dried, they move into their usual rhythm without thinking. Giyuu steps outside to tend to the small patch of garden they’d planted last spring. Sanemi follows with a cup of tea, setting it by the porch before crouching beside him.
The garden’s modest, with herbs, a few vegetables, and some flowers that Giyuu said “looked lonely in the shop.” Sanemi watches him prune the leaves with one hand, careful and steady. There’s something reverent in the way Giyuu touches things now, as if the whole world could be forgiven for breaking once.
“Usui dropped by last week,” Sanemi says, breaking the quiet. “Said he might visit soon.”
Giyuu hums, focused on trimming the stems. “We’ll need more tea, then.”
“Tea,” Sanemi echoes. “You’re too damn polite. That dumbass just coming here to eat.”
“He brings gifts.”
“Pickled radish doesn’t count.”
That earns a small laugh from Giyuu, light and unguarded. Sanemi stares at him for a beat too long, memorizing the sound.
After a while, Giyuu leans back on his heels, watching the wind scatter petals across the garden path. “The trees are early this year,” he murmurs.
“Mm.” Sanemi squints up at the pink haze overhead. “Guess even the seasons don’t know how to sit still.”
There’s a pause. Not heavy, just full. The kind of silence that feels lived in.
Sanemi reaches out and brushes a petal from Giyuu’s hair. His fingers linger longer than they should. “You’ll catch a cold sitting out here like that.”
Giyuu smiles without looking at him. “You always say that.”
“’Cause you never listen.”
“Maybe I just like hearing you worry.”
That makes Sanemi huff out a quiet laugh, low and startled. He doesn’t answer, just nudges Giyuu’s knee with his. “Come inside. I’ll make tea.”
Giyuu tilts his head toward him, eyes soft. “Okay.”
And for a moment, Sanemi thinks: if life could stay this small and simple, if mornings could always smell of miso and wind through open shoji, he might finally stop waiting for the world to take something from him again.
But peace, he knows, never lingers as long as you want it to.
The next morning, they walk to the market together.
The road is still damp from last night’s rain, and the air carries the smell of wet earth and early plum blossoms. Giyuu walks with his basket slung over his arm, hair brushed neatly for once — though a few strands still refuse to stay down. Sanemi keeps his hands tucked into his haori pockets, glancing over now and then, like he’s making sure Giyuu doesn’t slip on the uneven stones.
“Stop hovering,” Giyuu says without looking.
“I’m not hovering,” Sanemi replies, already watching his steps again.
“You are.”
“I’m keeping you alive.”
“I’m not fragile.”
“You fell into the pond last month.”
“That was your fault,” Giyuu says, calm as ever. “You startled the koi.”
Sanemi snorts. “The koi didn’t jump out of the water and drag you in.”
“They were frightened,” Giyuu insists, voice soft, almost patient. “You’re loud.”
That makes Sanemi bark out a laugh — the kind that turns a few heads at passing stalls. Giyuu only hums, eyes scanning a tray of turnips like nothing’s happened.
They start with the vegetables, haggling lightly with the vendors, and end up buying more than they need: bundles of leeks, a fat daikon, and a handful of sweet potatoes Sanemi swears he won’t eat but will roast later anyway.
At the fishmonger’s, Giyuu spots the salmon — fresh and bright, the kind he always looks for without saying anything. He sets it gently into the basket.
“You planning to cook again?” Sanemi asks.
“No,” Giyuu says. “You’ll just complain.”
“I complain when you nearly set the stove on fire.”
Giyuu hums, as if that’s fair.
When they pass the stall selling pickled vegetables, Giyuu pauses, holding up a small jar. “Usui likes this kind.”
Sanemi eyes it. “You buying gifts for everyone now?”
“He brought us chestnuts.”
“He brought you chestnuts.”
“They were for both of us.”
“They were gone before I even saw the bag.”
Giyuu hides a smile behind his sleeve. “You were asleep.”
“You planned it that way,” Sanemi grumbles, but there’s no bite in his tone — just fond exasperation.
The last stop is the sweet shop, warm and golden from the morning light. The smell of sugar and red bean drifts out like an invitation. Sanemi slows without realizing it, eyes catching on the neat trays of ohagi in the display — soft rice balls rolled in kinako, glistening with syrup.
Giyuu catches him staring. Of course he does. “You can get one,” he says.
“I don’t need—”
But Giyuu’s already inside, speaking quietly with the shopkeeper. When he turns back, he’s holding a small paper parcel and a dango skewer.
