Chapter Text
._;:-*^*-:;_.
Obanai Iguro prided himself on noticing things other people missed. The slight hitch in a breath before pain. The hesitation before a lie. The way emotions lingered in the body long after someone believed they’d buried them.
It was a survival skill, born from years of watching for danger in places where safety had never existed. It was also, unfortunately, what made this impossible to ignore.
Giyuu Tomioka didn’t look at everyone the same. At first, Obanai told himself that was obvious. Giyuu barely looked at anyone at all. His gaze drifted past people more often than it landed on them, unfocused and distant, as if he were always listening to something the rest of the world couldn’t hear.
But there were moments, brief, unguarded moments, where that distance disappeared.
Moments where Giyuu’s attention sharpened. Obanai noticed it during a Hashira meeting. They were seated in the usual arrangement, the room filled with the low murmur of overlapping voices and the soft rustle of haori fabric. Kagaya’s presence kept everyone subdued, respectful, though that had never stopped certain people from being loud.
Sanemi Shinazugawa, for instance.
“You expect us to take another joint mission?” Sanemi snapped, arms crossed, posture sharp and defensive. “With demons popping up this close to villages?” Several Hashira reacted, some with irritation, some with agreement. Obanai didn’t bother turning his head. He already knew who was speaking. What caught his attention wasn’t Sanemi’s voice. It was Giyuu.
Giyuu, who had been staring at the floor moments earlier, lifted his head immediately. Not slowly. Not reluctantly.
Immediately. His eyes locked onto Sanemi, expression still neutral, but alert in a way that made Obanai’s fingers curl against his knee.
“We can handle it,” Giyuu said quietly. “The terrain favors coordinated movement.” Sanemi scoffed. “You volunteering to take point, then?” Giyuu didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
The exchange lasted only seconds. No raised voices. No visible emotion. And yet
Obanai felt something twist in his chest.
He watched as Giyuu’s gaze lingered on Sanemi a fraction longer than necessary. Watched the way his shoulders remained squared, attentive, like he was bracing himself for whatever Sanemi might say next.
Like it mattered.
Obanai told himself he was imagining it.
He always did. After all, Giyuu had known Sanemi longer. They’d fought together, bled together, survived losses that bound people in ways outsiders couldn’t understand. It was natural. Logical.
Obanai believed in logic.
Still, when the meeting ended and everyone rose to leave, he noticed something else. Giyuu waited for Sanemi.
Not deliberately, there was no obvious gesture, no spoken request. He simply slowed his steps without realizing it, stopping just long enough for Sanemi to catch up.
They didn’t walk side by side. They didn’t speak. But they moved together. Obanai walked behind them, his reflection faintly visible in the polished wood of the hallway floor. He hated how small the space felt all of a sudden.
Mitsuri fell into step beside him, her presence warm and familiar. “Iguro-san?” she said softly. “You’re very quiet today.”
He glanced at her. Forced his expression into something neutral. “Am I?” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “More than usual.”
Obanai followed her gaze, brief, curious, to where Giyuu and Sanemi disappeared around the corner. Something cold settled in his stomach. “I’m fine,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. Not yet.
._;:-*^*-:;_.
It kept happening. In the days that followed, Obanai began to notice the pattern everywhere. Once he saw it, he couldn’t unsee it. Giyuu responded to Sanemi faster than anyone else.
Turned his head when Sanemi spoke, even from across the room. Adjusted his stance subtly when they stood near each other, like an unconscious alignment. It wasn’t warmth. That was the worst part.
Giyuu wasn’t kind to Sanemi. He didn’t soften his voice or smile or offer comfort. If anything, he treated Sanemi with the same blunt honesty he gave everyone else.
But he was there.
Present in a way Obanai wasn’t sure Giyuu had ever been with him. Obanai tried to measure it, quantify it, break it down into something manageable. It’s history, he told himself while watching them spar in the training yard.
It’s familiarity. It doesn’t mean anything.
Sanemi lunged, wild and aggressive, his attacks sharp and relentless. Giyuu countered smoothly, water-like precision meeting raw force. They moved like two halves of a practiced rhythm, unspoken understanding guiding each strike and block.
Obanai stood at the edge of the yard, arms folded, Kaburamaru coiled loosely around his shoulders. The snake lifted its head, tongue flicking, sensing Obanai’s tension.
“Don’t,” Obanai murmured under his breath.
He wasn’t sure who he was speaking to.
