"I had a lot of fun talking with you. It felt like I was a normal young man, and that made me happy."

He always shows up early when they agree to meet for a meal.

It is partly to be polite. If he ever running late, there would be a little extra time built in.

He is never late. He always shows up on time. He has no patience for wasting time, his or the other Hashira's.

His family wasted much of his time already.

But if he were forced to be honest with himself, he arrives early so he has time to step out of his own skin. It takes a few minutes, to part himself from what he knows he is and to think of himself as someone else. Like veil, someone else's mannerisms slip over his fingers and arms and body and face and history. After only a minute of concentration, he can picture himself as someone who is not Iguro Obanai.

By slipping into someone else's skin, he can allow himself to be in her company without fear.

Their visits always leave him aching afterwards.

He can't allow himself to be with her, but he can't resist her. He can't say no to her invitations. Like a cat coming across a stray sunbeam, he finds himself drawn to her warmth and light. Like an errant child left next to a stove, he causes himself pain every time.

He found a way to make it hurt less, at least for a brief while. It is easier in the moment if he pictures himself as someone else. It's no one specific. If he pictures Mitsuri with an exact someone, it would only trigger his jealousy and he is self aware enough that he hates himself for being a jealous ass.

He hates himself for a lot of things.

He only pictures himself as someone who is not him. It doesn't matter who, not at all. An unnamed person he might have been if he'd been born to live a normal life rather than born to be a meal.

Mitsuri deserves to have the company someone not doomed to rot in hell. She deserves the company of someone who wasn't born as livestock.

He catches sight of her down the street. It's impossible to miss her. Even in a sea of Tokyo's most fashionable women in their colorful kimonos, even if it the busy street is lined with lights and colorful signs, Mitsuri draws the eye. Not many people with pastel hair the shades of a spring festival. Not many with grass green eyes or a smile more catching than any sickness.

Once she glimpses him outside the restaurant, she bounces on the balls of her feet, waving frantically through the crowd at him. Her smile gleams like a bonfire at night's darkest.

Joy bolts through him.

He can't help but be infected by her smile. He never knew smiles were contagious until he met her. Without thinking, his hidden mouth mirrors her own. Not as bright or as wide nor exposed to the light of day, but his face shifts beneath the bandages, pulling at scarred tissue at his mouth's corners.

He waves back.

For this time, he is not himself. He is someone else. A normal young man meeting a charming young woman.

She hurries down the street, nimbly weaving through the crowd of people. She is strong enough to bowl even the burliest of men but she is carefully dodging even the most delicate of ladies and children. She barely brushes against anyone, careful not to disturb so much as a lock of hair on a stranger.

She hurries towards him - something she wouldn't do if she knew he were a poisonous, cursed creature But for a moment, he is not that. No, she is simply eagerly coming to greet an old friend, a companion, a beloved in the most chaste sense of the word.

When she's right before him, she gives a quick, apologetic bow.

"I'm sorry for being late!"

Her voice feels makes him like a swallow of a warm drink on a wintry day.

"What are you sorry for? You're right on time."

Her cheeks bloom pink - she's always turning one of a thousand shades of pink, one part of her or another - and her head bobs in another apology. "Then I hope I didn't keep you waiting long."

"I only got here a couple minutes ago," he lies. He's not been there long but he needed those few minutes of quiet to peel off the filthy layer of himself before pretending to be someone different.

She smiles gratefully, happy to see him, happy to be out in the sunshine around people.

He asks if she's ready to eat.

Of course she is. She always is.

He holds open the noren's fabric for her to dip past into the restaurant. The restaurant owner greets Mitsuri, eyes drawn to her bright colors and magnetic smile, and casually lets her eyes slide off Iguro even with Kaburamaru clinging to his shoulders, head up and alert. That's fine by Obanai. He loves being so normal that he is ignored; being uniquely eye-catching was nearly the death of him from the minute he was born. To be boring even for a moment is a rare treat.

When they sit down for lunch, he knows that no matter what side of the table he picks, Mitsuri will always move to sit next to him. If he sits down first, she slides onto the bench next to him. If she sits on one side and he takes his place on the opposite side of the table, she always hurriedly jumps up and sets herself down next to him, sometimes accidentally bumping into him with her hip. And being bumped into by Kanroji Mitsuri is not an incident taken lightly. The only reason he stays where he is seated is because he is a fellow Hashira and he knows exactly what level strength he is dealing with.

