Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kyojuro’s mother tells him about soul threads when he is six years old.

“Every living creature has one,” his mother says. “It’s what allows you to feel, whether it be happiness, sadness, anger, or any other emotion you can think of. And it’s what also connects you to your soulmate.”

“How?” Kyojuro had asked, wide-eyed with curiosity.

“When you are older, you will begin to feel your soulmate’s emotions through the soul thread,” she replies, smiling. “You will be able to feel it when she is happy. When she is sad. She will be able to feel the same from you. Just like your father and I.”

Later on, after his mother pulls the blankets up to his chin and tucks him in with a kiss to the forehead, Kyojuro stares up at the darkening ceiling as the sun slips from the sky and wonders if his soulmate can feel him right now.

If his soulmate experiences all of his emotions, then Kyojuro wants to be happy for them. So they won’t have to experience the heat of anger, the cold of sadness, the sting of hurt. But he also knows that he won’t mind bearing their anger, their sadness, their hurt.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

When Kyojuro is ten years old, his mother turns from gentle, stern words and soft hands into a cold grave.

Don’t cry, Kyojuro, he tells himself, even as Senjuro hugs his legs and wails. You don’t want to make them feel sad either.

But even though he doesn’t cry, loss carves a deep, unignorable ache into Kyojuro’s chest, and he knows that even if doesn’t shed tears his grief will still be palpable. It’s a wonderful, terrifying, incomprehensible thought that somewhere out there, his soulmate feels the exact ache.

The first time Kyojuro feels emotion traveling through the thread, he’s so shocked by the suddenness and intensity that he nearly drops his sword.

For years, he had waited and anticipated. Fifteen now, and the only thing he has felt from the other end has been absence. Once, he had asked his father back in the earlier days when Shinjuro still maintained some of his temper when he spoke to Kyojuro.

“Some people don’t have soulmates,” his father replied. “Some people feel it later. Don’t worry yourself over something so pointless, Kyojuro.”

Pointless? Kyojuro wanted to ask. He had looked at the sake bottles, accumulating from one to innumerable after his mother’s death. Would something pointless do this to you? He wonders if his father would think it better to have never had a soulmate. If this grief is becoming too high a price to pay for love.

Now, though, as Kyojuro keels over his knees and gasps for breath, the first thing that comes to mind is that he does have a soulmate.

It’s only a few moments after the initial feeling that he puts a finger to the emotion curling deep inside his chest: fury. It gathers like storm clouds in the most humid of summers, thunder breaking through silence, sudden and violent and all-encompassing. Rage spreads through his veins for a reason Kyojuro doesn’t know, even though he’s never felt such anger in his life. For a split second, his mind is overrun with violence and Kyojuro doesn’t even have the capacity to feel or think about anything else. His vision blurs. His ears ring. His fists ache to break, to hurt, to kill—

As quickly as it came, it also leaves.

Kyojuro hunches over on the grass, too shaken to pick up his fallen sword. His lungs struggle to draw air back into them, mind reeling. He can still feel the emotion coursing through him, down to the very tips of his fingertips, a phantom that lingers when the material sensation has already dissipated.

Such—rage. What happened? Are you alright?

Who are you?

His vision clears until Kyojuro is staring down at his clenched fists. His exhale shudders and he belatedly comes to the realization that he’s stopped using Total Concentration Breathing. Slowly, he unfurls his hands until his fingers rest flat against the grass.

For years, he had imagined and dreamed of what it would be like—experiencing his soulmate’s emotions for the first time through the soul thread, becoming aware of their presence at last.

It must be happy just like his parents, Kyojuro had assumed. Feeling someone else’s joy like his own, what was once absence filled to the brim with someone else on the other side. It must feel like sitting by a warm hearth in the winter, like first buds unfurling under a season-long coat of snow, like the sun spilling over skin as the skies clear.

He hadn’t expected it to feel so much like dying.

The presence of his soulmate is intermittent.

Kyojuro doesn’t feel a single thing at the end of the thread for an entire year, and the possibilities are terrifying. As the days pass with nothing, he fears that something has happened to the person on the other side of the thread. He fears the first emotion he has ever felt from them will also be the last.

He doesn’t tell anyone about what he had felt that one early morning. Time trickles past until Kyojuro becomes more and more convinced that perhaps he had been wrong after all. Perhaps that all-encompassing anger had been nothing more than a figment of his imagination.

He finally feels the soul thread pulse to life again one night, summer heat from the day still heavy in his room.

There had been fireworks earlier that evening. He had taken Senjuro down towards the town to watch. Now, his brother is asleep in his room, and Kyojuro is supposed to rest before his next mission that he’s traveling for come daybreak.

In the distance, the fireworks are still crackling, faint but audible. A breeze sifts through the sliver in the window. It’s far too hot for any blankets, so Kyojuro lays on the futon dressed in a thin yukata as he tosses and turns from the heat.

It starts off as an ache this time, nothing like the abruptness of the first time Kyojuro had felt his soulmate’s emotion. Gradually, the feeling builds in his chest until it blossoms from a mere tightness to the near-inability to breathe.

Kyojuro blinks. Something warm tracks down the side of his face. He lifts a hand to his cheeks to find his fingers come away wet with tears.

