Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the day the world ended, Genya was running away.

It wasn’t the first time he’d absconded from a foster home, but Genya hoped it would be the last. He’d planned for months to achieve his desired outcome: setting aside and hiding funds from his part-time job; researching (well, Googling) the most cost-effective and efficient route to his destination; stockpiling what non-perishable foods he could, along with his rescue inhalers; and ensuring he had a few pairs of clothes in good condition, given it was late fall and bound to get cold. 

The planning may have taken months, but his exit from his current…home was quick and methodical. He was lucky, really, that this house afforded him the luxury of his own room and that the room had a window. It allowed him to slip out in the dead of night with ease, backpack secured across his shoulders and a laden duffel bag at his hip.

Genya weaved his way through the dark streets with practiced ease and was soon able to board the late-night bus after presenting the ticket he’d purchased a week in advance. No one batted an eye at him or questioned why a high schooler was traveling alone at such a late hour, a fact Genya attributed to either the underpaid employees not caring or to himself looking older than he appeared. He was tall, and he knew he could look intimidating—the scar stretching from his cheek to his nose, plus his mohawk, helped with that. 

The bus was fairly empty, and Genya settled into a weathered seat near the back. The closest to him were two younger men, maybe college students, sitting one row up and to his left, and an older man two rows up. Genya sat in the aisle seat, placing his bags in the empty spot by the window. He could secure them in the compartments above, but he wanted to keep the bags close, considering they contained all he had.

He couldn’t have known how grateful he would be that he’d packed those bags by the day’s end.

Genya was too jittery to sleep once the bus finally rolled into motion, instead spending his time staring out the window and watching the countryside roll by. There wasn’t much to see. The roads were mostly empty, the landscape monotonous.

With nothing to occupy his thoughts, his mind wandered to the purpose behind his most recent attempt at running away: to find his brother. 

It had been six years since he’d seen Sanemi last, a fact for which Genya knew he only had himself to blame. He wasn’t even sure Sanemi would want to see him. Genya hoped he would, but the desire was overwhelmed by doubt—after all, why would Sanemi be happy to see Genya after the terrible, stupid things he’d said? When he hadn’t known until a scarce few months ago just how terrible they’d been?

Genya’s hands balled into fists within the front pocket of his hoodie, gripping the fabric tightly in a bid to keep them from shaking. No, he wouldn’t be surprised if Sanemi never forgave him. But even if he didn’t, it would be worth it to Genya to at least try to apologize.

Finding him would be difficult. All Genya had to go on was the limited information he could find about Sanemi through Google searches. It was a miracle, honestly, that Genya had stumbled across an article featuring his brother. Sanemi had won a math competition, an important one from what Genya understood, in his last year of high school. The article included a blurb about him, and it gave Genya a place to start: Kimetsu Academy, Sanemi’s old school. Someone there had to know where Sanemi had ended up after graduating.

(The article was printed and secured safely in a folder within his backpack. The pages of it were crinkled from the number of times Genya had pulled it out to read, from the times he’d clutched the fuzzy picture of his older brother to his chest while whispering apologies to his visage.)

Genya would find him—he had to. 

He never had the chance.

As the sun began to rise through the rolling trees, the roads became busier. Genya frowned as he noted a third ambulance race past their bus. There had been a few police cars, sirens blaring, that had flown by as well. Was there something going on?

He craned his neck in an attempt to look as far forward as possible. The city lay ahead, and its tall buildings dotted the skyline. Genya frowned, observing its shape on the horizon was hazy, grey clouds wafting amongst the buildings. He squinted. No, not clouds—that was smoke. 

Something was going on. Something that seemed bad, judging by the number of emergency vehicles Genya had seen, and given that, even from tens of kilometers away, Genya could see the smoke.

What happened next was a blur. Genya was peering out the window, a growing pit of concern in his stomach, in one moment, and he was lying sideways, his entire body aching, in what seemed the next. Looking back on it, Genya knew what had happened, but it was still hard to believe—the bus crash, pulling himself and the college students through a shattered window, and what they found amongst the wreckage on the street.

It had been the first time he’d seen one of the Infected. 

What had used to be a person must have wandered in front of their bus and caused the crash. It still looked like a human from a distance and was an easy mistake for the bus driver to have made, especially since the man would not yet have known what to watch for: not the shambling gait, nor the greying and decayed flesh, or the empty eyes. He wouldn’t have known to look for the sharp teeth—teeth that had dug greedily into the neck of the old man who had once sat two rows up from Genya.

It was thanks to the debris from the bus crash that he and the college students—Noguchi and Shimamoto—were able to fight off the creature. They each were familiar enough with zombie media to go for its head and cautious enough to maintain distance as they did so. Even then, Genya knew it was a miracle they’d survived. It was a miracle they’d continued to survive as the whole world went to shit.

Genya had ended up sticking with Noguchi and Shimamoto for the first couple of months. If surviving the first day of the apocalypse together wasn’t enough to make them friends, the weeks spent living through the collapse of society as they knew it were.

It hadn’t lasted.

He still missed them sometimes—no, most of the time. Genya thought he knew the depths of solitude, what with the years he’d spent bouncing between shitty foster homes after losing everything—after pushing away the last person that mattered—but he’d been dead wrong. 

Solitude was months spent dodging from makeshift lodging to makeshift lodging, avoiding settling for fear of encountering other people or being discovered. Solitude was realizing he’d gone weeks without talking, thus having to train the hoarseness out of his voice through reading aloud to himself. Solitude was knowing that his most precious possession was not the gun he’d been fortunate to acquire, nor any of the essential supplies he needed to live, but the one grainy, black-and-white photo he had of his last remaining familiar member.

If Sanemi was still alive, that was.

Genya believed he was. His older brother was too strong, had lived through too much, to die before him. If Genya had survived this long, then Sanemi had as well—he knew it. 

He’d hoped for an unlikely reunion toward the beginning of it all, when he’d been huddled together with Noguchi and Shimamoto in the city’s quarantine zone for those first weeks. Genya had watched each new face anxiously, his eyes drawn to every flash of white hair, and he’d been disappointed each time.

Yet through the disappointments and through the solitude, perhaps in part because of the solitude, Genya clung to that flicker of hope—the wish that fate would for once be in his favor and bring their paths together once more.

There was only so much loneliness a person could take.

Supply runs into towns were risky business, but Genya was what one could call desperate. His second apocalypse-times winter was fast approaching, and the weather it brought was colder, the air drier. As the temperature chilled, his stupid, sickly lungs rebelled. On the worst days, it felt as if they were trying to scratch their way out of his chest in protest with every other breath.

Then he’d gotten a cold—a damned cold—that had sent him rapidly careening down a slippery slope littered with gasping coughs and aching ribs, and toward the fast approaching bottom of the cliff: the inability to breathe.

His last rescue inhaler had three uses left, according to the mocking red numbers adorning its top. Genya had been trying to save them, holding off on using the precious medication and inhaling only one puff instead of two when he did, but the illness had derailed his preservation of the inhaler. The numbers steadily inched closer to zero, uncaring that they were ticking away at his very life.

So, town it was. Genya finally felt strong enough to brave the trip after spending the past three days hacking up his lungs while alternating between shivering and sweating through fevers.

(He’d been terrified that it was happening—that it was the end of him, but he’d pulled through.)

The town was close, only a few kilometers, and Genya had an idea as to where he could find more inhalers. Maps were a precious commodity in this new world, and Genya was lucky enough to have acquired a few for the area. As long as the map was correct, there was a pharmacy near the edge of town. Genya hoped it hadn’t been picked over.

He set out from his current campsite with his backpack packed lightly, carefully trekking toward the town. Genya knew being caught unawares in his current condition was a death sentence and remained vigilant as he slowly made his way. The Infected may not be fast, but even one of them could catch him if he were too busy trying to breathe to run. 

It took the morning to reach town, and Genya scaled a tree when close enough to give himself a vantage point. His eyes darted around the buildings, searching for signs of movement, and found none. He released a relieved sigh. Genya had been in the area for a couple of weeks, and he was glad the town was as devoid of life (and undeath) as the surrounding woods.

From his vantage point, he was able to catch sight of the pharmacy. Despite the reassurance his scouting had given him, Genya remained cautious, his combat knife in hand, when skirting the edges of town and darting between buildings to reach the pharmacy’s door. 

He was able to slip inside without trouble, and Genya rested his back against the wall for a moment, grateful for the ease of his trip thus far. The gratitude dwindled as he took in the state of the building. Genya frowned, his heart dropping, as he observed the knocked-over shelves littering the pharmacy. It was clear that others had been there before.

Genya sighed, sheathing his knife, and headed toward the back of the store where the medications were stored. His eyes flicked around the wreckage as he walked, looking for anything useful. He stopped once to pick up a pack of gauze rolls that was hidden underneath an overturned shelf. He’d needed to change the bandages on his hand and arm, so at least he wouldn’t leave empty-handed.

The medication shelves and the floor around them were more of a mess than the rest of the store. Pill bottles were scattered about, and Genya spared them a glance before searching for inhaler boxes. He told himself not to panic as he looked—panicking would affect his breathing. He couldn’t afford to stress his lungs more than they were. Genya counted his breaths as he wound through the shelves, inhaling for four seconds and exhaling for seven. The repetition of it kept him centered. 

He found one misshapen box, knocked over on a shelf, and opened it with trembling fingers. Tears pricked at his eyes as Genya observed the blue inhaler within. It was just one, but it was enough. Enough for another couple of months, as long as he didn’t get sick again. He closed the box, almost reverently, and placed it in his backpack.

Genya was about to head toward the store’s front when he saw it—a red crate. It was unopened, plastic zip ties still securing it closed, and tucked into a corner of the pharmacy, hardly visible behind what appeared to be boxes of files. Genya glanced around once more before heading toward it. He pulled it free from its corner, quickly using his combat knife to break the zip ties. Genya flipped open the lid and suppressed a gasp.

It was an unopened medication shipment.

His eyes widened as he observed the antibiotics—a lot of antibiotics ended with –cillin or –mycin, Sanemi had taught him that when they were kids—within. Buried underneath them seemed to be boxes. Genya pushed the antibiotics to the side to get a better look at them. Genya stared, dumbfounded, at the inhaler boxes that lay beneath.

How had this box been missed? How had it been missed when it contained such precious medications as antibiotics and inhalers? Genya didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He thanked his lucky stars for pulling through for him for once and began to fill his backpack with as many of the inhalers as he could fit.

His triumph was short-lived, dying in his chest as he heard the click of the pharmacy’s door. Genya froze, heart racing, before scrambling to shove the box he had in hand into his backpack and zipping it hastily. He then slung it over his back and redrew his combat knife.

Shit. Shit. It had to be a person. Genya had never encountered an Infected smart enough to open a door. The even footsteps that echoed in his ears seemed to confirm his suspicion. 

Genya cast a rueful glance at the red crate—he hadn’t grabbed any antibiotics, damn it—before quietly shuffling behind the adjacent pharmacy shelf. Genya had pulled the crate into the open, so the stranger should spot it easily once they made it back to the pharmacy. Assuming they’d come for a similar reason to him, Genya should be able to slip away while they looked through the crate.

Genya held his breath as the footsteps neared and fell silent just beyond the flimsy protection of the shelf he’d hidden behind. He then heard the soft shifting of fabric, followed by the rattle of pills against plastic—the stranger had to be looking at the medications in the crate. Genya inched forward, wary of the pill bottles littering the ground, and peeked around the edge of the shelf to observe.

There was a man crouched in front of the crate, holding up the pill bottles to read before placing several of them into an open backpack at his side. He had black, choppy hair pulled into a low ponytail and wore a baggy, two-patterned sweater, one half solid red and the other featuring a geometric pattern of greens and yellows. 

Genya watched, curious, as the stranger picked up one of the rescue inhaler boxes and opened it. The stranger withdrew the inhaler and turned it over in his fingers before placing it in his bag. A part of Genya wanted to protest—the man should keep it in the box, the inhaler could get damaged if he hit the bag against anything! 

Genya blinked, realizing he was wasting precious time he had to escape staring at the man who might kill him the second he noticed him. His eyes darted between his current position and the door. He would have a head start if he made a break for it. Genya had conserved his energy throughout the morning, so surely his lungs would hold him just this once. They had to.

He took a breath and prepared to move, but was instead frozen in his tracks.

“I know you’re back there.”

The voice was calm, monotonous. Genya’s shoulders tensed, knuckles whitening around his combat knife, as he turned back to the stranger. His eyes widened in alarm as he was met with a cold stare. The man remained crouched but had swiveled halfway to face him, his body taut as if to strike. The stranger’s sharp blue eyes flicked from the knife in Genya’s hand to his face.

“You didn’t try to stab me.” His head tilted to the side. “Were you going to run?”

The man was speaking to him—but why? Genya couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to another person, and he couldn’t discern if the man’s words were threatening or a simple question. Perhaps it was due to the man’s aloof tone, or perhaps Genya had lost the ability to tell after spending so long alone. It scared him that he wasn’t sure.

“Can you talk?” the man asked.

He could, theoretically. Was he going to? Hell no.

Genya used his free hand to scoop up the nearest thing to him, a wayward pill bottle, and lobbed it straight at the man’s head. The man shifted to avoid it—damn, he had fast reflexes—and Genya didn’t waste another second before scrambling upright. He dashed past the pharmacy counter and took a fighting stance, brandishing his knife. Everything within him was screaming to run toward the door, but Genya couldn’t risk turning his back to the stranger. Not when he could have a gun or another weapon and attack Genya from behind.

