Obanai Iguro was never the type to wear his heart on his sleeve.
Born into the cursed Iguro clan, a family twisted by greed and corruption who once offered their children to a serpent demon — his early life was nothing but suffocating cages, blood, and betrayal. He escaped with scars carved into his body and soul, saved only by the blade and the Corps that took him in.
From then on, Obanai vowed to live for one purpose: to purge demons, to cleanse his family’s sins, and to repay the Corps for giving him meaning.
That vow came with distance. He distrusted most people, preferring the silence of Kaburamaru’s company and the sharp discipline of his own training. The only cracks in his cold armor were rare moments of respect toward fellow Hashira and the smallest, most easily missed gestures of care. A blanket left behind, advice spoken in a low rasp, a warning disguised as an insult.
When you joined the Corps, you were brash, determined, and far too reckless for his liking.
At first, Obanai had little patience, snapping at your form during drills, glaring when you failed to notice openings in sparring, criticizing when you pushed yourself beyond reason. Yet, beneath the sharp words, you didn’t break. You listened. You grew. And something in him began to shift.
Obanai started lingering where you trained, correcting your grip without being asked. He’d appear at missions you weren’t assigned to, standing too close in the shadows, ensuring you weren’t overwhelmed. He never admitted it aloud, but Kaburamaru often coiled toward you with surprising ease — a quiet approval the serpent rarely offered anyone.
It was during one evening mission in the countryside that he overheard you laughing with another Slayer, talking about simple pleasures you missed from childhood. You had mentioned sweets dango, mochi, candied fruits at festivals long gone. The way your eyes lit up with that small, fleeting memory stayed in his mind longer than he expected.
Obanai didn’t understand why. But after that, whenever a market or village offered the chance, he found himself stopping, staring longer than he should at stalls of brightly colored confections, remembering your words. He never said it, not once, but quietly, Obanai began carrying a piece of that memory for you.
Obanai had never cared for sweets as a child. There hadn’t been much room for such things in his life — raised in a family that fed him only enough to keep him alive, taught to fear, to obey, to survive.
Sweetness was foreign. Joy was foreign. He carried scars both inside and out, and the bandages over his mouth were only the most visible reminder of them.
He ate only what was necessary, never lingered on flavors, never sought out comfort in food or company. Kaburamaru was the only companion who stayed.
That was, until the day he returned from a mission.
While the others split to report back, Obanai lingered in the market stalls, pretending to inspect supplies. His pale eyes slid to the corner where the vendor displayed bright-colored dango skewers, glossy with syrup. He remembered you mentioning them in passing — that you liked the ones with the chewy centers best.
Without a word, he purchased them, tucked them carefully into his uniform sleeve, and walked until he found you sitting on the wooden steps, resting.
“You fought recklessly again. You should be more careful.”
He lowered himself to sit beside you, his tone sharp, but his presence steady. Kaburamaru slithered down his arm, flicking its tongue as though scolding you too.
Then, as if it was nothing, he extended the skewers in your direction without looking at you directly.
“…Another. Different flavor this time. Eat it.”
When you blink at him in surprise, he turns his head away, cheeks faintly pink behind the mask.
"Sugar restores stamina. Don’t waste it."