But unusual strength or not, the concerns of the Hashira and the Demon Slayer Corps melts away.

Mitsuri orders her food and, as ususal, has to explain that, yes, she is ordering all that food for herself and, yes, she will eat it all, none of it will go to waste. She usually looks at him while ordering him some tea, reading his expression that it's acceptable to order what he always gets. He knows that Mitsuri hates to be rude or inconsiderate, almost to a fault.

He's flattered with her remembering what little he orders, although he does not show it. A tiny detail about him that she cares to have take up space in her mind? It's more than he deserves. Every time she orders his drink without comment on his lack of food, his chest warms with gratitude. Another detail in his fantasy of being a normal young man, one where people don't give him grief about eating.

He, in turn, does not comment on the amount she orders. It is the least he can do for her to return the favor.

While she waits her mountain of food to be cooked, she turns to him, beaming and happy to be someplace where death and blood mean nothing.

Best of all, she's bursting at the seams to chat.

In turn, he is all to content to take in every word, dealing out with own when necessary.

They idly speaking about whatever comes to mind. Both nimbly sidestep topics about their daily work. Their frequent letters speak often of swords and demons and lost friends in the Corps, but here? Here they both instinctively know what to avoid.

Mitsuri never asked him to stay away from such dark topics. She would never be so bold as to dictate what he could talk about. But he once witnessed her warm smile becoming a bit too rigid, a touch too forced when someone spoke of a dead colleague.

To Obanai, it was like seeing clouds suddenly darken a clear sky.

He vowed to not speak of their bloody work when he could avoid it. Yes, at meetings and in their letters and at the headquarters, it was necessary to speak of training and techniques and death. So much death. But here, it was avoidable for a short while.

Here, where he slips into the shoes of someone else, he does not speak of death and loss. Here, he dare not darken her skies. Here, he clings desperately to this illusion and he is willing to do anything to keep pretending for a little longer.

She eagerly talks almost nonstop about everything that's brought her joy since their last visit. Cats and dogs spotted on her travels. New foods she tried for the first time, Western recipes she read in a relative's letter. Kind strangers in distant villages and hard worn but warmhearted farmers tending to fields along the roads she travels. She talks about Kyojuro and his family. She tells him about her own family - a sprawling mess of brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins who don't know why she isn't married yet but try not to bring it up too often but just often enough to be annoying.

Obanai finds it all fascinating because it comes from her.

He smiles with her, making sure the smile reaches up to his eyes. He is not a naturally beaming person like Mitsuri but he knows she likes to see others happy. He makes sure she sees how happy he is.

He knows he will pay for this time later. All joy will be dealt out with an equal amount of pain but it is a price he is willing pay for this respite from being himself. Time with her is worth any price.

He would pay almost any price to keep pretending a little longer than the few hours they have together.

Almost.

When the food comes, in piles and piles and piles on trays and trays and trays set before her, Mitsuri tries to keep up her rapid fire rate of conversation, but that much food takes time to be eaten. It doesn't take long before she falls quiet, unable to talk and eat at the same time.

He doesn't mind when the burden of conversation shifts to him. He's never been socially elegant but Mitsuri makes talking as easy as breathing.

She looks at him with wide eyes, eager to take in whatever he says, as hungry for words as she is for food. It makes him feel compelling. It makes him feel like someone worth listening to.

When he is around other Corps members, he only speaks about the things that pertain to Corps and only when it's necessary. Fighting, demons, tactics, plans, the daily logistics of taking care of swordsmen and the Kakushi, and training. He rarely speaks about anything else.

But with Mitsuri, in these few hours where he can step away from his own life, the Corps practically doesn't exist. Demons don't exist. His sins don't exist.

If he were a normal person, he wouldn't be a swordsmen. He wouldn't be fighting demons. He'd be- He would - He doesn't even know what he would be. Just something that is not this.

He tells her about the beautiful landscapes he sees on his travel, places she's not had a chance to get to see the moon or sun rise over. He tells her about intricate pastries or sugar sculptures in bakery windows he's walked past in Tokyo. He tells her of visually striking animals he's encountered when he travels during the day; white wolf-like dogs or amber eyed cats with fur the color of a flat, stormy sky. He tells her about books and poetry he reads, always carefully side stepping any mention of romantic stories or poems, even if she asks him directly about the genre.

