Chapter Text
─── ˚ִ🍃✧˚.🔥 ───
Kyojuro has every right to hate him.
Sanemi had attacked him the first time they ever met. He wouldn’t have killed him, not in front of the Master. But he would have hurt him, probably badly, if Kyojuro hadn’t stopped his blows. Sanemi wouldn’t even have thought twice about it. To be in the Corps was to be prepared to put your life on the line at any moment. You’d better damn well be strong. There was no other option.
Sanemi wouldn’t have cared if Kyojuro had hated him. Might have welcomed it, in fact. But the day Kyojuro earns that damn cloak of his (Sanemi refuses to call it a proper haori), their new Flame Hashira turns to him and smiles. It’s big and bright and so blinding that Sanemi freezes like a spotlight has just been turned on him. He absolutely hates that that’s his reaction, but he can’t seem to help it. The expression on Kyojuro’s face is honest and open and so genuinely friendly that Sanemi’s palms itch with the urge to pound it into dust.
But he doesn’t do that, either. He simply stares, wide-eyed and unblinking, feeling a bit like some translucent, cave-dwelling creature that’d just been dragged out into the light.
“Shinazugawa!” Kyojuro barks. He has a good, strong voice, filled with the confidence that had so irked him when they first met. “It is an honor to meet again. Now that we are equals, let us do our best!”
Sanemi splutters. He glances to one side, and sure enough, Tengen is standing there, watching the exchange. The Sound Hashira’s cat-like eyes narrow in interest, and there’s a coy, shit-eating smirk on his face. Sanemi scowls and turns back to Kyojuro.
“Okay, let’s get one thing straight, asshole,” he grits out. “You may be a Hashira now, but you and I will never be equals! Got it?!”
Kyojuro recoils a bit at this. His thick, bushy brows furrow. Sanemi lets out a ‘tch,’ popping the knuckles on one hand, just in case Kyojuro decides to stop being a pussy and do something about it. Oh, please, do something about it. Sanemi longs to teach this cocky bastard a lesson.
But Kyojuro simply smiles once more, squaring his shoulders, and—fuck—Sanemi is thrown off all over again.
What’s with this guy?
“Yes, I see! I should have known that respect must be earned with a warrior of your caliber. Fine!” Kyojuro says. He leans forward and tilts up on his tiptoes ever so slightly. Encroaches on Sanemi’s personal space while simultaneously covering the one-inch difference he had over him. Sanemi’s so surprised that all he can do is stare. Kyojuro’s eyes are arresting.
“I look forward to earning your respect,” Kyojuro says. His tone is low and serious. The fucker almost makes it sound like a threat. Then he leans back, and as if that weren’t bad enough, Kyojuro has enough nerve to bow. Sanemi might have thought Kyojuro was making fun of him if he didn’t look so sincere. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or tear the Flame Hashira’s face off or both. But before he can make up his mind one way or the other, Kyojuro is gone, slipping away to join Shinobu and that pissant Tomioka. Sanemi snarls under his breath.
I’ll fucking kill him.
“Well, well, well. Would’ya look at that,” Tengen drawls beside him. Sanemi’s eyes snap to the tall, brawny man. He’d forgotten he was even there. Tengen’s eyes follow Kyojuro as he exchanges words with his fellow Hashira, and he laughs. “Flashy! I like him. You’d better watch out, San. This is the second time now he’s shown you up. Any more, and people might start thinking you’ve gone soft.”
“FUCK YOU! You wanna come down here and say that?!”
Tengen’s only response is to laugh—the ass—and walk away, but not before he drops a wink, all sly and knowing. Sanemi is left alone, and he glares hot daggers at Kyojuro’s back before he stalks off.
“Tch.”
───˚ִ🍃✧˚.🔥───
It’s months before they see each other again.
Not that it matters—if there’s one thing Sanemi can do better than busting heads, it’s holding grudges. He ruminates on their interaction long past the point of what would be considered reasonable or healthy, but, hey, he’s never claimed to be a reasonable guy. He’s not saying he’s been itching to get at Kyojuro again, but he’s not not saying that, so the joint mission they’ve just been assigned seems a particularly cruel twist of fate. Sanemi doesn’t want to work with him; he wants to watch Kyojuro explode into a million tiny pieces and then laugh about it.
The Flame Hashira kneels before the Master, prim and proper in his damn cloak, his back and shoulders straight. Kyojuro looks every inch the eldest son of a lordly house; Sanemi is reminded of the Warring States samurai of old. Sanemi’s kneeling, too, but even when he’s trying to show the proper respect, he still looks like a thug.
He scowls. It’s like everything Kyojuro does seems tailor-made to piss him off. The details of this mission are bad enough to make a junior member’s blood run cold, but Kyojuro is smiling from ear to ear. It’s like he can barely contain his excitement. Sanemi would never think to question the Master, so he simply nods. But inside, he’s seething, and the feeling only grows as Kyojuro smiles up at the Master, pumping a fist victoriously.
“Yes, Master! We will not fail!”
Sanemi chokes. We? Damned punk. He yearns to force Kyojuro’s face to the dirt, to grind his cheek in with the worms. Show some damn respect, he thinks.
“Master,” Sanemi begins. His voice is rough. Master Ubuyashiki turned to him with serene but unseeing eyes. Sanemi hesitates. “Never mind. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you, Sanemi,” Master Ubuyashiki smiles. “I know you two will work well together.”