“Here,” he says, offering the dango first. “You like this kind.”
Sanemi frowns. “You don’t even like sweets.”
“I don’t,” Giyuu says simply, and takes a bite anyway — a small one, deliberate. “But you do.”
Sanemi’s ears warm before he can stop them. He takes the other end and bites. It’s too sweet, but he chews anyway, because Giyuu’s watching him like the sun just rose for this.
“Well?” Giyuu asks.
“It’s fine.”
Giyuu blinks slowly. “You said that last time.”
“It was fine last time too.”
“So you like it.”
“Shut up,” Sanemi mutters, but he takes another bite.
They eat while sitting on the low step outside the shop. Sanemi unwraps the ohagi, dusted in kinako, and bites into it with the satisfaction of a man pretending he’s not in heaven. Giyuu watches, chin resting on his hand, eyes soft.
When Sanemi offers the other piece, Giyuu takes the smallest bite possible. “Still too sweet.”
“Then why’d you eat it?”
Giyuu looks at him. “Because you offered.”
It’s not romantic, not quite — just simple, like everything else they do. But something in Sanemi’s chest flutters anyway.
They walk home the long way, past the temple road lined with cherry trees. Blossoms are falling thick now, brushing against Giyuu’s hair, clinging to his sleeve.
“You’ve got one on your head,” Sanemi says, reaching over to brush it off. His hand lingers, thumb grazing the shell of Giyuu’s ear before he catches himself and pulls away.
Giyuu doesn’t comment — just looks at him with that faint, knowing smile.
“Come on,” Sanemi mutters. “You’ll drop the fish if you keep staring.”
“I wasn’t staring.”
“Sure you weren’t.”
They reach home before noon, arms full of groceries, sunlight spilling through the open doors. Sanemi unloads the basket while Giyuu goes to light the stove. The sound of the match striking, the faint hum of water boiling — it all blends into the kind of peace Sanemi used to think he’d never have.
Giyuu glances over his shoulder once, eyes bright under the quiet light. “Tea?”
Sanemi looks at him — the curve of his mouth, the faint pink in his cheeks from the walk — and nods. “Yeah. Tea sounds good.”
The kitchen smells like simmering broth and cooked fish — rich, salty, and just faintly sweet from the daikon. Sanemi stands at the stove, ladle in hand, stirring the pot with the kind of concentration that used to belong only to battle. Steam curls around his wrist, carrying the scent of salmon and soy.
He’s making salmon radish again. Giyuu had offhandedly mentioned once that it reminded him of winters with his sister, and Sanemi’s been making it ever since — though he pretends it’s only because daikon keeps well and fish is cheap this season.
He glances over his shoulder.
Giyuu is sitting on the tatami near the low table, or at least he was. The rice bowl rests untouched, and his remaining arm has gone slack against his knee. His head tilts slightly forward, hair shorter now — unevenly cut, the ends brushing the side of his neck.
“Oi,” Sanemi says under his breath, half a warning.
No answer. Just the slow, steady rhythm of breathing.
He sighs, setting the ladle down with a clatter that earns no reaction. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, wiping his hands on his towel. “Can’t even stay awake long enough to wash the rice.”
When he crouches beside him, the irritation melts away almost immediately. Giyuu’s face is peaceful — unguarded in a way Sanemi still isn’t used to seeing. His lashes catch the afternoon light, and there’s a faint crease at the corner of his mouth, like the memory of a smile.
“You really can sleep through anything,” Sanemi says softly.
Giyuu’s hair slips over his forehead; without thinking, Sanemi brushes it back. His fingertips linger longer than they should — calloused skin meeting warmth. For a second, he forgets to breathe.
Giyuu stirs, eyelids fluttering open. “Sanemi…?”
“Yeah.” Sanemi clears his throat. “You were snoring.”
Giyuu blinks blearily. “I don’t snore.”
“You do. Like a dying boar.”
The faintest smile tugs at Giyuu’s lips. “You’re imagining it.”
Sanemi snorts, standing up to cover the way his chest twists at that expression. “If I were imagining things, you’d be helping me cook.”
Giyuu hums softly, eyes slipping closed again. “You’re better at it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Still true,” he murmurs, already drifting.
Sanemi turns back to the stove, muttering curses that sound more fond than sharp. He ladles the salmon radish into bowls, the broth clear and golden, and sets one aside to keep warm. The other he eats standing, because sitting feels too still, too quiet.
When he looks back again, Giyuu’s curled up slightly, his haori bunched under his head. The sunlight through the open shoji paints him in gold and pale pink, petals fluttering in with the breeze.