Speaking about romance feels too embarrassing, too improper. Even a normal young man wouldn't so blatantly speak to a beloved about such things in public.

Except that is a poor excuse even to himself. Speaking of love strays knife's edge close to reality for him when she's around. Speaking love treads on thin ice and threatens to break through to the drowning truth that flows beneath propriety.

After she swallows a large mouthful of rice, she abruptly asks, "Do you know much about moths?"

An odd question. He shoots her a quizzical look. "That's more of Kocho's realm than mine."

"I said moths, not butterflies! They're not the same."

"I only know of the ones that flit around campfires or always seem to get into the house at the most inopportune times before bed."

She giggles mid-bite, quickly swallowing before continuing, "I read in a newspaper about these moths that look like snakes."

As if summoned by the word, Kaburamaru stirs from his perch on Obanai's shoulders, raising his head a little to peer at Mitsuri with unblinking red eyes.

"Well," Obanai says, voice dripping with not-unkind sarcasm. "Now you've caught my interest."

Lies. She's had his interest this whole time. He hasn't stopped thinking about her since he woke up this morning. He knows he won't be able to stop thinking about only her for hours afterwards.

She sets her chopsticks down and hooks her thumbs together, fluttering her hands in the vague approximation of something with wings.

"There was a photograph of one. They are really big! Bigger than my hands, I think. When it's wings lay flat, it just looks like a huge butterfly but with it's wings up, the tips of its wings look like multiple snake heads."

She curls her fingers into what he assumes is supposed to be snakes.

"That doesn't make any sense," he says flatly.

She gives up and tosses up her hands up in frustration. Her lips - full and pink and irritatingly tempting to feel on his own mouth - push out into a pout. "I can't describe it well."

He chuckles, a low sound in his chest that that is barely audible outside his body. He is sure Mitsuri heard him because her mouth immediately blooms into another delighted smile. One of a hundred she's delivered during their meal but he can't get enough of.

"I'm no good at describing things," she laments but her smile stays, unharmed and unfazed by her own self deprecation.

"Don't worry," he says with all the gentleness he feels inside. "Take comfort than your strength lays more in the written word, rather than the spoken. Your letters always get the point across."

"Oh stop," she stammers out, cheeks reddening from praise. "I just saw it in the paper and it made me think of you."

His heart hitches inside his chest but he makes sure to betray no change in his face.

"Snakes, I get. But it's pretending to be a snake. It's not really one."

Face still flushed, she picks up her chopsticks against and fidgets with them. "Obviously not. The illusion keeps birds from eating it. But I guess that's you in a way."

The warm contentment inside him immediately turns icy and soured with fear. Was she saying he was ... was what exactly? Something unreal? Something fake? Did she somehow know what a monster he truly was?

"What do you mean?" he asks and he hopes the panic isn't clear in his voice because it certainly is running through every cell.

Her face stays rosy, and shifts to a shy smile. Not the sunshine grin that reminds him of sunflowers turning towards the sun. This is a nervous smile, something to placate and disarm.

"It's... it's like... everyone in the Corps tells me you're so scary and you'll cut anyone down with a word - I heard that, that's all - but honestly, you're really nice."

"Oh."

A single word, a single syllable, a stupid sound is all he can manage because all his oxygen is taken by his hammering heart.

She turns away, eyes pointedly turned directly ahead, and she shovels a large lump of food into her mouth.

They say nothing for a few seconds. The silence between them felt as thick as stone and just as immutable.

But as she's about to take another bite, she instead speaks, food poised on chopsticks. "I don't mean to sound demeaning. You really could take about anyone in the Corps in fight."

"That's not true."

"Maybe not Himejima. But as scary as you reputation seems to be, I don't think you live up to it. You're one of the gentlest people I know."

The corner of her glass green gaze catches his good eye, the one he can see with, and his pulse climbs into this throat.

If he were not pretending-

- but he is -

If he were someone else - anyone else - he would take her hand in his. He would kiss her or, at the very least, leave a glancing blow of lips at her temple or cheek. Or even something as modest as placing a hand on her shoulder or an arm across her back.

Every muscle in him strains to hold back from doing any of those things.

He can't touch her. Even in this pocket of time where he slipped into the skin of someone he wanted to be, he would never cross that line.

