Kyojuro was hard on himself. Naturally. Your fiance was flame-born of a long line of prestigious, & firey hashira. Slayers adorned in the Rengoku family crest,

It was no surprise for you to find his solemn figure. Eyeing the tiled floor of the shower below him. Indoor plumbing was a symbol of wealth, in 1912. & Yet, as he watched the crimson streams of watery blood suck itself down the copper drain below him,

He couldn't help but question just how worthless he was of such privilege.

The grime & scars lining his body were tributes to his natural battles. The years of fight he had put into his career. The feats he had accomplished & the highs he had reached.

So while you weren't surprised to find his hair, matted & tangled, sticking to his broad, muscular, & tanned shoulders with sweat & cold-well-water, as he hung his head in shame,

You also were.

"Kyojuro.." His name was the only thing that had left your lips. The calling familiar & comforting on the tip of your tongue, but laced with a cooing empathy,

Your bare chest & torso nearly melted into his bare back. The scent of iron & salt was thickly emitting from his tense body. Your arms cautiously wrapped around the man's torso. You could feel each breath shudder its way out of his stomach & lungs. Holding back a reel of tears, you knew that damned breathing pattern.

Your forehead placed itself against the back of his head (or on top of it, or between his shoulderblades, however tall you are man). Your kind hands carefully rode up the ridged muscle-tone & stretch marks of the man's quivering torso. Your familiar hands, oh so comforting. Familiar. So home-like. Rummaging as you reminded his mangled skin of your adoration,

More lives had been lost in the day. & You knew that. Otherwise, Kyojuro wouldn't have such a sickly bask against himself,

But he could almost hear a cooing melody as your hands & arms alike found his tough skin,

& He broke. A croak of agony slipping past his lips, & a sob weakly dying in his throat.

Oh, Kyojuro...