Maybe talking wasn’t such a bad idea.

“I don’t w–want trouble,” Genya said. The words were scratchy, and he had to clear his throat halfway through. A product of his vocal disuse or the cold he was recovering from, he imagined.

The man rose slowly to his feet, leaving his backpack open on the ground. One of his hands hovered by his side. Genya couldn’t see a weapon, but the man probably had one hidden underneath his oversized sweater.

“Are you sick?” the man questioned. 

Genya’s brows furrowed, and he didn’t answer. The question seemed a simple one, especially given where their encounter was taking place, but held dangerous implications in the world they lived in. 

The man’s face remained impassive at Genya’s lack of response. He gestured to the open crate with his visible hand and asked, “Did you get what you needed?”

Had he? Yes, he supposed, since he’d been able to grab several inhalers—but there was more that Genya wanted, or would need later. But this man would benefit from the antibiotics as well, and Genya didn’t want to fight him over it. Not when he was still weakened from illness, and not when his asthma could act up at any moment.

“Yes,” Genya replied cautiously. 

The stranger motioned to the hand wielding the knife. “What happened to your hand?”

Genya gritted his teeth. Damn it. He’d noticed the bandages.

“Papercut,” Genya snarked, hoping his sarcasm would mask his unease. He inched a step backward. “If you’re done playing 20 questions, I think I’ll leave now.”

The man arched a brow. “You’ll run into the rest of my group, and they might not be so understanding.”

Shit. The knife wavered in the air as uncertainty rooted Genya in place. What should he do? Maybe the man was lying, and he was alone. Maybe he wasn’t, and Genya would walk right into a trap if he left. His breath quickened in pace as he tried to figure out a course of action.

Waffling in indecision, Genya was slow to respond when the man rushed him. He startled and reacted on instinct, swinging his knife forward, but this stranger was much faster than any Infected Genya had ever faced. The man intercepted the slash with his right arm, striking Genya’s forearm, and reached out with his left hand simultaneously to grab his wrist. The knife was wrenched from his hand as the man twisted, manipulating Genya’s arm in an unnatural, painful angle.

Genya had only a second to think, I’m screwed, before the man was behind him, and he was thrown to the ground. He landed on his stomach, a gasp wheezing past his lips. He attempted to inhale and regain his breath, but his damaged airways protested. Genya curled in on himself as he hacked up coughs, with only enough awareness through the fit to realize the man had slipped his backpack from his shoulders. The loss of his backpack was followed shortly by the removal of the gun he’d holstered on his back.

Shit, I need to move! I have to move or I’m dead!

Genya dug an elbow into the ground, managing to roll himself over as he pushed himself to his knees. He forced what passed for even breaths through his teeth, one hand braced on his chest, as he dragged his gaze from the floor back to the stranger.  The man was crouched, eye level, several feet away, and he turned Genya’s handgun over in his hands.

“You could have tried to shoot me,” the man commented. “Why didn’t you?”

“Waste of a–ammo,” Genya huffed. It was true, if not the full truth. Genya had but a scarce supply of bullets left, and he needed to preserve them. There was also the fact that shooting a person felt much different than shooting an Infected. Genya had failed to pull that trigger before.

“Hmm,” the man hummed. “Tell me what happened to your hand. I can see your arm is bandaged too.”

“Nothing happened!”

“Ah, so you were bitten,” the man concluded smoothly. Genya went stock-still, staring at the man with wide eyes. Was he that obvious? The man frowned at him and shook his head. “Why were you here? Medicine won’t help a bite from an Infected.”

Genya knew that. Of course, he knew that. 

“I’m not some kind of idiot,” Genya snapped. “It’s not—look, it’s not what it seems like, okay?”

“Was the medicine for someone else?” the man questioned. He was so calm. It was ridiculous and made Genya want to punch him, though he doubted he could, what with his shitty lungs and the man’s apparent hand-to-hand skills.

Genya could lie, try to spin a sob story about how he needed to get the medicine back to someone he cared about before he became a mindless Infected, but he didn’t think this man would buy it. He was too observant, too logical—but maybe that could work to Genya’s advantage. Maybe, just maybe, he had a shot if he told the truth. 

If the man didn’t believe him, then he was dead for sure, but it was the only option Genya had.

“No, it’s not. I’m on my own,” Genya said. He cringed. He probably didn’t need to admit that, but the man did not react to the words, watching him with an even gaze. Genya swallowed nervously and continued, “I was—yeah, I was bitten, but you have to listen! I know it sounds crazy, but it was months ago, and I’m still me.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “That’s impossible.”

“I know, but it’s the truth.” Genya inhaled shakily, trying to steady himself. “I’ll show you.”

The man didn’t reply but inclined his head in a nod. The handgun he’d taken from Genya was pointed downwards, safety on, and that gave Genya a flicker of hope that he might live to see the next day.

“Okay, just don’t…freak out,” Genya said, muttering the last words. Without further ado, he rolled up the sleeve of his jacket and began to unwind the bandages that lined his right forearm up to his hand. The bandages fell to the ground, and Genya brandished his bare arm.

“See? It’s healed. I keep it covered because…well, because.”

He focused on the man’s reaction. In part because he needed to see if the stranger believed him and might let him go, and in part because Genya hated looking at the scarred bite mark marring his mid-right forearm. It was a terrible reminder of a terrible day, plus the horrible ones that followed. 

The man glanced at the scar before his blue eyes focused back on Genya’s own, seeming to stare into his soul.

“You’re pale, and you’re coughing,” he noted.

“I had a cold, and I have asthma,” Genya countered. He jerked his head toward the backpack the stranger had taken from him. “Look in my bag. All I grabbed were inhalers and some bandages.” 

The man didn’t take his eyes off Genya as he reached for the bag, unzipped it, and upturned it to shake out the contents. Genya winced as the inhalers pattered against the floor, followed by the package of gauze pads. The folder Genya had carried with him since the very first day of the apocalypse slipped out as well, and Genya’s heart panged.

Sanemi. He couldn’t die here. Not before he found Sanemi again.

“Please just…just let me leave with my bag,” Genya pleaded. He hated it. Hated that he was at the mercy of this stranger. Hated that he might lose his two weapons and be left vulnerable in the future. Hated that he’d been so stupid, and now he had to practically beg.

Silence suffocated the room for several seconds. The man broke it with a sigh, rising to his feet. 

“I can’t do that,” he said. Before Genya had the time to fully panic, the man elaborated, “But I won’t kill you.”

“W–what?” Genya stuttered, utterly confused. 

“A normal Turn takes up to two days. If you’re still you by the end of tomorrow, I’ll let you go,” the man explained. His stare was resolute as he continued, “If not, then it wouldn’t be you I’d be killing.”

“You’re just going to…watch me? Until tomorrow?”

The man raised both brows. “Would you rather I kill you now?”

“No!” Genya protested with a wave of his hands. He bit his lip and asked, “But why bother? Can’t you just let me go?”

“If I do that, and you Turn, you might kill someone. That death would be on me, and I can’t accept that.”

“Most people these days wouldn’t care about something like that,” Genya replied, disbelief evident in his tone. The majority of people Genya had met cared little for the well-being of others. It had been the same before the apocalypse, but the current lack of societal restraints had heightened people’s natural, selfish instincts to an unconscionable level. It was hard to believe this stranger would spare a thought for the theoretical possibility of an Infected Genya killing someone.

The man merely shrugged. “Most people would have killed you before they knew you were bitten, much less let you live after finding out.”

That was…a fair point. This man was an enigma—an enigma Genya had reason to be grateful for, but one he still did not want around until the next day’s end.

“What are you going to do, follow me around?” Genya questioned incredulously. He paused before adding, “What about your group?” 

“I’m here alone,” the man revealed. Damn, Genya had fallen for a lie. He wondered why the man was admitting to it. Genya supposed he would have figured it out regardless, but it was odd that the stranger would offer up the information. A lot of things about the man made no sense.

The man continued, “I do have a group, but they’ll be fine without me for a couple of days. To answer your question: no, I won’t be following you. You’ll come with me. If you refuse, I will kill you today.”

Why did he feel like he was being kidnapped? He’d never been kidnapped before, but his current situation seemed to check a lot of kidnapping boxes. The association made his breath hitch fearfully. Genya knew the other types of people that inhabited this new world—they’d been in the world before, too, but what flimsy protections there were against them had been stripped away, allowing said people to roam unchecked. Perhaps the man’s mercy was anything but.

His chest panged, and Genya realized he’d held his breath. He exhaled shakily, his nostrils flaring as he forced air to and from his lungs. In for four, out for seven.

The man’s cold expression softened. He moved, and Genya shifted backward on instinct, but the man simply tossed one of the scattered inhaler boxes at Genya. Genya caught it incredulously.

“Seems like you may need that,” he commented. He then grabbed Genya’s bag from the ground and searched through it. He faced Genya as he did so, clearly keeping an eye on him.

Genya slowly unboxed the inhaler he’d been given. He didn’t want to use it, not with this stranger around. It felt like weakness, reminding him of when he was younger and of how much he’d wished he wasn’t broken. 

His asthma had caused more hardships than he could count. The inhalers were expensive and would spark anger from his father when he needed a new one. His father would smoke inside, and Sanemi would yell at him, then pay for it with new, circular scars. His lungs couldn’t handle the thick, black smoke obscuring the small space of their apartment, and Sanemi had to carry him out—Sanemi had to help him, and not the others, and they had…they had all…

Genya hurriedly shook the inhaler and breathed in a puff of the medication. He forced himself to hold his breath before attempting a couple of steadying breaths and repeating the process. Breathing came easier with the second inhale of the medication, his lungs able to expand properly. The only pain that lingered in his chest was a product of his wounded heart.

The man had finished rifling through Genya’s bag and lobbed it toward him. It fell with a flop, landing to his left.

“You can take what you need medicine-wise, then we’re leaving,” he instructed. “I don’t want to be walking around after dark.” 

Genya cautiously reached for the bag and began to collect the inhalers, watching the man in his peripheral vision as he walked past, out of Genya’s reach, to retrieve his own bag. Genya considered trying to get some of the antibiotics but decided not to push his luck—he wasn’t even sure if it was luck, still.

The last thing Genya grabbed was the fallen folder. He wanted to open it, to make sure the article was inside—even though he logically knew it was, considering it wasn’t on the floor—but resisted. The man was watching him, and Genya didn’t like the idea of him seeing.

Once he’d secured his backpack across his shoulders, Genya rose to his feet and looked at the stranger warily. The man was leaning against the pharmacy counter, arms crossed. Genya didn’t know where his gun and knife had been stashed, but he assumed the man still had them on him.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

Genya stiffened. “Why would I tell you that, Mr. Might-Kill-Me?”

“Tomioka Giyuu.”

Genya narrowed his eyes. What was the man getting at, sharing his own name? None of what this…Tomioka did made sense to Genya, not at all. 

He bit his lip, deliberating. He supposed it wouldn’t make much difference if the man knew his name, even if it bothered him to share. Maybe it would even help him—if Tomioka thought of him as a person with a name and not just a potential Infected.

Genya looked away, discontent, and grumbled, “Shinazugawa.”

Genya swore he heard a soft, yet sharp, intake of breath, but when he turned back, confused, to Tomioka, he found the man as impassive as ever. It must have been something else that he’d heard, like the wind or…something, he concluded lamely. 

“Just Shinazugawa?”

“Genya,” he elaborated slowly. “Shinazugawa Genya.”

Tomioka nodded in acknowledgement before inclining his head toward the door. “Lead the way.”

“I thought you weren’t following me.”

“Change of plans,” Tomioka replied smoothly as he uncrossed his arms and straightened to his full height. He was shorter than Genya by a few centimeters, a fact which annoyed him, if anything. Tomioka was shorter and probably only a handful of years older than him, but he’d handily defeated him in their scuffle. Genya chose to blame the embarrassing lack of resistance he’d given on his lungs.

“We’ll head to wherever you’re camping out,” Tomioka said. He narrowed his eyes. “If you’re thinking of trying anything—don’t. I’m a good shot.”

Genya could believe it, what with the conviction his voice held as he declared it and the skill he’d shown in hand-to-hand. His fingers curled around the straps of his backpack, fingernails digging into his palms. Fuck. He hated this.

“Fine,” Genya muttered. He forced himself to move, his steps feeling heavy.

He wished he’d never come to town.

The trek back to Genya’s camp was awkward, to say the least. Tomioka trailed several feet behind him as Genya cautiously followed his earlier path in reverse. He didn’t know what else to do other than to move as vigilantly as he normally would, and he tried to pretend that Tomioka wasn’t there. Genya almost could, considering the man was eerily quiet, but the knowledge that the man could decide to kill Genya at a moment's notice prevented him from banishing the nervous buzz from his mind.

They exchanged no words as Genya led the way out of town and through the woods. Soon, only the crunch of their steps against the forest floor disrupted the silence between them. Genya trudged forward, mulling over his situation and his interactions with Tomioka.

The man was confusing.

Tomioka was…intense, but didn’t seem to be a bad person. He could have killed Genya any number of times, yet he hadn’t. It may be naive of him, but with the time he’d had to reflect, Genya had also come to believe the man didn’t have any…other intentions. Tomioka sounded genuine when he claimed that any deaths caused by an Infected he’d let live would plague his conscience. Maybe he was a good person—one of the few left alive.

