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Genya carried himself heavily across the dirt path.
He found himself gritting his teeth at how the sting of his wounds stiffened his movements. They were shallow, but still an inconvenience with how many there were. He knew they wouldn’t look good when the sun rose.
He hadn’t even arrived at his assigned destination yet. Getting injured, even mildly, right before getting to the actual task was not helpful. The scent of his blood would just cause more trouble.
But, even the injuries didn’t bother Genya as much as having his pride crushed to dust by the fight a few moments ago. The way he finished the demon off was sloppily done and having nearly nothing to do with the expertise of a proper swordsman. No one had been there to witness the fight, but a hot rush of embarrassment still invaded his face at the thought of it.
He knew he was degrading the lifespan of his boots by dragging their soles harshly into the dirt, but, for him, it was the only convenient way to release the tension in his chest. And, as his mind intrusively reminded him of the number of bullets he wasted, he could help but abuse the dirt further.
Then again, he figured all of these inconveniences combined were better than using the demon’s flesh. He at least didn’t have to experience the tortuously slow breakdown of demon remnants in his body—that aftereffect always had him feeling nervous. And, he preferred to leave demon consumption as a last resort.
If he wasn’t able to defeat a demon as weak as that one with his own human ability, then he’d deserve to have his throat torn out by it, anyway. But, he wouldn’t have to worry about that. He was trained enough to ensure his own survival. He wouldn’t let himself die. He wouldn’t let his death be another burden for his older brother to bear.
He shook his head unpleasantly. The mission at hand was all he needed to be thinking about. Regardless of any outside distractions, he would fight his way through his mission and the ones after—each one was another step closer to becoming a Hashira. A couple of scratches was nothing, he didn’t care.
He let out a slow breath, allowing the wave of annoyance to subside. Although, it shortly began to build once again; each bruised step was another reminder of the choices he shouldn’t have made.
The atmosphere turned sour as he entered the village, which was supposedly abandoned (according to his crow, who flew off who-knows-where nearly an hour ago). He could practically taste the bitterness; a demon must have been there recently—a strong one if the sickening taste was so dense on his tongue.
There was a metallic taste in the air, and as he approached the entrance of the village, he knew it wasn’t only his blood that was causing it.
He quickened his pace. It seemed that the village was not yet completely abandoned by humans; Genya could only trust that it would remain that way as he searched. When it came to trust, he knew it was the most useless thing there was, but he held it out anyway.
He expected his injuries to attract the demon to him. Demons were usually animalistic and predictable enough to follow any new blood near them, at least the weaker ones did. So, when no demon came after him, he began to worry, somewhat.
He didn’t like being the one that encountered the demon. When demons tried to attack him with their uncontrolled lust for his blood, he knew he had control. It was his blood that made them act so predictably. But, when Genya was the one looking, it felt more like he was the one being controlled and being led to something dangerous.
Or maybe he was just jittery from the attack earlier. Either way, he would get it over with; he wanted to get rid of the demon quickly—each demon killed was another stepping stone to being acknowledged, to fixing his family.
“Something on your mind?”
Genya turned on his heel sharply to see a two headed demon, giving him a double smile. A plethora of scars were in place of where its eyes were supposed to be. It was an arm’s length away, but the size of the blood-covered demon made it appear closer. He couldn’t tell if it was strong or if he was just stuck in his own head.
He tried to focus more on the opponent in front of him rather than the fact that he hadn’t even sensed the demon’s presence before it had spoken. Genya came to three conclusions: his ammo was low, his sword was chipped, and the demon was holding an unconscious child in one of its four hands.
The slayer’s eyes captured the gentle movement of the boy’s chest. The child was still alive, breathing. That was a start he could work with.
The demon looked pleased with his apparent speechlessness; it opened his mouth to continue, but Genya took out his shotgun before a word could escape. The bullet burst through the joint connecting the demon’s arm to its body.
As the gunshot reverberated through the air, Genya bent his legs to prepare to grab the child away from the demon’s grasp. But, he stopped himself from approaching as he noticed that the demon’s arm already regenerated. Too fast.
The bullet had taken a direct shot at its arm, yet it still wasn’t enough to knock it clean off. The thin strings of connected skin let the arm regenerate before it could detach. The demon was strong. Blood angrily rushed to Genya’s head as it smiled patronizingly at him once again.
“What a quick marksman—it could have been clever if you were fast enough with your legs.” The two heads spoke in unison, and the demon gripped the child’s torso tightly as if to agitate the slayer further.