Time bleeds and blurs. Kyojuro has no idea how long it is that he lies there, filled to the brim with this hollow, imprecise grief. It feels like forever that the tie through the soul thread finally severs and the sadness ebbs.

Slowly, Kyojuro unfurls his fists. He hadn’t even realized how hard he had been clenching them until he sees the crescents imprinted on his palms by his nails.

The finality of absence rings louder than the snap and crackle of fireworks in the distance. Kyojuro dries his tears and wonders if his soulmate is doing the same.

With frequency comes the anger again.

Time and time again, emotion pulses through the thread. Sporadic moments; sometimes lasting a few seconds, other times drawn out for what feels close to eternity. It’s still rare, but it often comes upon Kyojuro so suddenly that it takes all of his willpower to ignore the feeling and not act upon a rage that doesn’t even belong to him in the first place.

He wonders if his soulmate feels him through the bond as well. Abnormal as the thread is, if Kyojuro can feel something, so must they. Then he wonders what they must be possibly facing when all Kyojuro can feel from them is unending anger, all underscored by that sparse touch of grief that only shows itself in the oddest of times.

The questions that clutter at him, unanswered, lose their intensity as time passes. Kyojuro can hardly hope to understand his soulmate like this, so he sets it down and picks up more important things. Another year passes. Two. Demon slaying takes up far too much of his time to care for other matters, and only more so when Kyojuro finally becomes a Hashira.

He stops hoarding each touch of the bond close to his heart and lets the instances bleed together. He suffocates down any reaction when he feels that now-familiar fury. The violence behind the emotion washes away the rose-tint left by childhood until Kyojuro finally comes to the understanding that perhaps one doesn’t have to lose their soulmate for the bond to feel so war-torn.

He smiles as often as he can because his mother had told him to, and because some six-year-old part of him perhaps still holds the childish notion that somehow, somewhere, his soulmate can tell.

***

“SOUTHWEST,” Kaname says, perched on Kyojuro’s shoulder. “DEMON SOUTHWEST. CAW.”

Kyojuro narrows his eyes. A town lies southwest; it makes sense that a demon has chosen it as its haunt.

The August heat is a bit stifling despite the thinner fabric of the Corps’ summer uniform. Kyojuro strokes his fingers over Kaname’s feathers a few times before his crow takes off from his shoulder, circling close overhead.

He nears the town in a few minutes. There’s a festival tonight so the streets are bustling and bright with celebration. The red and yellow that decorates the streets is visible even from the top of the hill, and as Kyojuro draws closer, he hears the chatter of people.

The demon’s presence coils around the town like a snake in tall grass, ready to strike the unsuspecting passerby. It’s hard to pinpoint, so Kyojuro heads towards the town in hopes of getting a better grasp on its location.

A faint whistle sounds, followed by a crackle. Colors, resplendent and innumerous, splashes across the sky in patterns of sparks.

He reaches the edge of the busiest street. Most of the crowd is staring up at the sky as the fireworks continue, an undertone of cheerful chattering weaving through the streets.

The demon feels a bit more prominent now. Kyojuro breathes in, scanning his surroundings.

Another breath, except the next exhale trembles as it passes his lips.

Just like the last time, it settles over him in a haze, a feeling bone-deep and achingly familiar, yet too foggy to place a finger on entirely. It’s grief and it’s longing and it’s regret and it’s guilt, all mixed together to form one cacophonic pulse.

Shoulders brush against Kyojuro’s as the crowd moves past him. A whistle and another crackle, followed closely by another. None of it seems to register. Faces blur, noise deafens, until Kyojuro is alone in the crowd. Alone with this bottomless sorrow, because the person on the other side of the thread seems as unreachable as they were the very first time Kyojuro felt them.

Where are you? Kyojuro thinks, and though he’s long resigned himself to the pointlessness of the question, he also wonders, Who are you?

As the emotion slowly ebbs, Kyojuro lifts a hand to his chest. Through the layer of his uniform, he can feel the tumble of his heart, a steady beat underneath his fingertips. His surroundings sharpen back into focus.

Another deep breath in, and this time, the exhale is uninterrupted. Kyojuro lowers his arm and focuses his attention onto the demon as he makes his way down the crowded streets.

The fireworks have begun to simmer down. A few stragglers continue to light up, but the bulk of them have been released into the sky already. Kyojuro recalls that the first time he’d felt the grief traveling through the thread had also been in the summer, right after he had taken Senjuro out to see the fireworks. Is there something about this time of the year?

Someone’s shoulder bumps against Kyojuro with surprising force, jostling Kyojuro enough to make him stumble.

Kyojuro turns around. “I am sorry!” he says over the chatter, scanning the crowd for the person he had just crashed into. “I was not paying attention to where I was going!”

He’s met with a pair of wide eyes, blinking at him owlishly.

Black hair and brown eyes, framed with lashes so light that they could be white. The man looks no older than Kyojuro, dressed in a simple gray yukata that appears to have been tied rather hastily. For a few seconds, he does nothing but stare at Kyojuro.

“It’s alright,” he says at last, voice all silk-and-honey. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I should have been more careful too.”

Kyojuro mirrors the smile. The demon’s presence is fainter now—he should probably backtrack in order to find it elsewhere if it’s not mingling within the crowds. Still, the man holds Kyojuro’s gaze and doesn’t seem to be making a move to leave, so it feels rather impolite to turn around and go without another word.