Sanemi walks over, grumbling under his breath. “You’re gonna get a stiff neck like that.”
He kneels, adjusts the haori so it cushions Giyuu’s head properly. Giyuu murmurs something unintelligible, maybe Sanemi’s name, maybe nothing at all.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sanemi says softly. “Sleep.”
He stays there for a while, watching the slow rise and fall of Giyuu’s chest, the light flickering over his skin like ripples on water.
When the wind shifts, a few cherry blossoms drift inside, catching in Giyuu’s hair. Sanemi hesitates before brushing them away, thumb grazing along the line of his temple.
The soup bubbles behind him. The air smells of salt and miso and something softer he can’t name.
If someone told him, years ago, that he’d find peace in the sound of simmering broth and another man’s quiet breathing, he would’ve laughed. But now—
Now, he doesn’t even think to question it.
When Giyuu finally wakes, the house smells faintly sweet. The air is cool now, touched by the first hint of dusk, and the cicadas have started their slow, rhythmic song outside.
He blinks, disoriented for a second. The first thing he sees is Sanemi’s back — broad, steady — as he stands by the stove again, sleeves rolled up, pouring tea with the kind of precision that belongs to someone trying not to think too hard.
“...You done cooking?” Giyuu murmurs.
Sanemi looks over his shoulder. “Yes. Are you done drooling?”
“I don’t drool,” Giyuu says automatically, though his voice is still half-asleep.
“Sure.” Sanemi places two cups on the low table, sits down, and nods at the covered bowl beside him. “It’s salmon radish. Eat it before it gets cold.”
Giyuu sits up slowly, hair mussed, eyes soft in the amber light.
Giyuu picks up his chopsticks with his remaining hand. He eats carefully, quietly, like he’s trying to memorize the flavor. The broth’s still warm, the daikon soft enough to melt.
“It’s good,” he says after a moment.
Sanemi scoffs, but his mouth twitches. “You said that last time.”
“Then you’re consistent.”
“Don’t get cheeky,” Sanemi warns, though his tone is light.
Giyuu hides a small smile behind his cup.
They eat in silence for a while, the comfortable kind, filled with the sound of chopsticks against ceramic and the hum of summer night pressing in through the open shoji.
When Giyuu finishes, Sanemi wordlessly slides over his bowl.
“Why? I’m do—”
“I already ate,” Sanemi cuts in.
Giyuu gives him a look that says he doesn’t believe that for a second. “Then what’s this?”
“Leftovers.”
“From what?”
Sanemi hesitates, then mutters, “...Lunch. Just. You need to eat more. You’re getting thinner,”
Giyuu’s mouth softens in amusement. He reaches forward and, before Sanemi can pull away, lifts a piece of salmon with his chopsticks and presses it toward his mouth.
Sanemi stares. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Feeding you.”
“I can feed myself.”
“I know.”
There’s a small, patient pause, and then — because Giyuu never pushes but always somehow wins — Sanemi leans forward and takes the bite.
The broth hits his tongue, warm and soft, and for a second it’s quiet again — quiet in that deep, still way that makes his chest ache.
When he looks up, Giyuu’s watching him, that faint smile still there, the corners of his eyes creased just slightly.
“What?” Sanemi grumbles.
Giyuu just shakes his head, almost fond. “Nothing.”
Sanemi rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t move away. Not yet.
They linger like that — close enough that the air between them feels warmer. The last of the light slips through the screens, painting everything in gold and pale rose. Outside, the wind stirs, carrying a few stray petals into the room again.
Sanemi reaches up absently and plucks one from Giyuu’s hair. His fingers graze skin.
“Messy eater,” he mutters.
Giyuu hums, a small laugh beneath his breath. “You never mind.”
Sanemi looks at him for a long moment, something unspoken caught in his throat. Then he exhales, leaning back and forcing a smirk. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”
The words come out too light for how his heart feels.
Giyuu smiles — small, slow, genuine — and Sanemi looks away first.
The tea cools between them. The sky outside turns violet.
And the cherry blossoms always fall early.
By now, Sanemi can tell when Usui’s coming before the man even knocks. The whole mountain seems to announce him—birds scattering, footsteps too heavy for a normal person, a laugh carried ahead by the wind.
“Open up, you damn hermits!” Usui’s voice carries from the outside.
Sanemi doesn’t even glance up from the cutting board. “There goes the peace.”
Across the room, Giyuu looks up from sorting vegetables, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “He’s early today.”