He felt himself freeze as the demon positioned its sharp nail against the child’s throat. All of what Himejima had taught him was now made useless as Genya failed to command his muscles. His head pounded.
“You’re so quick to fight. What’s the rush for? Got somewhere to be?”
His lips tightened.
“Hm, that’s alright—you don’t have to respond now. I can wait,” one of the heads said casually, taunting him as it lifted the child above its mouth.
“Why the hell are you trying to have a chat with me?” Genya blurted out aggressively, prompting the demon to pause. The two faces looked at him, amused. Genya already knew the answer; he was simply being toyed with; the child was dangling helplessly by his clothing, being displayed as if he were the same as any other piece of meat to be eaten. Genya’s knuckles were white from the pressure of his fists. All of the possible attacks that crossed his mind had been erased simply by the demon having a hostage.
“Hm… well it’s hard to have a good conversation with anyone lately,” it said, and Genya’s stomach churned. “Especially when they’re screaming.”
As it sang out the last word, the peripherals of Genya’s vision burned with red. He charged forward once again.
He forced his muscles to tighten dangerously. He sliced through the demon’s arms with his blade, not keeping track of how many were detached.
It was brash. But, he knew getting personal was the only chance he had at getting the child out of the demon’s grasp. He would regret it later, not now.
At one point, Genya managed to grasp the child's arm, and, for a moment, he felt himself gaining control. But, the feeling was fleeting as he heard the demon let out a pleased, harmonical hum.
“You forgot one!”
He only registered what the words meant as he saw the demon’s remaining arm drive towards his torso. Genya knew he was going to receive a much deeper wound than the ones he already had. He braced himself.
But, the pain didn’t come, and he instead felt the world turn sideways as his body was thrown towards a nearby house. His hand slipped from the child’s arm, and he tumbled backwards, feeling his useless breath leave his lungs as his back collided with the wall.
Adrenaline muddled up his thoughts. He was made even further confused as he saw the boy being tossed in his direction. Genya caught him automatically. He was given no time to think, and his brain seemed to be set on fire as it tried to figure out what was happening.
When his brain suddenly caught up, he realized that a Hashira had just arrived.
A familiar frame fit itself into his vision; he saw a back that was always turned to him. His shoulders were broad and firm—strained. They always were. It only made sense with them holding up the weight of the word Kill woven into the back of his uniform.
Genya shivered with a strange mix of relief, humiliation, then fear. His eyes bore into his brother’s back, and his throat locked up.
He hoped his brother would turn around to look at him, even with the risk of seeing hatred in his eyes. Sanemi had a right to hate him, although he never actually exercised that right. He would never waste hatred on anything other than demons; he wouldn’t waste hatred on his family.
His brother didn’t hate him, so Genya felt shameful that his fear-conditioned heart was reacting as if he did. His heart shouldn’t have raced so bitterly for every glare pointed at him. But, he still let himself get hurt each time Sanemi turned to face him.
But, Sanemi didn’t turn around this time, instead stepping away from him and towards the now frowning demon. It was the only time that Genya had seen the demon look discontent. For the entire time Genya had fought it, it was completely devoid of stress. Now, its formerly lax arms were made rigid and its jaw was made tense. Had Genya really been that mild? That weak?
Similarly to Genya, Sanemi didn’t let the demon get a word out. But, unlike Genya, the Hashira’s seemingly reckless attacks were much more polished. He weaved effortlessly through the demon’s offense. Unlike Genya, he was actually successful in slicing the heads off the demon and saving the child.
The heads dropped to the ground with a thud.
Working hard was something Genya thought he himself wasn’t bad at. However, as he saw his brother behead the demon that he had failed to slay so effortlessly, he knew that was the furthest from the truth.
He found himself gripping onto the boy’s clothing.
He was still as weak and reliant as when he was an unhelpful boy living in the slums. He should have been strong by now. He should have been standing beside his brother instead of being so far behind. But, despite any uncomfortable growth spurts or any muscle gained, he was still so small in comparison.
Genya breathed in slowly, collecting himself as Himejima would expect him to do. He was still small, but his brother being assigned the same mission as him showed he wasn’t as small as he was before. He reasoned with himself, although his chest became more tense for each step he heard advancing towards him. He heard a barely recognizable voice.
“You’re worthless as a demon slayer.”
His brother’s tired, bloodshot eyes were looking down at him. And, although it was childish, Genya nearly wanted Sanemi to scold him, to chide him gently like he used to as his younger self failed to sneak some of his own food onto his siblings’ plates.