Kyojuro opens his mouth to speak, but the stranger beats him to it. “Is that a sword?” he asks, gesturing towards Kyojuro’s side.

Touching his fingers to the hilt, Kyojuro nods. “It is!”

A pause. The questions typically vary from what is it for to why do you have one or something along the same vein.

“Are you a swordsman?” the man asks instead.

“I am!” Kyojuro replies, a bit taken aback that he hadn’t been met with the typical amount of skepticism. Most people are usually at least a little bit surprised by the fact that he carries around a sword.

The response is a low hum, pleasant and unhurried. The man bends down and retrieves something from the ground. Belatedly, Kyojuro recognizes the wisteria-scented sachet that Kocho had given him a few weeks ago. It must have fallen out of his pocket when the two of them bumped into each other.

“You dropped this?” he asks, holding it up to show Kyojuro.

Kyojuro nods again.

The man extends his arm out, the sachet resting on his palm like an offering. “May I ask for your name?”

“You have many questions!” Kyojuro says, finding himself already smiling involuntarily. He doesn’t mind it. If he hadn’t been mid-mission, he would’ve liked to stop and talk. “My name is Rengoku Kyojuro. What is yours?”

“Akaza,” comes the response. “Here.”

He places the sachet back in Kyojuro’s hands, fingers brushing over Kyojuro’s skin for a moment that is long enough to linger yet too short to fully register. Then Akaza draws back, arms dropping loosely to his side. Under the firelight of the streets, the warm brown of his eyes appears gold.

“I won’t hold you here for longer, Kyojuro.” Akaza is the one to break the silence although he does not break their gaze. “You seem to be in a rush to get somewhere, after all.”

Kyojuro blinks. The demon. He had forgotten for a few moments. He should very much be in a rush.

“It’s alright!” he reassures. “I do have to go, but it was nice meeting you, Akaza-san.”

Akaza smiles at him. Kyojuro tucks the wisteria sachet back into his pocket before heading in the direction opposite of the flow of the crowd.

He swears that he still feels Akaza’s brief touch lingering on his hands, his gaze pinned to Kyojuro’s back. But when Kyojuro finally gives into the temptation to turn around and look one more time, Akaza has already disappeared.

Kyojuro finds the demon at the edge of the town, holding a terrified woman by three of six spindly limbs. By all accounts, this one appears a monster: despite the colorful, expensive kimono the demon is dressed in, her face is a mess of jagged marks, too ruined to maintain even a semblance of human likeness. The pretty cloth is torn with holes made to accommodate for the demon’s extra arms.

“How lovely you are,” the demon hisses at the woman, who seems to be too frightened to even move. She traces a clawed finger over the woman’s face, coming to rest right above her eyes. “I’ll fix that for you soon enough.”

Kyojuro draws his sword. Neither the demon nor the woman seems to have noticed him, but the latter seems to finally have snapped out of the petrified fear because she starts to sob a stream of incoherent pleas.

First Form: Unknowing Fire.

The air sings sharply as Kyojuro slices through two of the demon’s six limbs, enough to extract the victim from her grasp. He can feel her still trembling as Kyojuro carefully sets her down on the ground. Her fingers grasp briefly at Kyojuro’s haori before she finally lets go, a wild-eyed gaze fixed upon the demon behind them.

“Don’t worry!” Kyojuro tells her, turning his attention back to the demon. “You’re safe now!”

Flesh regenerates with a wet sound, the two limbs that Kyojuro had taken off slowly reforming. The only feature that is still recognizable on the demon’s face is the gaping maw, full of rows upon rows of jagged teeth. She bares a snarl at Kyojuro.

“A slayer?” she spits, gravelly and hoarse and disgusted. “How impolite of you to interfere with my meal.”

She’s barely finished her sentence before lashing out at Kyojuro. Kyojuro intercepts a limb before it can reach him, then swings his blade towards her neck. He manages to draw a thin line across her throat, but the demon recoils back before he can fully slash her neck.

“Hashira,” the demon realizes, taking a step away from Kyojuro. “You’re—”

She breaks off with a soft gasp as his sword cuts cleanly across her neck.

The body of the demon disintegrates first, crumbling into nothingness before it even touches the ground. The head of the demon is slower to go. Flesh to dust, Kyojuro watches as the mauled features shift into something more human. It’s easier to see her expression like this when it had been impossible to discern before.

“You promised me,” the demon whispers. She’s looking at Kyojuro, though she must have mistaken him for somebody else because she begins to weep. “You promised you would stay even if I were no longer beautiful…”

A breath of wind, a touch of ash. The rest of her words are taken by the breeze until the only thing left of the demon is a dimming golden coil where her body had laid.

Kyojuro has seen the soul threads of demons after their death in various shapes and lengths, but all in a state of disrepair. This demon is no different. The string is short and frayed, a darkened yellow that looks like rusted gold. The ends are even darker as if they had been burnt. Just like every other demon, the thread is too broken to hope to connect to another’s. What’s left behind is an ugly apparition of what should have been.

A few seconds later it, too, fades until there is nothing left but the once-beautiful kimono the demon had fitted on her body. It’s covered with far too much tears and blood to be salvaged.

