#like reader remarking how that same 'imprint' so to speak was worse than him outright saying he hated her bc it still have her hope

[undermine-the-instinct]

NEW FAV AUTHOR INCOMING

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Your wedding is a beautiful event.

Everything is arranged just so. Although it’s a small affair, only your own family joining you, it’s a grand event. You suppose that if your father has the money to spend he can do as he pleases. You don’t feel like you’re being held prisoner, or forced, but there isn’t much you have a say in about all of this.

You decide on smaller things. Carefully selecting the flowers that line the ceremony room. The scent of incense floats through the air. Natural, slightly muskier smells complement the florals. The candlelight bathes the room in softer yellow shades. It does little to battle the cold outside, though your heavy layers of cloth do well to warm your skin.

The robe, and accompanying headdress, are made from piles and piles of silk. They are hand-painted with soft pink camellias, outlined with a subtle silver. The pale colors melt perfectly into the rest of the white fabric. Your tsunokakushi accompanies it, made in the same expensive silk. The white stays perfect and pure, though fresh flowers are helping to accent it. The uniform weighs you down and helps to keep you from squirming. Nerves would get to anyone on a day like this.

Your husband is beautiful as everything else.

His raven hair is combed back, bangs brushed out from his face. The color blends in perfectly with the dark kimono. All the black points your focus towards his pale face and crystal blue eyes. They stare forward at the priest and paintings behind the altar.

He is a complete stranger to you.

Though you’ve only met the man once there’s a strange lack of apprehension. The first meeting didn’t even count, not really. It was negotiations and talks of money while you bowed timidly in the corner.

Despite the lack of any sort of acknowledgment you have some admiration for him. Silent and solitary he carries a sense of dignity. Knowing his occupation only makes your heart grows fonder.

The first time you touch him is as you exchange saki cups. His fingers barely brush against yours as the cups get passed over. The tiny touch sends electricity racing up your arm. Eyes softly evade your own piercing look.

Warmth makes its way down your throat with each sip. The alcohol isn’t enough to do anything more than heat your blood, but it’s a welcome feeling. Glancing over at Tomioka you admire his reddened cheeks. The thought of his lips touching the same cup that yours now linger on is embarrassing.

You wonder if the same feelings pass through the man as you drink from the second cup first.

Once more the cycle goes around. Giyuu drinks from the cup, his fingers brush yours, and you linger on the taste of his lips.

As each cup is whisked away you grow more and more nervous. The ceremony rushes by before your eyes. On the table, alongside other offerings, lie your wedding rings. They’re simple woven bands, a subtle golden white.

Giyuu’s mouth opens to recite his vows. His flat and quiet voice is soothing. The words disappear in your mind the moment they’re spoken. You don’t mind that the vows are simple and standard, inspired instead by the music of his tone. He never hesitates as he speaks the pages of words all tucked inside his mind.

The rest of the ceremony holds the same kind of quiet reverence.

Everyone performs their duty exactly as instructed. It passes by quickly without you even noticing. Offerings are brought forward, rings are exchanged. Your head is filled with rushing blood. As you’re shuffled the world around you warps and rushes.

Within a few moments, you have become a married woman.

A thin band sits on your finger. You can hardly remember the hand sliding the ring onto yours. The feeling grows until it nearly bursts your heart open. It’s a combination of joy and apprehension and a million other things that race through your mind.

There is not a single moment for you to rest. Even though there is no celebration afterward, you don’t get time to focus on anything that’s happening. Once you have completed all pieces of tradition, sent offers, and exchanged every bit of your life, you are whisked away to change. The excitement of all the women around leaves no room for a proper conversation. The dress you’re pulled into is simple, less intricate though just as elegant. It’s a softer blue, a strange combination of modern and traditional styles. Finally, you have graduated to shorter sleeves that don’t weigh down your arms quite as much.

Your hair is still done up in an awful complicated mess. Pins don’t quite stab your skull, but they come close. Later tonight you’ll have to spend hours undoing every decoration on your head and skin.

There is little to keep you distracted now. The tender hands of your mother and sisters continue to run over the fabric of your dress. It stands a few inches above the floor, unlike your wedding kimono which had to be carried. There is little they can do now too.

Outside the engine of a car roars to life. Your father should have loaded most of your luggage by now. Most of it is frivolous material possessions, clothes, trinkets, and anything else deemed important enough to carry into your next life.

Your husband is already seated. He does not glance at you as you exit your home.

The goodbyes are short. Your family already spent much of last night saying everything that could be said. There’s little to do now except hug and be sent off.

You climb into the seat beside Tomioka. He does not greet you. Hesitance floods through you for a moment, but in the end, you make no effort either. His silence is unsurprising.

In fact, the ride home is silent, as equally expected. A thousand questions are racing through your mind. Despite the excitement buzzing underneath your skin your lips stay sealed shut.

Holding your hands in your lap you force yourself to gaze out the window. It’s not your first time inside an automobile, but you find it fascinating how fast the scenery moves by.

Tomioka does not hold the same kind of interest. His eyes burn holes into the headrest in front of him. The stiffness he sits with is nearly funny. The man’s spine is perfectly straight, hands folded in front of him. If he notices your eyes occasionally flicker over to trace his face, he doesn’t say anything about it.

The driver in the front remains quiet too. He’s some friend of a friend of your father’s. Which makes him a complete stranger to you. You’re still glad for the company. You haven’t been alone with a man, only boys when you were small enough to not understand the importance of anything.

It occurs to you that you’ll have to get used to it. There’s a myriad of new experiences that you’ll face within such a short period of time. You don’t know whether to be excited or terrified.

—-

The car ride passes much too quickly. Although Tomioka’s estate is a good ways away from your smaller town, the car travels over the terrain with ease. Even as you pass through rural areas and up the large winding path to his home the machine never stutters in its ascent.

Just before you disappear into the small grove of trees, you pass a small town. Several of the residents look up into the car as you go by. One small child waves to you. Though you can’t particularly focus on anything, you try to map out the businesses and homes you see. Within the blink of an eye, you’re carried into the forest, eyes shielded from the town.

The last stretch of the journey is as grand as the house itself. A long pathway leads up to the gate, lined with stones and tall skinny trees. As you grow closer the flora only grows more spectacular. Bamboo begins to rise to accompany the rest of the scenery. It shoots up and stretches backward until you can’t see where it ends.

