FORGIVING [tomioka giyuu]

three

He doesn't remember the last time he's cut his hair, it's length bothering him as it sticks to his sweat-shined forehead and cheeks.

He must look like a fool, eyes wavering and his fingers can't even still when he tries to ink down coherent words for whoever his crow takes it to, praying to Lady Luck that his source of conversation doesn't get lost and end up sending the letter to someone who wouldn't know what to do with it.

The crow is tottering atop his desk, clawed feet clacking against the wood much to the dislike of Giyuu's rather sensitive hearing at the moment, but the animal is oblivious as it tries to cheer up its human with a curious tilt of the head and gentle pecks at the shaking fingers.

The rain really did take a toll on him, because he woke up in at the entranceway to the front of his home with a fever and parched throat. Possibly from letting countless soundless-screams out at the constant images of his hand failing to grab Sabito's retreating one, at the treacherous audio of Makomo's body crushing like fall leaves. His scalp felt terrible, maybe from the multiple times he gripped at his hair so tightly to explain the strands that littered the floor of his estate.

His haste to change was quick, and only resulted in his outer-robes and haori to be discarded(though the haori was folded neatly where it always resides, haunting Giyuu every morning by the doorway), his leg gear halfhazardly tossed aside and his shaky fingers able to tug the band out of his hair. His sleep-wear drags against his skin as he tries to find comfort, hakama rolling up slowly with every toss and turn.

He knew how to take care of himself; he had to now that his sister wasn't there, now that Urokodaki isn't here. Yet as he sent his crow off hopefully towards Ubuyashiki with the finished letter.. he felt fatigue sneak into his limbs. Head still throbbing, he tried to relax into the futon even as his head was caked with sweat and his breaths came out labored.

It must've snuck up on him because of his risky eating habits, or the light sneezes he tried to hide behind his haori sleeve. It's not like anyone blesses him anyway.

Giyuu doesn't notice when he dozes off, but he can't get himself to wake up.

"Giyuu!" It's like history came to taunt him, taking the form of a peach-haired boy wielding a wooden sword. "If you don't get your sword form right soon, Urokodaki-san will never teach you the forms!"

That sounds fine to him surprisingly, because the Water Hashira believes that Sabito would've been a better Hashira, a better warrior, a better version of whatever Giyuu was. So seeing this innocent boy, just years before he was literally snatched out of Giyuu's arms— it makes his breath stop. Causes his heart to throb, eyes water.

Tears wet his eyes, and he can't help but reach out to the ghost. Yet he's been through this already, so many times and he will never remember that his hands won't touch the memory, that his fingers slip through Sabito like sand through the crevices of his fingers.

"Don't be too rough with him Sabito, Giyuu has just as much to learn as you do." It's a younger voice, more calmer and almost motherly. Blue eyes shimmer beneath the dreamscape's sunlight, and Makomo's smile is just as perfect as it was years ago. "Isn't that right, Giyuu?"

"Yes yes! I'll be just as strong as Sabito, as Urokodaki!" His own ghastly voice breaks his mourning, blue eyes glittering and face still molded with baby fat. His deceased sister's haori burying him and the two cuddling into his innocent form.

He remembers this promise, he remembers it like the back of his hand. Like the fabric of his haori, like his sword techniques.

Giyuu wakes up after what seems like eternity; eyes sticking together with dried tears and a cold wet cloth atop his sweaty forehead.

"Ara ara~," Someone coos, a soft splash of water following the sound. "Looks like Tomioka-san has awakened."

Shinobu, the person's mere voice makes his heart hurt. Anxious. Pained even.

Her older sister wasn't like this, yet every time the Water Hashira catches a glance of the shorter woman; she looks like Kanae more and more. Her sister would've been proud.

The thought of the late Flower Hashira, Giyuu's fingers clench underneath the futon blanket. He's always been so sensitive.

"Ah? Tomioka-san isn't going to thank me, even as I spend my lovely medication and time healing you?" The woman's voice erupts, waking the man from his trance. "You're quite lucky that Ubayashiki-san asked me to bother checking on you, I'd rather let you die!"

Shinobu's eyes are so empty as she stares at him from above, yet they swirl like gems colored like the wisteria outside. Her words have always pierced him, always pinched, even burned.

"It's okay Giyuu," Makomo's blue ones appear in his ill-haze. "Being sick doesn't make you any weaker, it quite possibly makes you even stronger."

Yet he doesn't feel hatred, Giyuu possibly feels acceptance. He is weak, weak as Shinobu comments underneath her breath, weak as his lungs crave oxygen, weak as his blood rushes to his face.

His spiky bangs stick to his wet forehead as she grabs the cloth, her dainty fingers wetting it and swapping it for a cleaner one. Despite her words, actions speak loud.

Giyuu can believe that she hates him, and she probably does— but she wants vengeance, peace, just like everyone else here in the Demon Slayer Corporations. His breathing grows ragged as she pulls away, wrist disappearing as the cold wetness was placed back atop his head.

"I'll be right back." Her voice sounds like bamboo flutes, melodic and so.. so much like someone he knew before.

Ocean-blue eyes glazed, lips parted in heavy breath, muscles sore from the slightest movements.. he sits up and a desperate grasp is landed on Shinobu's sleeve.

"Hey—" her face turns, and raking her mind is the obvious symptom of hallucinations; the Water Hashira's eyes watered and desperate, lips shaking like a child's.

Suddenly, Shinobu is witnessing something she's never seen before.

All those ocean-blue eyes can see is a flower-sewn haori, black shoulder-length hair, and a peaceful expression. Small hands pluck his shaking hand away, gentle, aware of how fragile he is. Makomo lays him back down, all while smiling as he holds back tears.

"Giyuu,"

He doesn't hear 'Tomioka', he hears his friend— a ghost.

"Sleep."

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