When Sanemi overextended, Giyuu caught his wrist and twisted, sending him stumbling back. Sanemi barked a laugh, shaking out his arm.
“Damn it, Tomioka, warn me next time.” “You rush in without thinking,” Giyuu replied. “You’ll get killed that way.”
Sanemi’s grin faded just a little. “You worry too much.” Giyuu didn’t respond.
But his eyes stayed on Sanemi until he was steady again.
Obanai looked away. He didn’t bring it up. That, too, was familiar. Obanai had learned early on that wanting things openly was dangerous. Hope had sharp edges. It cut deeper than despair if handled carelessly.
So he did what he always did. He pulled back.
Subtly at first. Standing a little farther from Giyuu during meals. Letting silence stretch instead of filling it. Turning away before Giyuu could catch his eye.
If Giyuu noticed, he didn’t say anything.
That hurt more than Obanai expected.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in muted golds and purples, Obanai found himself seated alone on the engawa. The estate was quiet, most of the Hashira scattered on missions or training elsewhere.
Footsteps approached behind him, soft, measured. “Obanai.” Giyuu’s voice. Obanai didn’t turn. “What is it?” There was a pause. The faint rustle of fabric as Giyuu stopped a few steps away. “You left early today,” Giyuu said. Obanai’s jaw tightened. “I had things to do.”
Another pause. “I see.” The words were simple. Accepting. Too accepting. Obanai finally looked at him then, meeting Giyuu’s gaze. There was no accusation in those blue eyes. No confusion, even. Just that familiar distance. Something sharp lodged itself beneath Obanai’s ribs. “Is that all?” Obanai asked. Giyuu hesitated. Just barely. “Yes.”
He turned to leave. Obanai watched his back retreat down the corridor, shoulders straight, steps even. He didn’t look back.
Kaburamaru shifted uneasily. Obanai closed his eyes. You always look at him like that, a voice whispered in his mind. Attentive. Steady. Certain. You never look at me at all.
._;:-*^*-:;_.
The mission assignment came two days later. Obanai heard about it secondhand, which in itself was strange. Normally, Kagaya informed the Hashira personally, or at the very least ensured the message reached them directly. This time, it was Shinobu who mentioned it in passing while reorganizing medicine bottles at the Butterfly Estate.
“Tomioka and Shinazugawa are heading north,” she said lightly. “Upper rank activity suspected. They leave before dawn.” Obanai froze.Shinobu glanced over her shoulder, sharp eyes catching the subtle shift in his posture. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” Obanai replied. His voice sounded steady. He hated how much effort that took. “I wasn’t informed.”
“How odd,” Shinobu murmured, though there was a glint of something knowing in her expression. “Perhaps it was a last minute decision.” Perhaps. Obanai left without another word. He told himself it didn’t matter. He had his own responsibilities, his own missions, his own place in the Corps. Giyuu did not owe him explanations. Sanemi did not owe him distance. None of this was personal.
That was what he repeated to himself as the sun rose the next morning.
That was what he repeated when he saw them preparing to depart. They stood near the estate gates, Sanemi adjusting his bandages with rough hands, Giyuu checking the edge of his blade with quiet precision. They spoke in low voices, too far away for Obanai to hear.
Obanai stopped a short distance away.
He waited. Neither of them looked up.
Minutes passed. Hashira came and went. A few nodded at him in greeting. Mitsuri waved brightly before disappearing inside.
Giyuu remained focused on Sanemi.
“You’re favoring your left side,” Giyuu said.
Sanemi scoffed. “It’s nothing.”
“You tore the muscle last week.”
“So what.”
“You should not overextend,” Giyuu replied. “I’ll cover your flank.” Sanemi glanced at him, brow furrowed. “I don’t need babysitting.”
“I know,” Giyuu said. “I’ll do it anyway.”
Sanemi stared for a moment, then clicked his tongue. “You’re annoying.” But there was no heat in it. Obanai felt something cold settle behind his eyes. He stepped forward. “You’re leaving.” Both of them turned. Giyuu’s eyes widened just slightly. “Yes.” That was it. No explanation. No apology. No acknowledgment that Obanai was standing there, having heard about this from someone else entirely.
“I see,” Obanai said. Sanemi glanced between them, clearly sensing tension he had no interest in navigating. “We’ll be back in a few days,” he said gruffly. “Try not to burn the place down without us.”
Obanai did not look at him. His gaze stayed on Giyuu. Giyuu hesitated. “It was decided quickly,” he said. “I meant to tell you.”