The gate hangs open, showing off a glimpse of the estate. It’s several floors tall, balconies coming off the side. The building leads perfectly into the stone garden, intertwined with a small river. Everything is grand and perfectly groomed. It looks like something out of a photograph rather than somewhere a human could live.

The car stops just beyond the front door. You remain immobile even as the engine shuts off. Without the rumbling of the automobile, it is completely silent. It’s engulfing. Every rustle of your clothes and shift against the seats is loud.

“I can take your bags inside.” It’s the first thing Giyuu has said to you, directly to you, all day.

Your lips grow suddenly dry. No response can be mustered other than a quick nod of your head. Internally you curse yourself.

Leaping down from the car you feel the stones move beneath your feet. With only a small second of delay, you make your way to the entrance.

The door would slide open easily. Your hands rest against the thick wood. Looking back Giyuu is still unloading your luggage from the trunk. Despite the size and volume of the bags, he manages to balance everything within his arms. Hoping to be at least somewhat helpful you decide to slide the door open.

Holding yourself off to the side you let the man pass you. His eyes still don’t stray even close to your face. Looking straight ahead he slows his pace slightly, just until you perk up and follow behind him.

Giyuu is still dressed in the dark and elegant groom’s kimono. The wide legs and arms obscure his true figure. You had seen a glimpse of it during your first meeting, less hidden underneath the form-fitting demon slayer’s uniform. His broad shoulders stretched the sleeves of the shirt, visible even below his unique haori.

Suddenly it occurs to you what most couples do on their wedding night. Almost dizzy you brush the thought from your mind. The idea of his muscular body is as enticing as it is terrifying. Those kinds of ideas should be saved for when you’re absolutely alone and can’t be caught in your shame.

Tomioka opens the door to (presumably) your bedroom with such force that you nearly scamper backward. If he was surprised by the clanging of the door he shows no visible reaction.

Looking around the space it’s… empty.

There’s a bed in the corner, covered in plain gray sheets. It’s accompanied by an equally boring nightstand and matching dresser made from dark wood. They’re perfectly square with perfectly round handles.

Everything is completely devoid of personality. You had noticed the blank hallways only accented with an occasional floral arrangement but assumed such a personal place would not carry the same stale feeling. This looks like the kind of place only a psychopath could live.

“This’ll be your room. It’s rather empty now, but you’re free to do what you’d like with the space.”

Again you can only nod.

He only stays for a mere moment to stack your luggage neatly in the corner. Without a word of goodbye, he disappears around the corner. The man only acknowledges you with a dip of his head. You have the feeling that this time you aren’t meant to follow him. You close the door slowly, silently, as he makes his exit.

Down the hallway, you hear another door open and shut. It feels like the period at the end of a sentence. The action effectively marks the end of your wedding day. The large window in the center of his room shows you the dark moon rising.

Though the thick layers of makeup on your face feel like they're melting and the kimono you wear is slightly too tight, you make no action to undo anything. You move carefully, making your way to the bed instead.

It’s almost frigid when you sit on it. The mattress is stiff beneath you, a clear lack of use. There’s a nightstand to your right. The drawers you check are all empty. When you move off the bed, it’s chill clinging to you, you check the dresser drawers as well. Those are empty too, it’s clear the place has not belonged to anyone else.

Following the outline of the your bedroom you find nothing other than plain white walls and dark trim. There’s a door that connects to a bathroom. In theory, it’s as grand as your bedroom, in the fact that it’s wide and spacious. The tub is large enough for a few people, sunken into the floor, and surrounded by stone. Snooping around the cabinets you find basic amenities and not much else.

As you fiddle with the faucet it sputters before spewing forth scalding water. You’re hand turns an angry red for a minute until the temperature shifts to something bearable. Watching water cover the pebbled bottom you sigh and turn back to your room.

Opening your luggage you sort through the piles of clothes until you find a soft cotton robe. You unbutton your dress slowly. In some way, you wish you could’ve been putting on a show for someone. Underneath your kimono, you wear a sinful chiffon slip. It’s hidden below several other layers of fabric, that you slowly reveal with no one to see.

The light pink fabric casts a light shadow over your breasts. Along the edges, it’s patterned with frills and ribbons. The slip was one last gift from your mother, opened only in the privacy of your own room. Stripped down almost bare you can feel the air tickle your skin.

Making your way back to the bathroom you remain in the gentle slip. As water crashes down to continually fill the tub, steam rises to warm your chilly skin. Though the small set is beautiful, it does little to keep heat in.

The only other article of clothing remaining is your thin socks. Slipping them off you test the water again, perfectly heated. Soon after the translucent slip disappears too. You’ll banish it to the back of your drawers soon after, no reason to try it on again.

Sinking into the tub you rub at your face first. White and red and pink mix with the water. As heat and steam engulf you, you keep rubbing until your skin feels raw. You pull pins from your hair after you’ve effectively taken off a few layers of skin from your face. They scrape over the fragile top of your head, hair coming undone in tendrils. There’s an awful throbbing behind your temples, blood rushing to the tender spots on your scalp. You can hardly touch the area without wincing in pain. It’s hard to decide whether putting on the ensemble or taking it off was more painful.

You soak until the water is barely warm and your fingers are wrinkled. The soft floral scents of whatever soap was under the cabinet have soothed you somewhat. Tears, from physical pain or emotional, have fed the bath and let its line grow up to your chin. It weighs down heavily on your chest until you push yourself out from the water and take a clean breath.

The shock of cool air is awful on your way out. It strips you of everything again, shivering as you stalk back to your luggage.

You pull on a heavier robe, something to protect your wet and naked body It’s mostly plain, only accented with patterned edges. You had a softer and prettier one right on top of everything. Seeing as you’ll be bedding alone tonight you choose what’s more comfortable. You haven’t heard a single noise from anyone since you were essentially dumped into your room.

The bed is still cold. It’s a Western-style frame, lifted up from the ground and leaving you aloft. Springs seem to pierce into you from below.

As you drag yourself into bed alone you finally feel something familiar. It creeps in during the quiet night when everything is perfectly still. You’re not quite alert, but nowhere near sleep either. No matter how much you try, your eyes can’t close. They stare across the bed towards the wall, an empty side waiting to be filled.

