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animemangasoul · 11 months

Text

Boots

Summery: Damian could read people so why could he not read Timothy?

Or, Tim is showing visable concern for him and Damian doesn't understand why or what to do about it.

Damian Wayne sat down wearily on the bench, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle upon his shoulders. The mission had been grueling, pushing his physical and mental limits to the edge. It hadn't helped that it had rained like the heavens themselves were weeping at his efforts. He could feel every muscle in his body ache as he leaned back, propping his boots against the edge of the bench across, trying to pull it off with all the strength of a mouse.

Beside him, Timothy Drake sat, phone pressed against his ear as he reported back to Richard; the older man taking every opportunity to call them whenever he had access to the Watchtowers connection line. It was honestly obnoxious and drove Damian's irritation through the roof half the time, but he also could quietly admit to himself it was good to hear from him every once in a while. He'd been gone for nearly a week after all.

Damian's usually rigid posture had slackened by now. He'd been the only one of the pair to be unfortunately caught in the downpour currently slapping against the filthy Gotham streets and it made his already weary frame feel even heavier. Eyes blinking slowly and muscles aching under his cold skin, he tried to keep himself awake.

Maybe that is why, what happened, happened. Maybe he should have been more careful, more composed, more awake. For as he pulled off his boots, he found himself tipping over. Tipping over sideways and accidentally leaning against one Timothy Drake. Fatigue blurred his senses for a moment, and he didn't immediately realize his mistake. Didn't realize what he'd done.

The moment it dawned on him however, his eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. He couldn't believe he'd done what he'd done. He couldn't…… but…

In the brief moment of quiet weakness, before he'd realized, Damian had felt a strange comfort. It had been nice. It was nice, to be able to lean against the other. To be able to sag against someone else and just feel something other than wariness. Their relationship had improved over time. It was no longer as hostile as it used to be. Damian having realized in the past three years that he did not need to replace Timothy in order to carve out a space of his own had slowly let his hostilities die and in turn Timothy had acknowledged his efforts by coming to the manor more. Yet, their relationship; or lack there off was fraught with tension, frost and unspoken agreement to avoid one another lest one of them say something regrettable. They'd kept it that way for nearly a year now.

And now hesitation coursed through Damian's veins. He did not move. His exhausted body somehow stubbornly savoring the brief respite that leaning on Timothy provided.

But as his tired mind began to clear, he grew conscious of what exactly he was doing. Timothy, thankfully engrossed in a conversation with Richard; still hadn't noticed him doing something this embarrassing. The man just kept humming in agreement to whatever Richard was insisting on. "I understand," he kept saying. "Of course I'll look after him. It's fine Dick, just focus on yourself."

Damian took the opportunity the distraction provided him to slowly push away but just as he'd lifted his head, an arm was thrown around him. A casual gesture done without missing a beat as Timothy laughed in response to something Richard said. Damian's eyes widened in surprise, his heart skipping a beat.

What the…. What the---- Did Timothy just…..

It was a gesture he had witnessed countless time Timothy extend to Allen and the younger members of the Titans. A sign of affection and support. A casual way to let them know he was there for them, for Timothy was not very good with words. He was not good with gestures either Damian's inner thoughts mused. It was why little actions like this meant so much to the idiots at the Tower. It meant that Drake cared. It meant he was looking out for them.

Damian's thoughts raced. Why would his not brother do this, to him? It did not make any sense. Wait, did Timothy even know it was him leaning against his shoulder? Was this gesture meant for him or was he simply caught in the web of Tim's habitual comfort? Maybe he'd forgotten Damian was the only one present and then Damian had done something as pathetic as lean on him and the man's instinct for his friends had taken over and he'd done this…this thing.

The uncertainty gnawed at him.

And then a sudden feeling of self-consciousness surged through him, and Damian instinctively pulled away, his body tensing as if burned. He shot a glance at Timothy, hoping for some sign or acknowledgment, but the older remained engrossed in his conversation.

Damian frowned. Perhaps Timothy hadn't even noticed the brief interlude. Perhaps Damian's presence had been a mere backdrop, a coincidence.

What he refused to call disappointment surged through him nearly choking him. Damian rose from the bench, feeling angry with himself for showing momentary weakness and seeking solace in something that had not been intended for him as he walked away, the weight of his weariness heavy once more.

Damian's footsteps echoed in the distance as he retreated into the shadows, his mind spinning, spinning, spinning.

It should not have bothered him as much as it did. But it did bother him, very much so. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Perhaps his exhaustion was finally getting to him. Throwing his boots in disgust in the changing room; for how dare they trick him into something so pathetic, he promised himself he would feel better in the morning.

In the morning, he would not even remember this humiliating moment.

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Morning came with exhaustion and dreadful fever that wrecked his body until his mind no longer belonged to him but to the bed. The rain-soaked night had taken its toll it seemed, for today he found him stumbling wearily into the kitchen. Body feeling heavy and his movements sluggish from the remnants of a high-degree fever, every step was a struggle, as if the weight of the world pressed down on him.

Damian's bleary eyes briefly scanned his surroundings before landing on Timothy. Drake stood near the counter, engrossed in some task. Automatically, as if sensing his presence, the other man's gaze flickered up to meet Damian's, and a flicker of something unreadable crossed his features.

