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once-upon-a-scenario · 3 years

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The Hollow Where You Used to Be (Rengoku Kyojuro, Senjuro + Sibling!Reader)

TW: Grief, grieving, slight mentions of child abuse and alcoholism a la Shinjuro, AFAB reader And you try and strive and scream with the effort of it, but somehow, you can never be Kyojuro. The hollow where he used to be aches and burns, always empty, always hungry to swallow more of your heart. (Slight Sanemi/reader! and this is lowkey a disorganized mess but;;; haha;;; pls bear with me :,) -Mod Eve) _____ Kyojuro always smelled warm, if that was a proper way to describe a scent- smoky and woodsy, like burning logs on a campfire. Every time he returned from a mission, you and Senjuro would run and bury your faces in his grubby uniform, breathing in the fire-smell, feeling his body heat surrounding you and knowing that he was alive and alright. You would have Senjuro fetch clean water to bathe his wounds and then you’d sit down to bandage and soothe and apply healing balms that Kocho-san once taught you how to make. You had no more skill with the sword than Senjuro did, but people would often say that you had healing hands. Even so, when they bring your brother home for the last time, you stare at the gaping hole in his stomach and realize that no healer in the world could possibly mend it. When you fall to your knees beside him, all you smell is blood.

There’s no time to cry; Senjuro does the crying for you, his tears soaking your shoulder as you numbly hold him close, silent because you know that there are no sugar-coated words that could possibly console him. Even your father refuses to weep. He only breaks another bottle against the wall and howls at you to get out of his sight. He doesn’t attend the funeral. There’s a trainful of people your brother saved, you are told. You take the news and fold it up neatly in a corner of your mind, along with the information that your mother was a good woman, a brave mother, and that she would be missed. There’s no time to cry. Every day there are more and more wounded to heal. You’re saving lives, Kocho-san tells you, but you think she is wise and you think she knows that you’re spiteful, that you’re not as kind as Kyojuro was, that all you can think of is that yes, I’m saving lives, but the most important life of all was gone before I could even try to save it. That’s petty and wrong and you shouldn’t be thinking it, though. You watch Kamado, the boy who says he was on the train with your brother, come to your house and speak to Kyojuro. You don’t speak to him. He has wide eyes and rough hands and smells like soot. He reminds you of somebody. You don’t like to think about it. But when he takes Kyojuro’s handguard, you run out into the yard and grab his sleeve before he goes. Please take good care of it, you whisper. And even now, there’s no time to cry, but you clench your teeth together to keep the tears back. Please. He says he will. You trust him, because you think Kyojuro would have. At your core, you feel rotten; a fruit with no substance, a ghost of a person, a fraud. You keep healing people because you feel Kyojuro would have wanted you to. You try to forgive your father because you feel Kyojuro would have. You comfort Senjuro and wipe his tears and try to do it the right way because Kyojuro would have known how. You must be Kyojuro, but Kyojuro is gone. The hollow where he used to be still aches in your chest. Your father apologizes to you one day. I was wrong. So wrong. My pride killed him. I’m sorry. And you open your mouth to forgive him, but that is when you realize that as much as you love him, you cannot be your brother. Never completely. You thought you forgave your father, but you can’t say the words. Instead, you turn away and tell him to go to sleep; you need to put Senjuro to bed. Mother, you scream in your mind that night, mother, what is the right way? Why can’t I be Kyojuro? The war ends and you still don’t have the answer to that question. Only a broken family that’s only just starting to mend, and hands battered and scarred from years of healing. The wind pillar is the one who finds you, standing near the graves- so many of them, and some nameless. “You’re not much like him, are you?” Excuse me? He smiles at you. It’s a tired sort of smile. “You look spiteful. Like me.” You marry him the next year, maybe because there is nobody else, nobody else who would understand how the war scarred, how it feels to lose almost the only piece of yourself that mattered. Maybe because you love him. Your first child is a son with black eyes like his father. His hair is the color of a forest fire. You tell him stories about the uncle he never met. Senjuro comes to visit you sometimes. Your husband holds you close at night while your little son holds your hand. You never forgive your father, not entirely, but he sees your son and he weeps- as if the tears he withheld during Kyojuro’s funeral are breaking through at last. You visit graves every year. So many of them. Maybe too many. Your son reminds you of Kyojuro when he smiles. His eyes are wide and bright. He is precious and beautiful and all his own. The hollow in your heart is there, even now, but you wonder if you too could be all your own. Sanemi kisses you on the forehead every night and with every kiss, you feel not happier, but a little more full- as if your heart is learning to beat again despite the hollow within it. In time, you learn to smile as you used to. Something a little lacking at the corners, maybe, but the difference is barely noticeable. You live, then. The life that Kyojuro never got to live. A life that is yours. Every day, you bounce your little son on your knee and smile your almost-healed smile at your husband. You’re not Kyojuro, never will be, but the empty place where he used to be is one you have learned to live with. And maybe for now, that will be enough.

#kny #Rengoku x reader #Rengoku Kyojuro x reader #Rengoku x you #Rengoku x y/n #Kyojuro x reader #Sanemi x reader #Shinazugawa Sanemi x reader #Sanemi x you #Sanemi x y/n #afab reader #sibling reader #scenario #tw: abuse #tw: grief #Mod Eve

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