Lying on your side it squeezes wetness from your eye. It’s not tears, but feeling the water trace your cheeks, inspires real sadness in their wake. Stubborn, you refuse to curl up into the sorrow. With a stone face, you let the pillow soak up the tears. They haven’t dried by the time you finally fall asleep.

—-

In the morning you feel no grogginess. There are no clocks within the room, but the outside window tells you that it’s later in the day. You move quicker than last night, putting on a much simpler kimono, barely messing with your hair. You still bother with makeup, making sure you look at least somewhat proper.

It’s quiet as you peer out into the hallway. With no lights on it’s painted in a dusty blue hue. There’s only a sliver of light coming from the window, which fails to illuminate the edges of the walls. There’s a light switch towards the end of the wall, which you creep out to flip on.

The hum of electricity sparks to life a row of lights. They produce a warm golden glow that inspires you to wake up further. Looking down the hall you assume one of the doors towards the end belongs to Tomioka’s room. All the spaces look the same.

Turning away you trace your way back through the route Giyuu had taken you down the way before. As you walk nearly silently you keep your ears out for the sound of another human.

Yesterday’s tour, if it could be called that, only covered the most basic of rooms. Dragging your hand against the wall you trace your way to the kitchen.

Going through the cabinets you find a pitiful amount of food. It’s mostly dried materials, beans, and rice, alongside a few fresh vegetables that already look slightly wilted. The sight isn’t completely unappetizing on its own, but coupled with the empty feeling in your stomach you wish you had something already done. You start some oats right away and chew some dry carrots in the meantime. They do nothing to fill you.

Almost immediately you’re already visualizing a list of things to buy. More veggies, fresh fruit, and probably a treat or two to try and satisfy your insatiable sweet tooth. Thinking about food only serves to make you hungrier, for now, you try and distract yourself with thoughts of anything else.

Listening quietly you hear nothing besides the sizzling of the porridge. There’s no creaking of wood down the hall. As hard as you try you can’t sense the presence of any other person. The idea that Giyuu has already left the house seems unlikely, but it also seems that you don’t know much about his habits at all.

Still, the silence remains throughout breakfast. The porridge is bland despite the brown sugar and cinnamon you’ve mixed in. Fresh fruit is definitely at the top of your list. The paste moves down your throat at a slow pace.

You barely finish a few bites of the meal before brushing it off to the side. Your stomach is still empty, but you can’t bring yourself to eat anymore. Though you should force yourself to eat more, something substantial, you can barely push the food around in the bowl.

Instead, you stumble around the house trying to find anything. Each room is blank and empty, and that’s without even traveling upstairs. It’s not anything different than what you saw yesterday, white walls and dark wood and nothing else.

You don’t bother with looking around more, expecting to find most of the same. Instead, you wander back toward the direction of your room. There’s not much waiting for you there, but you can at least busy yourself with unpacking.

You find a note stuck to the door when you make your way toward it. If it was there before you must’ve missed it.

‘Gone on a mission, will be back.’

And you suppose that’s that.

—-

He’s gone for long stretches of time. Though nothing is ever explained to you, some things become clear through observation. A paycheck comes every few days, you assume whenever he’s finished slaying whatever creature he’s been sent after. Tomioka arrives home only once a month at most, usually after long stretches of silence. If you’re lucky his crow will be sent ahead to announce his presence.

The bird ends up being a better companion than his owner in many ways. The crow, Kanzaburou, is old. He’s senile in the way an old man is, sweet and a bit air-headed. In many ways, he has more personality than your husband.

None of that changes the fact that you spend most days alone. Every single one since the first seem both eternal and yet much too quick. With little to keep you busy once things are put into place, you feel as if you’re going insane. Cleaning only takes up so much time, and there is little you can dirty on your own. The two or so dishes you use in a day take a week to fill up the sink. There’s no point in changing, not most days, but even then your laundry doesn’t fill up often. Sometimes you purposefully spill something just to have an actual purpose to your scrubbing.

Nothing changes when Giyuu comes home, not the first time or second or third. He hides inside his room. The only sign he even exists is the food that disappears from the freezer and cabinets. You always make extra meals, things with real substance, and those disappear too. Whether he actually enjoys your cooking is a complete mystery.

At first, you try to remain in common areas, with the small hope that he’ll stumble across you. You save most of your cleaning for the time he is home, simply for appearing useful. Standing outside to hang up sheets or sitting in the living room to rearrange the florals could entice him out.

Within the first few months, you give up.

If Giyuu does ever stumble upon you he’s quick to mumble an excuse and exit. Every time you feel scorned and scolded, despite the man’s gentle nature. You resign to hiding within your room. Despite your attempts to bring some color into the area it still feels rather depressing in there.

For a long time, you coexist in that quiet sort of way. You hate it more than if he just admitted to despising you, or didn’t come home at all. It’s the barest hope that something will change, keeping you strung along and nearly begging that he’ll even talk to you one day.

Not even the small town can comfort your lonely soul. Most of the typical shop owners and citizens seem wary of your presence. They conduct business and make small talk, but do almost nothing else. Your shyness engulfs you before you can even consider reaching out for company.

The weeks pass in a bit of a blur. The only contact you get is from Giyuu’s crow. He comes unpredictably, and yet somehow remains a single constant within your life besides the loneliness. You look forward to the sound of his slightly too screechy calls more than you do the paycheck he brings.

Most of the money stays put anyways. It’s more than you could ever know what to do with. Even after spending an extravagant amount, you have piles of it left. The things you do spend it on go towards brightening up your home. Collecting anything that captures your eye has become a common practice. Tapestries and paintings and all kinds of knickknacks cover the walls of your home. You buy things in bright colors to contrast the pale walls and dark ceilings. Your room is the worst case of this, crammed completely full of anything remotely beautiful.

If Tomioka dislikes the changes he again says nothing. If you hadn’t heard him speak wedding vows you’d be convinced the man was mute. Almost nothing else gives away his emotions either. No longer above spying, you try to peek and see any sort of twitch in his features. On occasion, he’ll pause his trek down the hallway and gaze at a new addition to the area. Despite this, you can’t tell if his blank eyes express any kind of adoration or distaste.

Your mental state is much more apparent. Tears become a common companion. They creep up suddenly when you’re cooking or leaving the town or just trying to sleep. It’s annoying more than anything. You’re already painfully aware of the fact that you’re not particularly happy. A reminder does nothing for you.