The youngest Wayne frowned deeply at him. His mood souring immediately at the sight of the other. But any intimidating air he was trying to put on quickly faded as he crossed the threshold, for Timothy's sharp eyes caught sight of his unsteady form.

"What are you doing here?" Damian demanded, his voice strained. He tried to regain control, to assert his usual air of authority. His attempt to deflect attention away from his vulnerability only fueling his frustration.

"I'm just cleaning up," Timothy replied calmly, his voice steady despite the lingering uncertainty. He took a small step back, allowing Damian his space, though his gaze remained fixed on him.

"Whatever," Damian scoffed, pushing past him. "I only wish to have a glass of water-" the words suddenly felt too thick in his mouth, his body too heavy and he tilted, down down down---

'Oh,' he thought. 'I am was falling. How embarrassing.' His eyes closed shut for the inevitable impact with the cold floor, but for some reason, it never came.

Without hesitation, Timothy had reached out, arms wrapping around his smaller frame and pulling him up. Then a hand came to gently brush against his forehead, gauging the heat of his fever.

"Careful," Timothy said softly, his touch featherlight as he held Damian close. But before the warmth of Timothy's hand could register, Damian flinched away, his instinctive reaction nearly unbalancing him.

"I'm fine," he snapped, his voice laced with both irritation and a hint of embarrassment. He pulled back, creating a physical distance between them. Confusion clouded his tired mind, the exhaustion adding a raw edge to his emotions. He did not understand what was going on. He didn't get it. What was Timothy doing. What was happening. Damn it all, he did not understand.

His not older brother's expression faltered, a flicker of something crossing his eyes, but he quickly masked it behind a calm facade. "Are you sure?" It came out questioning, little haltingly too as if Drake too did not quite know what to do in this very situation. It almost made him feel slightly better, almost.

Damian's thoughts churned, a whirlwind of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He hated how the simple act of 'casual' concern from Timothy seemed to challenge their established dynamic. It was as if the lines between them had suddenly blurred, and he here he was, left struggling to make sense of it all.

Did Timothy no longer see him as a formidable rival, an adversary to be constantly on guard against? Had Richard influenced his behavior, prompting him to keep a closer watch over Damian in his absence? The questions plagued him, their answers elusive. He hated it. He hated it so much.

The room grew silent, tension hanging in the air like a heavy storm cloud. Damian's gaze flickered from Timothy's face to the surroundings, searching for a clue, for something familiar to anchor himself to. But everything seemed different, and he couldn't quite grasp the changes or understand their significance.

Something was different. Ever since Timothy had come back from that mission three month ago. Ever since he'd returned home he seemed more mature, seemed calmer, wouldn't let anything get under his skin. Damian had been severely injured during it so he'd been in a coma for five days. He hadn't been a witness to the change. He'd missed it. Missed whatever had transformed Timothy into the person he was now.

To him, Timothy felt too far away and too close at the same time. Something was different about him and Damian hated, hated how that something seemed to be a growth he hadn't been able to keep up with.

"You seem to be running a fever."

Damian's eyes narrowed, momentarily broken out of his thoughts. "I said I was fine," he hissed.

Raising both hands in the air, Timothy shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Whatever." He sounded so casual, so sure of himself. As if, as if----

Damian's blood boiled. "Well, get out of my way then," he snapped, his voice sharp and tinged with a touch of fury. He pushed past Timothy, his movements more forceful than necessary. His irritation only skyrocketing as the other did not even put up a fight. He filled his glass; hands shaking so badly he had to use them both to not spill it. His cheeks were tinted red and his eyes burned.

Then he stormed out of the kitchen, his thoughts churning like a whirlpool in his mind, anger and confusion colliding. He hated how Timothy's actions seemed to disrupt their existing dynamic. It was as if Timothy was rewriting the script without giving Damian a chance to catch up.

What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to react when the man who did not even acknowledge him half the time was suddenly being caring. Twice in two days. What was he supposed to do with that.

'Richard,' he thought, feeling angry, feeling scared. 'You did this. Make it stop.' For there was no doubt Richard's overwhelming worry for him had forced Timothy's hand to act as his substitute while he was away and when he came back----

Walking through the hallways, Damian's frustration continued to simmer; directed as much at himself as at the circumstances that had brought them to this point. The sense of isolation and alienation weighed heavily on him. He couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was missing some crucial piece of the puzzle.

Perching on the edge of his bed, Damian ran a hand through his disheveled hair. He had always prided himself on his ability to adapt quickly, but this time, the changes eluded him, slipping through his fingers like water.

Resting his head in his hands, Damian couldn't help the sudden helplessness that overwhelmed him. He didn't know what he was supposed to do with all of this. What was he supposed to do?

The storm outside rumbled on.

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Damian Wayne's body burned with fever as he sat uncomfortably on the narrow bed in the school's dimly lit nurse's office. The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, suffocating him further. He shifted restlessly, trying to distance himself from the nurse's well-meaning but intrusive presence. Each attempt to feel his forehead or check his vital signs only heightened Damian's discomfort.

Minutes turned into an eternity, and Damian's skepticism grew. Would Timothy even bother to come? He couldn't fathom why Timothy would abandon his responsibilities at Wayne Enterprises just to pick him up from school.

"I will be fine on my own," he'd said when the nurse had hummed low in disapproval and began to dial his not brother. "He is far too busy to pick me up. I shall make my way home on my own."