Kyojuro exhales slowly, calming himself before he turns around to face the woman he had saved. She’s clutching her clothing in tightened fists, looking rather shell-shocked now that the worst of it has come and gone.

“You’re safe now!” Kyojuro says again, drawing closer. He sheathes his sword as he kneels down in front of her. “My name is Rengoku Kyojuro. Would you like me to walk you home?”

Two stiff nods. Kyojuro offers her a hand and she finally lets go of her sleeves to grasp onto his fingers.

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No,” the woman whispers in a small voice. She hiccups. “Th-thank you, Rengoku-san.”

They make their way down the hill and towards the town once more. Kyojuro matches his pace with her, although she seems to be in a hurry to get home because her steps speed up once she finds her stride. She remains silent, perhaps too shaken to strike up any conversation or simply too exhausted. Either way, Kyojuro lets her grip his hand with her own and doesn’t complain about the bruising force she uses.

The sound of the festival’s chatter is beginning to travel through the air when he realizes acutely that they are not alone. It is a sudden thing—between an inhale and an exhale, there is suddenly a stifling pressure in the air that hadn’t been there a mere moment before.

A demon. Close by, and judging by the way Kyojuro’s body instinctively characterizes it as a threat, it must be stronger than the one he had just dealt with.

He touches the woman lightly on the shoulder. “Will you be able to return to the town alone?” he asks, giving her a reassuring smile. “I suddenly remembered that there is something I must attend to immediately, but the path back home will be safe!”

The woman’s eyes flit around nervously as she worries her bottom lip. “Is something wrong?”

“You don’t need to be concerned!” Kyojuro says. “Here.” He takes out the wisteria sachet from his pocket and offers it to her. “This is a charm from a friend of mine. It will keep you safe!”

She accepts it with trembling hands before closing her fingers over Kyojuro’s. “Take care of yourself, Rengoku-san,” the woman whispers. Then she turns and hurries down the path, towards the warm glow of festivities that are still going on in the village.

Slowly, Kyojuro draws his sword, keeping himself aware of all his surroundings. He can’t quite tell where the demon is precisely, but it’s by no means hiding its presence. Demonic aura shrouds the trees like a heavy miasma, making Kyojuro’s heartbeat pick up as every one of his instincts tells him to run. He feels like a bird being hunted by a cat.

“Come out,” Kyojuro says shortly.

The leaves above him rustle with the night breeze. His heart pumps quickly in his chest, comforted by the familiar grip of his sword in his palms.

A twig snaps. Kyojuro whirls around, but the action must have been intentional, because he sees a pair of glowing golden eyes blinking languidly at him from the treeline.

Kyojuro slashes at the demon without wasting another breath.

It evades the blow with chilling ease. Faster than Kyojuro can blink, the demon has moved aside and the only thing Kyojuro’s blade catches are leaves and branches. When he turns around again, the demon has moved to stand on the path. Five sword lengths away, Kyojuro estimates tensely.

“It was rather sweet of you to send her away, Kyojuro,” the demon drawls. He smiles, fangs flashing bone-white in the illumination of the moon. “Now we can talk, just the two of us.”

The voice registers before the familiarity of the features do. Hand outstretched, Kocho’s wisteria sachet resting on his fingertips as he offers it back to Kyojuro. May I ask for your name?

(Akaza, he says, eyes crinkling into crescents of a pleasant smile when Kyojuro says the name back to him.)

He’s no longer dressed in the messily-tied yukata from the town, but instead a pair of loose white pants and an open haori. Dark lines ink around the demon’s features in symmetrical patterns, trailing down from his throat and over his arms and chest. There is nothing human about his appearance anymore. He is all too-sharp teeth, too-bright eyes, too-wide smile.

Kyojuro tightens his grip on his hilt. The demon had spoken to him and even touched him briefly in the town while masking his presence perfectly. He must be strong.

Sure enough, Akaza blinks again, unhurried. When he opens his eyes again, the slitted pupil has been overwritten by harsh lines of kanji.

Upper Moon Three.

Kyojuro has the brief thought that the Hashira rarely run into Upper Moons, but when they do, none have survived the encounter. Kocho’s older sister was the last Hashira to. The brutality of her death was no secret within the Corps.

But that’s irrelevant information to focus on now. Kyojuro works on steadying his breathing, ensuring that his lungs reach full capacity during each inhale.

“What do you want?” Kyojuro asks. Akaza makes no move to attack him yet. Instead, he lingers in the same spot, stance relaxed and arms hanging loosely at his side. Deceptively friendly, amusement coloring the curl at the corner of his eyes as he evaluates Kyojuro with a tilted head.

“Do you know what your fighting spirit looks like, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks after a few moments. When Kyojuro gives no response, he smiles indulgently. “I saw you immediately, set apart from hundreds of people. Everyone was so gray compared to you. You truly are special.”

The town. There can be no good reason that Akaza had been in the town disguised as a human. How many people had the demon killed right under his nose? How many cooling bodies are there right now, all because of Kyojuro’s negligence?

“I don’t know what you are talking about!” Kyojuro says. “What were you doing in the town?”

Akaza takes a step towards Kyojuro. “Are you a Hashira? You seem strong enough to be.”