But you didn’t. Obanai nodded once. “Be careful.” Giyuu watched him for another heartbeat, as if waiting for something more. When it didn’t come, he turned away.
They left. Obanai remained standing at the gate long after they disappeared down the road.
._;:-*^*-:;_.
The days that followed were quiet in a way that felt wrong. Obanai threw himself into training. He pushed harder than usual, movements sharp and unforgiving. Kaburamaru hissed softly when Obanai misstepped, his body protesting the strain.
“Enough,” Obanai muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
He ignored the dull ache blooming along his ribs. On the third night, a crow arrived with a mission assignment. Obanai accepted it without hesitation, barely skimming the details before departing.
The demon was fast.
Not strong enough to overwhelm him, but clever, slippery, familiar with the terrain. The fight dragged on longer than Obanai liked, each movement demanding more focus than the last. When the demon finally fell, its body dissolving into ash, Obanai staggered back a step. Pain flared sharply along his side. He looked down.
Blood soaked through the fabric beneath his haori, dark and warm. The wound was deep, a long gash carved by claws he had underestimated.
Obanai pressed a hand against it, breathing slowly. He considered returning to the estate. He didn’t. Instead, he bound the wound tightly and continued on, ignoring the way his vision blurred at the edges. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. It wouldn’t be the last. No one noticed when he returned.
._;:-*^*-:;_.
That night, he sat alone in his room, carefully rewrapping the bandages with practiced precision. His hands shook slightly.
He thought of Giyuu. Thought of the way he had noticed Sanemi’s injury immediately. Thought of how calmly, how certainly, he had stepped in.
A bitter thought surfaced before Obanai could stop it.
If it were me, would you have noticed.
He swallowed hard. Giyuu and Sanemi returned four days later. Obanai knew before he saw them. The estate felt louder, fuller, the air disturbed by familiar presences. He remained in the training yard, blade moving through forms with rigid control.
Footsteps approached. “You’re injured.”
Giyuu’s voice cut through the air. Obanai faltered. Pain exploded along his side as his concentration broke. He barely caught himself before stumbling.
Giyuu was at his side in an instant. “Sit down,” Giyuu said. “I’m fine,” Obanai snapped, pulling away. Giyuu frowned. “You’re bleeding.” Only then did Obanai realize the bandages had loosened. Red stained the edge of his uniform.
Giyuu reached out, then stopped himself. His hand hovered uncertainly between them. “How long,” he asked quietly.
Obanai laughed, short and humorless. “Now you notice.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. Giyuu stiffened. “What does that mean.”
“Nothing,” Obanai said quickly. Too quickly. He turned away, retying the bandages with jerky movements. “I said I’m fine.”
Giyuu watched him in silence. “You should have said something,” Giyuu finally said.
Obanai’s hands stilled. “I didn’t think it mattered,” he replied. The air between them went taut.Giyuu opened his mouth, then closed it again. Something unreadable flickered across his face, confusion mixed with something closer to hurt. Before he could speak, another voice cut in.
“Tch. You’re terrible at taking care of yourself.” Sanemi stood a few steps away, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Giyuu turned toward him instinctively. “You’re one to talk.” Sanemi snorted. “At least I complain.” They shared a look. Brief. Familiar. Obanai looked away.
His chest ached in a way that had nothing to do with his wound. That night, Obanai lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Every moment replayed itself in his mind, each glance, each word, each silence weighed and measured until it crushed him beneath its meaning.
He had spent his entire life believing that if he stayed quiet, stayed useful, stayed controlled, he would be chosen. But watching Giyuu with Sanemi felt like proof that some bonds were formed without effort. That some people were noticed without asking.
Obanai closed his eyes.
He did not cry. He simply decided.
If Giyuu would not choose him, then Obanai would stop waiting to be chosen.
._;:-*^*-:;_.
Obanai did not avoid Giyuu.
He simply stopped making it easy. If Giyuu stood near him during meals, Obanai shifted away. If Giyuu spoke, Obanai answered briefly, politely, without offering anything more. He fulfilled his duties with exacting precision and nothing beyond that.
No lingering. No waiting. No hoping.
It was not punishment. It was preservation. At least, that was what Obanai told himself. Others noticed the change before Giyuu did. Mitsuri frowned when Obanai declined to sit beside her and Giyuu during dinner, choosing a spot farther down the table instead. Shinobu raised a brow when Obanai excused himself early from meetings that dragged on longer than necessary.
“You are quieter than usual,” Shinobu remarked one afternoon, watching him organize equipment with meticulous care.