She had not believed him. And now here he was, likely to suffer the humiliation of having Timothy Drake not show up. It was not as if he believed Timothy was not a good enough person to show up if required but Damian wasn't dying. He was fine. It was only a fever and Timothy had far too much important work to do at Wayne Enterprise. In fact there was an annual board meeting today which his not brother had been stressing about all evening yesterday. Surely that took precedence over his wellbeing.

He would not come and Damian would not blame him for it. Timothy was no Richard. He owed him nothing.

Suddenly, the door flung open, and Timothy burst into the room, his breath labored and his hair in disarray. The sight of him, ruffled and unkempt, startled Damian. He hadn't expected him to arrive in record time, as if propelled by some unseen force. He hadn't expected him to arrive at all.

Damian's eyes widened, momentarily captivated by the urgency etched across the other's face.

But then, without a word, he hopped off the bed, his feet landing on the cold linoleum floor. No matter. Maybe the board meeting had concluded early. Maybe Timothy had been in the vicinity grabbing lunch when the nurse had called. Either way and opportunity was an opportunity and Damian would be damned if he did not take it. But before he could open his mouth and say something to Timothy, what he would say, he was unsure off, the nurse made another attempt to feel his forehead.

Her lips were pursed, her bright eyes as condescending as ever and her overbearing worry painted across the furrow of her brows. Damian growled, wanting to pull away but stopping himself because father had told him upsetting the staff here once more would disappoint him. Resigning himself to this unknown woman touching him again, his eyes widened in surprise when a hand grabbed the back of his uniform and pulled him subtly enough so his not brother could put his arm around his shoulders and drag him away from the nurse.

"Let's get you out of here," Timothy said, his voice a soothing balm amidst the chaos of Damian's thoughts.

It was a gesture done with ease, he noted as his not brother spoke to the baffled nurse as if he hadn't done anything unusual. His presence was…..comforting. Damian did not wish to admit it but having someone else there. Having Timothy there as a buffer, having his arm supporting him, it felt….

He flinched away, surprised and discomforted by his own thoughts. He looked up to gauge Timothy's reaction to his behaviour. To search for an explanation for the other's actions in his eyes at well.

But Timothy's gaze remained fixed on the nurse, a calm facade masking the underlying tension he clearly felt by how he'd held him close; fingers digging into his shoulder. Now his arm lay limp by his side even though his fingers still gently gripped the sleeve of Damian's uniform. Something almost resembling guilt churned through Damian's gut and he glared at the white floor in retaliation For why should he feel something like this at all? He did not owe Drake anything. He owed him nothing.

But…….It seemed….it looked like Timothy… maybe he had reacted instinctively to protect him. To protect him from the nurse's well-meaning but intrusive actions? Damian was not stupid. He'd been trained by assassins. His father was the greatest detective in the world and he'd been raised by Nightwing himself. He knew he could read people. Read actions and Timothy's actions could not speak off anything other than concern.

As his thoughts ran wild, the nurse's presence became a mere backdrop. His attention now solely centered on Timothy, trying and failing to make sense of the situation. Was it concern for his well-being alone that drove Timothy's actions, or was there something more? Had he rushed over for his sake or was this unexpected display of care Richard's influence, a silent agreement between the brothers to watch over him in Richard's absence?

Damn it, damn it all. He just didn't get it. He didn't freaking get it.

Tsking, he squared his shoulders. Then mustered up the strength; which surprisingly required more effort than he could imagine to fully pull away from Timothy's hold. He couldn't afford to rely on others, especially when they might not reciprocate the sentiment like Richard and Jon.

With that resolution in mind and without a word, Damian turned away, his steps purposeful as he walked towards the door. The conflicting emotions burning him to his very core. Fists clenched at his side, head aching with fever that nearly blinded him, he silently chastised himself for seeking solace in a gesture that likely held no significance to Timothy what so ever.

'Do not forget,' he told himself, closing his eyes briefly. 'He does not care for you and your fever is making you assume you care for what he thinks of you. Do not forget.'

But as Damian reached the threshold, he couldn't help but steal a final glance back at Timothy, whose attention was still fixated on the nurse. A flicker of vulnerability passed across his not brother's face, almost imperceptible and yeah, Damian truly was too far gone with this insufferable sickness if he was now seeing such nonexistent nonsense.

Still, for a brief laughable moment, he wondered if there was more to their evolving dynamic than he had initially perceived. But the thought was fleeting, as he reminded himself of the walls Drake had rightfully built around himself when it came to Damian. 'He is doing it for Richard,' he told himself. 'It is for Richard and father. He is good like that.'

'Unlike me' remained loud yet unsaid.

With that thought etched into his features, Damian turned away and exited the nurse's office. He did not look back a second time.

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Damian's eyes flickered open, the hazy remnants of sleep clinging to his senses. The muted glow of the television bathed the living room in a soft, comforting light. His head throbbed, his body heavy with fatigue. He had fallen asleep in front of the TV, succumbing to the clutches of his fever and exhaustion.

As Damian tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness washed over him, causing him to wince. The room spun, disorienting him for a moment. Blinking away vague memories of a dream fading, he scanned his surroundings, his gaze landing on the clock on the wall. Time had slipped away unnoticed, hours blending into each other in the depths of his fever-induced slumber.