Sanemi flies out of the Master’s quarters the moment he’s dismissed. He’s so mad he can barely see straight, so it’s a few seconds before Sanemi realizes he isn’t alone—Kyojuro has followed him, quietly trailing him through the courtyard. A muscle jumps in Sanemi’s cheek.
“Shinazugawa,” Kyojuro says. “Perhaps we ought to discuss—”
Sanemi doesn’t wait for him to finish. He pivots on his heel and throws a punch in Kyojuro’s direction, moving with all the speed of a viper striking. His fist whizzes past Kyojuro’s face, missing him.
Just barely. There’s enough force in that strike to shift Kyojuro’s stupid, spiky bangs in the updraft (he must style them that way, Sanemi thinks, to keep his hair out of his eyes, but like everything else about him, it’s stupid), and to Sanemi’s annoyance, Kyojuro doesn’t flinch, but he does blink. Sanemi’s half-tempted to follow up with a leg-sweep, but it seems disrespectful to fight outside the Master’s chambers. Corps members aren’t supposed to fight each other, anyway, and that’s probably doubly true for Hashira—they should set the standard for all junior members.
But, gods, does Sanemi ever want to fight him.
He settles for a warning. “Stay. The hell. Away from me.”
“Ah. I see,” Kyojuro says. The smooth, fair skin between his thick, dark brows forms a wrinkle as he frowns. “I do not wish to cause offense, but I regret to inform you that I cannot do that!”
Sanemi snarls. “Are you fucking stupid?”
“I know as much as the next man,” Kyojuro replies, frustratingly calm. Every word is spoken at a clear volume; he’s not shouting, exactly, but there’s a clear, self-possessed presence of command to it that has Sanemi itching to throw another punch. “And I also know that Master Ubuyashiki has given us a mission. I do not think he would have assigned us both if he thought this was something we could complete on our own. We should put our heads together and come up with a plan of attack!”
“Ohhh…am I hearing this right?” Sanemi’s voice is silky, but it’s the difference between a piece of fresh sandpaper and one that’s been dulled from repeated use. Neither one is particularly soft or comfortable. “Are you trying to tell me what to do?”
“Negative! I was merely suggesting—”
“Good. I’m real, real glad that wasn’t what I was actually hearing,” Sanemi says. “‘Cause, see, if you were trying to tell me what to do, I might have had to remind you that you’ve been a Hashira all of five fucking minutes, and I don’t take orders from you.”
“Sanemi—”
“When have I ever given you permission to use my first name? Huh?!”
“Shinazugawa,” Kyojuro says. He’s calm as ever, but there’s a hint of pleading in his tone. “Please, we’re on the same side. This animosity is not only foolish and unnecessary but thoroughly unbecoming of a Hashira! I am not your enemy, nor do I wish to be. You have nothing but my utmost respect.”
Kyojuro takes a breath, smiling tentatively, and starts to lay a hand on Sanemi’s shoulder. “I’m sure we can work together—”
Sanemi seizes Kyojuro by the collar of his uniform.
Just as before, he doesn’t flinch, even after Sanemi drags him close. His fingers bunch in the crisply pressed black fabric and stiff white collar, wrinkling it, and that can’t be very comfortable because, unlike him, Kyojuro wears his uniform properly fastened and buttoned. They’re so close that Sanemi can feel Kyojuro’s breath wafting over his face as he stares him down.
Everything about Kyojuro feels golden and radiant, but when Sanemi gazes into that unscarred face and those piercing, idealistic eyes, all he can see is an amateur. A pampered, pretty little lordling too soft to even be sharing the same room as him, let alone the same rank.
“You know what was really unbecoming?” Sanemi says. “Your old man.”
Kyojuro stiffens.
“Yeah, I remember him. Guess that’s the nice thing about being a Hashira longer than five minutes,” Sanemi continues. His voice is deceptively breezy. “Though, to tell you the truth, he was already pretty washed-up by the time I joined. A sad, sloppy old drunk who had to be pulled off missions to keep him from disgracing himself any more than he already had.”
Sanemi sneers. “The Rengoku legacy—don’t make me fucking laugh. Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t need your help. You may have everyone else around here fooled, but you’re nothing but a little boy playing with swords to win Daddy’s approval. Your father is weak, and his sons are even weaker. Now stay outta my goddamn way. How’s that for a suggestion?”
Kyojuro is still and silent. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, and the tension in the Flame Hashira’s jaw is unmistakable. Kyojuro’s nostrils flare as he breathes. It's barely perceptible, but there’s the tiniest tremble in his shoulders—as if it's taking everything in him to stay calm. Sanemi smirks, waiting, daring him to make a move. As the silence grows long and heavy, Sanemi scoffs, shoving Kyojuro away and turning on his heel in disgust.
Fucking coward.
Sanemi is halfway across the courtyard when Kyojuro finally speaks, calling out to him in a clear, firm voice.
“I do not care what you think of me, but leave my father and brother out of it.”
Sanemi pauses, cocking his head. His grin is nearly manic. Oh, this is too good.
“Yeah? And what’ll you do if I don’t?”
But Kyojuro doesn’t say anything; he just turns and walks away. Sanemi laughs at his retreating back.
“Seriously?! Your dear ol’ dad mighta been weakling and a coward, but y’know what’s really sad?! Shinjuro still had more balls than you!”
His words echo throughout the courtyard, but Kyojuro doesn’t slow, and he doesn’t turn. Very soon, Sanemi is alone. He scowls at the empty air that had once contained the Flame Hashira. Despite the verbal victory, Sanemi feels so much less satisfied than he thought he would feel.
He sniffs, thumbing his nose, and stomps out of the compound.