Genya could almost hear Sanemi scolding him—yelling at him for being an idiot for considering trusting this stranger—but Genya liked to think he had a good sense for people. Growing up around enough shitty ones and having met plenty more since the world ended had ingrained an inherent discernment within him. 

Tomioka may have threatened to kill him, but his reasoning was righteous, not senseless. When Genya proved his immunity, he believed that Tomioka would do as he said and leave Genya be, as long as Genya didn’t do anything to make him think he’d be a threat. Perhaps he could try to get Tomioka to trust him, as well.

Resolved, Genya broke the quiet between them. “We’re almost there.” He paused and turned back to Tomioka. “I have traps set up, so watch where you step.”

Tomioka blinked but didn’t react otherwise. “I assumed you would, but why would you tell me?”

Genya huffed and replied, “Take it as a show of good faith. I’d rather not die, so…” he trailed off with a shrug, looking away. 

Tomioka was quiet for a moment before saying, his voice slow and calm, “There’s a girl where I come from who’s immune to the Turn. She was bitten about a year ago, right near the start, but aside from being sick the first couple of days, she hasn’t shown any signs of Infection.”

“What?!” Genya exclaimed, eyes wide with shock as he turned sharply back to Tomioka. “There’s someone else like me?”

“The ‘like you’ is still in question. I believe you might be immune, but I need to be sure,” Tomioka stated. “You’ll have to thank her. If it wasn’t for her, I never would have given you this chance.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to tell her,” Genya answered slowly, dazed. 

The gears in his brain felt stuck, jamming against each other and unable to comprehend that he wasn’t alone. Tomioka had said the girl was bitten almost a year ago—that was much longer than Genya’s five months. He’d spent those long, lonely months with a lingering fear hounding him, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for himself to grow sicker and sicker until he lost himself. If this girl was fine, nearly a year after being bitten, that meant…that meant maybe there wasn’t another shoe to drop.

Maybe he did still have the time he needed to find Sanemi.

“I said you’ll have to thank her.”

The words drew Genya’s attention, but his brain was definitely stuck because—“What?”

Tomioka shrugged. “You don’t seem like a bad kid. You could have tried to attack me in the pharmacy, but you didn’t—not before I made you, anyway.” He paused for a beat. “How long have you been alone?”

“I’m not a kid,” Genya protested weakly. He avoided answering the other’s question and turned away, his heart racing in his chest. 

Was Tomioka offering for Genya to come with him after he’d confirmed Genya wasn’t lying about being immune? It might…it might not be so bad, if he were. Or did it only seem as such because Genya was tired of his solitude? He couldn’t be rash—he needed time to think.

“We’re losing daylight,” Genya said in lieu of continuing their previous conversation. “We should keep moving.”

Tomioka said nothing, but Genya heard the soft crunch of his steps behind him. Genya directed the other through his traps almost absentmindedly. The cogs in his mind had yet to figure out how to unstick themselves, not with each new, confusing piece of information Tomioka introduced adding another wrench in the system.

Soon, the wooden shed Genya had been calling home for a week or so came into view. Genya had been lucky to find it, and he’d hoped to continue to fortify it so he could stay throughout the winter. Now, that plan was moot. He would either have to decide to trust Tomioka and go with him, or not. If not, he would need to leave the shed behind. If Tomioka wasn’t trustworthy, then Genya couldn’t afford to have him know where he lived.

“Home sweet home,” Genya announced softly with an idle gesture at the shed.

“Your traps were laid out well,” Tomioka commented, and Genya almost felt…happy at the acknowledgement. Those traps had taken work. 

Tomioka then asked, “Have you been here long?”

“Long enough,” Genya answered easily. The question didn’t feel as intrusive as the man’s prior one. He turned back to Tomioka with a questioning brow raised. “What exactly is your plan now that we’re here?”

Tomioka tilted his head as his eyes swept over the shed. After a few moments, he seemed to reach a conclusion and instructed, “Stay here while I check inside.”

Genya rolled his eyes. “What, for the armory I have hidden in there?” He winced after registering the words that had fired from his mouth without thought. Tomioka may seem nice, but sarcasm still wasn’t the safest choice.

Tomioka, though, did not reply. He cast Genya a look before sweeping into the shed, leaving the door open. Genya thought idly about running away but decided against it. Tomioka would hear him and could easily use the gun he’d taken from Genya to cut an escape attempt very short. Besides…he couldn’t help but want to believe Tomioka, and that his offer to join whatever group he was a part of—a group with someone else who was immune—was genuine.

The shed wasn’t large, and Tomioka quickly exited. He leaned against the door frame and said, “I took your other knives.” Genya wasn’t surprised that he had. “Here’s the plan: you’ll stay in the shed, and I’ll stay outside. Since there are no windows, I’ll only need to bar the door.” 

A hint of something like a smile then appeared on Tomioka’s face. “I assume your traps will handle any Infected that try to wander my way.” 

“I mean…theoretically,” Genya replied slowly, feeling nonplussed. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of being locked inside the shed—he didn’t exactly do well with small spaces he couldn’t get out of—but Genya knew he had little choice. He supposed it could be worse, so he would deal with it. 

Tomioka nodded and stepped away from the open door in a silent instruction. Genya hesitated for a moment before entering the shed. He slid the door closed behind himself; somehow, it made him feel a fraction more in control of his current circumstances. The shed was engulfed in darkness, with only the dim evening light trickling through the door. Genya could light his candle to illuminate the space, but the idea of an open flame within a room he was locked in, unable to leave…no, he wouldn’t—couldn’t do that. 

Genya shrugged off his backpack and sat heavily on a crate by the door, settling the bag on his lap. Feeling dazed, he unzipped it and withdrew the folder stored inside carefully. He flipped it open, pulling the article within free with trembling fingers. He turned the page over in his hands, careful to keep his fingertips at the edge of the sheet—the lettering had begun to fade and smudge, and he needed to preserve it.

Genya gazed at the crinkled picture on the back of the page, releasing a slow breath. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, resting it just shy of the worn paper.

“Today’s been weird as hell, Sanemi,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Sleep didn’t come easily, and it was restless once Genya found it. He tossed and turned throughout the course of the night, troubled by conflicting thoughts, and slept in short, fretful batches of time. By the time light had begun to stream through the shed’s door, Genya was wide awake, yet no less tired than he had been the night previous. He stared at the ceiling of his shed, watching the shadows slowly drift across the weathered wood, and reflected on the decision that lay ahead of him.

Who am I kidding? Genya thought. He’d already decided.

Five months spent alone was far too long a time. 

A soft knock sounded, drawing Genya’s attention to the door. It was followed by a quiet call: “Still a human in there?”

“As far as I know,” Genya answered, sitting up and getting to his feet. He trodded to the door, hesitating for a moment before shifting the crates he’d quietly stacked in front of it the night prior away from the entrance. Outside, he could hear Tomioka removing whatever it was he’d used to bar the door closed. The door soon slid open, and Genya squinted against the influx of light. Tomioka was haloed in the doorway, his eyes narrowed cautiously, and a hand at his hip.

“Ta da. Human,” Genya announced, matter-of-fact, with a vague gesture to himself.

“Hmm,” Tomioka hummed. He relaxed, hands falling to his sides, and nodded. “Good. I’ve thought about it, and I don’t think I need to watch you today as well. I believe you.”

Genya blinked. “Really?” 

Tomioka gave him a flat look. “Why would I say it if I didn’t mean it?” 

He was so honest. It almost made Genya want to laugh for the novelty of it. What were the odds he’d actually like the first person that he’d been able to talk to for nearly six months? Maybe he’d finally used up all of his bad luck—if so, it was about damn time. But if Tomioka didn’t plan to continue monitoring him, that left Genya with another question.

“Are you…leaving then?” he asked. 

“Yes. The others will start to worry,” Tomioka replied. There was something knowing in his eyes as he continued, “The estate is about a day and a half walk from here, as long as we don’t hit any trouble. How fast can you pack what you need?”

“How fast—what?” Genya stuttered. He knew, logically, what Tomioka had implied the day before and that his words now carried the same implication, and he knew what he wanted, but it was still hard to believe.

“You’re coming with me, right?” The words were a question, but seemed more like a statement as they left Tomioka’s lips. The corners of his mouth twitched upward. “Besides, I don’t want to navigate your traps myself. Sounds like a hassle.”

“It would be,” Genya commented idly. He shook his head, as if to clear his shock and indecision, and said, “Give me ten minutes.”

Genya turned, flicking his eyes around his small space, and did not allow himself to waste any more thought or time on uncertainty. Of all the decisions he’d made in his life, he didn’t think this choice was one of the bad ones. 

It took him less than the ten minutes he’d stated to gather his essentials into his backpack and duffel bag. They weren’t the same ones that Genya had packed back on that first day of the apocalypse, but every time Genya had moved from place to place, he thought of that day—the beginning of the end. 

He finished packing, strapping his sleeping bag onto the bottom of his backpack and checking inside the bag one last time to make sure the folder and article were tucked safely inside, then stood. There was one thing he was missing, and Genya took a breath to steel himself before he turned and exited the shed. Tomioka was leaning against a tree nearby, eyes cautiously scanning the surrounding woods. He idly spun a knife in his hands—just the thing that Genya was looking for.

“I want my knife back,” Genya proclaimed, drawing Tomioka’s attention to himself. He stopped spinning the knife but didn’t offer it to Genya and did not reply. 

“Trust is a two-way street,” Genya argued in the face of his silence. “I’ve trusted you not to kill me; I’d appreciate it if you afforded me the same. If something happens, I need a way to defend myself.” 

Tomioka gave him a considering look. Genya clenched his hands into fists at his sides and met his gaze evenly. After several moments of quiet, Tomioka inclined his head and said, “Fair enough.” He flipped the combat knife over in his hand and offered it, hilt forward, to Genya.

Genya stepped toward him and took it carefully, sliding the knife into the sheath he’d strapped at his side. Maybe he and Tomioka were both crazy—trusting each other after less than a day, with little in the way of persuasion to do so. He was grateful, nonetheless, to be armed. He would like to have his gun as well, but decided against asking for it.

“Thanks,” Genya acknowledged. He hiked his backpack up on his shoulders. Traveling with both it and the duffel bag was a pain, but Genya was used to it. He’d rather deal with the hassle than leave anything he might need behind.

He shifted from foot to foot, waiting for Tomioka to do something. The man remained quiet, his expression unreadable, and Genya finally asked, “Well…which way?”

“Back toward the town,” Tomioka replied, pushing himself off the tree. “I’ll take the lead once we’re past your traps.”

Genya nodded. “Yeah, makes sense.” He tossed a look back at the wooden shed, feeling as if he was turning the final page of a chapter in a book, before swiveling back toward the depths of the woods and beginning to walk resolutely forward. 

The only words exchanged between them for the next several minutes were Genya’s guidance on avoiding his traps. Once they were past them, they settled into silence, though not as tense a lingering quiet as the day prior. Genya trailed behind Tomioka but remained cautious, keeping an eye on the shifting woods around them for any signs of movement.

The distant shape of the town eventually came into view, and Tomioka directed them west around it. Genya agreed with the decision—better to stick to the woods. One was far more likely to find other humans or Infected in previously populated areas, as evidenced by the two of them running into each other in the town.

They had made it to the opposite side of the town when Tomioka held up a hand. Genya halted immediately, tense. Tomioka beckoned toward his left, and Genya followed the silent instruction, darting forward quietly to duck behind a tree with Tomioka. He peered past the man’s shoulder, following his gaze. Genya quickly spotted what had led Tomioka to direct them to hide. Through the trees, shambling about, was an Infected. 

Tomioka held an arm out, as if to stop Genya from moving forward. Genya gave him an offended look. He wasn’t planning on doing anything stupid, thank you very much. Tomioka held a finger to his lips in response. He then raised his brows and looked quickly down, then up again—a silent direction for Genya to stay put. Genya pressed his lips into a thin line but nodded in acknowledgement. 

There was only one Infected, and Tomioka had lived this long into the apocalypse, so Genya figured he could handle it. There was also a part of him that wanted to see what Tomioka would do. He had Genya’s gun, but Genya didn’t think he would use it—guns were loud, and a last resort.

Tomioka proved him correct on both predictions. After Genya’s agreement, he faced forward and began to dart between the trees. As Tomioka neared the Infected, he reached to his back, and Genya was surprised to see him draw a short, katana-like blade from underneath the baggy layers of his sweater. 

Tomioka rounded behind the Infected, pausing behind a tree only meters away, before rushing toward the creature’s back. He used both hands to swing the blade at the unaware Infected’s neck. With one strike, the blade sliced cleanly through rotted sinew and bone, and the creature’s head flopped to the ground. Tomioka stepped back as the Infected’s body followed its head, collapsing like a puppet with no strings. Tomioka’s expression remained neutral as he spun the blade, flicking the gore from it to the ground.

Genya’s eyes went wide. That was…incredible. Whatever that sword was, Genya wanted one. It was more effective than a combat knife and silent, unlike a gun. Though Genya was a good shot—his brief time in the marksmanship club had lent well to his survival of the apocalypse thus far.

Tomioka turned back to him and gestured for Genya to move. As he jogged forward, Genya checked the surroundings to make sure they were alone once more before voicing his thoughts.

“That was incredible!”

Tomioka had knelt to the ground, wiping his soiled blade off on the grass. He looked up at Genya and shrugged. “The wakizashi does all the work.”