It gets worse when Giyuu is home. You can’t help the way your sobs increase in volume when his shadow moves over your door. Sometimes you swear he lingers there.

After that, you try to rebel, or at least do something interesting enough to spice up your days. Sometimes you’ll buy hideous decor, clashing curtains that sit in the living room, or twisted vases. You even start venturing into Giyuu’s room.

It’s the one place you haven’t entered. As you push the door open you’re surprised by how crowded the room is. The walls are still relatively blank, but they don’t feel empty. There’s a desk in the corner, it’s covered in papers that you at least have the sense to let be. On the opposite side of the room sits a bookshelf, though the stories that lie in there seem almost random. There’s an assortment of genres, action and romance and tragedies, and an assortment of styles. There are a few books even written in English, alongside one in what you think is Mandarin, though that one looks untouched. Occasionally you’ll steal one for a night or two. Most of the stories are in good condition. When you stumble across a dog-eared page or wrinkled edge you’re pleased by the touch of humanity. Still, when you tear through each book you’re left much in the same position by the end.

His closet is full of mostly extra uniforms. There are a few casual clothes, mostly in dark blues. He seems partial to the color, though the haori he wears constantly is a shocking red. In the corner, his groom's outfit has been carefully folded and stored. You suppose there’s no reason he’d need to hang it, having fulfilled its use.

There’s not much else there. Tomioka uses a futon, that sits folded up in the corner. Your room came with a Western-style bed, and you don’t care enough to push it out somewhere and replace it. His is a simple black, with no pattern other than the small grid made from the stitches.

One night you sleep on it. The mattress in your room is slightly too soft, you prefer the firm feel of sleeping over tatami flooring. With your face surrounded by fabric, you catch the scent woven within it. It’s musky and a little salty but in a pleasant way. The smell is outdoorsy, not dirty, but rather a natural tone. Underneath all of that is the scent of wisteria. All of it wound together is rather pleasant. You feel slightly less alone, being surrounded by the warm fabric that’s different enough to be new without sacrificing the comfort of its familiarity.

It becomes a habit.

You creep into his room once a week or so to cuddle in the space. Often you enter with some excuse, to dust his shelves or pick out a new book or leave any trace of your presence. Shambling around for a bit and doing much of nothing you wait until the sun rests on the horizon.

Once you notice, you pull out the futon. It doesn’t carry the same scent the third or fourth time you tuck into the sheets, but it’s still warmer than your bed. You stick your face into the pillows to try and let the smell linger.

You’re terrified of him coming home to you sleeping in that bed. It’s not the thought of him getting angry, but the embarrassment of it all. You feel like a child sneaking into her mother’s room rather than a proper wife. The feeling is mostly constant, only ebbing away as you sleep.

—-

You’re surprised that life can be this stagnant. Wallowing in your sorrow doesn’t do much other than dig a deeper hole.

There is some quiet joy to be found. Beyond the house, there are calm gardens. When the sun is out and the wind isn’t strong you find more comfort outside than trapped within the walls.

Living so far away from everything has one advantage. Not only do you have acres of sprawling forest to explore, but it tends to attract all kinds of wildlife. The chatter of birds sounds human enough to keep you company. If you’re lucky they’ll come so close you can feel the beat of their wings.

As the weather slowly gets warmer your mood lifts as well. You turn your thoughts away from your husband's absence, the loneliness slowly easing its touch on you. There are still sudden pangs of regret when you get a coin bag with no letter, or the sound of his footsteps passing you, but the days without him aren’t so unbearable.

The habit of you sleeping in his bed isn’t broken, if anything you start to spend nearly every night there. There’s a certain pattern to when he comes home, usually a week or so after his crow gifts you his paycheck. It’s a gamble if he’ll return or simply be set off on another mission, but either way, you learn to hide away in your own room.

You’re careful to leave his room mostly alone. Though you dust the few shelves and scrub the floors you strive to make your presence there unnoticed. It appears to be working, but again you’re mostly left in the dark about his thoughts.

The town remains just as wary, though more used to your presence. A few of the shopkeepers who you visit often enough smile as you sort through the wares.

Routine builds a softer kind of comfort, one that doesn’t brush away any of the other sorrows, but mutes the noise of them somewhat.

—-

And just as you settle an abrupt change knocks you off your feet. Tomioka coming home isn’t a particularly new development. You’re in the middle of preparing dinner, barely looking over as he passes by the doorway. You don’t even move until he’s out of sight, moving to peek at his back beyond the door.

As you approach you notice the spattering of blood sinking into the tatami. Looking upwards you notice his shamble of a walk. His uniform is missing a sleeve, arm wrapped sloppily with bandages. Blood has soaked through as it's slipping down his hand, leaving a trail behind.

If he hears your loud gasp he doesn’t signify it in any way. Instead, the man wanders towards his room while you retreat back into the kitchen. You stare at the pot of curry sizzling over the stove. You can’t focus on the food, although the smell of it is incredibly enticing. With shaky hands you attempt to stir the meal, even raising a spoon to taste it. You hope the spice will entice you more and attract your attention, but the combination of meat and curry powder is a beautiful deep red color that looks a little too much like blood.

Eventually, you have to force yourself away, your stomach twisting in knots. Still striving to be useful, even after months of being ignored, you instead fill a bowl with cold water and grab some washcloths. You move far too slowly, held back by hesitance. There’s a clear line of red that points you toward his room. It pulls you forward slowly. In the back of your mind, you mourn the freshly cleaned flooring.

Without knocking, slight fear in the response you’ll get, you nudge the door to the side. Barely peeking through you spot him laying in the corner of the room. He hasn’t unfolded the futon, rather leaning against the block of fabric.

As you move in slowly his eyes flicker toward you. Even from his far position in the corner, you can hear his labored breathing. Holding back a whimper at the sight of blood you approach the man more like you would a wounded animal.

Absolute silence engulfs the room, even as you sit beside him. You’re worried that you won’t be able to speak at all, throat sealed shut from misuse. Words bubble up until they finally loosen the cement keeping your lips closed.

“Can I help?”

The words are deviously simple, quiet, and barely audible. Despite the dry whisper that struggles out from out, the noise seems to take over everything else. The only other thing you hear is your heartbeat within your ears.

Giyuu seems to consider your question earnestly. As he shifts you can see the way his brows knit together, drawing closer whenever his arms shifts. “I admit that bandaging the wound was much more difficult with only one hand.” It’s not exactly a direct answer, but the way his body relaxes slightly seems to indicate a yes.