Pennyworth was away handling family matters so the care of Damian had unfortunately falling once again on Timothy's shoulders after they'd returned to the manor. The older had silently gone to their medicine cabinet, made him some soup, brought him a glass of water and an accompanying jug just in case and had then left him to his own devices. He hadn't fussed like Richard or scolded him like Pennyworth. He hadn't looked at him in disappointment like father. He had just been. Taking the step by step process in how to care for someone without any of the emotions attached. Damian did not know whether he should feel relieved or hate him for it. And then he'd almost snorted at the thought for that had been his consistent feeling towards Drake these past two days.

After tending to him, Timothy had went back to work. He had not stayed. Damian had not wished for him to do so. He had not. In fact, he'd snapped at the other for even hesitating to go and had ordered him away.

He had not needed him. He did not need anyone. He could very well take care of himself. So, standing up he wobbled his way to the kitchen, heated up the rest of the soup and found his way back to his seat. He could barely force himself to eat three mouthfuls before he had to give it up.

Sighing warily, he curled back under the heavy blanket Timothy had draped over him; he'd only noticed after the other had left that it belonged to Timothy. His not brother having gone through several bouts off fever addled sicknesses due to his lack of spleen. It was a good blanket he thought absentmindedly. It was warm but not too warm and it almost felt like a hug from Richard.

Fatigue slowly began weighed him down, and Damian succumbed to sleep once more, his eyelids fluttering shut as his body sought solace in slumber. Time slipped away, the world a distant blur, until a gentle touch roused him from his fevered dreams.

The scent of Timothy's cologne wafted through the air, heavy and familiar. Timothy did not like to wear cologne he vaguely recalled. Only doing it for business meetings. "To be taken seriously," Richard had once said to him, smiling fondly at Timothy who'd been busy fixing his tie and running his fingers through his bangs, stress-lines easing into something soft when his eyes met Richard's and the older sent him a teasing kiss through the air. "He thinks wearing that cologne makes him look more grown up." Richard had sounded sad then. Damian remembered scoffing and turning back to his dinner suddenly not feeling hungry.

Timothy had only been eighteen back then. Now he was twenty-one. He likely did not need it anymore having proven himself ten times over but now it seemed to be a habit. A habit that was strangely comforting to Damian's sleep addled mind.

He stirred, his bleary eyes opening ever so, as he attempted to focus on the figure standing beside him. He couldn't quite keep up with what was going on, but eventually he found himself being lifted into strong arms. Timothy let out a soft grunt, but he remained steady, stable. An unwavering presence. "There," his not brother muttered to himself too soft yet reassuring. "Let's get you to bed you little gremlin."

Damian would have snapped back in offense if his body had been willing to cooperate with him. Instead his eyes fell fully shut and he let the movement of Timothy lull him into comfort.

His not brother carried him through the dimly lit hallways, his rhythmic footsteps echoing through his mind and making him breathe easier. His head nestled against Timothy's shoulder, finding comfort in the coldness of his body.

The journey was swift and eventually Damian was deposited gently onto his bed, the covers drawn up to his chin. A soft sigh escaped him as his body sank into the familiar mattress.

A sudden muffled meow sounded, and Damian's mind briefly registered where his feline companion had been placed on his bed, as the cat curled up with a satisfied little noise. Timothy had picked up Alfred and put him there, as if knowing that even in his sleep, Damian found comfort in Alfred's presence.

The weight of the action, of the entire thing settled upon Damian's chest when Timothy exited his room; footsteps quiet, a soft goodnight his parting words.

A frustrated tear escaped his eye, tracing a path down his cheek and dampening his pillow. He couldn't quite understand why this simple act of care made him so so sad. It hurt. It hurt so much and he didn't know why it made him….. why it made him wish for something he couldn't fully grasp.

But as Damian's heavy eyelids drooped shut once more, sleep's embrace pulling him into its depths, a sliver of hope flickered within him. Maybe it was okay for them to change. Maybe if Timothy was capable of moving forward, of gentle kindness, maybe he could try his hand at it too.

Yeah, maybe.

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The sun began its descent, casting long shadows that stretched across the meticulously manicured lawn of Wayne Manor. Timothy and Damian found themselves sitting side by side on the porch steps, their silhouettes melding into the fading light.

It had been four days since Damian had gotten sick and now he had finally recovered. Cleared for duty, he meticulously cleaned his boots, his fingers tracing the familiar grooves, each swipe of the cloth against the leather seeming to magnify the weight of his thoughts. Now that he was finally cleared for missions again, his body mending from the fever that had held him captive, his thoughts refused to set him free.

They were sitting out here weighting for Richard to land back on earth. He'd be here in the next three hours and while that held its own sense of excitement, try as he might, Damian could not let go of his thought on Timothy.

He glanced at his not brother, the other engrossed in a book he had chosen on a whim not paying attention to anything other than the words on the page. Damian's fears grew stronger.

He couldn't help but think and think and think. What if Timothy's caring nature had only been a temporary respite, a byproduct of his obligation to Richard? Would their newfound connection dissolve like a wisp of smoke, leaving Damian to navigate their old dynamic of avoiding one another once more? Should he talk to him about it? Timothy had done so much for him these past couple of days. He hadn't complained, hadn't snapped at him. He'd only worried. For yes, it was worry even if that worry might not have been for his sake alone.

