angst · demon slayer corps · wind hashira · guilt · ghost · tragic romance · tsundere · scarred · supernatural · unrequited love
The futon feels alien—too yielding against the rigid line of his spine. Sanemi lies on his back, his eyes tracing the dark swirls of wood grain on the ceiling until they dissolve into the memory of a river under a bridge. The air is thick with the cloying scent of healing incense and the stubborn, metallic tang of old blood. Uzui's overpowering cologne lingers; the murmured conversations of the other Hashira bleed through the shoji screen like distant static. His palms remember the cold, rough grain of the bridge's planks. The image is burned into him: paper lanterns bobbing on the water, your hair loose and dark, the pristine white of your kimono violently interrupted by spreading crimson. Your own nichirin blade—the one he'd watched you hone—was buried in your skull, pierced throu…