“I doubt that. I’m sure you had to practice with it,” Genya said. He paused before adding, unable to hide a hint of excitement, “Are there more of those at your camp? Can I have one?”

Tomioka gave him a bemused look as he got to his feet. “You really are a kid.”

Genya frowned, his eagerness dwindling. “I’m seventeen.”

“Yeah, a kid.”

“What are you, two years older than me?” Genya questioned with a huff, crossing his arms defiantly.

“I’m twenty-two,” Tomioka corrected idly. 

Genya went quiet at the answer, the information slotting into his mind and calling forth a connection—Tomioka was the same age as Sanemi. Genya wondered if Tomioka and Sanemi could be friends if they were to meet. Perhaps Genya would tell Tomioka about his brother, once they reached the other’s camp. It would be nice to settle for a time, but his goal was still the same: to find Sanemi. Maybe Tomioka, or someone at his camp, could help Genya figure out what to do next.

Tomioka tilted his head toward the waiting woods. “We need to keep moving. There could be more of them around, and I want to get back as fast as possible.”

“Right, yeah,” Genya agreed, shaking his head.  “Lead the way.”

The remainder of the day passed without event. Once they had navigated around the town, Tomioka led them north. They were nearing more mountainous ground, and Tomioka explained that his people lived in a sprawling estate in the mountains. Apparently, the family that owned the estate was kind and welcoming, so, although it was a remote and hidden residence, many of the people they’d known had converged there to form a community. Tomioka did not elaborate on how he had ended up with them, and Genya did not ask. He continued to nod along as Tomioka described it, finding much of what he said hard to believe.

According to Tomioka, over fifty people were living at the estate-turned-community. Genya couldn’t fathom the idea of so many people after having nothing but his own company for almost half a year. Even before then, he’d only been with smaller groups of ten or so people maximum—ever since escaping from the quarantine zone, that was.

As they began to scale the mountain path, Tomioka explained that the natural terrain was difficult for the Infected to navigate, providing an inherent protection that they had fortified with man-made traps. They monitored their perimeter in shifts, had developed sustainable sources for food and water within the estate, and even had a couple of doctors working on natural solutions to illnesses—an incredible boon, given that it was inevitable for medications to either expire or be depleted.

“Are you sure that your people will be okay with you bringing me back there?” Genya asked hesitantly once the two of them had settled for the evening. It all sounded far too good to be true, and Genya couldn’t imagine himself being so lucky.

They had climbed into a tree to avoid leaving themselves vulnerable on the ground, and Genya could not see Tomioka’s expression, given that the man was suspended on a branch arising from the opposite side of the trunk from him. His voice, though, was certain. “They will.”

“Thank you for, uh, giving me a chance,” Genya added, his voice quiet. 

“...you shouldn’t have to thank me for that,” Tomioka responded softly. 

Genya pulled his legs to his chest, the rope securing him to the tree shifting around his waist, and rested his forehead against his knees. His eyes stung with unshed tears. 

He was so glad that he’d gone into town.

Genya considered himself relatively fit, but hiking up a mountain was tiring. 

It was early afternoon of the next day, and Tomioka had mercifully allowed the two of them to stop for a break in their trek up the mountain. Genya flopped down by a tree, retrieving his reusable water bottle that they had refilled earlier in the day, and forced himself to take small sips from it. Chugging the water would be wasteful and probably make him sick. 

“Are we there yet?” he asked petulantly.

“We’ll be there by the evening,” Tomioka replied. The man didn’t seem tired at all, standing tall with a watchful eye on their surroundings. Genya figured he was used to the trip to and from the mountain, since it was where he lived.

Genya took a breath and cringed. His chest was tight—it had been for several minutes before Tomioka had called for them to stop. Genya wondered if his huffing and puffing was what had led Tomioka to do so. He knew he should use an inhaler, but he had hoped he wouldn’t need to. With a sigh, Genya withdrew the inhaler he’d used the day previous and breathed in two puffs from it.

“Your asthma…how bad is it?” Tomioka inquired, not unkindly, after Genya had stashed the inhaler back in his bag.

“It’s usually fine,” Genya answered. “It gets worse in the winter, when the air is so dry and cold. Getting sick for a couple of days didn’t help me, either. Normally, I don’t need to use an inhaler so much. But I got lucky at that pharmacy—I found more inhalers than I’ve seen in a long time.”

Tomioka nodded. “That’s good.”

“I saw you take an inhaler from the pharmacy, too,” Genya noted. “Is there someone else at your camp who needs them? I can give you some of the ones I grabbed.”

An expression flit across Tomioka’s face, gone too quickly for Genya to register what emotion it had conveyed. The lines of his face settled instead into the neutral expression Genya had become familiar with. Genya frowned, wondering what it was about his offer that had affected Tomioka.

“You should keep them,” Tomioka said after a beat. “The person I grabbed it for…he’ll be fine with the one.”

“...okay,” Genya said slowly. The interaction was odd, but Genya decided it wasn’t something to dwell on. If there was someone else at Tomioka’s community who needed an inhaler, Genya would be happy to share—he would owe them that much if the people there decided to accept him. 

Tomioka looked away. “We should keep moving.”

Genya agreed, and the two of them set off up the mountain path once more. They didn’t talk much for the remainder of the trip. Genya focused on keeping his breath even as he followed behind Tomioka and took in the sights around him. 

The landscape was beautiful. Through the trees, mountains and forests stretched as far as the eye could see. The trees were a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, and yellows, with hints of green stubbornly persisting. As the sun set, the colors seemed to take on a blazing quality, the trees dancing with the wind that whistled through the cresting mountaintops. Looking at the serenity of it, Genya could almost pretend that the world was normal. This was a far cry from the grey, crowded quarantine zone that he’d called ‘home’ at the start of the apocalypse, and it was a far cry from the run-down shacks, towns, and otherwise that Genya had sheltered in since. 

He was excited to see the estate and the community that had been built within it. 

There was, too, a small part of him that was terrified. How could he ever make himself leave a place that seemed a miracle? He shook his head—that was selfish. Even if Genya knew it was a pipedream that he’d ever find his brother, he would keep looking. No matter how nice a place he may have to leave to do so.

“We’re close,” Tomioka announced. “Follow me carefully through the traps.”

Genya did so, keeping close to Tomioka as he directed him around the pitfalls and snares that dotted the perimeter of the estate. The sun was growing low in the sky, but light still filtered through the trees. As the two of them stepped out of the wooded path onto a stone staircase, Genya soon saw why. 

At the top of the staircase, there was what appeared to be a wooden veranda with a gate. On either side of the gate, behind the veranda, there were raised platforms with lit lanterns—stations for guards to watch the perimeter, as Tomioka had mentioned. Within the dim light, there appeared to be the forms of two people, one at each guard station.

Tomioka stepped in front of him, squinting at the gate. He shook his head and said, “Looks like Tanjirou and Shinobu. Great.”

“...friends of yours?”

“I didn’t exactly…tell anyone I was going to be leaving,” Tomioka admitted. “Don’t be alarmed by their reactions.”

“You left without telling anyone where you were going?” Genya asked, incredulous. “They have a right to be mad at you!”

Tomioka sighed. “Let’s just get this over with.”

With no further ado, he headed up the stairs. Genya was too baffled to move for a moment and had to take fast steps to catch up to Tomioka. As they made their way up the stairs, the two forms at the guard station seemed to recognize their presence, standing tall. Before Tomioka could call out to them, a young-sounding male voice shouted, “GIYUU!”

The other guard seemed to scold him, but her voice was too quiet for Genya to catch the words. The guard she’d reprimanded disappeared from his station, appearing in moments at the gate. He rushed forward, and Genya realized that the guard was probably no older than himself. He was of average height, with dark, reddish hair and a distinct scar on his forehead, and wore a green and black checkered jacket. 

The other teen ran straight for them, and Genya stepped partially behind Tomioka, not wanting to get between whatever was about to happen.

“Giyuu!” the teen repeated as he ran closer. It was interesting, Genya noted, that he was familiar enough with Tomioka to refer to him by his given name. 

The teen skidded to a halt and stood to his full height as he chided, “What were you thinking? We were so worried!” He took a breath and continued his rant, “I told everyone that you would be okay, because it’s you, but that doesn’t excuse you leaving on your own—that’s dangerous!”

“Let’s talk about it later,” Tomioka dismissed. “There are more important things to deal with.”

The teen frowned, looking like he wanted to protest. A silent exchange seemed to take place between the two of them, and the teen relented with a huff. His wide, red eyes instead flicked to Genya, and he smiled brightly. Genya blinked. It was like he was looking directly at the sun.

“Hi! I’m Kamado Tanjirou, but please just call me Tanjirou,” he introduced. “It’s nice to meet you! But also—who are you?”

“Yes, I’d like to know that as well,” added a female voice. The other guard, a young woman with intelligent, purple eyes and dark hair pulled back with a clip, had strolled forward to join them. She must be Shinobu, seeing as Tanjirou had just introduced himself. Shinobu’s arms were crossed, and her head tilted curiously.

“Uh,” Genya answered, very intelligently, “I’m Sh–”

Tomioka cut him off. “This is Genya.” 

Genya side-eyed him. Since when did he permit Tomioka to use his given name? Maybe, since Tanjirou seemed so open with his given name and also called Tomioka ‘Giyuu,’ it was common for the people Tomioka lived with to use their given names instead of surnames. Genya found it odd, especially after he’d spent the last several years not close enough to anyone to go by ‘Genya,’ but if this was the compromise he had to make for all the good things that seemed to be in front of him, he could accept that.

“Genya?” the woman asked. Her tone was questioning, and her eyes flicked between Genya and Tomioka before resting on Tomioka inquisitively. 

“We came across each other in town,” Tomioka explained. Genya supposed that was one way to put their meeting. Tomioka then continued, “He’s like Nezuko. I wanted to take him to the clinic first before he gets settled.”

The woman did not reply. Like he and Tanjirou before them, Tomioka and Shinobu seemed to instead share a silent conversation. Genya watched them anxiously, but his attention was drawn from the two as Tanjirou slipped past Tomioka to appear at Genya’s side. Genya inched back a step, afraid he might get blinded from standing so close to such a bright smile.

“You’re immune?” Tanjirou exclaimed, his eyes impossibly wide. “We didn’t think there was anyone else like Nezuko.” His expression softened into one of sympathy, and the concern lining his face appeared genuine. “I’m sorry you had to find out, though. It was terrifying when my sister was bitten.”

“Um, thanks?” Genya managed. It had been terrifying for him.

“Tanjirou, why don’t you show Genya the way to the clinic?” Shinobu instructed. “Tomioka and I will join you there shortly, once our relief arrives at the gate. I’ve summoned them, so it should only be a few minutes.”

Tanjirou nodded enthusiastically. “Of course. You can follow me, Genya!” 

Genya cast a look at Tomioka. Tomioka nodded in encouragement, even offering a small smile. Despite only knowing Tomioka for about two days, he found the acknowledgement comforting. In a way…it reminded him of Sanemi, even if his older brother’s personality was entirely different. But even if he could be abrasive, Sanemi had always been the kindest person Genya knew, and Tomioka was kind as well.

“Okay, lead the way,” Genya said. 

Tanjirou grinned at him once more before turning around, leading Genya up the steps. Tomioka and Shinobu followed behind them, and he heard Shinobu say, hushed, “Don’t think this gets you out of anything. We’re all pissed at you.”

Whatever Tomioka may have replied was drowned out by Tanjirou. The other teenager began chattering about the estate, repeating much of the information that Genya had heard from Tomioka. Tanjirou seemed so excited to share it that Genya didn’t have the heart to tell him that Tomioka had already given him the run-down. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt for Genya to hear things twice, especially since Tanjirou could point out various features of the estate as he described them: the gardens, the pond, the different buildings. 

A few people milled about outside, but it seemed that most of the community had retired inside for the evening. Some of those they passed waved at Tanjirou, casting Genya but a wayward look, before moving on with whatever they were doing.

Genya was perplexed. Was it this common for new people to join the estate? Tanjirou and Shinobu had seemed to accept his presence in stride, even enthusiastically in Tanjirou’s case, so maybe the others of the estate were the same. It was so weird—but it was nice, too. The last thing Genya wanted to be was a spectacle.

Tanjirou soon showed Genya inside a small building that he announced as the clinic. He led him through the entryway and a hall to reach a room that housed a few beds, each bed separated by a curtain. Cabinets lined the opposite walls, the open shelves stacked with blankets and pillows. It looked far more like an actual clinic than Genya had expected it to.

Genya set his backpack and duffel bag at the end of one of the beds, grateful to be rid of the weight on his shoulders. Tanjirou sat down on a stool by the door and crossed one leg across his lap as he observed Genya.

“This is where Ms. Tamayo spends most of her time,” Tanjirou said. “She was a doctor back before everything happened. We’re really lucky to have her. Shinobu, too, since she’s so good with medicines!”

“Honestly, everything here seems incredible. I think I might be dreaming,” Genya commented as he looked around the room. There was suddenly a sharp pinch on his arm. Genya whirled around, rubbing at his arm, and exclaimed, “The hell was that for?!”

Tanjirou smiled at him jovially, withdrawing his hand, and explained, “To show you that you aren’t dreaming.” 

He continued to smile, but something in his eyes softened as he elaborated, “I get it. This place felt like a dream to me, too, when I first came.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “It’s funny, actually. It was Giyuu and Mr. Urokodaki who brought Nezuko and me here, so we’re similar in that way. If you need anyone to talk to, or anything really, you can always come to me. I feel like we’re friends already!”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Genya said incredulously.