Damian hated this so much. The uncertainty gnawed at his core, the need to know threatening to resurface.

A surge of urgency suddenly propelled him to do something drastic. He had to know. He couldn't not know if Timothy's actions were merely a facade or a bridge meant for him to cross. It was a daring move, a test of the delicate balance they had found. Slowly, almost painfully so, he allowed his body to lean against Timothy's shoulder, his breath catching in his throat. Waiting, heart pounding in his chest, for Timothy's response.

The weight of Damian against him did not seem to go unnoticed by Timothy this time. A subtle shift in his posture betraying his surprise. It made Damian almost want to fling himself away and pretend as if he hadn't done it, almost. Instead he screwed his eyes shut and remained. 'Be stubborn,' he commended himself. 'Do not waver from your goal for it is the cowards way out.'

He wanted to be a coward so bad.

But he needn't have been for instead of pulling away or questioning the gesture, Timothy responded casually once more. Without looking away from his book, with a fluid motion, he wrapped his arm around his shoulders and drew him closer.

Damian's eyes flew open, widening to sizes he didn't know was humanly possible as sudden warmth flooded his senses. He clutched his dirty boot tightly between his shaking fingers and let himself fall even further against Timothy. He couldn't quite believe what he'd accomplished.

He wasn't sick anymore. Timothy was aware of this. He did not need to care for him anymore. After all, Damian had been cleared for missions. Not only that, he'd been cleared for solo missions so this, this gesture it couldn't possibly be for Richard, could it?

He blinked furiously against the sudden wetness in his eyes. The doubts and insecurities that had consumed him momentarily fading away. Timothy's careless embrace offered hope, solace for years of fraught relationship between them. And Damian, Damian couldn't quite believe it. He exhaled softly, a fragile little smile curving his lips.

"Do you mind reading aloud?" he asked, his voice quivering slightly, but not cracking, not breaking. For he could ask for this, he could.

Timothy squeezed his shoulder, placing the book on his lap so he could turn the page. "Sure," he said, his tone even. "Want me to start from the beginning?"

Damian shook his head the best he could. "Sometimes stories are interesting when you start from the middle," he said.

His brother huffed a little laughter and Damian allowed himself to bask in it. For it was meant for him, and this time he was sure of it.

As Timothy's voice reverberated through the air, Damian let his boot drop next to the other, he'll clean them tomorrow.

#damian wayne #tim drake #batfamily fanfic #batfamily #fanfic #damian wayne fanfic #tim drake fanfic #batfamily one shot

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animemangasoul · 1 year

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Last wishes

Summery: Iguro Obanai makes wishes, wishes that throw him back in time for a second chance to do things right.

Or, Obanai goes back in time, sees Giyu differently and they talk.

The last thing he remembers is her warmth. Her frantic breathing. Her sorrow. The last thing he remembers is the end.

He hoped they'd won. He hoped Muzan finally bit it and they'd managed to achieve the impossible. He hoped he somehow contributed a little. He hoped it was enough.

But as he lay there. As the final breath left his lungs, Kaburamaru's soft hissing, a song of mourning in his ears. He wasn't happy. He wasn't satisfied.

There was so much he'd wished he had done. So much. If he'd only known how little……As a demon slayer, as a Hashira he'd always known their time was fleeting but, he'd still thought.

As the darkness came for him, as light peaked through the horizon, giving him a vision where he previously had non, Obanai breathed out; somehow feeling the weight of the world still on his shoulders, and allowed himself regrets.

Not too many, but few. Few to hold close to his chest and wish for. Wish for change.

I wish I could have done more.

He fell.

I wish none of us had died.

The light warmed him from the inside out.

I wish I'd told her I love her before it was too late.

It was comforting.

I wish I'd laughed more with Sanemi.

Was the light supposed to be fading?

I wish I'd given Kyojuro a hug when he asked.

Wait, what….what was that?

Suddenly a sense of cold descended on his skin and for a split second, Obanai had forgotten he'd passed away and shouldn't be feeling much of anything. Instead he hunched himself together and shivered.

I wish

I wish I had a second chance to do things right.

Obanai awoke with a start, his senses immediately alert. The very first thing he noted was his sight. He could see again. See everything. He could see…….

He could see a familiar ceiling, take in the soft beige colours, the flowers painted by the corner and the little crack half way through the ceiling. A hole caused by a flying blade many years ago. He couldn't quite believe his eyes, but he could believe his heart.

Somehow as he glanced around the room, he knew deep within his core, there was no confusion or bewilderment. There was only an undeniable certainty, deep within his muscles, buried within his soul and his very being that he had somehow traveled back in time. It was a bone-deep certainty that sent shivers down his spine.

'I don't…… how is this possible?' Curling his fingers into a fist, he observed them flex as pain soared through his entire frame as if someone had just ran him over with a train. 'This shouldn't be happening. I shouldn't be so sure…..' But he was, wasn't he? He was sure of it. As if someone was whispering the truth of the universe in his ear. He was in the past somehow and---

"I can fix things," he muttered to himself, wary hand resting over his eyes as he closed them. "I can't quite believe this. It is impossible. But I can fix things. I can-----"

Obanai had woken up in the past. His dying wish had somehow transformed into something unexpected, something fragile.

He was in the past.