No matter how much he wanted to be someone else, he was still Obanai Iguro. No amount of pretending will fix that. A filthy animal soaked in the blood of his family. Blood that was just as polluted and filthy as the blood in his veins. Unlike a snake, he was not venomous; he was poisonous . If someone sank their teeth into him, that spelled their death and ruin. But if he kept himself contained, if he kept his filthy self separate from the air she breathed, if he did not touch her in the way he wanted to, then he could not hurt her.

What a dangerous edge he walked.

These thoughts only took a moment, taking barely a pause in their conversation.

He gave her a faux smile, one that his hidden mouth didn't reflect but he could fake it by squinting his eyes a little.

"Maybe I've just tricked you, Love Pillar."

She laughed, eyes closed and shoulders shaking and a hand delicately covering her mouth. "Then you are a very good actor! I'm thoroughly convinced by your kindness towards me. All those letters and the afternoons you spend with me."

Sometimes inside his chest churns. The chilly fear of what he is and the warmth of her words mix together, creating a storm inside him.

He laughs with her, a closed mouth chuckle. It's not funny but it relieves the tension inside him.

He knows he should not be here with her. He should not be within in the range to tarnish her brilliant glimmer. She's been nothing but kind to him and he should not answer that kindness with poison. She does not deserve to be blemished with the presence of someone like him.

But-

He always manages to talk himself out of staying away from her. He tries to stop responding to her letters but he feels guilty when he spots the unopened or unanswered letters stay on his writing desk. He tried once to say he couldn't meet for lunch and his heart nearly stopped at the sight of her disappointed face.

He can't deny her. He can't stay away. And he can't be with her either.

What a terrible place to be.

He wouldn't change any of it.

"When did you start reading newspapers?" he asks, blithely, hoping to steer the conversation away from him.

"I do when I have the time in town. It's useful to keep an eye out for missing people and, you know, stuff like that."

"We have people in our organization that do that."

The Demon Slayer Corps's intelligence gathering ran far and wide. It was not something the Hashira dealt with personally.

She shrugs as she takes another bite. "Maybe."

"I don't think you read it for our work." His sounds only a little accusatory.

For a moment, her teeth sink into her lower lip as she tries - and fails - to bite back a mischievous smirk. "You caught me in a lie."

His eyebrows went up.

She idly pokes at the dish - one of dozens - before her with her chopsticks. "When I have the time, I like to read them."

He stays quiet, sensing that there is more. If he allows a bit of silence, that gives her room to respond, space to unravel the thoughts inside her.

After a lull, she says, "I'll pick up the newspaper and read when I'm in the city and there's nothing that needs my attention at that moment. I have the money and the time and it feels..." She presses her lips together.

She looks at him with her head tilted. "Normal? It makes me feel normal to read about things that people who aren't us. Corps members. I read the paper and it is sad and heartbreaking in its own way. But it reminds me that there's still a world outside of what we do. It's a reminder of why it's important to ki- to do our work."

His heart both warms and breaks. So even this beautiful shard of sunshine has to play pretend in her own way.

She gives a smile - this one not bright but not sad. Something soft and slow like embers in coal on a winter's night.

"It reminds me of my father. Always reading the paper after dinner. Sometimes he'd read it aloud to us, when we were little. I didn't understand and I usually found it boring, but now as a adult, I love it." She gives a little giggle, a bubbly sound boiling up from a deep place. "Isn't it funny how we change we grow up?"

He makes a noise of affirmation, a sound of acknowledgement, not agreement. She doesn't know about his childhood. She can't possibly know, so he doesn't hold it against her.

If he brought it up that the line between childhood and adulthood for him is as stark as night and day, it will forever break this game of pretend they play. If she ever found out about his past, it would forever shift her view of him. She would never view him with anything other than pity and he can't have that. She couldn't help it; her heart is soft and full of tenderness. She would pity him. He can't have her look at him with anything but that kind, shy gaze she has every time.

This wouldn't be a problem if he was a normal person.

He takes a small sip of his tea - a drink long gone cold since it was poured long ago - and says nothing. He doesn't need to respond so he won't.

She pops another bite of her food in her mouth and sighs contently at the memory, pleased with the mental image of her father.

Obanai gracefully moves the conversation onto less heart rending things. He asks her what she's read in the paper besides moths pretending to be snakes. He lets her talk around mouthfuls of food. Single word answers when a bite of food is in her mouth but she's too eager to answer.