“Answer my question, Kyojuro replies tersely. Leaves rustle overhead again, stirred by the breeze. The air is charged thick with anticipation of the demon’s next move, counting down seconds before the tension finally snaps and Akaza decides to break this temporary stalemate. Kyojuro just hopes that they’re far enough from the town when they finally fight that no one there will be hurt.

“Don’t look so concerned, Kyojuro.” The demon laughs, cruelty behind the carelessness. “They’re not even worth your worry.”

Another step closer. Kyojuro holds his ground even though instinct tells him to shrink away. Awash with the moonlight, Akaza’s features are all shadow and angle save for the inhuman color gleaming from his eyes. He is so near that Kyojuro can count each stroke of the cursed kanji and trace the cracks spider-webbing across the demon’s blue sclera.

“How many did you kill?” Kyojuro presses.

“Will that make a difference to you?”

“Yes.”

“It shouldn’t,” Akaza says. “Don’t think about them now, Kyojuro.”

His tone softens at Kyojuro’s name, infused with familiarity that Kyojuro does not want. Familiarity that Akaza does not deserve to speak with, because it’s been so long that anyone has said his name like that and Kyojuro won’t stand for hearing it coming from the lips of a demon.

Kyojuro slashes his blade at the demon’s neck.

Akaza reacts with ease as if he had been long-expecting Kyojuro’s attack. With one nimble movement, he redirects the swing aside with minimal effort and throws a punch towards Kyojuro’s left side.

The oppressive tension shatters, Kyojuro’s heart quickening to the beat of the fight in an instance. His mind clears effectively of useless thoughts until he focuses on nothing but what is happening in the moment, and what each next step should be. A mix of instinct and practice keeps him away from Akaza’s blows, even if the strength behind each is nothing short of monstrous.

One of Akaza’s punches grazes past his face. Behind him, there is a thunderous crack as the force splinters one of the tree trunks cleanly. Canopy meets undergrowth as the entire thing creaks and topples.

Third Form: Blazing Universe.

The demon’s limbs regenerate a split second after Kyojuro cuts them off. Akaza lets out a laugh as he dances out of reach. He moves in sharp bursts of power and speed, the rhythm of the fight entirely dictated by his unpredictability.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza calls, near-maniacal excitement coloring the voice that Kyojuro had once found pleasant. “As I predicted, your swordsmanship is refined! You would be perfect as a demon!”

Kyojuro narrows his eyes and swings at him again, this time with all of the strength he can muster. The only thing he manages to do is draw a thread of crimson over Akaza’s chest that opens and closes faster than the blink of an eye.

“I won’t become a demon!” he says sharply. “You must be insane to even ask and think I would agree!”

“Think about it, Kyojuro.” Akaza draws in too-close, enough that Kyojuro can hear the soft exhale that passes through his lips, a jarring antithesis to the brutality behind each blow. His gaze drags over Kyojuro fiery and icy all at once. “Don’t you feel it as well? We could fight together like this for the rest of eternity, and neither of us would ever injure or tire! You’re already—” Another redirected slash. Kyojuro fills his lungs to the brim and presses on, “—so close to perfection, but you’ll never be able to reach it in a mortal body.”

“I do not want your sort of perfection!” Kyojuro tells him. “Becoming a demon would go against everything I believe in!”

“Ah,” Akaza laughs, the sound careless in its entirety. “And what do you believe in, Kyojuro?”

There are many demons he’s fought before that have been difficult, but none measure even remotely close to Upper Moon Three. Akaza’s strength is incomparable to theirs; even now, Kyojuro is convinced that the demon is holding back, drawing this fight out for whatever twisted reason.

“Your definition of strength is built on others’ weakness and pain,” Kyojuro replies. Swing, slash. Parry, redirect. Every time he thinks he’s finally adjusted to Akaza’s pace, the demon changes his speed and pattern. “There is no perfection in that!”

Akaza’s lips twist into a sneer. “What are the lives of a few weaklings in the face of ultimate power?”

Something scorches Kyojuro’s chest, a mix of fury and frustration. “Every single life you have scorned was precious to someone once, demon,” he snaps. “Who are you to take and kill as you please simply because you have strength?”

Akaza seems to have had enough of trying to convince Kyojuro, not as though he had been doing a particularly exemplary job in the first place. His next swing is much harder than the last, speed picking up until Kyojuro is forced to rely on intuition rather than sight.

“So foolish, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, right by his ear. Kyojuro whirls around and sweeps his sword in a wide arc, except Akaza has already disappeared. “But it would be such a shame to kill someone like you.”

“I don’t feel the same reservations as you!”

Time presses on, flat and slow yet too fast all at once. Metal rings abrasively. Akaza’s voice threads through the discordant sounds, silk-and-honey, Kyojuro’s name repeated as if they’ve known each other for a lifetime.

Become a demon, Kyojuro.

Fight with me for eternity, Kyojuro.

Kyojuro isn’t sure how long they’ve been fighting when Akaza finally draws blood—this is nowhere close to an eternity, and he finds exhaustion already turning his limbs heavy and his breaths shallow. The forest surrounding them is fast-approaching a state of disrepair. Tree trunks toppled over onto the dirt, leaves and branches creaking in protest at the violence.