Blinking slowly, he noted with a hallow heart that Kaburamaru wasn't beside him. What time had he returned to? Before everything? Before Kyojuri----

He himself was clearly a Hashira at the moment; his eyes drifted towards the chair next to his bed where his haori was slung over. What time?

What time……what time?

He found himself observing the cozy room within the confines of the Butterfly Estate silently. The air was filled with a peculiar scent, a mixture of herbs and flowers. Sunlight filtered through the delicate curtains, casting a warm glow on the vintage furniture and floral wallpaper. It was….. A wave of nostalgia overcame him and he blinked furiously to stave it off.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and an elderly woman entered the room, her eyes filled with concern. "Good morning, dear. I hope you're feeling better," she greeted him with a gentle smile.

Struggling to find his voice, the snake pillar just barely managed to reply, his words laden with uncertainty, "I think so," he said slowly. "Where is Kocho-san?"

The woman's grew softer, a mixture of sympathy and kindness. "She is in the lab dear but she will be glad to hear you're up. I shall go collect her for you." And with that she disappeared out of the door, leaving him to his own devices.

He kept staring up at the ceiling. This all felt so surreal. Part of him wanted to jump out of the bed and hunt Shinobu down himself. Or was it Kanae now?Still, Shinobu would still be around and…..he needed to see her. See her for himself. See that she was safe. See that she was still breathing. See-----

Part of him wanted to run, run and locate all of the Hashira. Keep them alive, keep them safe.

Mitsuri…………….

His Mitsuri……….

He'd promised her……….

The next life, he'd promised her……………

He was in the past. Oh dear God, he was in the past.

As the realization of his predicament suddenly sank in clearing his mind of its foggy state, a wave of nausea washed over him. The room began to spin, and his body began to convulse with uncontrollable shivers.

A violent burn ran through his body like a river, gripping his mind, setting his eyes on fire. The disorientation he felt kept on intensifying til he couldn't take it anymore. Curling into a ball he groaned. What was wrong with him.

The snake pillar's trembling hand tried to reach for the jug of water by his bedside, but he could only faintly observe how a spasm of his hand made the water splash on the floor and the jug shatter.

Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, his vision blurred. The weight of the past was pressing down upon him, both thrilling and terrifying in its implications.

As the scene blurred before his feverish eyes, Obanai clung to the hope that this disorienting illness would eventually subside. He knew that somehow, against all logic, he had been transported to a time not his own. That somehow his very last gasping wish had come to fruition. That before he reached the afterlife, something or someone had yanked him back. He knew all that but his body didn't quite understand. And made it hurt so damn much. And with that unsettling truth, he slipped into a fitful sleep, his mind a whirlwind of unanswered questions and uncertain futures.

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As Obanai slowly regained consciousness, his eyes fluttered open to find himself face-to-face with Shinobu, her floral Hashira robes draped around her shoulders as she smiled down on him. The realization struck him like a lightning bolt, and he was grabbing the edge of her sleeve before he could even think it through. Because…….because he hadn't traveled back as far as he initially thought. He hadn't travelled back to before Kanae…….

The pain in his chest made his heart ache. And his mind didn't stop turning and turning and turning until a soft hand rested atop of his and squeezed. He looked up, meeting Shinobu's piercing gaze and soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She studied him intently.

"You're finally awake," she said, voice as friendly and bland as ever. "You had us worried there for a moment. How are you feeling?"

The snake pillar struggled to sit up, grunting a soft thanks when the woman next to him carefully supported his back to help him do so. His mind was racing with a mix of gratitude and disappointment. He should have gone back further. If he was traveling to the past anyways, he should have-----

"I'll be fine," he rasped, his voice tinged with bitterness. Nodding once in thanks when the insect pillar handed him a glass of water, he inhaled it.

"You seem troubled," she observed when he'd finished drinking, her senses keen as ever. Taking the glass from him and setting it by his bedside. He absentmindedly noted that the shards had been cleared and the floor was dry. "Is there something on your mind?"

For a second Obanai hesitated. Should he tell her? But in the end, the decision to keep it a secret, so as not to come across as if he'd lost his mind won over. So, "It's nothing, really," he said instead, watching her through one eye. "Just some personal matters I need to sort out after I get out of bed."

His fellow Hashira studied him intently, her gaze sharp and perceptive. "Remember, Iguro-san," she said, voice sing-songy as she patted his covers to smooth out the creeses, "We are comrades. If there's ever anything you need to share or discuss, know that I'm here to listen."

The weight of the unspoken words hung heavily in the air. Obanai swallowed thickly and looked away. "I know."

He appreciated Shinobu's offer of support, yet he knew in his heart of hearts that this was something he had to undertake alone. At least for now.

The pain of his past losses burned within him, burned so bright with each passing second, it nearly ate him whole. But he couldn't let it consume him. Not yet. Not until he figured out a way to use this to his advantage. A way to make it all better. A way to save them all. Maybe after he got better he'll pay Ubuyashiki-sama a visit. Surely the Master would believe him? But first he had to recover from this. Whatever this latest injury to his person was, so when he did meet the Master he didn't come across as a crazy person. He was determined to get this right. To alter the course of destiny and protect them all. None of them would die this time, not even Tanjiro and his little friends, he'll make sure of it.

"Good," Shinobu said, breaking him out of his thoughts. "As long as you know." And with that she smiled at him one last time before making her way out of the door.