You still move a little too slowly. Watching the ground you’re careful to not let the water spill, while also trying to stop yourself from staring too hard at the crimson staining. Your sleeves are already pulled back, hands dipping into the bowl of water to grab the towel within it.

The warmth calms your nerves only slightly. It emboldens you to find the edge of the bandages and unwind. You’re surprisingly unbothered by the sight underneath, a mass of blood and flesh that is mostly unrecognizable.

The wounds are long stripes that wind down his arm. They don’t seem to be particularly deep, or even wide, but there’s a myriad of them stretching down the limb. Some of the smallest ones have already clotted. The largest are still spewing out red.

“You should get stitches for these.” It’s amazing that he even walked home in this condition. You’re not very aware of the inner workings of the demon slayer corps. Some knowledge was granted to you by your father, other things overheard in conversation. At the very least you know that they are prepared to treat injuries.

Despite your light chastisement (which receives no response) you still pull the soft cloth from the water. Fresh blood oozes out as you rub away the dirt and slightly crusted scabs. The sight gets worse to look at when it’s not hidden behind gauze.

There’s absolute silence taking over again. You’re too nervous to look up and possibly meet his eyes, instead focusing solely on his arm. Though you’re no professional you manage to wipe off most of the blood. It’s slowed down to a weak dribble, that stops when you put a slight amount of pressure on it.

You’ve piled the old bandages off to the side. They don’t look very old, but considering the state they’re in, you’re not very inclined to reuse them.

“There’s more in the bathroom.” Tomioka gestures off to the side. “2nd cabinet below the sink.”

You trot off with your head low. It's tempting to snoop, already having indulged in the bad habit plenty. Brushing the thought away, you dig through the medical supplies until you can find the roll of bandage.

He hasn’t moved a single inch in the quick minutes you’ve been gone. Tomioka’s eyes again look anywhere that isn’t where you are. Even as you hold his arm and feel the warmth of blood rushing through it, he acts more like a doll than anything.

You work slowly. Though you don’t have much experience, wrapping the gauze around his arm isn’t too difficult. At the very least it’s leagues better than the sloppy job he did himself.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Internally you’re begging for a reason to linger. His skin is still hot against your fingers. The pale skin is deceptive, giving him a cool appearance. Your eyes are tracing his hands, imagining them pressed against your own.

As your sight flickers towards his other side, you notice the fabric balled up in his fist. It’s the two-toned haori you normally see the man wearing. You hadn’t noticed its absence earlier.

He still hasn’t answered. You dare to prompt him a second time. “Or I could clean that for you.” You’re surprised that the man chooses this moment to look directly at you. For once you can read the emotion on his face, see the surprise in his blue eyes.

“It’s fine.” His voice sounds a little dry. “I’m sure the fabric is ruined.”

It’s easy to keep talking, now that you’ve dared to open your lips. “Oh, I’m sure I can fix it! If it’s blood you’re worried about then that’s no problem.” The tone you chose is perhaps too cheerful, but you feel a bit excited and the prospect of being truly helpful.

Tomioka’s fist loosens slightly. “I’m sure it’ll be a struggle, but there’s not much that could make it worst at least.” He’s not very encouraging, which you try to not let dampen your mood.

As you pull it from his grasp you can already tell the fabric is in tatters. The soft maroon sleeve has turned into strings of fabric dyed burgundy from blood. Some parts are crusted together, other pieces are barely attached by a thread. You certainly have your work cut out for you.

With one last smile, you carefully fold the haori and leave his room.

—-

You still can’t tell if you like the change or not. Tomioka still seems set on seeing you as little as possible. You bring him dinner and on occasion rewrap his bandages, but other than that he likes to hole up in his room.

His haori keeps you busy most of the time. It takes 3 washes just to get the blood out, carefully peeling the red free from the thin threads. As you wash you ultimately decide to chop off some of the strings that barely cling on. Anything thinner than the width of your finger gets discarded, a pile to find its place somewhere else.

Weaving the salvageable pieces back together is a near-impossible task. Trying your best to make the seams invisible you carefully line up each thread. Staring so intensely at the woven pattern makes your eyes water. It’s hard work to make sure the needle punctures exactly where it needs to so the flow remains. Several times you puncture the skin on your fingers. It’s never deep enough to pull blood out, but it turns your skin a bright throbbing red.

Even with the careful work only about a fourth of the sleeve can be salvaged. It’s a pitiful sight, strings hanging from the short shoulder. Days of work and sore thumbs have amounted to only a few inches of fabric.

You try to color-match the piece so you can fix the rest. It’s a difficult color, softened with years of use and age. Even when you bring the hoari along with you all the colors you find are too bright.

It’s twice as expensive to get something custom dyed, but you don’t have the expertise to do it yourself. You certainly have the money for it, coins and bills shoved away in the back of your drawers. Though the order adds a few weeks to your small project, you can’t settle for anything less than perfect.

Tomioka says nothing about the piece. He spots you once scrubbing away the blood outside. At that moment he stays for a few short seconds, watching your hands work. They’re dry from the rough cleaning chemicals and wrinkled from the soapy water.

—-

Just as your hands stop twitching and aching the replacement fabric arrives. Tomioka leaves sometime while you’re waiting for the package. The briefest contact keeps your heart light, even as the solitude creeps back in. There’s an actual purpose to your actions now, something to take up hours of your time.

The few short yards of burgundy fabric that arrive are still slightly too bright. It’s the shine of new cloth that differentiates it from the well-worn pieces. Regardless you go through the same tedious act of lining up the woven fabric and sewing it together.

There’s a thin line that marks the transition. Once you step a few feet away it’s harder to mark where the difference begins. The work is good, but you can only scrutinize it with the patterns burned into your eyes.

Several mistakes are clear over the rest of the fabric. They’re not your own doing, more likely Giyuu’s attempts to fix earlier tears. It’s cute to see the fumbles stitches, done in a hideous dark black. In most places, it stands out clearly from the pattern, even more so with the blank side.

You decide to fix those pieces, using a gentle green or maroon when appropriate. Though the seam holding the two pieces together makes you cringe, you don’t touch the threads. It’s uneven, both in length of the stitches and space between them. The other “fixes” were clumsy too, but the lines here seem childish almost. You’re sure that the pieces of Giyuu’s haori were bound together by the man himself.