They were truthful words, but the truth of them would change with time; he would become stronger. Genya opened his mouth to retort, but closed it again as Sanemi glowered deeper. The younger sibling was at least reminded of what his face even looked like, even though his head hurt being reminded of the happiness that he had destroyed years ago.
Sanemi’s eyes dropped down to the red stains and rips on Genya’s uniform.
“I was assigned this demon,” he continued, face tightening.
“Well, so was I,” Genya responded honestly.
“Well, it’s not your problem anymore.”
“We can—”
“There is no we, ” Sanemi seethed. “Don’t get in the way.”
When his bloodshot eyes burned into his, Genya’s heart was a rock. There was no room left for a conversation.
Genya’s throat was tight, holding back anger and indignation. But he couldn’t let it out, not with his brother so close. He wouldn’t let it out, because he knew he would regret it. The last time he had raised his voice at him, he regretted it so deeply that his heart could crack. Murderer.
Sanemi’s eyes jumped back down again, but this time towards the unconscious boy wrapped securely in Genya’s arms.
He loosened his arms sheepishly, prompting Sanemi to silently take the boy from his hold. On closer inspection, it seemed that his brother’s anger had somewhat softened into a mild agitation.
However, the Hashira returned to his original hardness quickly as Genya pushed himself up, forcing himself into a painful, but less pathetic-looking stance. His wounds stretched, but he didn’t wince; he already looked weak enough with the moon illuminating the generous amount of blood darkening his uniform.
Genya didn’t attempt to speak up again, unsure of how the mission would turn out if the child were forced awake by a heated (possibly violent) argument between the two siblings.
But, before they could search for any survivors, a voice from the ground spoke up confidently.
“You two can’t seem to work together, huh?”
The two brothers turned sharply to see both of the demon’s heads laughing in wicked unison.
The demon was still not fully disintegrated.
The shared demon body had been slowly disintegrating during the slayers’ not-so-friendly exchange; however, the two heads rested solidly in the exact spots where they had fallen. Two teeth-filled smiles brightened abnormally under the moonlight. Genya was beginning to understand why a Hashira had been called here.
“I guess it would only be fair if we gave each of you your own fight,” the heads continued sinisterly, and within the next instant, the sound of cracking bones and regenerating flesh plagued the air.
Sanemi briskly placed the boy down against the wall of the house, protectively stepping in front of both him and Genya. But, past his brother’s shoulder, Genya could see that the heads had grown each of their own separate bodies. There were two of them. And, they weren’t any smaller than their body before, either.
The slayer was not left to analyze any further as the two demons charged forward.
Despite Sanemi trying to take them both down, one managed to slip by him and advance towards Genya.
Genya unsheathed his blade, cutting off the arm that was reaching for him.
But, it simply healed in the next second, and the demon lunged for him once again.
Genya was given no time to shift the blade towards its neck, instead stabbing into the demon’s heart uselessly. Its flesh tightened around the blade, and he could tell that its regeneration speed was faster and that the skin was thicker.
His attacks didn’t cause the demon to stagger, instead having an opposite effect. The fight sped up exponentially, although that didn’t compel the demons to talk any less.
“I was just gonna split the mohawk boy in half, but I guess we’ll each get our own full-grown slayer today!” The demon nearest to Sanemi said, with the other snickering smugly in Genya’s face.
The demon definitely would have been a more pleasant opponent if it was muted instead of blinded by scars.
With anger-induced adrenaline, Genya didn’t care to notice the increased slashes that the demon decorated his body with. He didn’t care to notice the red staining the ground beneath him. He didn’t care.
He didn’t care until he felt his movements slowing, until he saw blade becoming more flimsy in his hands. He ordered his nerves with a small chant, but his focus didn’t sharpen and he could feel his weakening heartbeat nearing his ears.
Genya felt fatigue plague his limbs and he came to a realization: he was bleeding out.
His muscles were beginning to cramp. All of his wrong decisions were stacking atop each other. He was taught that having such a narrow focus wasn’t apt of a slayer who worked with blades. He was taught that all of his surroundings needed to be taken into account; yet, he still charged forward with his useless brain and limbs that were only charged by the trust in himself. He could almost laugh. The only way he could heal the damage was—
He wouldn’t eat a demon in front of his brother.
His eyes naturally darted to one of the arms that he had sliced off earlier, which was blatantly lying on the ground; it had not yet disintegrated.
But, he wouldn’t die in front of his brother, either.