“Maybe if we stay quiet, he’ll go away.”
Giyuu hums, amused. “He’ll just get louder.”
As if to prove his point, another knock booms through the house.
Sanemi sighs through his teeth, wiping his hands. “Persistent bastard.”
Giyuu rises, calm as ever. “I’ll let him in before he breaks the door again.”
He slides the door open before Sanemi can mutter another word. Usui steps in like he owns the place, arms laden with bright-wrapped parcels. “Giyuu! As radiant as ever. Shinazugawa—still glaring at sunlight, I see.”
“Still too loud,” Sanemi mutters. “What, you live here now?”
Usui laughs, unbothered, kicking off his sandals. “Wouldn’t that make you happy? I swear, if I didn’t visit, you two would forget how to talk to anyone but each other.”
Giyuu sets tea before him, unhurried. “You say that every time you come.”
“And yet you still pour me tea. That’s love.”
“It’s a habit,” Sanemi cuts in. “Bad ones die hard.”
“Spoken like a man who’s thoroughly domesticated,” Usui says with a grin. “What’s for lunch? Smells too good to be yours.”
“Salmon radish,” Giyuu answers, voice even, “and Sanemi’s ohagi for dessert.”
Usui blinks, then smirks. “Ohagi? The Wind Pillar makes sweets now? How the mighty have fallen.”
Sanemi flicks a radish slice at him. “Keep talking, and I’ll season you next.”
Lunch is noisy — or at least, noisy for this house.
Usui’s laugh bounces against the wooden beams, Giyuu’s voice threads through it in small, patient responses. Sanemi tries to eat in peace, but between Usui’s teasing and Giyuu quietly putting more rice on his plate every time he looks away, it’s hopeless.
At one point, Giyuu hums under his breath. Usui pauses mid-story. “You’ve been doing that lately,” he says. “Humming.”
“I suppose I have,” Giyuu replies.
Sanemi glances up. “Didn’t notice.”
“You never notice,” Giyuu says, not unkindly, and Usui bursts into laughter so loud the tea sloshes.
“Saints above,” Usui wheezes, “Giyuu, you’ve become fearless.”
Giyuu just tilts his head, eyes soft. “He’s easier to tease now.”
“Is that so?” Sanemi grumbles, but when Giyuu smiles at him — a slow, crinkling-at-the-eyes smile — he looks away too fast, ears faintly red.
Usui watches all of this like it’s the best play he’s ever seen. “If the Corps could see you now, Shinazugawa, they’d build a shrine.”
“Shut up and eat your ohagi.”
“Gladly,” Usui says, biting into one. “Damn. You really did make this?”
Giyuu answers before Sanemi can. “He said it’s a lot of work to go to the town every time he wants to eat it so he practiced until he’s gotten good at it.”
Usui points a chopstick. “You’re proud of him.”
“Of course,” Giyuu says simply.
The words land like sunlight — plain, unpretending, devastating in their gentleness. Sanemi nearly chokes on his rice.
Usui hums, clearly enjoying himself. “You two are going to kill me with the sweetness, and it’s not even the dessert.”
Later, when the dishes are stacked and Giyuu’s hanging laundry outside, Usui lingers by the doorway, watching. “He’s different,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.”
“You both are.”
Sanemi shrugs, expression unreadable. “He just… makes things quieter.”
Usui smirks. “He makes you quieter. That’s a damn miracle.”
“Get out of my house.”
Usui laughs but doesn’t move. “You know, every time I visit, I think—this is what you deserved all along. A place that doesn’t need saving. Someone who looks at you like the fight’s already over.”
Sanemi doesn’t answer. The wind shifts, carrying Giyuu’s laughter from outside — light, brief, the kind that always disarms him.
“Dinner tomorrow?” Usui asks finally.
“If you bring sake,” Sanemi says, pretending to sound annoyed.
Usui grins. “I’ll bring two.”
When the door finally closes behind Usui, the house exhales.
Sanemi stands there for a moment, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of noise. Giyuu is already gathering the empty cups, stacking them with practiced care.
“Still can’t shut up, can he?” Sanemi mutters.
Giyuu smiles faintly. “He hasn’t changed.”
“Wouldn’t want him to,” Sanemi admits, almost to himself. He reaches for the kettle, still half-full, and tips the last of the tea into a bowl before rinsing it clean.
Giyuu hums in agreement. The sound is small, but it fills the space like the echo of something warm.
Outside, the wind brushes through the garden. The cherry blossoms have thinned now—only a few petals cling stubbornly to the branches, the rest scattered across the porch like pale confetti.
