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Sanemi inhales deeply, the crisp night air filling his lungs as he tilts his head back, gazing at the sky. It’s a clear night, stars scattered across the vast darkness like tiny, shimmering embers. But he’s not really looking at them. His mind isn’t stuck on the stars—it’s stuck on the man sitting beside him.
Giyuu.
They come up here often now. Sometimes when one of them is having a bad day, haunted by memories they haven’t quite managed to bury. Other times, like tonight, there’s no real reason. No heavy emotions weighing them down, no lingering ghosts pulling at their edges. Just a shared desire to sit together, to soak in the quiet.
It’s almost funny—the way Sanemi’s gone from avoiding Giyuu like the plague to seeking him out. But he’s been the one there for him. Through everything.
The past year has been a mess of trying to adjust, trying to figure out what the hell to do with himself in a world without demons, without a war to fight, without his brother. But Giyuu has been beside him the entire time. Sanemi tried to hate him, tried to push him away like he did with everyone else. But he never could.
Giyuu never let him.
He was always there. Bringing Sanemi ohagi when he refused to eat. Talking to him even when he wouldn’t talk back. Holding his hair when he got sick with grief, holding him afterward as his whole body shook, when it felt like he might just fall apart. Giyuu never faltered, never flinched away from Sanemi’s jagged edges. He was just there—no judgment, no shame, no embarrassment.
Just there.
Sanemi likes being around him, he’s found. It’s…easy. In a way nothing else is. He’s sure Obanai must be rolling in his grave over the fact, but it’s true. Giyuu is his best friend now.
More than that, if he’s being honest.
His gaze flickers to the side, just briefly. Giyuu sits with his usual stillness, his expression calm in the dim light. His hand is pressed against the rooftop, mere inches from Sanemi’s own. Close enough that, if he wanted to, he could reach out and interlock his three remaining fingers with Giyuu’s.
He does want to. More than he’d care to admit.
Sanemi’s gaze flickers to Giyuu again, lingering a bit longer this time.
He looks almost ethereal like this—bathed in soft moonlight, staring up at the endless stretch of sky with wide, clear blue eyes. A small, content smile rests on his lips, and his short hair shifts lightly in the wind, strands moving just enough to frame his face. He looks peaceful. At ease.
It’s still a bit strange seeing him like this after so long.
The short hair—Sanemi’s doing, cut just a few months after the final battle. The smile—one Sanemi never saw before the war, a quiet kind of happiness that hadn’t seemed possible back then. And those eyes—once empty, once dull and resigned, now sparkle with emotion, soft and alive in a way they never were before.
It’s breathtaking.
Sanemi doesn’t even realize he’s staring, doesn’t realize his own lips have parted slightly, his breath caught somewhere between his ribs. He’s not sure what he expected when they started doing this—meeting up in the dead of night, finding solace in the quiet together. He never expected it to become this.
And then Giyuu looks over.
Their eyes meet, those bright blue depths locking onto his own, and something in Sanemi’s chest stirs, something warm, something inevitable.
The words slip out before he even thinks about them, as natural as breathing.
“I love you.”
Giyuu’s eyes widen, almost comically so.
Sanemi doesn’t laugh.
He just holds Giyuu’s gaze, steady and unwavering. Because he doesn’t regret saying it. Not for a second. He needs Giyuu to know that. Needs him to understand that he means it—with every fiber of his being, with every piece of his soul, he means it. Because he’s known for a long time. Somewhere deep inside him, beneath all the grief, beneath all the anger and loss and exhaustion, he’s known.
It was always going to come out.
The silence stretches between them, heavy but not suffocating. Giyuu’s face remains frozen in surprise, his lips parted slightly like he’s struggling to process what Sanemi has just said. Sanemi can practically see the gears turning, the way Giyuu’s mind works slower than his body, taking its time to catch up.
Sanemi doesn’t rush him, doesn’t take it back.
But his mind betrays him, because for all the certainty he felt when the words left his lips, doubt starts creeping in.
What if he’s ruined everything?
What if Giyuu doesn’t feel the same?
What if Giyuu is disgusted by him?
What if—
“I love you, too.”
Sanemi’s breath stutters.
Giyuu says it softly, like it’s the simplest truth in the world, like it doesn’t change everything, like it hasn’t just turned Sanemi’s world on its head.
His voice is quiet but sure. No hesitation, no doubt.
Sanemi swallows, his throat tight, his pulse roaring in his ears. He wants to say something—anything—but for the first time in his life, words fail him. So he just stares, watching the way Giyuu’s expression softens, watching as the surprise fades into something warmer, something steadier.
And then, without breaking eye contact, without pausing to second-guess, Giyuu reaches out. Not hesitant, not testing the waters—completely certain. He takes Sanemi’s hand in his own, his fingers curling around his with quiet confidence, like this is normal.
Like this was always meant to happen.
Like they were always meant to happen.
And Sanemi thinks maybe they were.