Finally, he ran with the last of his strength towards the open flesh. He could feel himself salivating as his options were being taken away. The demon gave a curious hum as it followed closely behind him.
“Are you finally deciding to run—”
Genya picked up the half-eroded arm instantly and sunk his teeth into it. He felt the disgusting texture of the arm on his tongue. Before he could have any second thoughts, he allowed the putrid blood of the demon to enter his system, swallowing it shamelessly. He could have sworn he heard his brother screaming, at him or the demon, he did not know.
With a final swallow of the repulsive flesh, his vision blurred. The demon that stood lamely in front of him began to smudge.
He felt himself transforming. It was always a rushed, frantic process. It was as if he were drowning. He thrashed violently inside himself as he felt each white blood cell fighting and losing repeatedly against the demonic flesh that entered his system.
He was used to it by now. But, this time, it felt much more agonizing. Maybe, it was because of the demon’s power, or, maybe, it was because he was forcing his brother to watch him turn into a monster.
Sanemi only hated demons, he would never hate his family—so Genya wondered how he felt seeing the last of his family morph into the thing he hated most right in front of him.
Even if it was temporary, he could almost break from the thought of it. The younger felt his throat tighten with the mix of instinctual hunger and shame. His ears rang tortuously. Every pore of his body suddenly felt insanely sensitive to the outside world, with the ground beneath him prickling through the soles of his boots. His lips were disgustingly chapped yet made wet with saliva.
He could feel his brother’s judgmental eyes on him. He could feel the demons’ unbearable attention on him. Everything suddenly felt —
He forced his eyes shut.
It was useless, though. His closed eyes were not able to lessen the ringing of his ears or the pricking of his skin or the scorn of the world. He opened his eyes again, but his vision had not yet cleared, so he closed them again, then opened, then closed.
For every blink he could see the smile his brother used to wear, and how effortlessly he managed to wear it with the father they had. The image of his dead happiness was stuck to the back of his eyelids.
He opened his demonic eyes for the final time, and the ringing of his ears cleared.
Both of the demons were fading on the ground in front of him, the remaining body parts twitching pathetically on the ground. He scanned the area more, seeing piles of flesh strewn across the dirt from the fight he didn’t even know he had finished. The large bones and joints that kept their grotesque bodies together had been torn by his hands—claws.
With that thought, all he felt was blood. He could smell that blood was coating nearly the entirety of the village. He could practically feel the blood flowing through the body of his brother and the nearby child. He could see every ounce of mixed blood staining the ground, each speck of displaced dirt, and every blaring star in the sky.
Then, he heard his brother take a step toward him.
“Genya? ”
A nearly imperceptible tone of worry escaped from Sanemi’s mostly smoldering voice; it almost sounded foreign. If Genya weren’t in demon form, he wouldn’t have heard it. The young slayer couldn’t even remember the last time Sanemi had said his name.
At once, Genya turned around to look at him, even with the risk of seeing hatred in his eyes. But, instead, he saw distress.
As a Hashira, it was much more professionally hidden, but not fully under Genya’s demonic vision. It too closely resembled the expression he made after Genya had branded him as a murderer all those years ago. It too closely mirrored the moment that their mother had begun to dissipate into ash.
Genya had hurt him, again.
And, suddenly, Genya wanted Sanemi to hate him. He wanted his hateful gaze to cauterize him and burn away the feeling that was squeezing his insides. He wanted to see anything other than the conflicted—the hurt look in his brother’s eyes.
So, for the first time in his life, he ran. With the newly gained energy of the demon’s flesh, he pushed his legs as far away from his brother as possible. Powered by the fear and the demon’s power taking course through his bloodstream, he ran faster than he ever had in his small life.
Over his own gasping breaths and sprinting, he heard his injuries close up. The healing gained from the demon hardly felt like a reward, though.
He led himself to an alleyway, running inside to escape any form of life or light. Dust kicked up as he stopped in his tracks to fit himself into the darkest corner.
As he curled in on himself, he could feel the texture of the alleyway’s uneven wall through the back of his uniform. The clothing was too tight on his skin, scratching annoyingly against him for each time it tugged with the bend of his body.
Everything was so anger-inducing. He raked his claws exasperatedly through his hair, then deep into his scalp. The gashes healed soon after; it felt a little more releasing than simply dragging his feet into the ground. But, as he closed his eyes from the pain, he just saw the memory flash behind his eyes once again.
He let out a disgusting growl.