As tempting as it is to make the piece look brand new, there’s history in its torn edges and paling fabric. You wonder if he’d tell you the story behind it.

Probably not.

—-

You haven’t entered Tomioka’s room in quite some time. After he was home for a few short weeks you grew too embarrassed about the actions. In your arms, you carry his carefully folded haori. After giving it one last wash you have no more reason to mess with it. If anything, picking at your work will just ruin it.

Ultimately you let it rest atop his desk. You think for a moment about hanging it up in the closet, but it feels too embarrassing to let him know about your snooping, even inadvertently.

Back inside the room, warmed from the sun and painted in a low gold, you’re tempted to wrap yourself up in his futon again.

For some time you repeat your old routine. After over a month without indulging yourself in old ways, the process comes a little unnaturally. You dust his shelves, fingers dancing over his array of trinkets. They seem almost random, stuffed dolls and broken pieces of painted wood. You’re extremely careful as you move them to clean.

It’s hard to keep yourself busy as you did before. You entered his room earlier in the day, not expecting to be tempted again by the lull of sleeping enveloped in traces of your husband’s warmth.

Still, as you manage to keep yourself busy the sun slowly drifts downwards. It’s on the opposite side of the window, but you can see the moon rise in turn. Though the sky isn’t particularly dark, your quick to pull out the futon.

Before you tuck yourself fully into bed you draw another book from his small shelves. For a few hours, you’ll be able to keep yourself busy with stories. Once it gets truly dark you can simply slide under the sheets and fall asleep.

—-

Beyond the edges of your consciousness, there’s movement that grows steadily louder as it urges you to wake. Eyes open slowly, useless in the dark. Instead, you wave a hand in front of yourself, which is also mostly useless.

It takes a moment for you to adjust to the dim room. As your pupils dilate there’s a sudden figure standing on the edge of the futon. With your position on the floor, he towers over you, face invisible still.

Thinking through the sleep you let your hand sweep over the floor. It bumps into the man’s ankles, forcing you to pull back.

A startled gasp leaves your lips as you move further into consciousness. You don’t scream, but you’re immediately on edge. Panicking, you mostly flail around for a bit until you realize it’s Tomioka standing before you. He’s tilted his face down to stare at you, letting you recognize him even within the darkness.

Instead of the tired fear you felt before, you’re mostly filled with shame. It’s the worst amalgamation of all your fears, caught cuddled up in his sheets.

For a moment you’re unsure of how to proceed. You’re mostly frozen for now, clutching his blankets against your chest.

“S-sorry!” The word comes out quietly, muffled by the lingering sleep in your head. It’s hard to think, brain muddled by all sorts of different things. If Giyuu would speak for once it’d let you put your thoughts in order.

You don’t know why he’s still staring at you. It’s hard to find his eyes, clouded by darkness. The dim lighting masks any emotion you could hope to find on his face.

As the adrenaline leaves your body you’re left feeling tired again. Rubbing your eyes, it seemingly prompts him to move again. The situation had somewhat halted in the pauses between your words.

“I’ll leave.” There’s a certain air to his voice, not angry, but certainly not welcoming either. You’re still not fully awake, a glance towards the window tells you that it’s too early to be awake. There’s possibly a shimmer of pale blue that signals the sun's arrival, but it won’t develop into an actual light until much later. It explains the bleariness in your eyes.

You look like a ghost as you sit up, fabric wrapping around your form. Hair hangs over your head, reaching downwards.

Halting his actions you mumble a combination of words that doesn’t really make sense. There’s a “wait” buried somewhere in there, which is what makes the man pause. You have nothing to follow the sentence up with, still trying to figure out exactly what’s going on.

You’re still shocked by embarrassment. Giyuu has finally stumbled upon you hiding in his bed. The habit was bound to get you caught eventually, so of course it happens right as you start up the trend again.

The room is filled with silence as you try to jumpstart your brain. “I’m uh-“ You pause again. Averting your eyes you find the words again. “I’m the one who’s intruding. I shouldn’t have…” Trailing off you stare at the ground again.

Your chest fills up with something akin to shame. It’s slightly less painful than before, but as your hands hold your face you can feel the blood rushing to your cheeks.

He completely ignores your blubbering. “You fixed my haori.” The sudden topic change catches you off guard. It brings your eyes back to him, despite the fact that your heart is still racing.

Furrowing your brows you nod. “I said I would.”

“It was ruined.”

Your brain is working very hard. “It was hard, but I didn’t mind the work. I don’t think that excuses me being so intrusive.”

“Thank you.” His voice is hoarse, barely audible. You can see that he holds the cloak in

his hands. They grip the fabric so tightly you’re worried it might rip again. The show of emotion renders you silent.

As the room settles back down you shuffle your robes around you and move to stand up. “I can um-“ You lick your lips. At a constant loss for words, you vaguely gesture toward the door.

Tomioka moves back to the conversation at hand. Though his fingers continue to skate over the fabric his eyes turn back to you. “You can stay where you like, the house is as much yours as it is mine.”

That really isn’t true at all. Tomioka pays for everything, in money and blood. Your only contribution is decorating and occasionally throwing a fit in one of the rooms.

“I didn’t think you’d want me here. I should’ve asked but I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me either.” The truth slips through your lips easily. You can’t quite look him in the eye, but you don’t hide from his gaze either. Stepping self-consciously off the futon you shiver at the cold wood against the soles of your feet.

When you steal a glance at the man you’re surprised at the confused look on his face. Giyuu’s mouth is pulled into a slight pout, head tilted. It’s an attractive look, a distracted part of you points out. It’s times like this that you don’t mind being married to him.

Shaking off the thoughts you open your mouth again. “You gave me my own room, so I guessed that you wanted me there.” You dig your nails into your palms. “And you didn’t talk to me after or anything.” Remembering the feeling makes your heart squeeze. Tears well up in the corner of your eyes.

“I thought you hated me.” He admits it so simply. There’s no regret in his voice about the sentiment. The thought forces a whimper from your throat.

“What?” Your voice is wobbly.

Carefully the man sinks to his knees. guiding you down with him. One fist clings to his wrist. The other ends up wound in the fabric of your sleeping gown.

Tomioka at least seems softer about this bit. “You cry often.”