Sanemi catches Giyuu staring out toward them, hands stilled halfway through drying a dish.
“You’ll wear a hole in that view if you keep lookin’ at it,” he says, half a tease.
Giyuu blinks and looks back, smiling, though there’s something distant in it. “It’s different every day. I like watching what changes.”
“Yeah, well,” Sanemi says, setting another plate down to dry, “you’re different every day too.”
That earns him a soft laugh. “Is that a compliment?”
“Take it how you want.”
The words hang there, easy and familiar, but something quieter lingers beneath.
Giyuu turns back to the window, the fading light washing him in gold. He looks tired in the way the sky looks before rain—calm, but stretched thin. His movements slow a little when he reaches for another bowl, and Sanemi notices.
He always notices.
“Sit down,” he says gruffly. “I got the rest.”
“I’m fine,” Giyuu answers automatically.
“Yeah, sure.” Sanemi takes the bowl from his hands anyway, careful not to sound too sharp. “You said that last week, then you almost dropped the kettle.”
“That was one time.”
“Mm.” Sanemi’s reply is more sound than word, but it lands heavy enough.
Giyuu doesn’t argue. He just dries his hands and sits by the open door, where the cool air touches his face. His eyes follow the petals tumbling across the yard.
“They’ll be gone soon,” he says quietly.
Sanemi glances over. “You say that every year.”
Giyuu’s smile tilts. “Because it’s always true.”
For a long while, neither of them speaks. The only sounds are the soft clink of dishes, the faint creak of wood, and the steady rhythm of their breathing.
When Sanemi finishes, he joins him by the door. The horizon has begun to dim, clouds gathering in streaks of violet.
“You think he’ll really bring sake next time?” Giyuu asks.
“If he doesn’t, I’ll steal it myself,” Sanemi says, and that makes Giyuu laugh again—quiet, bright, fleeting.
It’s in that laugh, in the way it fades too quickly, that Sanemi feels something twist under his ribs.
He doesn’t say it. He just leans back on his hands, eyes on the same sky.
The silence between them is full, not empty.
The house had long gone quiet. The moon was low, hanging pale over the trees, and the blossoms outside rustled faintly in the night breeze — a sound like distant rain.
Sanemi hadn’t meant to stay awake, but he always did on nights like this. The habit of sleeplessness clung to him. Old scars didn’t let go easily.
Giyuu slept beside him, the blanket drawn up to his chin. His hair caught the moonlight like threads of dark glass. He looked different when he slept. Softer, younger. The hard lines that used to bracket his mouth were gone, replaced by something quieter.
Sanemi turned onto his side, watching him breathe. He could feel the rise and fall against his arm, light as a gentle breeze.
He thought about the years they had both spent waiting for peace to be something earned. The war was over, yes — but its ghosts still lived in the way Giyuu’s right sleeve stayed pinned, in the way Sanemi sometimes woke at the sound of rain and thought it was blood.
He hated how easily that peace felt breakable, even until now.
Giyuu stirred, eyelashes flickering. “You’re awake,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Too quiet?”
Sanemi huffed a laugh. “You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”
Giyuu smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “You never liked quiet.”
“That’s because quiet always meant something would go wrong after.”
For a while, there was only the rustle of the wind through the blossoms. Then Giyuu shifted closer, his breath warm against Sanemi’s shoulder. “It won’t,” he said softly, almost slurred with sleep. “I love you. You’ll be fine.”
Sanemi froze. Because the words were so simple, so ordinary, but they hit somewhere deep. Giyuu said them like a promise, like he was still keeping watch even with his eyes closed.
Sanemi’s chest ached in that familiar way, the kind that came not from hurt, but from the fragile miracle of having something to lose.
Sanemi didn’t answer. He just watched as Giyuu’s breathing slowed again, steady and deep.
Outside, a stray petal drifted through the open window. It landed on the blanket, near the curve of Giyuu’s hand. Sanemi brushed it away carefully, the gesture almost reverent.
He didn’t know when he started being so gentle. Maybe it was when Giyuu stopped flinching at small touches, when he started smiling without hesitation — like sunlight finally finding a way through fog.
But now, as the night deepened and Giyuu’s face softened in sleep, Sanemi realized what scared him most.
He could live like this forever, and forever would not feel long enough.
The moon slipped lower. Somewhere in the distance, the first hint of dawn painted the ridge pink. The wind carried more petals through the room, scattering them across the tatami — small ghosts of spring.