He jumped at the sound, hardly realizing that it came from him until he heard it bouncing off the walls. He forced himself to relax his jaw and muscles. He controlled his breathing—not as well as a slayer with an actual breathing style, but enough to where he was made silent.
The form he was in had nothing to do with the expertise of a proper swordsman. He let out a pitious, amused breath at the thought, covering his face and wiping the excess saliva away with his torn sleeve. He needed to be as far away from his brother’s sight as possible. The last thing he wanted to be was another nightmare for Sanemi to have.
His heart was a rock when he heard footsteps approaching the alleyway. Of course, for the first time he didn't want his brother near him, he ended up finding him.
The footsteps stopped at the opening of the alley, and Genya couldn’t help but cover his face further with his claws, hiding himself behind his knees. There was only a moment of what Genya assumed to be contemplation before they continued towards him. Genya couldn’t blame Sanemi for having trouble taking steps toward what he had to question was his brother.
Blood was caking into Genya’s hair, yet another inconvenience. He didn’t care. He didn’t care until he heard his brother take in a sharp breath and say:
“What the hell is this about?”
The younger slayer didn’t answer, keeping his face hidden.
“How did it come to this?” Sanemi continued to fume, his own breath quickening and volume becoming sporadic. “What god decided for this to happen to—”
My brother, was what Genya wanted Sanemi to finish with, but the Hashira instead interrupted himself with nearly hysterical laughter. It wasn’t pleasant to listen to, not like it used to be; it was raspy and worn, full of years of pent up anger and sorrow.
Sanemi’s laughter only stopped when Genya peeked above his knees. The Hashira’s eyes widened the slightest bit, and Genya could see his own black, demonic scleras in their reflection. Sanemi cursed before muttering bitterly.
“You… look like a demon.”
It was said obviously, as if Genya didn’t know it himself. But, his heart felt heavy nonetheless. You don’t look like my brother, was what Sanemi’s contracted pupils told him. Genya inhaled sharply, sputtering at both the stress caught in his throat and the saliva instinctually building at the back of it.
“It’s temporary, I swear—I wouldn’t—” Genya began to make excuses, hardly listening to them himself. He knew Sanemi wasn’t listening to them, either. He knew none of them would make up for anything he had done. It wouldn’t make up for turning into the thing mother had turned into. It wouldn’t make up for calling his brother a murderer.
Murderer, he had cried, while holding mother’s decaying body. It was yelled intensely enough for it to be remembered for years, for a lifetime. Genya didn’t have to read the painful word inscribed on Sanemi’s back when he already knew that he embedded it on his soul all those years ago.
His excuses only began to falter as he felt something cold adjust itself next to his neck. A few seconds passed, and the edge of the moon forced its light into the alleyway. It cast a glare onto the sword that Sanemi had just drawn. Genya’s breath caught in his throat.
Was his brother about to kill him?
He looked up to see Sanemi looking hard at him as if he were trying to convince himself of something. Genya didn’t miss the way his sword shook in his grip. He knew responsibility strangled Sanemi for every breath of freedom he tried to take—the day haunted him as much as Genya, if not more. Any outcome that came from this was going to hurt the Hashira.
Genya’s heart was a rock, but it was made so easily malleable seeing Sanemi hurt.
It was an empty threat, the younger brother knew. But, tears pricked at his eyes anyway. He didn’t blink, allowing his vision to blur the sight in front of him and the possibility that maybe Sanemi was about to give him what he deserved.
He was absolutely unforgivable, but he began to apologize, anyway.
“I’m sorry,” for calling you something you’re not. “I’m sorry,” for hurting you. “I’m sorry,” for breaking the family apart.
His voice became weaker every time he repeated it.
“Shut up,” Sanemi grumbled harshly, but the apologies and regrets spilling out of Genya’s mouth didn’t stop. So, he repeated once more, louder:
“Shut the fuck up.”
There was a loud, abrasive sound that followed his words; it dragged itself harshly upon Genya’s eardrums and echoed forcefully on the walls. His mouth was forced shut by the vibrations that went through his body.
Then, the tears fell, clearing Genya’s vision. The rise and fall of Sanemi’s chest was unsteady, shoulders heaving. His fist had been driven into the wall above Genya’s head. All that could be heard was irregular breathing and the crumble of brick.
Genya craned his neck upward and saw a silvery glaze over Sanemi’s moonlit eyes; a deep, unnamed emotion was buried within them. But, before Genya could read it, the older averted his eyes rigidly.
“I shouldn’t have followed you,” he muttered to himself bitterly, releasing his fist and sheathing his sword.