Obanai did not look up. “I am always quiet.”
“Yes,” she said lightly. “But now you are quiet with intent.”
His grip tightened around the strap he was adjusting. “If you have something to say, say it.” Shinobu smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Just an observation.”
Obanai straightened. “Then observe something else.”
She watched him leave, eyes thoughtful.
Giyuu finally noticed three days later.
They were paired briefly for patrol near the outskirts of a village, nothing dangerous, just precaution. Obanai had hoped it would pass without incident.
It did not.
“You are walking faster,” Giyuu said after several minutes of silence. Obanai did not slow. “Am I delaying you.”
“No,” Giyuu replied. “You usually match pace.” Obanai stopped. Giyuu halted as well, turning to face him. His expression was neutral, but his brows were drawn together slightly, that faint crease of concern he seemed unaware of. “What is wrong,” Giyuu asked. Obanai stared at him.
There it was. That quiet, earnest attention. The thing that twisted something painful in his chest because he had seen it given so freely to someone else.
“Nothing,” Obanai said. “That is not true.”
Obanai’s lips curved faintly beneath his bandages. “You are observant now.” Giyuu flinched. “What does that mean,” he asked.
Obanai resumed walking. “It means there is nothing wrong.”
They finished the patrol without further conversation. Giyuu lingered afterward, as if expecting Obanai to turn back, to explain, to soften. Obanai did not.
That night, Giyuu stood outside Obanai’s door longer than he meant to
He raised his hand once. Lowered it. Then left.
The overheard conversation happened by accident. That was what Obanai told himself, even as he replayed every second of it in his mind later, wondering if some part of him had known it was coming.
He had gone to the courtyard to retrieve Kaburamaru, who had slipped away earlier and curled himself beneath the shade of a stone lantern. The air was cool, the evening quiet, lantern light casting long shadows across the ground.
Voices drifted from the other side of the building.
Obanai slowed. He recognized them instantly. Sanemi sounded irritated, though his voice carried none of its usual bite. “You don’t have to do that every time.”
“I know,” Giyuu replied. “I will anyway.”
Obanai’s breath caught. “You’re not responsible for me,” Sanemi continued. “I can handle myself.”
“I know,” Giyuu said again. There was a pause. Then Sanemi laughed, low and rough. “You always say that.” Giyuu did not deny it.v“You show up even when I don’t ask,” Sanemi said. “Even when I mess up.”
“I always will,” Giyuu replied.
The words settled into Obanai like a blade sliding between his ribs. He stood there, frozen, heart pounding so loudly he was sure they would hear it. His first instinct was to step away, to leave before he heard anything else. He did not move. Sanemi exhaled slowly. “You know that’s not something you owe me.”
“I am aware.”
“Then why.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Because you matter,” Giyuu said quietly.
Obanai stepped back. The sound was soft, barely audible, but enough. Sanemi stopped speaking. “Did you hear something.”
“No,” Giyuu replied after a moment. “It was the wind.” Obanai retreated silently, Kaburamaru slipping around his shoulders as if sensing his distress. He did not stop walking until the building was far behind him.
He did not let himself think. If he did, something inside him would splinter.
He avoided Giyuu completely after that.
Not subtly anymore. Not gently.
He skipped shared meals. Requested separate assignments. Left training grounds the moment Giyuu arrived. When they passed in hallways, Obanai did not look at him at all.
Giyuu noticed. This time, he could not ignore it. He cornered Obanai near the estate gates just before dawn.
“You are avoiding me,” Giyuu said.
Obanai adjusted his gloves. “You are mistaken.”
“I am not.” Obanai finally looked at him. Giyuu’s eyes searched his face, earnest, unsettled. “If I have done something wrong, tell me.”
Obanai felt something in him give way.
“Why,” he asked quietly. Giyuu blinked. “Why what.”
“Why do you care now,” Obanai said. “You never seemed to before.”
“That is not true,” Giyuu said immediately.
“Isn’t it,” Obanai replied. “You notice injuries when they belong to him. You listen when he speaks. You wait for him without realizing it.” Giyuu stared at him, stunned. “I do not,” he said, but the words lacked certainty. Obanai stepped closer, voice low and controlled. “You told him you would always show up. That he matters.”
Giyuu’s breath caught. “You heard that.”
“Yes.”
Silence fell between them, heavy and sharp.
Giyuu swallowed. “That does not mean what you think it does.”