Tanjirou waved a hand dismissively. “Then we just have to spend more time together! I don’t think I got your full name, though. Maybe we can start with that!”

Genya opened his mouth to answer, but stopped as he heard the distant sound of a door opening, followed by voices. Genya could probably make out what they were saying if he moved closer and listened, but it felt like an invasion of privacy to do so, especially since they were in a clinic. 

Tanjirou leaned over to look out the door and whispered, “It’s Giyuu and Shinobu. Looks like she’s scolding him.”

“He really left without telling anyone?”

“Yeah,” Tanjirou answered, frowning. 

“We met in a pharmacy, and he was grabbing medicine,” Genya said. He felt the need to defend Tomioka, even if he couldn’t understand his decision. “Is someone sick?”

Tanjirou shook his head. “Nothing dire, though we have been running low on some medications. Ms. Tamayo and Shinobu wanted to focus on their natural remedies instead of sending anyone out for more, since it’s dangerous. Giyuu probably just used it as an excuse to be alone. He gets…” Tanjirou hesitated. “Well, sometimes he gets overwhelmed being here.”

Genya didn’t answer, not sure what to say. He shouldn’t pry. He didn’t really know Tomioka, and it wasn’t his business—he would just choose to be grateful that Tomioka had gone into town that day, considering it had ended with a positive result for himself.

Genya startled as the calm of the clinic was broken by a door slamming open, followed by an angry yell that carried down the hall. A man’s voice shouted, “Where is the fucker?!” There was a brief pause, during which he heard pounding footsteps echo down the hall, before the furious voice continued, “You! You idiot! Do you know the hell you raised here by fucking off on your own?”

Tanjirou winced and commented, “That’s not good.”

Genya hardly heard him past the ringing in his ears. He felt as if the world had frozen around him, and his vision tunneled. That voice…it couldn’t be. That voice couldn’t be familiar—couldn’t be a deeper, more mature version of one he knew so well.

“I’ve already gotten an earful from Shinobu; you can spare the lecture,” Tomioka replied calmly. “Listen, I didn’t come back on my own, and I need to–”

“Yeah, we all heard you picked up another stray, big surprise,” the other man retorted sarcastically. “You’ve been gone for almost a week! We thought you were fucking dead!”

“…I am sorry about that. I didn’t mean to be away so long, but I think you’ll understand if–”

“Understand what, your immense idiocy?!” 

Their argument was interrupted by Shinobu’s lighter, lilting tone. “He’s right. You’ll want to meet our new guest, Sanemi.”

Sanemi. Sanemi. 

What the fuck. What the actual fuck. 

Genya drifted forward in a daze, heart pounding in his chest, and peered around the corner of the door. Standing across the hall, in the entryway, was a person with their back to him: broad shoulders, hands fisted at his sides, and a shock of white hair. The man jerked his head to the side in annoyance, giving Genya a glimpse of his side profile.

His breath hitched. The features were older, more defined, but Genya would recognize them, and the scars marring them, anywhere—no matter how many years had passed since he’d had a proper look at his brother. It should be impossible, but somehow, after so long, his older brother was mere meters away from him.

Genya was frozen. He held the breath he’d taken in his chest, terrified that releasing it would break the illusion he must have found himself in. Seconds ticked by as Genya continued to stare, wide-eyed, at the image of his brother’s back. There were words still being exchanged, but Genya couldn’t hear them past the blood rushing in his ears.

His lungs panged, and Genya shuddered as he was forced to release a wavering breath. He attempted to inhale, knowing he needed the oxygen to calm down, but a deep pressure had settled across his chest. 

An immediate panic gnawed at Genya’s gut, and his shoulders hiked as he reflexively tried to force air into his lungs through his mouth and not his nose. The breath whistled through his clenched teeth, catching in the back of his throat. Genya choked, and one hand flew to his chest while the other went to his mouth as he doubled over and began to cough.

“Whoa, Genya, are you okay?” asked a frantic Tanjirou, propelling himself upright from his stool. He hovered anxiously in front of him, blocking Genya’s view of the entryway. 

“I’m fine,” Genya said, or well, tried to say. What came out was more of a breathy, unintelligible wheeze, muffled by his hand. 

Shit. He looked up and met Tanjirou’s wide eyes. Genya wanted to gesture, to do something, to get Tanjirou to understand that he needed his backpack—there were inhalers inside—but he instead found himself sliding to the ground, his vision going fuzzy around the edges from the lack of oxygen. 

“O–oh no! Hang on, I’m getting Shinobu!”

No, not her. Get Sanemi, his addled mind thought. Get Sanemi!

His footsteps pattered away, and Genya screwed his eyes shut, trying to block out his senses so he could focus on breathing. But no matter how desperately he tried to suck in air, it was next to useless. It felt like he was trying to draw in oxygen through a straw from the bottom of the ocean. There were inhalers almost within arm's reach of him, but Genya couldn’t even manage to reach for his bag, much less go about unzipping it to withdraw and use the medication.

He could feel the uneven shuddering of his chest against the hand that he’d fisted into his shirt, and his lungs were ablaze. His ears rushed with the sound of his own gasping, incomplete breaths.

And then—a touch. 

There was a gentle yet urgent hand on the back of his neck, prompting him to raise his head. Cool plastic met his lips. Genya’s eyes shot open, and, even if he had just seen him, he still couldn’t believe what he found in front of him. It was Sanemi, his purple eyes—so similar to Genya’s own—blown wide with some combination of shock and terror. His lips were forming words, and Genya focused on trying to read them.

“Breathe, Genya,” he thought he could make out. “You have to breathe this in!”

Genya tried to nod, to signal he understood, before pressing his lips around the inhaler. The medication misted across his tongue, and Genya sucked in a breath, trying to force it to his protesting lungs. Once he had fully inhaled, Sanemi pulled the inhaler away. His other hand remained on Genya’s neck, grounding him and keeping him upright.

“Watch me, and hold your breath,” Sanemi said, his voice clearer in Genya’s ears. He held up his free hand, ticking up fingers as he counted the seconds. It was difficult, nigh excruciating, but Genya held his breath until he counted to five twice. He exhaled shakily, breath still wheezy. The inhaler then quickly returned to his lips, and Sanemi instructed, his voice wavering, “Second one, c’mon.”

Genya took another breath laden with the medication, and the inhale was much easier than the last. It still burned its way down his throat, lighting his lungs on fire, but the tightness in his chest had begun to ease. Sanemi again counted seconds with his fingers, and, now that his vision had cleared, Genya could see that his hand was shaking. Genya exhaled once more when Sanemi reached ten, the breath much steadier than the last but still uneven.

“Breathe with me. In for four, out for seven.” Sanemi punctuated his words by exaggerating his own breathing for Genya to follow. 

Genya did his best to match the timing of Sanemi’s inhales and exhales, and it grew easier with the more breaths he took. A part of him was terrified that as his body distributed the air, his brother would vanish—that the Sanemi before him was just an apparition conjured by his oxygen-deprived brain. Because how? How could Sanemi be here? 

But as his breathing evened out, the pain in his chest quieting, Sanemi did not disappear. It may have been seconds, or it could have been minutes—it had been years—but finally, Genya found himself able to speak.

“Sanemi,” he rasped, “is this real?”

“It fucking better be,” Sanemi answered, his voice quiet and uncertain in a way that Sanemi never was. “Are you—can you breathe okay, now?”

“Y–yeah,” Genya managed with a stilted nod. “Tha–”

His thanks were cut off with an oof as Sanemi pulled Genya forward into a crushing hug. He froze for a moment, mind still not comprehending the series of events that were happening, before returning the embrace. He couldn’t tell whether it was himself that was trembling or Sanemi.

“You don’t have to thank me. Fuck,” Sanemi whispered, hoarse, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

That made two of them, but there was more that Genya couldn’t believe. He had never dreamed that if one day he did find Sanemi, that his older brother would be so relieved to see him again. Not when Genya had ruined things between them—not when he’d cast blame at Sanemi for something he hadn’t understood, something so horrible. 

“You’re not—angry with me?” Genya asked, his voice small.

Sanemi pulled back, and Genya missed his presence immediately. Maybe Genya had gone and done it, he’d popped their bubble of happiness by making Sanemi remember why he shouldn’t be glad to see him. Sanemi, though, kept his hands on Genya’s shoulders and looked at him with evident confusion. 

“Why would I be angry with you? You should be pissed at me.”

The words didn’t make any sense, and Genya shook his head in fervent denial. “What? No! It was what I said that ruined everything. I’m so sor–”

Sanemi’s expression shuttered, and he stopped Genya’s apology with a raised hand. Genya’s mouth clicked shut. Maybe it was best to remain silent—it had been his words that had ruined things in the past, after all.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Sanemi said, as if in response to Genya’s thoughts. “That’s years in the past, and we can talk about it later. I’m not mad at you—I never was.”

“What?” Genya felt like a broken record, mind repeating a never-ending rhythm of confusion.

Sanemi’s lips upturned, the small smile some combination of genuine and pained. He asked, “Can you stand up?” 

“I–yeah, I’m fine. I had a cold, it’s been making my asthma flare,” Genya explained. 

Though how much the cold had contributed to the most recent attack was debatable—his shock at seeing Sanemi was the far more likely cause. He suspected Sanemi knew this as well, but he didn’t address it as he helped Genya to his feet. Sanemi kept a hand on his arm once Genya had righted himself, and though he didn’t need it, Genya didn’t want the steadying grip to leave.

Genya blinked as, now that he was on his feet, he realized he was a touch taller than his older brother.

“The hell? How are you taller than me?” Sanemi huffed, having come to the same realization. Beneath the rough exterior, there was a hint of sadness in the words. Genya knew Sanemi too well not to hear it.

“How are you so short?” Genya joked, hoping to banish the lingering melancholy.

“Fuck off. You have one centimeter on me max.” 

“What’s the world like from down there?”

Sanemi’s expression twisted into exaggerated annoyance. “Brat.”

It was all so surreal, the emotional whiplash. Genya couldn’t help it—he laughed, the sound part humorous and part incredulous. It was short, a bit breathless given his recent struggles with breathing, but it was real and brought joyful tears to his eyes. The smile on Sanemi’s face widened, and a puff of air that might have been mistaken for a chuckle expelled from his nose.

Distantly, Genya was aware of movement from the hall, but he couldn’t find it in him to care that the others may have witnessed all that had just happened. He was too happy, too bewildered, for anything like embarrassment to come close to mattering. 

Besides—why would he be embarrassed? He’d finally gotten all he’d ever wanted.

Genya’s laughter petered off, but his eyes continued to sting as he considered his brother in front of him. There was something else he needed to say. The words were an understatement for the bone-deep ache that had permeated Genya’s soul for the better part of seven years, but they were the words that Genya had.

“I’ve missed you, Sanemi.”

Chapter Text

On the day the world ended, Sanemi’s first coherent thought was of his brother.

He’d been woken by a call from Kyoujurou, heard something over the static-filled connection about “infected” and “zombies” and “have to go, right now!” and by the time his brain had put the pieces of that puzzle together, it was already spiraling toward a soul-crushing dread.

The world was ending, and Genya was alone. His brother was alone in some foster home, probably thinking Sanemi didn’t care, all because Sanemi had twiddled his thumbs instead of getting into contact with him to let him know that he was working toward getting him the fuck out and back with Sanemi, where he belonged. All his excuses, his ‘reasoning’ that he’d thought oh-so logical, crumbled like dust in the face of the consequence they’d wrought.

Sanemi had thought it would be more painful for both of them if he had introduced himself back into Genya’s life and wasn’t able to obtain custody. 

It was idiotic, the things he needed to prove to the country before they’d allow him to take care of his literal brother. The small, dingy apartment he shared with Obanai and the multiple part-time jobs he worked to put himself through college weren’t good enough. He needed to graduate, get a real job, and move somewhere a bit nicer. He needed to prove he was more than his juvenile record. Only then would the law deem him a fit guardian. 

It infuriated him, and this fury made Sanemi work all the harder—but even then, it wasn’t easy.

Sanemi thought he would crumple under the weight of his responsibilities if he were to see Genya and know that he couldn’t get him out yet. Kyoujurou and Obanai badgered him, telling him to reach out, but how could either of them understand? 

And then there was Genya—how would he feel? He’d been so furious, back when they were separated. If Sanemi reappeared in his life, only to leave him alone again, would it fracture their relationship beyond repair? Sanemi couldn’t risk it. When they met again, he wanted it to be permanent.

He might have felt differently if it weren’t for Kyoujurou’s father, Rengoku Shinjurou, who was able to keep tabs on the homes Genya ended up placed in. Sanemi could rest easier knowing that his brother wasn’t anywhere dangerous, and he told himself that it would be worth it in the end to have everything set in stone—to have the life Genya deserved ready and waiting.

Sanemi was twenty-one when the world ended, only months from finally being able to bring what was left of his family back together, but instead, he was left with nothing.

Near-catatonic, Sanemi had only survived that first day because of Obanai and the Rengokus.

Obanai had manhandled Sanemi out of their apartment, practically tossing him into Rengoku Shinjurou’s squad car, before the five of them—Sanemi, Obanai, and the Rengokus—were navigating the perilous streets, tires skidding across pavement and sirens blaring, to flee the populous. Shinjurou, as a police officer, had received enough dismal reports to determine the safest course of action was to get his family out of the city, where Infection was bound to spread fast and uncontrolled. Kyoujurou had persuaded the man to include Sanemi and Obanai in their escape.