If there’s one thing Akaza is correct on, it is the fact that Kyojuro is a human, and he will inevitably tire. Every attempt to decapitate the demon has been unsuccessful, and this time, he is one second too slow and Akaza’s fist connects with his chest.

A sickening crunch. Kyojuro stumbles, agony blinding his vision for a few precious seconds before he coughs out a mouthful of blood.

In a show of faux consideration, Akaza steps backwards like he’s allowing Kyojuro the luxury of catching his breath. The world slows back into a standstill around them, surroundings settling in piece by piece. The air: biting. The inside of his mouth: metal and rust. Akaza’s eyes: gold on shattered glass, appraising Kyojuro with an unreadable expression on his face.

Kyojuro takes a slow breath, wincing at the way his chest burns with liquid pain that spreads down to the tip of his fingers.

He needs to keep Akaza from the village. He needs to kill the demon. He needs to push this until the sun is up, but it is hours away, and Kyojuro is already injured while his enemy’s body carries no remembrance of any wound Kyojuro had inflicted.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says.

Kyojuro spits out a mouthful of blood. “My name is not yours to use with such familiarity.”

As if he hadn’t heard Kyojuro at all, Akaza continues. “You can’t hope to fight on for much longer with these injuries. Your ribs are broken.”

“Do not think for a moment that will convince me to become a demon!”

Akaza exhales, a faint hint of frustration crossing his features. Such an expression is disconcerting on him, so Kyojuro fixes his breathing back into Total Concentration before closing the distance again, aiming for Akaza’s neck.

The force of a punch tears open the fabric of his sleeves and draws a deep gash into Kyojuro’s arm. Across his cheek. Kyojuro loses count of each of his injuries. Fool’s gold. Deceptively bright, marred by strong lines of ink. Bone-white fangs. He can do nothing but focus on Akaza, putting aside every possibility of how this night may end, even if Kyojuro knows deep down that he might not be able to see the sunrise.

He’s tiring. Lead has replaced the blood in Kyojuro’s veins, and each breath is harder than the last. Akaza presses on, his voice faraway apart from the intonations of Kyojuro’s name that is spoken with quicksilver lightness. One more minute, Kyojuro tells himself. Another second. He just needs to press on, to stay on his feet, to anticipate the next move—

There is a loud crack as Akaza’s fist meets Kyojuro’s sword, and he isn’t strong enough to redirect the blow. Kyojuro’s back slams into the rough bark of a tree, vision blackening for precious seconds. He nearly loses his grip on his sword, but it wouldn’t have mattered even if he had held onto it properly—Akaza is faster than him, arm drawn back in a punch, and Kyojuro is too dazed and injured to move away in time.

Some ache buried deeper than the broken ribs pulses in Kyojuro’s chest. His thoughts circle to Senjuro, to his father, to the people of the village he had meant to protect. The soul thread feels stretched taut and fragile between his broken bones. Whoever it was on that other side, with all their anger and grief and pain, Kyojuro would never be able to meet them. He thinks he must owe them an apology, and wonders if they would ever be able to feel it.

Akaza’s eyes widen. Kyojuro braces himself for the blow.

The only thing he feels is the butterfly-brush of wind, inexplicably gentle.

Akaza has halted a hairbreadth away from Kyojuro. His eyes trail over Kyojuro’s face, searching. For a moment that spans like eternity, neither of them move or speak. Kyojuro can feel the harsh fingerprints of wood against his back, of the heat of Akaza’s body almost touching his. There is nowhere to go. His arms ache too much to swing, and his fingers won’t obey his mind’s command.

“Are you going to kill me,” Kyojuro finally says, when this silence has become too much, too oppressive.

Akaza blinks. The confusion drains from his features as he relaxes, fangs gleaming in a smile.

Unhurriedly, he lifts a hand to Kyojuro’s face, fingertips ghosting over with an infinitesimal distance. Then there is a sudden sting as Akaza drags his thumb over a cut he had left on Kyojuro’s cheekbone, smudging the blood further.

“Not today, Kyojuro,” Akaza drawls at last. Kyojuro’s heart beats with a rhythm that screams too-close, too-close, too-close. He needs to move but he can’t. “It would be too much of a shame, so see to it that you don’t die on me before we meet again.”

Faster than Kyojuro can blink, Akaza has turned heel and disappeared into the forest, past the glade of destroyed trees.

The wind whispers with the ghost of a voice still repeating Kyojuro’s name. Night air bites in sharp nips, accentuating the pain of his injuries that have finally turned acute once more.

Painstakingly, Kyojuro lowers himself to the ground, his body crying out in protest. He tries to unclench his fingers from the sword’s hilt only to find that he’s gripping it so tightly he can’t remember how to let go.

Upper Moon Three. Upper Moon Three had nearly killed him, but for some reason, left him here—heavily injured, yet alive.

The thought leaves a taste more bitter than the blood in Kyojuro’s mouth, even as relief soothes over at the same time.

Kyojuro tilts his head back. A black shadow circles in the sky and draws closer. Kaname’s call shatters the silence.

Beyond his crow, the moon looks down, a lonely light. A little like the color of Akaza’s eyes.

Chapter Text

Akaza stares down at his hands.

No trace of Kyojuro’s blood remains, but he can still hear the crack of bone under his fists, feel the clean sting of the metal as it slices into his skin, replay the sound of Kyojuro’s steady breathing.