Calming down you try to focus on the feeling of his arm on your back. You’re glad you’re wearing one of your worse kimonos because the sleeves have become impromptu handkerchiefs. With the sudden onslaught of your tears, you’re left unprepared. You’re not sure whether it’s the result of your body begging to go back to sleep or the wave of months of emotions catching up on you. It’s probably a combination of both. Using the piles of fabric you wipe at your nose and under your eyes.

“I thought you hated me because you didn’t talk to me at all, ‘nd you made me stay in another room, ‘nd you’re always gone.” He looks a little pained, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. “And you never sent letters. So I was just stuck here all alone and I thought I would die.” The last part isn’t true, but you’re small tears have started to turn into full-on sobs.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Giyuu sounds much more unsure of himself. His fingers on you twitch whenever your back shakes. It’s horrible reasoning considering that he’s already married to you in the first place. You say as much to him.

Tomioka is showing the biggest amount of emotion possible. His face is twisted into an expression that suggests deep thoughts. It’s nearly enough to shock you out of the sadness, but not quite.

Under his breath, he mumbles an apology. It’s not very meaningful, but you suppose he’s at least trying. You continue to rub at your face, trying to stall your tears.

For a moment you simply sit, facing each other. Though you can’t bring yourself to look anywhere other than your lap. A hand finds its way to your back, creeping hesitantly. You can’t think of a time he’s willingly touched you otherwise.

Finally, overcome you fling yourself into his side. With the sturdiness of his uniform, it’s not particularly soft against your face, but heat radiates from his body. Tomioka doesn’t hold you particularly tight. His other arm wraps around your back, though the grasp is loose and hesitant.

Whether he cares about your tears or not he doesn’t seem to mind that you’ve seated yourself in his lap. Your crying shows no signs of stopping anytime soon, built up behind months of feeling stuck. It’s a horrible mess of wet and snot and a very ugly grimace that you’re glad is hidden.

His hands eventually wander up to your hair, ghosting over the top of your scalp. You can feel how rough they are now, covered in callouses. They’re warm against your head. Almost fiery hot they brush back stray hairs.

Focusing on the repetitive feeling of his hand, alongside the steady beating of his heart, you’re able to stop the tears. A small hiccup or gasp manages to leave you every few seconds, but it’s much less intense than before.

Not very inclined to move, you’re content to keep your face buried within the body in front of you. His hands don’t stop their gentle motions even as you stop your small noises. It’s perhaps the most comfortable you’ve felt in a very long time. Giyuu smells like his futon, but a thousand times more powerful.

As your eyes dry they also begin to drag downward. It’s the inevitable end to every single one of your emotional explosions. Your arms are drooping, their grasp loosening. Distantly you realize that you should move, excuse yourself to your room or do anything to move. Instead, you bury yourself deeper into his chest.

As he begins to move you almost pull yourself back from him. Arms flex around you and tighten their hold. Just when you muster the energy to uncurl your fingers and force your eyes back open, he lifts you up. You’re not surprised by the strength, you’ve seen it before, but it does set a little shock through your stomach.

Suddenly you’re not very inclined to do much of anything.

If he notices the way your hands dig back into his shirt, he doesn’t say anything. You’re pleased by the feeling of muscles flexing around you. Giyuu’s actions aren’t entirely discernible, not from your position, but the way he moves is slightly soothing. It’s reminiscent of being rocked to sleep, his movements graceful.

You let yourself remain in the limbo between rest and wakefulness. The edges of the world ebb away until you’re sat back down, nestled within his futon. It’s been smoothed again, rustled from your whining. It offers the same comfort it always has once you’re enveloped within the warm sheets. As his arms pull away from you, your lips form a ghost of his name.

—-

In the morning you keep your eyes shut for as long as possible. Your mind has snapped awake, reminding you of last night's events. There’s a dryness around your eyes from where your tears have evaporated. As tempting as it is to reach a hand up to rub away the grogginess you keep them in place for now.

Feeling your surroundings gives you almost no clues. All you know is that it is very warm, and you are very comfortable. Slowly you let your eyes barely peek open, a small slit to peer through.

Giyuu is lying next to you, in the sense that he is curled up in on himself at the opposite end of the futon. It’s not a very great length, but the gap between your bodies stretches endlessly in your mind. His back faces you, to which you let your eyes open almost fully. There are small imperfections to his posture, his spine shifting with his breath. It's a slow movement, a reassurance that he’s still slumbering.

You don’t trust yourself to escape without notice. Every sound you make as you settle seems to make the man pause. You’re not sure what that might accomplish either, the events from the night before too embarrassing to accept, but too poignant to ignore.

Softly you let your body relax again. For now, you’re content to watch his body move slightly with each breath. It’s convincing to reach across the gap and feel the warmth you’ve longed for more directly.

Is peaceful, the sun still low enough to not pierce through the window. It still allows faint light inside, illuminating the area.

You’re feeling surprisingly well-rested. There’s a deep calmness in your bones. Lazing about in the bed feels nice, natural. It reminds you of celebrations back home when you were free from responsibilities. There are whispers of summer streaming through the window.

For a few moments, you bask in the light starting to make its way across the floor. lt caresses your face and finally prompts you to move.

Slowly you rise upwards. Tomioka seems to rest still, unmoving. Slowly you creep out of the room, and back towards your own.

It’s chilly in your room, making the hairs on your neck stand on end. With the window facing West, no sun will warm it until the evening. The temperature makes the changing process nearly impossible. Your holding your chest, shivering before you can slip on another dress. Bouncing on your feet you shuffle around until you’re fully clothed again.

It’s easy to move around the house with a light heart. Whether Tomioka has awoken yet or not is a thought that hardly crosses your mind as you cook. Mostly you hope he’ll dine with you, tired of eating in months of silence.

Your hands move quickly as you shuffle around rooting through cabinets. Over time you’ve switched to much more appetizing meals than rice porridge. For today, with your want for a quick breakfast, you mostly work with eggs and fried rice. Throwing in a couple of diced peppers and onions your stomach growls as the sizzling veggies.

The presentation is important to you too. It feels like you’re actually doing something, being a wife. Maybe. You still don’t know if this is right, but you shared a bed last night with your husband. He wasn’t particularly close, but closer than a hallway and walls that separated you before.

So you balance the plates on your arms and move carefully back towards his room. The sense of nervousness creeps up again but isn’t as fierce as before. It at least isn’t enough to deter you from using your foot to slide the door open.