Sanemi couldn’t say how they managed to get out of the city before it went to complete shit, but he imagined the lights and sirens played a key role.

Before the phone lines went dead, Shinjurou had been in contact with a rich friend who lived outside the city, in the mountains to the north, and he planned to get his family there. Sanemi had no intention to join them—not at first.

The last he’d known, Genya was in Koriyama, a fair ways south of the mountains that housed the estate the Rengoku’s were headed toward. Sanemi had not given the others much choice in the matter when he’d decided to go on his own to Koriyama, with a promise to seek out the estate after he’d found his brother. 

Obanai, in turn, hadn’t given Sanemi a choice when he’d elected to join him. Kyoujurou might have gone with them too, but he had his own younger brother to ensure the safety of—Shinjurou might have turned a page since Sanemi had first met the man, but the trust he’d fractured with his sons was not so easily restored—and Sanemi wouldn’t fault his friend for that. 

Koriyama had been in ruins when they arrived. 

The military had failed to contain the spread of the Infection at almost every step of the way, only able to establish quarantine zones in a select few cities, according to what little news Sanemi and Obanai had heard. There was no quarantine zone to be seen at Koriyama—only hordes of Infected and pockets of resisting humanity.

Sanemi and Obanai had kept to themselves, fortunate enough to start with at least one gun between them courtesy of Shinjurou, and had managed to survive in the midst of chaos. Sanemi knew that he owed most of it to Obanai. He’d been reckless in his ceaseless desire to find his brother, and it had led the two of them into conflicts with the Infected and other humans alike.

They had not found Genya among any of the small communities that they had encountered. Nor, thankfully, had Sanemi to count his brother among any of the Infected they’d put down.

They’d found the foster home where Genya had last been placed, and they found it empty. 

One thing about the apocalypse—you could see the stars a lot clearer.

Sanemi leaned back on the roof of the house he and Obanai had taken shelter in, twirling a knife in his hand and staring up at the sky. It had only been a handful of months since the power grid had gone down, but the stars were already rejoicing in the lack of light pollution. Sanemi traced the lines of the constellations, remembering when he’d pointed them out to his siblings on a rare evening trip to the park years upon years ago, and wondered just what it was that he was living for anymore.

His last brother was more than likely dead. He was probably among the stars Sanemi was staring at, along with their mother and younger siblings—a bright array of his failures, glaring down on him.

Sanemi would be an idiot to deny it. He’d been able to convince himself after finding his foster home empty that Genya could be somewhere around or outside the city, integrated within one of the communities, but it had been months. Months with no sign of him, no matter how many people he and Obanai came across, and no matter how fervently Sanemi searched.

It was his fucking fault.

If he had reached out to Genya, at least given him his phone number, they could have gotten into contact on that first day before the phones went dead. They could have arranged somewhere to meet—or maybe, Genya would have been with him. 

A collection of useless ifs and maybes, that was all Sanemi had.

Quiet steps sounded behind him, but Sanemi was familiar enough with Obanai’s footfalls not to tense at the noise. Obanai soon settled next to him on the roof, sitting cross-legged. His mismatched eyes glanced at the knife in Sanemi’s hand before he inclined his head to the night sky. Silence lingered for a beat.

“You’ve been more reckless than usual,” Obanai said.

Sanemi grunted in lieu of a real reply. He’d known this conversation was coming, what with the looks Obanai had been giving him for what felt like weeks, and with the latest in the line of close calls that Sanemi had with an Infected the day previous. But even if he’d anticipated it, it didn’t make him want to have the conversation.

“You know you can’t keep going like this,” Obanai continued, following the script that Sanemi had expected of him.

“Says who?” Sanemi questioned belligerently.

Obanai turned a sharp glare on him and retorted, “Says me, also known as the person who’s been keeping you alive for the better part of four months.”

Sanemi’s knife stilled in his hand, and he maneuvered upright, his taller frame giving him several centimeters on Obanai, even seated as they both were. He met Obanai’s glare with narrowed eyes. If Obanai wanted to argue, then Sanemi would argue. 

“I didn’t ask you to come with me, so don’t try any of that guilt-tripping shit on me, Obanai.”

“I didn’t ask you to help me back when we were kids. You did that on your own and without knowing me,” Obanai countered, his tone leaving no room for question. “You made yourself my business, so shut up and deal with it.” 

Sanemi huffed and looked away, the mention of their shared past making him uncomfortable. Back then, when Obanai had ended up at the same group home as him, Sanemi had stuck up for him on instinct. The shit the other assholes were saying about him still replayed in an infuriating loop in his mind on some of his worst days—the morbid congratulations, the questions on why Obanai hadn’t enjoyed what that sick woman had done to him. Sanemi hadn’t cared that he might end up back in juvie when he’d punched those sorry fucks.   

“That’s ancient history,” Sanemi forced past clenched teeth. “It’s pathetic of you to stick around because of that.”

Obanai didn’t let the blatant antagonization deter him. His jaw ticked, the ropey scar on the left side of his face stretching tight, but he didn’t acknowledge the cruel dismissal of their history otherwise; instead, he went for Sanemi’s throat with one harsh statement: “What’s pathetic is that you’d get yourself killed when that’s the last thing your brother would want.”

Sanemi’s neck snapped with the speed at which he whipped back around to snarl at Obanai. 

“Don’t. Don’t fucking talk about Genya like you know him.”

Obanai’s glare softened, but his words remained sharp. “I may not, but you’ve talked about him enough over the years I’ve known you to make me feel like I do.”

“Fuck off, Obanai,” Sanemi snapped. “You don’t. Maybe you would have if I had–if I had just—fuck!” Sanemi’s knife clattered against the tiled rooftop as both of his hands fisted into his mangy hair. He breathed heavily, his grief and rage a volatile tempest. His breath shuddered with the force of his pent-up emotions, and it called forth more unwelcome memories.

In for four, out for seven, Genya. Just breathe through it.

His eyes screwed shut, only for him to be met with an image of Genya, then ten years old, in his mind’s eye. The rest of their family was already gone, and they’d only had each other. Genya’s small form hadn’t known what to do with all the large emotions that came from the deaths of their mother and siblings in the apartment fire, and his asthma seemed to react accordingly. Sanemi had lost count of the number of attacks he’d coached Genya through in those first weeks, each time as terrifying as the last.

He still carried an albuterol inhaler with him, years later. It was the one thing he’d thought to grab for himself before they’d fled their apartment on that first day.

“Sanemi.”

“I said, fuck off,” Sanemi croaked. His eyes cracked open, and his vision was blurry with tears. In the haziness of his peripheral vision, he saw Obanai stand.

“I’m going to find the estate that Shinjurou told us about,” Obanai announced, finality in his tone.

Sanemi blinked slowly. He raked his hands through his hair, resting his fingertips on his chin as he turned to look at Obanai. His friend had raised his head once more to the night sky, looking pensive yet resolved.

“One day, I won’t be fast enough to save you,” Obanai elaborated quietly. Within the baggy sleeves of his jacket, his hands were clenched into fists. “Maybe you don’t care, but I do, and I won’t watch you do this to yourself—not anymore. If that means I have to go on without you, then I’ll do that.”

“Obanai, I–”

Obanai sighed and cut him off, “Don’t. Not right now. Take the evening to think about it, but know that I’m heading north come morning. I hope you’ll come with me.”

He bent down to scoop up the knife Sanemi had dropped and gave Sanemi one last lingering look. Sanemi couldn’t find it in himself to be offended that Obanai felt the need to take the knife—not when all he found within Obanai’s mismatched eyes was concern, and not when he knew the path his earlier thoughts had been taking.  

Sanemi did not stop Obanai as he turned and strode away, soon disappearing back inside the house.

His hands fell to his sides as he reflected on Obanai’s words, and he knew there was more that Obanai had left unsaid. In all their time together, Sanemi had not been risking his life alone—he’d endangered Obanai as well. His friend had saved him a number of times and had more than once paid for it himself. The scar Obanai now bore on the left side of his face, trailing from the corner of his mouth to his mid-cheek, was a stark reminder of that fact and a testament to his unwavering dedication.

Sanemi had done little to thank him. 

Fuck. He was a shitty friend, along with being a shitty brother.

Sanemi exhaled shakily and dragged his hands free of his tear-streaked face. He then reached a hand inside his jacket’s inner pocket to withdraw the inhaler stored within, fingers trembling around the small, plastic device as he stared at it. Sanemi bowed his head, resting the fist that held the inhaler against his forehead. He breathed—in for four, out for seven.

“I’m sorry, Genya,” he whispered to the cool, night air, with only the stars to hear.

It had been difficult settling into the Ubuyashiki estate once they found it. After so long spent on high alert, the tranquility of the place felt not like comfort, but like complacency. 

It felt like blame. 

There were several families within the walls of the estate: the Rengokus—with whom Sanemi and Obanai had shared a grateful reunion—the Kanrojis, the Kochous, the Ubuyashikis, and more. Not all of the families were whole; in fact, many had experienced their own variety of tragedy either before or since the world ended, but seeing Kyoujurou with Senjurou, Shinobu with Kanao, or Mitsuri with her brother was almost too much for Sanemi to bear. 

He left the estate as often as he was afforded the opportunity and tried not to let his annoyance show when either Obanai or Kyoujurou would insist on joining the scouting or hunting party Sanemi was a part of. Sanemi suspected that Obanai had gone behind his back to discuss Sanemi’s more…reckless tendencies with Kyoujurou. The two of them became akin to babysitters, barely giving Sanemi a moment alone.

They’d eventually roped the others into their scheme, and it pissed Sanemi off. It wasn’t like he had anything against the friends that Kyoujurou and Obanai had made at the estate, but he wasn’t overly fond of them, or the way they acted so familiar, either. 

Tengen was loud and boisterous, which made him a fine friend for Kyoujurou, but gave Sanemi headaches. He was older than them as well, and it prickled at Sanemi—the way he would act like an older brother to them. It didn’t…feel right.

Mitsuri was kind but featherbrained. Sanemi still didn’t understand how she and Obanai had clicked, but he wouldn’t begrudge his friend the happiness—not when the girl, with all her ditzy charm, had managed to blast through Obanai’s decade-strong walls like they were nothing but paper. Sanemi would just prefer that she continue to hang out with Obanai while leaving him in peace. 

He liked Shinobu and Gyomei the best. Gyomei was content to let Sanemi be, offering quiet, solid companionship, and Shinobu understood him the best. She had lost her parents when young, then lost her older sister to Infection. Sanemi had recognized the same rage—the same guilt—in her that resided within himself, even if Shinobu masked it with a carefully crafted smile, and even if she still had a younger sister left alive.

Shinobu would stand next to him at the memorial stone that had been erected in the Ubuyashiki’s estate’s garden, offering solidarity, but she never asked him about the blank, seventh line that rested below the names of his mother and five of his younger siblings. Sanemi appreciated her silent support. It wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. 

There was only one among their age group at the estate that Sanemi actively disliked, and that was Tomioka Giyuu. Tomioka was, in a simple word, infuriating. Sanemi could not stand the aloof attitude with which the man carried himself, and he hated being paired with the other on scouting trips or for perimeter watch.

Most of all, he hated that Tomioka seemed to get away with what Sanemi did not. 

The others hadn’t caught on, and wouldn’t believe Sanemi if he were to tell them, but Sanemi knew—he knew that Tomioka had as much of a death wish as the others believed him to have. The man volunteered for the same number of out-of-estate trips as Sanemi, and half the time he would disappear on his group partway through the trip, skulking off on his own without informing the rest of them what he was doing before reappearing with an excuse as to why.

If Sanemi tried the same, he was certain that Obanai and Kyoujurou would lock him in a room somewhere in the estate ‘for his own good.’

His dislike only intensified when Tomioka and Urokodaki—the old man Tomioka associated with, and the only person he seemed to mind the opinion of—returned from a scouting trip with two new kids in tow. They were Kamado Tanjirou and Kamado Nezuko, a pair of siblings who had been on their own since losing the rest of their large family at the start of the apocalypse. 

Tomioka had a strange habit of collecting strays, having been part of the groups that had brought back both the Agatsuma kid and the Hashibira kid. It wasn’t anything new, and Sanemi wouldn’t care about the siblings one way or the other if it wasn’t for one fact: the wholly and entirely unbelievable fact that Kamado Nezuko was immune. 

The girl had been bitten within the first two months, and had yet to Turn five months later. The bite mark was a simple scar for her when it had been a death sentence for countless others. 

It was the impossibility of it that got under Sanemi’s skin, residing like an itch and rearing its head whenever Sanemi caught sight of either the Kamados or the two men that had brought them to the estate.

In the rational part of his mind, Sanemi knew that Tomioka and Urokodaki weren’t to blame for finding the siblings and bringing them somewhere safe, and that Nezuko, who was just a fifteen-year-old kid, wasn’t to blame for surviving the unthinkable. But Sanemi had long since given up on improbabilities—believing in them was too painful—and the idea that something so impossible was instead possible threatened to shatter him.

Kyoujurou and Obanai had recently loosened their careful monitoring of Sanemi, but their babysitting reignited twice-fold in the weeks following the Kamado’s appearance at the Ubuyashiki estate.

Sanemi had already had a bad day, and it was made worse by his partner for the evening perimeter watch: Tomioka Giyuu.