Sanemi shut his eyes. He listened to Giyuu’s breathing, slow and even, and let himself believe — just for tonight — that peace might last until morning.
The morning arrived pale and fragile, sunlight spilling in soft beams through the cherry blossoms. Petals drifted lazily on the breeze, settling in gentle piles along the garden path, clinging to the grass, and resting on the low wooden railing of the veranda.
Sanemi stepped lightly onto the dew-soaked grass, the cool dampness seeping through the soles of his feet. He didn’t move quickly; he didn’t want to disturb the fragile quiet.
Giyuu was already beneath the largest cherry blossom tree, kneeling with his hands folded loosely in his lap. His loose sleeve brushed the grass, revealing the faint scar where his arm had been. A few petals clung to his hair and shoulders, lifted again and again by the morning breeze. He seemed impossibly still, almost suspended in the light.
Sanemi’s eyes traced every detail without thought: the gentle tilt of Giyuu’s head as he watched petals drift past, the soft curve of his lips, the subtle rise and fall of his chest with each quiet breath. Everything about him seemed vivid, delicate, luminous in a way that made the air itself feel sacred.
A stray petal landed on Giyuu’s lap. He reached out slowly, letting it rest for a moment on his fingertip before letting it float away. Sanemi’s chest tightened. The smallness of the gesture — ordinary, fleeting — carried all the weight of the years they had survived, the quiet aftermath of battles, the war, and the fragile peace they had left..
“Morning,” Giyuu murmured softly, eyes still following the drifting petals. His voice was low, almost a part of the wind.
“Morning,” Sanemi replied, stepping closer, careful not to cast a shadow over the scene.
Giyuu tilted his head slightly, brushing another petal from his sleeve. The motion was so natural, so effortless, that Sanemi’s pulse caught without warning. He crouched beside him, careful, brushing a stray petal from Giyuu’s lap. Their fingers brushed for a fraction of a second, and the contact lingered longer in Sanemi’s chest than it did in reality.
The wind lifted, swirling more petals around Giyuu, catching them in his hair and around his shoulders. He leaned just slightly forward, chin upturned to the sun, eyes closed, a faint smile touching his lips. Sanemi watched every small movement. The gentle rise of his cheek in the light, the way his lashes caught the glow, the slow, deliberate stretch of his fingers as he brushed another petal away.
He could not speak. Words would shatter it. He pressed his cheek lightly against the top of Giyuu’s head, inhaling the faint scent of spring, grass, and him. The warmth, the calm, the quiet radiance.
A few petals tumbled onto the grass between them. Giyuu reached down and let one drift from his hand, watching it float. The moment was so fleeting that Sanemi felt the ache in his chest tighten. The delicate impossibility of it all. He didn’t name it; he didn’t need to.
Sanemi’s eyes lingered on Giyuu, memorizing the way the sunlight pooled across his face, the way the soft breeze teased his hair, the serene calm in his posture. The world held its breath around them, waiting.
And then, for a single, fragile heartbeat, it felt as though the blossoms themselves had taken him.
Not violently. Not cruelly. But softly, quietly, leaving only light, shadow, and memory behind.
Sanemi exhaled slowly, letting the petals drift around him, letting the wind carry the weight of everything he could not say.
He whispered to himself, almost inaudibly, “Beautiful…”
Giyuu in Sanemi’s mornings, beautiful in the way sunlight had once struck his hair just so, and in the way he had hummed softly while the world was still half asleep.
Giyuu in Sanemi’s afternoons, beautiful in the way his hands had brushed against the edge of the table, the way his shoulder had leaned against Sanemi’s in quiet closeness, the small intimacies that had once seemed ordinary.
Giyuu in Sanemi’s evenings, beautiful in the tilt of his head when he laughed, in the faint exhale that had pressed warmth against Sanemi’s chest in the dark, in the softness of lips that had once kissed his own.
Giyuu in Sanemi’s memory, beautiful in every step he had taken beside him through fire and silence, beautiful in the way he had made the house feel like home, in the way he had made the world feel lighter.
Giyuu in Sanemi’s life, beautiful in every fleeting glance, every whispered word, every touch that had lingered long after it had passed, beautiful in the impossibility of holding him close forever.
And then the petals fell, drifting like slow tears over the ground, and Sanemi saw him again, still and luminous beneath the blossoms.
Beautiful, too beautiful, and achingly gone, as though the morning had claimed him, and all that remained was the memory.
Giyuu, endlessly beautiful, in every corner of a life that would always ache without him.
Tomioka Giyuu was beautiful.