-------------------------------

Obanai stepped outside for what felt like the first time in forever.

He'd been confined to his bed for more than a week since he woke up. No one had trusted that he could walk any length of distance without collapsing. And his injuries from that mission where Lower Moon One had enslaved a village; he grimaced at the memory, his bouts of nausea and feverish delusions had made no one in the Butterfly Estate willing to let him out of their sight.

But as days turned into a week, he'd slowly began to recover his body but most importantly his mind. He could relatively keep the crushing memories to himself without going on rambles of great insanity now. And he was thankful that through that process he hadn't revealed anything but his strangely overbearing concern for Shinobu whenever she left the room. That had been frankly embarrassing to remember but he hoped the insect pillar and everyone else had chalked his distress to dealing with a demon similar to his past along with Kanae's passing. It had helped that he'd called Shinobu by her sister's name a number of times too. He felt terrible bringing her up but half the time, he couldn't help it. Everything had been blurred together.

But now, now that he'd finally been let out of his prison, he could take in the fresh air and the serene surroundings of the Butterfly Estate.; As he stood there, the calm atmosphere easing his fried nerves, he spotted Tomioka sitting quietly by the tranquil koi fish pond. The man had his hands folded in his lap, sword by his side and shoulders relaxed.

He was meditating.

Obanai stared at his back. Just stared.

Seeing Shinobu had been different. He hadn't really been all there when he'd seen her for the first time and by the time he could really take in that she was alive, he'd managed to scramble together a semblance of dignity. But here and now, standing there staring at very much uninjured and alive Tomioka Giyu; he really hoped the one he'd left behind was equally as alive, he couldn't really wrap his head around it. He could only stare.

I wish I'd gotten along better with Tomioka.

Startling, he closed his eyes as flashes of pain pulsed through his head. An indescribable urge to talk to Tomioka, to bridge the gaps of misunderstanding and the dynamic between them, washing over him so suddenly he nearly lost his balance.

His faraway wishes. His pleas into the heavens, had they been heard? Was this his opportunity?

I wish I'd gotten along better with Tomioka.

Unable to take his eyes off of the meditating figure of the water pillar who was slowly but surely tensing more and more where he sat, Obanai pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed in deeply.

In his past life, he and Sanemi hadn't liked the water pillar. Franky they hated him. His appearance of arrogance, his insistence that he wasn't like the rest of them, his expressionless dead eyes. Of course they'd hated him. Who did he think he was? They'd all sacrificed and bled for their cause, so who gave the water pillar the right to look down on them. Their perception of him had been formed through various failed conversations and several attempts encouraged by Kyojuro's smiling pleading eyes. They had all failed spectacularly and Obanai had grown to resent him. Had grown to hate him. He would save the man's life if they ever where in battle together, but he'd vowed to never give him time of day otherwise. That him and Sanemi had agreed on wholeheartedly.

Obanai didn't assume himself a pleasant person to be around either, but back then he'd resented Tomioka for not even trying. For he did. He tried with Kyojuro and Tengen and Sanemi and Mitsuri. He made the effort to talk to his fellow pillars, to stave off the awkwardness and make the effort. But Tomioka….. "He thinks he's better than us," he'd huffed, narrowing his eyes at Tomioka's retreating back. "What a detached, unfriendly little shit." He'd said it loud enough for the other man to surely hear. Tomioka hadn't stopped or even paused much to the snake pillar's frustration, and Obanai had turned away and resumed his conversation with Sanemi as if he'd never said anything.

He remembered that all too well now where he stood. Remembered it with a pang of regret.

Before the final battle; his last battle, his last breath. He'd talked to Sanemi as him and the other had taken a moment to rest as he'd taken a break from training the little bratlings and his fellow Hashira. Sanemi had been strangely quiet that day and when Obanai had grown tired of being patient, the other man had finally spoken. He'd told him about an interesting conversation he'd had with one Tomioka Giyu. He'd told him about hidden insecurities and shame. He told him about relatability. It had tugged at his heartstrings. Because he of all people understood the guilt of feeling like you'd let someone down. The shame of living on as the result of others sacrifice. The fear you weren't enough.

Obanai had listened and he'd contemplated. 'Maybe,' he'd thought as they stood up, break over and preparing to get back to their duties, 'Maybe we can talk too after all of this.'

They'd never had the opportunity. And as he'd lost the last flickers of life----

I wish I'd gotten along better with Tomioka.

This was a second chance. He could do things differently this time. His second chance.

Staring intently at the other's now rigged back, Obanai couldn't help but wish……wish wish wish.

But he was at a loss on how to approach it. How could he convey a desire for a fresh start without revealing the truth about his journey through time? How could he extend an olive branch without falling all over himself like he'd been doing with Shinobu?

As Tomioka turned his head slowly and their eyes met; the water pillar's face expressionless as ever but his shoulders now up to his ears, Obanai set his resolve.

'Set your heart ablaze,' he thought, clenching his fists. 'Do not cower from a second chance given to you.'

So, with a deep breath to steady his nerves, he mustered the courage to take a step forward. Watching the other as he watched him back with equal intensity. When he was finally next to him, he stepped past him, turned around and sat down. Coming face to face with a man he'd hated for the most nonsense of reasons. A man who was now staring at him openly.