It might have been less awful if the two of them were stationed at the main entrance, where the guard towers were separated by the gate, but they had been assigned to one of the corner towers—meaning they were stuck in close proximity in the one station there. 

It might have been less awful if Tomioka would stop trying to talk.

“How are you holding up?” Tomioka asked.

Sanemi considered leaving his query unanswered, but he begrudgingly decided that he owed it to the other to offer some form of reply, given he had Tomioka to thank for the fact that they were able to have a conversation.

The two had been sent out as part of a scouting trip a couple of weeks previous, their objective to find what tools they could to help with the continued expansion of the estate. Their party had ended up running into another group of survivors, and the encounter had not gone well, to put it lightly. The other group had attacked with little warning and forced them to retaliate. While they had ended the encounter victorious, Sanemi had been wounded.

The bullet to his shoulder might have been a bullet to his heart if Tomioka hadn’t pulled Sanemi behind cover right as one of the hostile humans had fired at him, and the bullet that had whizzed over their heads might have found a home in Sanemi’s skull if Tomioka hadn’t pushed Sanemi down when he tried to get up again to fight.

Because of Tomioka, Sanemi had survived to make the trek back to the Ubuyashiki estate, and their doctor—Tamayo—had been able to treat his gunshot wound as best she could with their limited medical resources. Obanai and Kyoujurou had sat with him in the clinic while Tamayo worked, and Sanemi had resolutely avoided both of their gazes and their attempts to talk. He had wondered just what it was that Tomioka told them.

Nearly a month later, Sanemi had successfully shut down any further attempts at talking about it with them. The two of them were discontent, but let the situation lie. Sanemi suspected they would not have, if not for their community deciding to limit scouting parties outside of the estate in the wake of Sanemi’s near-death. They were, after all, rather self-sufficient. What they may be able to obtain from any of the small towns within walking distance would be a benefit, but was not necessary for survival, and was not deemed worth anyone’s life.

Sanemi had also managed to avoid Tomioka for most of the time since the botched scouting trip. Sanemi hadn’t thanked him, and he didn’t have the intention to. He suspected Kyoujurou—plus or minus Obanai, who wasn’t a fan of Tomioka either, but might have put aside his annoyance for once—had expressed gratitude to the other on his behalf anyway.

(Sanemi was not sure he wanted to extend thanks to Tomioka—not when he might have been able to see his family again if Tomioka hadn’t intervened.)

“It’s been almost a month,” Sanemi grumbled. “I’m fine.”

“Your shoulder isn’t giving you trouble?”

It was, actually—the scarring wound would stretch painfully when Sanemi made certain movements—but he wasn’t about to share this with Tomioka. Sanemi decided his previous answer was sufficient enough words for the evening and grunted noncommittally in reply. They lapsed into silence, with only the sounds from the forest between them for several moments. Sanemi suppressed an aggravated sigh when Tomioka again began to speak.

“I brought food.”

“Good for you.”

“...do you want any?”

“No.”

Tomioka seemed to get the hint after his multiple failed attempts at conversation and remained quiet as he unwrapped whatever it was that he’d brought. Sanemi steadfastly ignored him and leaned forward in his chair, eyes wandering across the dark depths of the forest. There was nothing to see except shifting shadows and trees. Sanemi frowned at the expansive darkness and at the unseen world that lay beyond, discontent that he had ruined his chances to leave the estate for the foreseeable future.

He had considered leaving on his own several times but had never been able to go through with it. Sanemi would remember Obanai—how he had kept him alive for months and his words on the rooftop that night before they’d set out for the Ubuyashiki estate—and Kyoujurou—how he had nearly broken Sanemi’s ribs with the force of the hug he’d wrapped him in when they were reunited—and he would lose his nerve.

He would think of Genya, of how Obanai was right when he’d said that his brother wouldn’t want Sanemi to get himself killed, and Sanemi would grit his teeth and return to his room, throwing the bag that he would never unpack down into a heap at the end of his bed.

Sanemi would go to the memorial stone and stare at the blank spot that rested beneath the lines bearing the names of their mother and siblings, and he would tell himself that this time he would add Genya’s name. This time, he’d carve it into the stone, placing the characters of Genya’s name on his list of failures.

He was never able to go through with it.

Sanemi would have to hope that the wariness within the estate would ebb with time, and he’d be allowed outside of its walls once more. There was something he needed to find—something he had failed to obtain on their last scouting trip. He would have volunteered for the trip regardless, but he had wanted to use it as an opportunity to find a rescue inhaler within town. 

The inhaler Sanemi had, the one he had carried with him for years, had expired.

His desire to find a new one was stupid, and he knew it. After all, why would he need the inhaler? No one at their camp had asthma, and Sanemi would never again see the person for whom he carried it.

But it felt…wrong not to have one. Even now, the expired device rested in his jacket pocket. He had tried getting rid of it. He had held the device in his fist and prepared to throw it over the veranda, into the depths of the woods, but Sanemi hadn’t been able to commit to the action—just as he was never able to chisel Genya’s name on the memorial stone.

Throwing away the inhaler or carving his name into rock would make it real, and Sanemi still couldn’t accept it. Somewhere inside him, a small, delusional part of himself still clung to the hope that Genya was alive out there somewhere. The Kamados had shown that the impossible was possible, so there had to be a chance.

He was startled out of his melancholy thoughts by yet another question from Tomioka. 

“Is that…an inhaler? Are you having breathing issues?”

Confused, Sanemi looked downward, finding that he had extracted the inhaler, holding it tightly within his hand, without realizing it. 

“Do I sound like I am?” Sanemi snapped, eyes darting left to glare at Tomioka.

Tomioka met his narrowed gaze with an impassive expression—typical of him. His eyes flicked to the inhaler that Sanemi was white-knuckling, then back to Sanemi’s contorted face, and he asked, “Why do you have it?”

Sanemi’s jaw clenched as he exhaled heavily. He turned away from Tomioka, eyes drawn back to the inhaler in his fist. His fingers uncurled, and he stared at the device resting on his palm.

“My brother has asthma,” Sanemi found himself saying.

“…oh.”

Sanemi snorted at the lackluster reaction, though he wasn’t sure what to expect from Tomioka otherwise. He didn’t know why he’d said anything at all, especially to Tomioka. 

Maybe, Sanemi supposed, it was because it was Tomioka. Sanemi couldn’t tell Obanai or Kyoujurou about the expired inhaler or about his struggle to get rid of the now-useless device. 

They’d both stood there with him, on the first day he’d failed to add Genya’s name to the memorial stone, and he’d seen the looks the two of them had exchanged. If he told them, they would worry about him—more than they already did, especially after recent events—and even worse, they would pity him. 

Perhaps Tomioka would not. After all, why would the man care one way or the other when he didn’t know Sanemi? Sanemi knew that Tomioka had probably heard through the grapevine about Genya, given he’d been roped into Obanai and Kyoujurou’s watch detail, but otherwise they had never talked meaningfully to each other—not until that moment.

“It’s expired now,” Sanemi elaborated quietly, once he felt composed enough for speech. His fingers clenched around the device once more as he bit out, “Fucking useless.” 

“…I’m sorry.”

Sanemi huffed. “The hell are you sorry for?” 

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Tomioka fidget uncomfortably. He was silent for a moment before he said, “It’s my best friend’s birthday tomorrow.”

Sanemi sat up slowly, tucking the inhaler back into his jacket pocket, and remained silent as he turned to consider Tomioka. Sanemi had a feeling he knew what the other man was getting at with his words. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Tomioka’s attempt at commiserating in their losses—everyone had lost someone, it seemed, but it was different for each person. No one knew how it felt to be him and to be without Genya. 

Still, Sanemi wasn’t heartless, so he waited and allowed time for Tomioka to elaborate if he wanted to. 

“He’s dead,” Tomioka said eventually, confirming Sanemi’s suspicions. His voice was carefully even as he continued, “He would be twenty-three tomorrow, if he hadn’t died saving me.”

A distant part of Sanemi’s mind noted that he was almost twenty-three, his birthday being in a couple of weeks. Sanemi could understand why something as seemingly simple as a birthday would bring Tomioka such grief—Sanemi hated his own birthday, and he’d spent almost the entirety of the last January despondent.

The elaboration, too, gave Sanemi some insight into Tomioka. He hadn’t known that the other had a best friend who had died. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Tomioka at the memorial stone, and he wouldn’t know which name to match to Tomioka’s deceased friend—if the name was there at all.

“What was his name?” Sanemi asked quietly.

“Sabito,” Tomioka answered, voice equally soft. 

Sanemi had seen that name on the memorial stone, having spent enough time studying the names there to recognize it. He was uncertain as to how to respond to Tomioka and opted to say nothing. Tomioka instead broke the silence with another question, but this one was asked in a tone laced with uncertainty.

“What is your brother’s name?”

Sanemi noted Tomioka had matched his own use of present tense. Obanai and Kyoujurou did the same thing whenever they talked about Genya.

Maybe Sanemi had judged Tomioka too harshly.

“…it’s Genya.”

Tomioka nodded in acknowledgement, and the two of them lapsed back into silence. Sanemi figured it was almost time for the next shift to replace them, a fact for which he was grateful. He had talked far more about himself than he had ever imagined he would that evening, and discomfort was prickling across his skin. Sanemi wanted to be alone. 

He would probably go to the memorial stone whenever their relief came.

“If I’m able to leave before you, I’ll keep an eye out for an inhaler,” Tomioka said without prompting.

Sanemi side-eyed him, reflecting on the words. He couldn’t fault Tomioka for offering to look for an inhaler, given Sanemi had willingly told him about it, but something about it rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe it was his desire to get the inhaler himself—after all, it was his responsibility to look after Genya—or maybe it was the way Tomioka had said the words.

Tomioka had sounded certain. He sounded certain that he would be leaving the estate before Sanemi. 

Shit. Was Sanemi going to have to do something about the death wish he’d seen reflected in the other? He’d never said anything to any of the others about it, but maybe that had been a mistake. Sanemi decided then that he would tell someone—probably Kyoujurou. But telling Kyoujurou in the morning wouldn’t help things now. 

Fuck. What should I say? Sanemi thought. The words that tumbled from his mouth with little thought put into them ended up confrontational.

“Is it guilt? Is that why you’re trying to get yourself killed?”

“...what?”

Sanemi turned to Tomioka and found his expression blank. Sanemi was no coward, and he decided to press the issue.

“Don’t act like I’m an idiot—I’ve seen it. You volunteer to leave here as often as I do. The others may not have caught on, but you can’t fool me.” Not when I’m the same. 

Tomioka blinked, and his brows furrowed. 

“I can see why you think that,” Tomioka replied slowly, “but that’s not the case.”

Sanemi scoffed, disbelieving. “What is it then?”

“I don’t–”

“Shinazugawa, Tomioka, your shift is up!” shouted a voice, cutting off whatever excuse Tomioka was going to conjure. Tomioka turned away, facing the two walking up to the guard station, and called an acknowledgement back. He then cast a look at Sanemi before standing and heading for the stairs. Sanemi did not stop him, unsure of what else he could do in the moment.

“Don’t worry about me,” Tomioka said softly, his back turned to Sanemi, before he disappeared quickly down the stairs. 

Sanemi stood slowly and watched him go. Was he worried? Fuck. He couldn’t deny that there was something like concern rolling in his gut. Maybe Tomioka wasn’t lying, and Sanemi had projected his own problems onto the other, but Sanemi didn’t know Tomioka well enough to judge if he had been truthful or not. His tone was too emotionless—too flat. It was that aloof attitude that had caused Sanemi to dislike him for so long, and he was remembering why now.

“Tch,” he grumbled aloud. It was frustrating, but Sanemi would have to let the situation be. He’d tell Kyoujurou in the morning—Sanemi was not suited to deal with whatever Tomioka’s issues were on his own.

The morning came, and Sanemi learned that Tomioka Giyuu had left the Ubuyashiki estate in the night—on his own and without telling anyone where he was going.

Guilt was a familiar feeling.

No one at the estate could believe that Tomioka had left on his own—no one except Sanemi, who was likely responsible, at least in part, for the other’s disappearance. He knew he must not be alone in thinking so, given everyone was aware that they had been on watch together just before his disappearance, and that Sanemi had been the last to see him before he left. 

He wanted to try to track him down, but hadn’t been allowed to due to his recent injury.  Sanemi felt shitty enough about his potential role in Tomioka’s leaving not to protest the instruction for himself to stay put. If Tomioka truly had left because of something Sanemi had said, then he likely would not want Sanemi to be the one to come after him anyway.

In his place, some of the others—Tengen, Kyoujurou, Shinobu, and Mitsuri—had paired off and gone searching, but they had all returned within the day, unable to find tracks to follow. Tomioka could have gone anywhere, and the sly fucker had apparently thought to cover his tracks. Thus, it was soon decided there was no use in trying to hunt him down. They would have to wait for him to return on his own. 

Sanemi spent the days after Tomioka left filled with restless energy. He tried to pass the time quickly, by whatever means possible—pacing the perimeter of the estate, practicing with his katana and wakizashi. He’d even tried to get Hakuji to spar with him, but the man had raised a brow at Sanemi’s still-healing shoulder before turning him away. 

The rest of the estate was as restless as Sanemi. Tomioka may have kept mostly to himself, but there were several within the estate that seemed to care deeply for him, namely the Kamados, Urokodaki, Agatsuma, and Hashibira.

Why did Sanemi always have to fuck up everything? 