Tomioka has finally risen. His hair is sticking in all sorts of directions, sleep evident in his eyes. You’re surprised at how late he’s slept in.

“Good morning.” A blush creeps back onto your cheeks. It raises your temperature by a few degrees at least, bringing warmth to your face.

“I uh-“ Your mouth is suddenly dry. “I brought food.” The words come out a shy squeak. For a moment the plates wobble in your hold until you square your shoulders and regain control.

He regards you with a surprising amount of warmth, what you think is warmth at least. It’s not indifference, or anger, something kinder.

“Thank you.” He doesn’t smile as he talks, not exactly a frown either. The man exists in the crevices between emotions, which is how he manages to be completely indecipherable most of the time.

You manage to look somewhat graceful as you lower yourself, plates still balancing in your hands. Once you’re close enough he swipes one from your hand, instead letting it sit in his lap.

“You can eat with me,” Giyuu says in a matter-of-fact way that makes your eyebrows raise. He waits for only a second, letting the silence hang, before continuing. “I thought I should be more direct.”

His explanation forces a small light laugh from your lips. “Right, I’m glad. I’ll be sure to do the same.” The corner of his eyes curl up, even though his lips don’t form a smile quite yet. You’re not even sure if he can smile, maybe the man has some sort of disease.

He eats though. And though he’s careful there are little bits of rice stuck to his face. In the corner of his mouth is a little line of ketchup. It’s such a human sight, a clumsy eater that doesn’t know anything about romance or women. There’s some sadness too, the lack of proper social understanding, formed by a life dedicated to fighting.

Realizing the fact that you’re staring quite obviously (something that he somehow does not notice) you look down to eat your own food. The sound of chewing is slightly grating on your ears, but you cannot muster up anymore to say.

Within just a few moments, when you’ve only finished a few bites of food, his fork is scraping against the plates. There’s a decent amount of rice still scattered over his face, some on the floor and his shirt, but most seem to have made it into his mouth. It’s hard not to laugh at the sight, of crumbs sticking to the corner of his lips. Though you’re able to remain silent, your nose scrunches up, eyes narrowing as your lips tug upwards.

“I can make more if you’d like.”

Tomioka still seems half-asleep as he turns to you. “It’s fine.” Despite his appearance, the man’s voice is soft and even. “But I did enjoy it.”

Your lips move into an even bigger smile. It’s half hidden behind your hand, fear of food stuck in your teeth, but the message is still translated clearly. “Did you like the egg too? I don’t know your tastes, so I’ve mostly been guessing.”

His eyebrows furrow again, that concentrated look crossing his face. “I like salmon, salmon daikon. Though I don’t know if that’s appropriate for a breakfast.” He answers quickly.

“Dinner then,” you offer.

He shakes his head. “I’ll have to leave for another mission tonight.” Your shoulders deflate slightly. At least a warning is more than you’ve gotten before. “But I can send you a letter before I arrive back.”

The offer brings your smile back. “I’ll make sure to buy some things for Salmon Daikon. It’ll be the best you’ve ever had!”

—-

He lets you spend most of the morning bothering him. Tomioka says that there’s no point leaving for a few more hours, which you don’t really get, but he probably knows best. While you anxiously watch the sun climb higher into the sky Giyuu gets ready. He doesn’t give you any warning, or tell you to leave, before stripping off most of his clothes.

His back is covered in long strips of scar and muscle. You’ve once again tucked yourself into the folds of the futon, content to watch from there. It’s pleasing the way his shoulders move as he strips the shirt off.

As he moves to remove his pants too, you have the decency to look away. The man doesn’t seem concerned with your presence, but even the thought of seeing him mostly bare makes your eyes screw themselves shut. They don’t crack open until the rustling of fabric and movement stops.

He’s donned the common uniform once again, haori placed overtopped. Tomioka looks so normal again, like he used to every time he flew in and out of the house. You’re staring at the junction where you fixed the sleeve, wondering if he too has noticed the shift.

“I think it looks good,” he tells you. “Much better than anything I could do. I’m not very good at mending things.”

“I can tell,” the words slip from your lips easily. It’s a careless comment, meant to be taken as a joke, but sounds a little too cruel. Your eyes widen, mouth quickly covered with your hands. “I didn’t mean, I uh-“

“You’re fine.” His mouth has quirked upwards just slightly. “It’s true, but I do like to think I’ve improved over the years.”

A hand is still raised over your lips, hoping to keep another dumb comment from slipping through. Once you’re sure you’ve stopped yourself from spoiling the moment you let your hands drop back to your lap. “I’m sure you have.”

He takes sword from where it’s stood carefully in the corner. You watch as he slides the sheath into place along his belt. It completes his ensemble, making him look like a proper soldier. If it were possible (which is to say, if it didn’t put you in mortal danger) you’d like to see him in action. Maybe he’ll let you watch him train sometime.

“Are you going then?”

He nods. “It’s not too far. If I’m lucky I can come back before getting another notice. So you won’t feel so lonely.”

His concern makes your heart throb. Biting your lower lip you try not to let it quiver. “I’ll make you something, give me a few minutes. That way you won’t starve.” Without waiting for his answer you leave the room and rush to the kitchen.

The truth was that you had already prepared some onigiri earlier, tucked away inside the fridge. It’s stuffed with tuna and onions are you’re trying hard not to eat them as you tuck them into a bento. There’s plenty of extra, and you can leave the more… unsightly ones for yourself.

Tomioka comes down the hall just a few moments after you finish. It’s perfect timing. There’s a small sack on his back, which he lets you tuck the lunch into. “Don’t wait too long before eating it though,” you instruct. “I don’t want it to go bad.”

“Right.”

“And be safe!”

“Ok.”

“And-“ You have to curl your hands into fists to force the words the words out, “Iloveyou.”

You’re prepared to turn tail and hide back in your own room (and probably cry—or die—from embarrassment). Before you can even point your feet in the right direction he’s caught your wrist. Though you can barely look at him, you are welcomed to the sight of his pretty pink cheeks. He pulls you toward him, perhaps with more force than necessary, and plants a kiss on your own fiery skin.

You’ve barely registered what’s happened when he’s disappeared beyond the doorway. You don’t know if you’ll be able to drag your feet anywhere else until he gets back, scared of loosing this feeling.

[ecoamerica]

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