Between mouthfuls, she speaks sentences and even whole paragraphs about politicians, royals, famous people here and beyond their country. She talks about new technology and fashions. She tells him about all these things that govern everyone's lives and it sounds like it's from another world. Even the news stories that come from within their own country, from the very cities and towns they spend their nights patrolling, it sound alien to Obanai. Other people's reality are truly far removed from his own.

Obanai figures that Mitsuri must miss it. Of the Hashira, she had the most normal life before being folded into the Corps.

He has the impulse to ask her if she misses her old life, but he cages the question behind clamped teeth. Asking about an old life highlights the fact they are in a different life now.

Bringing attention to that would end this bubble of pretending everything is normal. They don't need to be reminded of their dangerous lives outside of this restaurant.

He couldn't say who needed this game of pretend more, him or her.

Sadly, even the most cherished games of pretend must come to an end.

Eventually, she whittles down her mountain of food. It takes hours, but he is happy to while away the time in her presence. Like Kaburamaru basking in the sunlight, Obanai is content to soak in the warmth in her smile and laughter.

By the end of the meal, he feels a little hungry. He almost never feels much need for food, only eating occasionally when necessary. But when he spends time around Mitsuri, his appetite rears its head. He hungers and he hungers for many things. Appetites in different flavors.

The piles of empty bowls practically take over the table, forming a wall between them and the other restaurant patrons.

"I think that's it for me," she says, setting her chopsticks down for a final time.

"I hope you brought your money or else I'll have to pay for you," he teases.

She looks offended. "I would never make you pay! That would be so rude!"

And he laughs because she sounds serious. He knows she never would force someone to pay, or if she did happen to forget her money, she'd apologize a thousand times and pay someone back tenfold. This is a girl who felt guilty for the amount of food her parents had to feed her to keep her alive. How would someone like that ask a friend or fellow swordsman to cover dinner?

While she empties out her purse into the hands of the restaurant owner, he leaves a few coins on the table, assuming that'd cover the tea. He didn't even finish it. He doesn't care. He paid for taking up space. And what good did holding onto money do for him?

When they step out of the restaurant and onto the street, a painful thing inside him grows taut. Time for them to part. But it had to happen eventually.

"Where is the great Serpent Hashira off to next?" she asks idly, face tilted up to look at the late afternoon sun.

"A little west of here," he answers. A mission not for tonight but the next. He had plenty of time.

Her mouth turns up at the corners but her eyes look sad.

"What's wrong?'

"Nothing," she says as she shakes her head. Braids slither over and around her shoulders. "Can I walk with you to the edge of the district?"

He says that she doesn't need to, while very much wanting her to.

"It's not problem. It's not far," she says like it's nothing.

Because it is nothing to her. It is something to him.

"Where's your next mission?" he asks.

"Ah, I don't know yet. The crow hasn't arrived yet with my next mission."

Something inside of him loosens. Good. He had a little longer to spend with her. Stolen time taken from nobody.

"Come with me to the city's edge. I won't keep you any longer than that."

The happiness on her pink face feedshim, buoying his happiness. It will have to sustain him until he can see her again. But he's always managed to survive a long time on very little.

They could race across the city and reach the edge in a flash. Both had done mad dashes across towns and cities and forests before and probably would again. Climbing over roofs tops and barreling through crowds nonstop while the oxygen ran hot and wild in their blood. But here, there is no need. There is no emergency. No life or death stakes.

He uses this extra time to keep pretending for a little longer.

They walk shoulder to shoulder, occasionally accidentally bumping against one another when the street crowd moves them one way or another. Both of their hands remain steadfastly at their sides.

It drives Obanai crazy. He could move his hand a few inches and grasp her hand in his. It would only take a moment of bravery or a second of foolishness.

He knows she won't reach out to his. Mitsuri is a shy girl. A polite girl with good manners. She would never.

Why would she want to anyway?

No, he is still in someone else's skin. He is a normal person for a little longer. The person he is for now might be a person she'd want to clasp hands with.

Not that he would. Not that he can.

As they chat while making their way across the city, he is two people. One is the person he wishes he could be. The other is Obanai Iguro, the one who is hated and he loathes even more than anyone else.

This would be easier if he just stayed as himself, not trying to be someone - something - he can never be. He didn't even know he longed for this until the day he bumped into her at the Master's mansion. Getting to know her, spending time with her, only further unlocked this need for normality.

All too soon they reach the last crossroads at the city's edge.