“Then explain it,” Obanai said. Giyuu opened his mouth. Closed it. The hesitation was answer enough. Obanai nodded slowly. “I see.” He turned away. “Obanai,” Giyuu said, reaching out. Obanai did not stop.
Behind him, Giyuu stood frozen, realizing far too late that silence was no longer enough.
._;:-*^*-:;_.
Giyuu did not sleep that night. He stood where Obanai had left him long after the sun rose, replaying the conversation over and over in his mind, searching for the moment he could have said something different. There were too many. There always were.
When dawn came, it felt undeserved.
By mid-day, Obanai had not returned to the estate. Giyuu asked Shinobu if she had seen him. “No,” she replied, watching him carefully. “But you already knew that.”
Giyuu frowned. “What do you mean.”
She sighed softly. “If you are looking for someone who is running away, Tomioka, you should ask yourself why they felt the need to run in the first place.” He left without answering.
Obanai returned at dusk. He looked exhausted, shoulders tight, eyes dull in a way that made something twist painfully in Giyuu’s chest. There was dried blood along the edge of his sleeve, though he moved like he did not intend for anyone to notice.
Giyuu noticed.
He stepped into Obanai’s path. “Move,” Obanai said.
“No.”
They stood there, facing each other in the narrow corridor, lantern light flickering between them. “You are injured again,” Giyuu said. Obanai laughed quietly. “And now you say something.” Giyuu’s jaw tightened. “That is not fair.”
“No,” Obanai agreed. “It isn’t.” Silence pressed in around them. Giyuu spoke first. “What you heard,” he said carefully, “you misunderstood it.”
“Did I,” Obanai replied. “You told him he mattered. You told him you would always show up.”
“Yes.”
“And you have never said that to me.”
The words landed harder than Obanai intended. He felt them leave him, sharp and unguarded, and could not pull them back.
Giyuu inhaled slowly. “I did not know I needed to.” Obanai stared at him. “That is exactly the problem.” “I care about you,” Giyuu said. His voice was quiet, steady, like he believed that should be enough.
Obanai’s hands clenched. “You care about many things.”
“That is not the same.”
“Isn’t it,” Obanai snapped. “You say his name like it belongs on your tongue. You watch him like you are waiting for him to fall so you can catch him. You never look at me like that.” Giyuu shook his head. “You are wrong.”
“Then tell me,” Obanai said. His voice trembled despite his effort to control it. “Tell me why you always notice him first.” Giyuu opened his mouth. No words came.The silence stretched, heavy and unforgiving. Obanai exhaled slowly, something inside him finally settling into place. “I thought so.”
“That does not mean I do not care,” Giyuu said quickly. “Sanemi is reckless. He gets hurt. I watch him because if I do not, he will not stop himself.”
“And I do,” Obanai said softly. The words hit Giyuu like a blow. “You never have to worry about me,” Obanai continued. “I do my job. I do not complain. I do not ask. I thought that meant something.”
Giyuu took a step closer. “It does.”
“But not enough,” Obanai said. “Not enough to look for me. Not enough to notice when I am bleeding.”
Giyuu’s voice dropped. “I am not good at this.”
“I know,” Obanai said. “I have always known.”
That was the cruelest part. He was not angry because Giyuu was malicious. He was angry because Giyuu was sincere and still failing him. “You expect things I do not understand,” Giyuu said. “You never tell me what you want.”
“I should not have to teach you how to choose me,” Obanai replied. The words hung between them, sharp and final. Giyuu went very still. “I did choose you,” he said.
Obanai’s laugh broke, raw and quiet. “When.” “When I stay,” Giyuu said. “When I listen. When I am here.”
“You are here for everyone,” Obanai said.
“You show up for him.”
“I show up for you too.”
“Not like that,” Obanai whispered. “Never like that.” Something in Giyuu’s expression cracked then. Frustration, confusion, and something dangerously close to fear.
“I do not know how to look the way you want me to,” Giyuu admitted. Obanai felt his chest ache. “Then do not.” He stepped back. “If you do not choose me without being asked,” he said, “then I will stop asking.”
“Obanai,” Giyuu said, reaching for him again.Obanai turned away. This time, he did not look back. That night, Giyuu sat alone. For the first time, the silence did not feel neutral. It felt loud, accusatory, full of things he had failed to notice.
He thought of every time Obanai had stood quietly beside him. Every moment he had assumed Obanai was fine because he never said otherwise.
He thought of the blood on Obanai’s sleeve.
Too late.
._;:-*^*-:;_.