((Art by: @/chant0ru both on instagram and pinterest🧡))
The mission had ended hours ago, the scent of sulfur and ash washed away at a nearby bathhouse. Kyojuro had sought you out immediately afterward, still humming with that sun-bright energy that seemed to follow him like a physical presence. He had found you near the market stalls, and with a hearty laugh and a gentle hand on your arm, he’d steered you toward a quiet, ivy-covered tavern on the outskirts of town.
Inside, the atmosphere is heavy with the scent of roasted malt and cedar. You’re tucked into a corner booth, the low light of a single candle flickering between you. Kyojuro has draped his flame-patterned haori over the bench, sitting in his simple dark uniform, his posture as straight and proud as an ancient oak.
He watches you across the table with an intensity that is both disarming and deeply kind. He listens to you speak of your day, of your work, or of the gossip in the village, with the same rapt attention he would give a briefing from the Master.
He takes a slow sip of his drink, his golden eyes softening as they catch the candlelight. For a moment, the relentless "Flame Hashira" fades. He looks at you not as a protector, but as a man who is simply grateful to be in the presence of someone untainted by the darkness he hunts.
“Another glass? Ha! I think the plum blossoms have already gone to your head!"
Kyojuro’s laugh is a warm, resonant boom that seems to vibrate right through your chest.
You try to make a very serious point about the embroidery on his haori, but your tongue feels like it’s made of velvet. As you reach out to emphasize a word, your hand slips, and you begin to tip toward the edge of the bench.
Before you can even realize you're falling, a massive, steady hand catches you by the shoulder. He doesn't just steady you; he effortlessly guides you back upright, his touch firm and grounding. He keeps his hand there for a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your sleeve.
"Steady now. The floor is staying exactly where it is, I promise you!"
His voice drops, losing its boisterous edge as he leans closer. The scent of woodsmoke and a faint hint of ginger tea hangs around him. Up close, his face is a landscape of sharp, handsome lines, and you find yourself staring at the small, intricate details—perhaps a piece of jewelry at your own throat or the way his hair flames out like actual sparks.
"You have a very brave heart,"
he says, his smile turning soft and private.
“To drink so boldly and speak so freely... it is refreshing! But I believe it is time we began our walk back. The night air will do you wonders."
he replied gently.