"Thank you, Kanroji, for keeping me company," he says with a quick bow.

"The pleasure was all mine!"

If it were anyone else, Obanai wouldn't even bother to say goodbye before continuing on his journey. But even as the sun grew heavy on the horizon, he lingers.

Another minute more wouldn't hurt, would it?

"I-" he starts and then stops, terrified of what might come out of his mouth next.

"What? Is something wrong?" If her face was a sky, then it now has the first clouds of concern forming.

He does not say "I love you." He wants to because he does love her. He does not say that she is the sun that warms him. He does not say he's never found another woman as beautiful and wonderful as her. He does not say that if he is a moth, then she is the flame is eternally drawn to, a heat he can never touch and only painfully singes his edges.

Instead, he says, "Do you remember what the name of that moth is?"

Another bell-chime of a laugh. "Oh, I'm sorry! I thought I told you. It's called an Atlas moth."

He thinks about the name because it rings familiar until finally it bubbles from his memory. "The god who holds the world on his shoulders?"

"That's what the article said. It's an usually large moth about... oh, I think this big?" She holds her hands apart. "I guess if you have to hold the world, you'd have to be very big."

Their conversation goes silent for a moment as a horse and cart passes them. Spoken words would have been drowned out by the clatter of wheels.

He doesn't want to share this conversation with anyone else. He greedily wants to keep Mitsuri's words all to himself in their time together.

"It's funny-" she starts to say but abruptly stops.

"What is?"

She shrugs awkwardly. "Well, neither of us is very big but we help hold up the Demon Slayer Corps, don't we?"

"Pillars do, in fact, hold things up. Just like your name sake."

He's never been to the temple that shares her name, but he hopes he has the chance to see it one day. A precarious piece of architecture held up by a single pillar. Fitting for the girl known and wrongly chastised for her blessed strength.

He'd love to see visit it with her.

He knows he won't.

"Ah, I'm flattered you remembered!" she chirps.

As if he could forget any detail about her.

"It's hard to not notice."

He remembers every detail of her. He stashes away sights and sounds into his memory. Each observation is secreted away until he is alone and can examine them someplace where no one else can overlook. He tucks away the different sounds of her laugh, the way she smooths over her braids with her hands when nothing else occupies her fingers, the scent of her.

And it's not enough. He wants more of her to keep for himself. He wants to know what her skin feels like as it gives under his fingertips and what her lips taste like after she takes a drink of tea. He wants to devour every detail about her.

A crow suddenly caws above them. They both startle and look up to see a crow turning in tight circles, coming lower and lower until it finally perches on Mitsuri's shoulder.

"Wrong way! You're going the wrong way!" it cries, far too loudly when its this close.

He blinks, confused, looking at the crow and then Mitsuri.

Her cheeks are bright red.

"Er, sorry," she murmurs. "I lied. I do have a mission to the north."

"You lied?"

She fidgets with her skirt's hem, tugging at it uselessly. "It's just-"

His heart stops for a moment.

"It's just I wanted to spend a little more time with you."

He has a moment of stunned numbness before his heart begins to hurt.

"I didn't think a few minutes to walk with you would even be noticed." She looks down at the ground. "Forgive me, Iguro."

His heart keeps beating and his lungs keeps breathing but it all hurts, like every muscle and fiber inside him is wound tight until his body threatens to break.

She wanted to spend time with him. She even lied about it to his face.

He is a poisonous influence and he knows he should not be so close to her. His very presence is corrosive. If he were to kiss her, he'd stain her soul with his family's blood. He'd be dragging her to hell, just like all those dead women who try to pull him into the underworld each and every day.

But it thrills him to know she wanted more time. An afternoon was not enough and she lied to snatch a few more minutes.

His face betrays none of this.

"Kanorji," he says, low and teasing. "You know better."

If her face could turn any redder in the late afternoon sun, it would. But she's already as bright crimson as human skin can allow.

"I promise I won't do it again."

"I'll let you be on your way so your crow doesn't get even more upset," he says, eyes darting to the bird that fidgets anxiously just as much as its mistress.

Mitsuri lifts her hand and the bird hops to it. She scratches at the crow's chest and it fluffs up at the touch.

"I'll be on my way now. You don't need to worry," she coos to the bird.

The crow caws loudly which direction she needs to go and then takes flight, disappearing into the afternoon sky.