He closes his eyes. Thoughts drenched in gold and red, Akaza fights off the temptation to turn back and find Kyojuro again. It’s been less than half an hour since he’d left him there; surely, by now, Kyojuro is long gone. If he knows what’s best for himself, he’s also on his way to receive some sort of medical treatment. Even without a demon’s regeneration, Kyojuro should be able to survive those injuries and pick up his sword again after due time.

Time wasted, regardless. It’s been decades since Akaza has felt such a thrill in a fight. Kyojuro’s swordsmanship is nothing short of magnificent. Kyojuro had been nothing short of magnificent. It’s an irksome thought that he’ll have to wait to feel that elation again. If Kyojuro were a demon, they could have fought without worrying about injuries. Neither of them would ever have to hold back.

Akaza had seen Kyojuro all the way back in the crowded streets of the little town. As brilliant as the light of the fireworks, his fighting spirit was a flame amongst embers, impossible to look away from and more impossible to miss. Even amongst Hashira, Kyojuro is exceptional.

And Akaza had let him live.

His exhale passes through his lips as a huff. Akaza opens his eyes again, looking up through the canopy of leaves that cover patches of the night sky.

It had been a split-second decision to not kill Kyojuro. Or—not even a decision. A moment before and Akaza had been prepared to follow that blow through; regrets or not, Kyojuro’s blatant refusal to become a demon meant that there was only one thing left for Akaza to do. Muzan-sama was not in the business of sparing slayers, and especially not Hashira.

But he had stopped. He had let Kyojuro go. Akaza still doesn’t fully comprehend why.

Just right before the blow met Kyojuro, some strange, foreign feeling had halted his fist. Something dangerously close to being apologetic. Something… weak.

Akaza curls his lip, put off by the implications. It certainly wasn’t pity; he knew better to focus on something so worthless.

It was a waste, that’s what it was. Kyojuro’s fighting spirit, his swordsmanship and his strength—it would all be a goddamn waste if Akaza killed him so soon. Stubborn as the Hashira was, even the most headstrong human minds could change like the seasons. Kyojuro may have refused to become a demon now, but a push here, a pull there, and perhaps he would finally see.

Akaza relaxes his shoulders. The only pity would have been snuffing out Kyojuro’s fighting spirit when his potential still lay before him, infinite and never ending.

“Rengoku Kyojuro,” he muses aloud.

It sounds easy, it sounds right. Kyojuro would be perfect if he let Akaza fix all those weaknesses.

Overhead, the moon and stars shine down, impartial. Akaza flexes his fingers as he remembers the sharpness of Kyojuro’s sword, sweet in its pain.

He’ll find Kyojuro again; it shouldn’t be difficult. After all, he is what the sun in the night must look like.

***

Kyojuro feels warm, but there’s a chill running through the very core of his being.

Glowing eyes like twin beacons, the owner of them leaning frightfully close to Kyojuro. Blood on grass, the moon against midnight. His voice is quicksilver, pleasant and smooth and entirely unfitting for a demon.

“Rengoku-san?”

Kyojuro opens his eyes and blinks a few times, disoriented as his senses settle back into his body. His muscles ache and each breath he takes stings like hot coal.

The ceiling is ivory white, the bed he now realizes he’s lying in is soft, and…

Kocho’s wide purple eyes dip into his line of vision. “Rengoku-san, can you hear me?”

Kyojuro opens his mouth to reply only to find that his tongue is dry and feels too big in his mouth. “Yes,” he manages to croak.

“Good!” Kocho exclaims, clasping her hands together. “My, my, Rengoku-san, I must admit that you gave me quite a scare when the kakushi carried you back in such a state!”

Kyojuro does not know what sort of state he had been in, but now that he’s slightly more lucid than before, he can feel the tightness of fresh bandages wrapped securely around his chest. The faint scent of medicinal herbs also wafts pleasantly through the air.

“Thank you, Kocho,” Kyojuro says, offering her a smile. He tries to sit up and finds that his arms have no strength. Kocho slips nimble hands underneath his neck and back and slowly helps Kyojuro lean against the backboard. The new position gives him something more than just the ceiling to look at, but it also makes the pain in his chest return with double the intensity. “What happened?”

“That is what I would like to ask you! What kind of demon could have been strong enough to do that to you?”

Kyojuro winces. His thoughts feel like a puddle of quicksand. He remembers the kakushi arriving per Kaname’s instructions, but there’s nothing else he can recall after that—he must have passed out, whether from blood loss or pain. Before that… Akaza. The memory is an uncomfortable, gaping ache to think of. From the demon’s callous disregard for humanity and the quite frankly insane request for Kyojuro to become a demon, Kyojuro thinks he’s never fought a more frustrating demon. Especially since he had been unable to kill Akaza in the end. Rather, Akaza was the one who almost killed him.

“I met Upper Moon Three!” Kyojuro tells Kocho, opting for precision.

Kocho looks rather shocked. “Did I hear you correctly, Rengoku-san?”

“Yes,” Kyojuro says, then elaborates, “Upper Moon Three fought me in the forest!”

There is a very long moment of silence.

“Well,” Kocho says at last. “Would you be so kind as to provide me with the full details, Rengoku-san?”

