FORGIVING [tomioka giyuu]

one

The smell of incense is the first thing that he truly wakes up to; his hands clasped together as he prays for all those close to him. He doesn't remember when or how he had sat down into a praying position, but he still ends up on a cushion— silently blessing that the afterlife will treat it's attendees fine.

Empty, shine-less eyes open to reveal a blank expression. An expression that Giyuu seems to despise as he attempts a glare into the bucket of water, his own element that seems to always wrap his head in. He can hear, yet his own heartbeat sounds still and he has to grab onto his sleep-robes to bring him out of the sudden attack.

Giyuu hadn't received a restful sleep in years; too entranced in the dreams of peach-tinted hair and glittering blue eyes, flower prints or a woman with a long black braid. Sleeping medicine is always by his side when he wakes up, but it's been two years since he's received it and he knows that it's expired but the thought always fills some part of his chest. The pain, the feeling that if he were to take the drug— maybe, just maybe.. he'd sleep well.

He'd take the medicine once again, but the nightmares that occurred that night left his fingers twitching and relentless teasing from Shinobu. The torturous amounts of bullying from the shorter woman and stranger's eyes watching him overwhelmed his senses, voice caught in his throat as his fearful expression didn't grow. Curse his placid face!

Yet even a luxury like that, Giyuu refuses because he simply doesn't deserve it. To continue living is a blessing enough— voices in his head disagree as his feet hit the cold wooden floor, lips trembling and growing pale.

Giyuu keeps that thought in mind as he meditates; awaiting for the rice to cook as he recites all the sword techniques to himself with a gentle whisper. His head is still underwater, but he understands how to breath now. It used to suffocate him, used to choke him alive, used to torture him. Bit-by-bit, it did. Even today it does.

But he's grown to almost adore the way it drowns out everything else, the way it mutes his own voice and senses in a selfish way to shield him away from fantasy.

What is fantasy?

Giyuu refrains from dozing towards the question, because he can hear the rice boiling and he decides that it's fully prepared. It's not a fancy meal, rice with a couple droplets of soy sauce decorating the top— but the Water Hashira doesn't mind, since as if it were a blink; the wooden bowl is empty and his throat feels clammy.

That's right. Fantasy is being able to live, be happy, to stand beside someone and hold their hand as if they were the most secure thing that's ever existed. Giyuu lets teardrops fall into his tea, stuttering breaths as he mourns daily over what he's lost. He knows that his eyes will be itchy by the time he stops crying, but his mouth is damp and he can't fight against the shudders that rumble his body.

Shaky hands place the tea aside, steam still emitting a reminiscent scent of dried jasmine.

The man rests his forehead into his arms, and cries. Like a wife missing her husband, like a child loosing their mother, like a stranger missing their friend. Giyuu misses Sabito, he misses his elder sister, even Makomo.

Daily he sees them, either as ghosts or spirits hidden within passerby. He can see his deceased friend in Tanjirou's eyes, in his cheerful voice and hands belonging to a peach-haired boy choke him, ghostly fingers pressing against his pulse as he refrains from sobbing. There's flowers that litter the Butterfly Estate, reminding the Water Hashira of a flower-embroidered haori and hand painted florals atop a fox mask; so Giyuu refrains from the scent of pollen and the way that Shinobu smiles that looks so much like her.

Doting on the past, he finally stops his crusade of crying himself alive once again to attempt to ready his mind for today.

It passes by like a blink once again. Giyuu's fingers carefully buckling his uniform on, button by button. Sliding his sandals on gently, as if his hands weren't his.

"Make sure they're tight, you wouldn't want to trip." He can hear his sister's voice behind his ear, and he turns in a fit to try and catch her. Giyuu is reminded of the twinges of mourning around his eyes as he fights the temptation to give into his distress, to cry and show the world that he is still in pain even after all these years. Yet he has no choice but form a concrete barrier behind his blue eyes— no chance for another heartbreak easily mistaken for condescension. He'd rather be neglected than recognized and to feel heartbreak again, to be brushed aside and hated than place the effort to try and reason.

Giyuu's fingers twitch when he sees the mismatched-haori, folded neatly by the door as a constant reminder of his loss. His eyes water and he feels the ocean wrap around his head again, drowning him as the cloth is draped over his body and around his arms, a coldness to it as it held him like one last hope for redemption.

Giyuu can't forgive himself for what he had done to the gods to deserve such a pitiful life, nor can he forgive the gods. All he can do is cry and fight for the sake of living, to endure a trillion cuts in order to feel something other than desolation and heartbreak.

He can hear voices when he leaves the Water Estate, but his senses are clouded with water and he can only breath.

"G.. good morning." He manages to say, but the Butterfly Assistants are already gone and Giyuu's voice is lost in the breeze.

[none of the images presented are illustrated by me, though the story is appreciative of the artworks.]