He had talked to Kyoujurou on the first day of Tomioka’s disappearance, after the other had returned from his unsuccessful search, telling him of his suspicions and of the conversation they’d had while on watch. Kyoujurou had shaken his head and given Sanemi a small smile.

“I don’t think he was lying to you. Don’t blame yourself, Sanemi.” 

Easier said than fucking done, Kyoujurou, Sanemi had thought, but not voiced.

In the evening of the fifth day after Tomioka left, Sanemi was in his room, staring at the bag he kept packed and contemplating following in Tomioka’s footsteps. Whether his goal was to find him or to disappear as well, Sanemi was uncertain. He reached for the backpack, but his hand was stilled by a quiet knock at his door.

Sanemi tossed a blanket over the bag before calling, gruffly, “What?”

The door slid open to reveal Obanai. He stepped forward and leaned against the door frame, his eyes landing on the misshapen lump where the blanket was concealing his bag. He frowned, a knowing look on his face.

“Stop thinking about doing something stupid,” Obanai scolded. Sanemi opened his mouth to argue, but Obanai cut him off. “Save it. There’s no point, anyway—I just heard from Murata that Tomioka is back.”

Sanemi bolted upright. “Where is he?”

“Heading for the clinic,” Obanai replied, causing Sanemi to inhale sharply in alarm. 

The clinic? Had the fucker gotten himself hurt? 

Something must have shown on his face, because Obanai held up a hand as if to stop Sanemi’s spiraling thoughts. “He’s fine. Murata said he picked up yet another stray teenager while he was gone, so they were taking the kid there.”

Of course he had, but Sanemi didn’t care about some random teenager—he had a bone to pick with Tomioka, and it was already five days overdue. He strode across the room, but was forced to halt in his tracks as Obanai sidestepped to block his exit. Sanemi glared down at him, and Obanai met his gaze evenly, unintimidated. His friend might be small in stature, but never was in presence.

“Move, Obanai.”

“What are you hoping to accomplish with this?” Obanai asked. He crossed his arms and didn’t budge. “Maybe you should give it some time and wait until morning to talk to him.”

“Would you wait?” Sanemi retorted. “If it were me, would you wait?”

Sanemi was the one who had to do this—he was the person who might have caused Tomioka to leave, and he was the person who might understand why the other had. The others might be too soft on him, and Tomioka could do something equally as stupid in the future. Even if Sanemi hardly liked the other man, he couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t be responsible for another preventable death.

Maybe he was beginning to understand Obanai and Kyoujurou a bit better.

The silence that followed Sanemi’s sharp question was enough of an answer. Obanai met his gaze for several moments before his arms unfolded, and he stepped aside with a heavy sigh. Sanemi immediately slipped past him, ears hardly registering the words Obanai directed at his back. 

“Don’t say anything you’ll regret tomorrow.”

Sanemi waved a hand in acknowledgement before rounding a corner and throwing open the dormitory door to stride outside. He stalked across the estate, fists clenched at his sides, and no one who remained outside tried to stop him as he neared the side entrance of the clinic. Sanemi tore open the door harshly, uncaring how the wood banged and shook. Upon not seeing Tomioka within, he shouted, “Where is the fucker?!” down the clinic hall. 

He heard soft voices hush, and he stomped forward, passing the sick room, to head toward the main entryway. Sanemi caught sight of a distinct, two-patterned sweater, half red and half green and yellow, and he pointed an accusatory finger at Tomioka.

“You! You idiot! Do you know the hell you raised here by fucking off on your own?”

Tomioka didn’t startle at the loud words. He swiveled to face Sanemi, turning away from a passive-appearing Shinobu, and met Sanemi’s smoldering rage with a neutral expression. It pissed him off even more.

“I’ve already gotten an earful from Shinobu; you can spare the lecture,” Tomioka said evenly. Something shifted on his face, his eyes growing…uncertain in a way, as he continued, “Look—I didn’t come back on my own, and I need to–”

Oh, hell no. Tomioka was not using whatever kid he’d rescued as an excuse to get out of this.

“Yeah, we all heard you picked up another stray, big surprise,” Sanemi interrupted harshly, hands clenching again into fists at his sides. “You’ve been gone for almost a week! We thought you were fucking dead!”

Tomioka blinked—perhaps that was what passed for his form of surprise—at the sharp words, at the way Sanemi couldn’t stop the concern from bleeding into his tone. His own voice remained calm in his reply. “I am sorry about that.  I didn’t mean to be away so long, but I think you’ll understand if–”

“Understand what, your immense idiocy?!” 

“He’s right. You’ll want to meet our new guest, Sanemi,” Shinobu input, stepping forward. There was a slight smile on her face, and it struck Sanemi that it looked…genuine, for once. Which was fucking weird because why the hell would he want to meet some stray? 

Sanemi tossed her a disgruntled look before turning his glare back on Tomioka.

“Stop deflecting. What the hell were you thinking?”

“Probably not what you think I was,” Tomioka countered, and Sanemi bristled. Shinobu glanced between them but did not interrupt again. They both watched as Tomioka sighed and shrugged his backpack from his shoulders. Sanemi bit back more arguments as Tomioka unzipped the bag, wondering what Tomioka was even getting into it for.

Tomioka quickly found what he was looking for, and he extended a hand to Sanemi. Sanemi stared down at the other’s open palm with wide, confused eyes. It was an inhaler. 

“I got this for you,” Tomioka said. 

No fucking way. No way had Tomioka left just to get Sanemi an inhaler.

He shook his head, teeth clenching so hard it hurt his jaw. “Don’t. That,” he punctuated the word with a sharp gesture to the inhaler, “is an excuse. You were planning to leave before I told you about the inhaler.”

“I was,” Tomioka confirmed, and Shinobu raised her eyebrows at the acknowledgement. Good. Someone other than Sanemi knew, which was a relief to say the least.

Tomioka elaborated no further on his reasoning for leaving, instead inching forward and holding the inhaler to Sanemi’s chest. Sanemi glanced down at it but resisted snatching it away. He didn’t want to give Tomioka any reason to be glad that he had done what he had.

“You’ll want this,” Tomioka insisted. 

Sanemi was not given the chance to retort as Kamado Tanjirou suddenly ran into the room, shoving past Sanemi to do so, and called, “Shinobu, there’s something wrong with Genya!”

Sanemi’s mind short-circuited, banishing his turbulent emotions to the void of utter confusion, as he turned to face a frantic-appearing Kamado. That name he’d said—Genya. No one at the estate shared a name with his younger brother. What the fuck was Kamado on about?

“What did you just say?” Sanemi asked, voice low.

Kamado’s alarmed attention was drawn to Sanemi. He blinked at him and repeated, concerned, “Something is wrong with Genya, the new kid Giyuu brought. He’s having a hard time breathing!”

Sanemi wasted no further time, ripping the inhaler from Tomioka’s hand and pushing Kamado out of his way. He ignored the surprised oof that left the teenager’s lips as he stumbled to the side, and he ignored the way Tomioka opened his mouth to say something.

Tomioka had brought back someone named Genya—someone named Genya, who was having issues with breathing. It fucking couldn’t be. It couldn’t be, but Sanemi had to see for himself. 

He thundered down the hall, his stupid, hopeful heart pounding in his chest. As he neared the sick room, a horribly familiar sound filled his ears—wheezing breaths. It was a sound he hadn’t heard for years upon years, but one he would never be able to forget. Not when it had caused him so much terror as a child.

Sanemi didn’t pause—couldn’t pause—and rounded the door, taking a step into the room. His eyes were drawn immediately downward to the person who was hunched in on himself on the floor, hand clenched to his rattling chest: a person with a distinct scar across his face, and his hair styled in a mohawk that Sanemi had always thought ridiculous but would never voice because his younger brother had liked it so much. 

A person who was no longer ten years old and tiny, like he’d been the last time Sanemi had seen him physically.

It was Genya. How the fuck could it be Genya?

It didn’t matter—what mattered was that it was, and that he was in the middle of a raging asthma attack.

Sanemi knelt, one hand shaking as he reached for Genya—what if he disappeared when he touched him, what if it wasn’t real—and the other flipping the cap off the inhaler. He gently, or as gently as he could, given his urgency, raised Genya’s head from his chest and pressed the inhaler to his lips. Genya’s eyes shot open in response, and Sanemi saw his own shock reflected within them.

He shoved everything except what he needed to do aside.

“Breathe, Genya,” he insisted, and he saw Genya’s eyes flash to his lips. He spoke the next words louder and as clearly as he could, knowing that Genya sometimes had a difficult time hearing in the midst of an attack. “You have to breathe this in!”

Sanemi felt as if he was on autopilot as he continued to walk Genya—Genya, was it really him, how could it be him—through the asthma attack: compressing the inhaler, counting breaths, and guiding Genya’s breathing like it was second nature.

His panic ebbed as Genya slowly began to breathe easier, matching Sanemi’s count—in for four, out for seven. Sanemi wanted to speak, to say something, as Genya recovered, but he was speechless. In the void the dimming panic had left, there was now an insurmountable disbelief. Part of him felt certain he was dreaming, but Sanemi’s dreams had never been inclined to such happiness.

It was Genya who ended up speaking first, and Sanemi’s heart nearly shattered at the sound of his voice. The last time he’d heard it, it had been the squeaky voice of a child—Genya wasn’t a child anymore, and Sanemi hadn’t been there.

“Sanemi, is this real?” Genya croaked, his voice hoarse and breathy.

“It fucking better be,” Sanemi replied, unable to keep the words from wavering. “Are you—can you breathe okay, now?” 

“Y–yeah,” Genya stuttered, head bobbing. “Tha–”

Sanemi did not let his younger brother finish the word, tugging him forward into a fierce hug. He felt Genya still before his arms wrapped around Sanemi in turn. Sanemi couldn’t remember the last time they had hugged. It hadn’t been the day they’d been separated—their emotions too high, anger and panic too great—but, regardless, it had been years. It had been years since Sanemi was able to be a proper older brother.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Sanemi managed. He never wanted Genya to thank him for doing what was his responsibility. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Genya was quiet for a moment before a hesitant question left his lips. “You’re not—angry with me?”

Sanemi’s brows furrowed. What? 

It pained him to do so, but he pulled away in order to see Genya’s face. He kept his hands on Genya’s shoulders, afraid that his brother might disappear if Sanemi didn’t have tangible proof of his existence.

Genya’s eyes were wide as he met Sanemi’s confused gaze. There was no evidence of the blame or anger that Sanemi had thought he might find within his brother—that he had expected, back when he had planned to contact Genya when able to seek custody.

“Why would I be angry with you?” Sanemi asked. “You should be pissed at me.” 

He was, after all, the one who had left Genya alone—the one who hadn’t come back to him at the first opportunity. Genya, though, shook his head in immediate disagreement.

“What? No! It was what I said that ruined everything. I’m so sor–”

Sanemi raised a hand to cut off Genya’s words. His heart had seized at yet another reminder of that day—the day they had been separated.

Why would you do it?! I hate you!

The words had been painful to hear, but Genya had been ten. He hadn’t understood, and Sanemi couldn’t tell him—not when he was being shipped off to juvie. He hadn’t wanted to scare Genya. Rengoku Shinjurou had promised to watch out for him, and Sanemi, somehow, had trusted the man to do so after the police officer had told him about his own sons.

The fact that Genya seemed to have blamed himself for years for Sanemi’s silence made him feel all the worse. They would have to talk about it, but not now—not when Sanemi was so happy to have his brother in front of him again.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Sanemi affirmed fiercely. “That’s years in the past, and we can talk about it later. I’m not mad at you—I never was.”

“What?” Genya’s voice cracked around the single-worded question

His disbelief struck Sanemi in his very soul, but he masked the melancholy with a small smile. He couldn’t afford for Genya to work himself up and cause another asthma attack.

“Can you stand up?”

“I–yeah, I’m fine. I had a cold, it’s been making my asthma flare.”

Sanemi helped his brother get to his feet, keeping a steadying hand on his arm as he wobbled slightly, and reflected on the words. A cold would make sense, but he knew all too well that Genya’s asthma had always been reactive to his emotions. Genya was deflecting. Sanemi let him get away with it, his thoughts instead drawn to a realization—a realization that both surprised and saddened him.

“The hell? How are you taller than me?” Sanemi questioned with a huff. He hadn’t been there to see Genya get so tall. 

A hint of mirth shone in Genya’s eyes, and he teased, “How are you so short?”

Short? Sanemi’s sorrowful mood dwindled as offense took root. Genya was hardly taller than him! He retorted, “Fuck off. You have one centimeter on me max.”

“What’s the world like from down there?” Genya prodded jovially.

Sanemi’s brows creased indignantly. “Brat.” 

Genya threw his head back and laughed, and Sanemi couldn’t find it in himself to actually be offended that his baby brother was teasing him over being short. The smile that he had forced widened into something far more genuine as he watched Genya, his laughter filling the small space of the clinic. Sanemi couldn’t suppress a huff of his own disbelieving laughter.

The shred of hope that he’d clung to so desperately had somehow manifested. Sanemi was so glad he’d never added Genya’s name to the memorial stone.

Genya’s laughter trickled off, and Sanemi immediately grew alarmed upon noticing tears in his brother’s eyes. He couldn’t cry—not when crying could affect his breathing, and not this quickly after an asthma attack. 

“I’ve missed you, Sanemi,” Genya whispered. 

Fuck. Now there were tears in Sanemi’s eyes.

“I’ve missed you, too.”