The Hashira took a step back, then turned away.
An unexplained panic surged through Genya, and he couldn’t help but ramble again at the unbearably familiar sight of his brother’s cold back and strained shoulders turned towards him.
“Wait,” Genya shouted over his heavy footsteps. “Don’t leave, don’t—”
He could nearly laugh at his own request. He knew that begging was the most pathetic thing to do if he wanted something; but, even in his seemingly most powerful form, he felt like he was incapable of doing anything else.
His brother was walking away from him once again; he was turning his back to him once again with the same taut shoulders struggling to resist the past.
The word on Sanemi’s back just kept reminding Genya of how he had failed to repair anything with his incomprehensible apologies; it kept reminding him of how he had failed to comfort his brother as he was forced to bury his own mutilated siblings into the cold, unyielding earth.
“Nemi, please—” Genya’s voice was becoming smaller. It was almost fitting, considering that he was still just as helpless and feeble as he was when he was a boy. The world felt three times larger than it was before, crushing him with the reminder of how puny he was.
“Please…”
His voice broke before he nearly began to weep. Genya would have been surprised at how childlike he sounded if not distracted by his own tears. He rubbed the wetness away with sleeves of his uniform, which now seemed larger, covering his face much easier. But, he didn’t care to notice the obvious difference in size, only noticing the cessation of Sanemi’s footsteps after he let out his final plea.
Then, he heard a quickened pace advance towards him.
Before he could look up, he felt the world suddenly shift, and he realized he had been swept up easily into his brother’s arms.
“Okay, okay.” Sanemi said with frustration and panic. “I won’t, damn it.”
They were said harshly, but they were the most comforting words Genya had heard from him in years.
The embrace was rough, with only bits of familiarity in it. His brother’s chest was harder, not shaped for love as it once was—only trained to be a machine. His arms were obviously more conditioned for violence rather than for affection. It wasn’t like the hugs he received back then when demons were simply an afterthought to be had. It was bittersweet, but the last thing Genya wanted was to be let go.
The pounding in his head faded as he felt himself being rocked gently. One of Sanemi’s hands was untangling his hair meticulously, working off the dried blood. All were small actions that were painfully intimate, reminding him that his brother’s heart had not completely hardened. Despite all of Genya’s mistakes, his brother’s heart was still there.
He heard the snivels of a child echoing softly on the walls; Genya knew they were from himself. He opened his mouth to apologize for sounding so pathetic, but he instead let out a mixture of growls and whines.
Sanemi shushed him, continuing to rock him as best he could with the little muscle memory of affection he had.
Genya could nearly break down into another set of sobs at the effort, but he instead felt himself tiring from the secure weight of his own oversized clothing. The tremor of his hands ceased, and his stammering and stuttering gradually quieted.
“I’m sor—”
“I already said to shut up with your apologies,” Sanemi said, surprisingly calm.
Genya felt so small and weak and protected. All of which should have bothered him, and it did; but, he found that he didn’t mind it as much in his brother’s arms. He didn’t mind being protected if it meant that it was a source of comfort for his deeply broken family.
With that final thought, a warm darkness overtook him.
The soft murmuring of a conversation was what pulled him back to consciousness.
The voices were hushed, but he could immediately pick up on the baritone of Himejima’s voice and the rasp of his own brother above him. From what he could tell, Genya was still being cradled, with his own head placed snugly in the curve of his brother’s shoulder. Had Sanemi been holding on to him for the entire time he had been sleeping?
“—and I would think that you would know how to deal with this,” Sanemi was saying to the other pillar slowly, but Genya could sense an undertone of frustration in the vibration of his vocal cords through his neck.
“He has never transformed into… a child in front of me,” Himejima responded, speaking calmly; it was the same tone he often used on Genya whenever his temper got out of hand.
Until now, Genya had not thought about how he actually, physically took the form of a child. It seemed that his small, piteous thoughts from earlier manifested through his demonic cells. The slayer shouldn’t have been surprised; whenever he was a demon, he always thought of turning stronger, bigger—it only made sense that he would be able to do the opposite as well.
“Well, shit.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Keeping him beside you is the best way you can handle this… for now,” Himejima suggested.
“Yeah, yeah. I wasn't planning on leaving him with anyone else,” Sanemi responded, and, as Genya felt a gentle hand being placed on his head, he knew that he was telling the truth.
That promise was all he needed to hear for him to feel tired again and nestle further into his neck.
As he fell asleep once more, he realized that Sanemi’s shoulders were no longer tense.