Trying to hide the apprehension that fluttered within him, Obanai coughed lightly into his fist and nodded sharply at Tomioka. "Good to see you back on your feet," he greeted him, his voice even but not unfriendly. If his patchy memories were to be trusted, Tomioka had been sent to save a couple of demon slayers and it had gone horribly wrong. Thankfully the man had managed to get everyone out alive. Obanai couldn't say he'd been as lucky with his mission. "I'm sure everyone will be relieved to hear you're doing well." He continued, infusing the words with as much sincerity as he could.

Tomioka expression remained stoic as ever, but there was a hint of surprise almost imperceptible in his eyes. Then, his features softened ever so slightly, as if something had stirred within him. "Likewise," he replied, his voice calm but laced with a trace of curiosity. "It seems you're recovering well too. How are you feeling?"

Obanai would stab anyone who ever tried to voice it, but at that very moment he'd almost burst into tears. Maybe it was his stupid emotions being all over the place. Maybe it was having his sight again and finally using it to see behind the mask all his fellow Hashira and demon slayers wore. Maybe it was the little flicker of happiness he'd detected in Giyu's voice when he'd done something as little as greet him. But he'd almost cried. He'd almost shattered right then and there.

God, he was a mess.

Still, swallowing thickly, being grateful for the opportunity to engage in conversation, Obanai found his voice steady as he replied, "I'm getting there, step by step. The support from everyone has been invaluable."

There was a brief pause, as if both of them were searching for the right words to say. The snake pillar knew, he knew with almost crystal clarity this was his chance to reshape their relationship, to mend the misunderstandings that had plagued their interactions in the past. But the path forward remained unclear, leaving him grasping for the right approach.

But just as he was about to delve deeper into the conversation, a voice broke the momentary silence. "Iguro-san, it's time to come back inside," Shinobu called from a distance, her voice gentle yet firm.

Reluctantly tearing his gaze away from Giyu, Obanai offered a nod and turned his attention to Shinobu. "I'll be right there," he replied, his gaze lingering on Giyu for a fleeting moment as he stood up. But before he could walk away, he paused. "If you have not left by tomorrow," he started slowly, refusing to meeting the other's gaze that was drilling into his back. "I would like to meditate together. That is," he hurried to add on, finally turning to meet the other's eyes that were now wide enough to almost look surprised. "If you want." he finished lamely.

I wish I'd gotten along better with Tomioka.

But before the words had fully left his lips, Giyu was already shaking his head, half way through a refusal.

'Ah,' Obanai thought. 'The insecurities. It's so obvious now Sanemi, when you're looking for them.'

"Actually," he added, shaking his own head. "Forget it." But before the sudden echo of hurt in Giyu's eyes crushed him, he continued. "I want the company so I'll come anyways. Feel free to leave if I bother you after a while but you better not bail on me." And with that he stalked away, not allowing the water pillar to get a word in.

He would do this. He would fix everything. He'd make it better. For all of them. And he'd fix his mistakes alongside it.

With determination burning in his eyes, he walked forward, ready to face the challenges that lay ahead in his quest to reshape his bonds and save his stupid dumb comrades along with the rest of the Demon Slayer Corps.

-----------------------------------------------------

Giyu sat very very still by the koi fish pond, his thoughts swirling more violently than ever before with a blend of emotions he couldn't quite grasp.

The encounter with Obanai had left an indescribable imprint on him, on his very soul, and now here he sat, not knowing how to even process it. The struggle on the snake pillar's face had been clear as day. His awkwardness, his bright eyes as he tried to formulate just the right sentence. Paraphs it was those fumbles, the flush of pink on the bridge of his nose and the fidgeting that spoke to Giyu of the other's sincerity. For some reason, Iguro Obanai had decided to give him the time of day and……

Clenching his fists hard enough to draw blood, Giyu felt helpless in the face of happiness, excitement, and an underlying sense of guilt burning through his heart. His lips had pulled up into a smile as the other's steps had faded. He'd traced it with a finger, eyes growing wide. He'd been so happy. So so happy.

As he'd watched Obanai walk away, a sense of relief had washed over him knowing that Obanai no longer harbored resentment towards him or wished to treat him with disdain.

Still, doubt crept into his mind; not doubt about Obanai, he never ever doubted his fellow Hashira, but doubt about himself. Doubt that whispered incessantly, reminding him of his shortcomings and failures. Of his unearned position, of his unworthiness. Did he deserve Obanai's kindness when the hand outstretched towards him should have been reaching out for Sabito instead?

Gazin into the rippling water, seated by the tranquil pond, he tried to find some solace in its serene beauty. The conversation with Obanai had ignited a spark within him, a tiny flame of determination that refused to be extinguished, despite the guilt, despite the hatred he harbored for himself. He wasn't worthy of being Hashira, he wasn't worthy to stand by his comrades when he knew what he was. What he'd done, but----

Surely sitting by a pond, meditating next to someone, surely that wasn't going to shatter his promise to Sabito would it? It was only temporary anyways. Nothing would come off it. Soon he'll leave the estate and eventually another water breather would come along to finally replace him. But for the time being, just for a little while, just for a moment-----

He crossed his arms, closed his eyes and breathed. 'I wish to get along better with Obanai.'

#demon slayer fanfic #iguro obanai fanfic #iguro obanai #giyu tomioka #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #fanfic #one shot #ds #i just really love obanai okay #and that's why I love hurting him

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