"Good luck, Kanroji. Stay safe."

If he were an ordinary boy, he would kiss his beloved goodbye. It would be improper to do that in public but, if he could kiss her at all, he'd snatch kisses from her at every available second, bystanders be damned. No one could blame him.

"Thank you. And be safe, Iguro. Write to me when you have the time?"

"I promise."

It's a promise he will be certain to keep. Demons could cut off his hands and he'd put a brush in his mouth to keep writing to her.

She turns to leave, disappearing down the street with one last wave over her shoulder.

Obanai doesn't take his eyes off of her. He is greedy for the sight of her until there is no more sight left to be had.

Once she is gone, he sighs and closes his eyes. He already feels the pain starting to rise inside him. Best to get a move on before it becomes too much. Best to put some distance between his poison and her.

Kaburamaru slithers around his neck, pulling a little tighter than necessary.

"I know. I'm going," Obanai mumbles to his companion before stepping onto the road.

The ache inside him builds.

He makes it a few miles before the pain inside hampers his breathing, turning his lung crystalline sharp. Each breath turns jagged.

He stumbles in the road, catching himself before he falls. Somehow he manages to keep putting one foot in front of another.

He is a Hashira, a trained warrior, not just a love sick monster who is upset he can't have a certain woman! At least, he tells himself that.

The skin of this ordinary boy - the person he stepped into so as to have his afternoon of pretend - comes off. It peels off painfully, like a scab that has hadn't finished healing He is raw and pained, undone and exposed.

He loves her and he loves her and he loves her and he loves her and he loves. He loves her so much that it physically hurts. When he sees Mitsuri's face or reads her words, his rib cage cracks open to let his heart soar upwards. When he's around her, he can't think clearly, his mind a haze of joy and despair.

He never felt this kind of hunger before he met her. Some frightened part of him wishes he could hate her for inducing this want. But he can't. He could never hate her. She'd done nothing but be kind and sweet and provide the best company he's ever had in his life.

He loves her and, worst of all, it's not as if he can't have her. He knows it would only take a word, a phrase, and she would be his. If he confessed his love, Mitsuri would most likely accept it. She's repeated over and over how she joined to find a husband. She dreams of a domestic life, despite all the talents that allow her to thrive in the Corps.

But he can't.

He won't.

He can't inflict this kindhearted girl with a lifetime spent with someone like him. He can't taint her with his poison nor saddle her with children that have the same filthy blood on them that runs through his veins. His goddamn family line can't be allowed to continue, not through him. He can't be allowed to be happy.

Yet he can't stay away either.

Sometimes, when he isn't around her, he dreams of a life his other self might have. That version of him who isn't scarred or stained by the past. That version of him who might love her freely, kiss her, marry her, give her everything she's ever wanted simply for the joy of seeing her contented face.

He can't be with her and he can't stay away. He is drawn to her warmth, her joy, her smile.

Maybe he really is a moth to her flame. He keeps coming back, even if the fire's heat hurts him every time.

He is thankful the road is empty this late in the day so that no one can see him. He is thankful that the sun sets shortly and it will be night shortly. Soon it will be too dark for anyone to see his dazed expression nor the tear lines down his face.

Kaburamaru curls tightly around Obanai's shoulders in an approximation of a hug. Obanai knows his companion doesn't understand why he's in pain. The snake only senses that his human hurts and the poor creature doesn't know what else to do but remind him that he is close by.

His hand comes up and brushes against the smooth scales, acknowledging the snake's gesture.

"Thank you," he whispers softly.

The pain dulls with each passing breath, with each step that puts distance between him and Mitsuri.

The sun sets and the moon rises in its place, one celestial body replacing the other.

In the distance, he can see the faint late night lights of the town that supposedly a demon is hiding in.

He swipes at his face with his haori's sleeve, wiping away the only physical remnants of his despair.

He can't be with her because demons poisoned his family with promises of riches. So he will punish them. He's always hated them but now more than ever, hatred of their kind fuels him like the best kindling. He will find and kill every demon, even if it destroys him, body and soul. It's the only way he can redeem himself for his family's deaths. It's the only way he can cleanse himself and see Mitsuri in the next life.

"Maybe next time, I'll tell you," he says to the quiet night air.

He isn't sure what the "next time" means. Their next meeting? Their next life? It doesn't matter. It's not now.

Like a moth towards flame, he approaches the town.