Kocho hands Kyojuro a cup of water before having him talk. Kyojuro gives her a run-down of the entirety of the evening—from being sent on mission to the town to meeting Akaza in disguise and finally to when Upper Moon Three had followed him into the forest. Kocho’s normally pleasant expression twists into a grimace when Kyojuro recounts everything he remembers from his brief conversation with Akaza to her.

“The Upper Moons certainly are a nuisance to deal with!” Kocho says. “Pretending to be a human and then trying to convince you to become a demon…” She shakes her head. “How unpleasant!”

“Indeed!” Kyojuro says. “I have never met a demon as talkative as this one!”

Kocho shifts her weight. She leans forward slightly, eyes boring into Kyojuro.

“So why did Upper Moon Three spare you?”

Kyojuro thinks back. He hasn’t quite allowed himself to dwell on that moment or what it meant ever since waking up. Now, he finds that it still leaves a bitter taste lingering in his mouth.

He knows that he should feel thankful that he survived. He is thankful. But the memory of Akaza, standing so close to him, Kyojuro’s life held in the palms of a killer like porcelain ransomed over stone, makes him cold all over. Akaza’s choice not to kill him unnerves Kyojuro more than anything else about the demon.

Every demon he had met before was indiscriminate. That meant behavioral patterns that were predictable. Many reacted with animalistic instinct. They ate when hungry, they fled when afraid. But Akaza was none of those things, and that gives Kyojuro trouble discerning what he planned to do next.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits to Kocho. “Actually, I thought he was going to kill me! But then he stopped, and before he left he told me he would find me again!”

Kocho’s expression is unreadable, though Kyojuro thinks he sees something calculating pass behind her eyes. “Interesting,” she muses. Then she clasps her fingers. “Thank you, Rengoku-san! For now, please rest. I will send up lunch for you soon!”

Kyojuro brightens. “Thank you!”

Later on, Kocho tells Kyojuro that regained consciousness relatively quickly. He had been taken to the Butterfly Estate by the kakushi in the earliest hours of the morning and had woken as the sun approached its midway point in the sky. Apart from cuts and gashes, the worst of Kyojuro’s injuries are condensed around his chest, where Akaza had broken his ribs.

A clean break, apparently. Kyojuro just needed rest and time for recovery. Then he would be able to return to duty.

It could have been worse. It could have been much, much worse. Kyojuro simply did not understand why it wasn’t.

He lists to himself the many reasons he’s thankful Akaza had not killed him in order to pass time. Kaname is sent off with a letter to his father and Senjuro, but given the distance of travel, they won’t be able to arrive until a day later. If his father even bothers to come in the first place.

Although Kyojuro has gotten injured on duty before, it’s been years that he’s been assigned bedrest like this. By the time the sky is darkening, he’s restless and aching to do something that will make him feel a little more useful.

When Kocho comes to check on him, Kyojuro asks for his sword and permission to practice some of his forms. Her response is to jab him in the ribs, smiling serenely when Kyojuro reflexively cringes in pain.

“Not yet, Rengoku-san!” Kocho says cheerfully. “Now please rest, or I will start drugging your water with sleeping tonics!”

Remembering that Kocho can be quite terrifying when she wants to be, Kyojuro decides to listen to her.

He sleeps in shallow fits. What little dreams he has are interspersed and nonsensical. At some point in the night, Kyojuro wakes with a jolt, his entire body chilled with the uncanny paranoia of being watched.

When he looks around to quell the feeling, there is no one in the infirmary but him. The window is opened a sliver that allows the night air to seep in. He can see the moon hanging in the corner of the window.

Still, it’s a while before Kyojuro falls asleep.

The next day is spent similarly. Kocho comes to evaluate him, deems Kyojuro fit for nothing except even more bedrest, and promises that the triplets will bring up Kyojuro’s meals. Late in the afternoon is when Senjuro finally arrives, wide-eyed, worried, and inquiring about Kyojuro’s condition. With a touch of hope and the weight of resignation, Kyojuro looks for and fails to see the much taller figure of his father behind Senjuro.

He hadn’t meant for his searching gaze to be obvious, but Senjuro recognizes the intent anyway. “Father was unwilling to come. But he seemed relieved that you weren’t injured too badly, Aniue.”

They talk until evening, eat dinner together, then Senjuro retires to one of the many guest rooms of the Butterfly Estate to rest. It hasn't exactly been a short journey, and he’s unused to getting little sleep like Kyojuro, who has long since trained himself to rest little and work more.

Unable to sleep, Kyojuro remains upright in the bed as he focuses on his breathing. There’s an uncomfortable tightness to his chest because of his broken ribs, which makes maintaining Total Concentration Breathing much more difficult than usual. Still, he can manage, and Kocho hasn't chastised him for it, so Kyojuro assumes that means it’s alright.

In.

The pain flares in a burst of flame. Kyojuro ignores it.

Out.

Only a slight ache on the exhale; it hurts less than the inhale.

In.

The cool night air from outside the window moves in tandem with Kyojuro’s breathing, steadying him, setting a pace.

Out.

An undercurrent of something else—something entangled deeper than his bones or flesh or organs; the slightest brush of feeling. His soul thread. The sensation is gone before Kyojuro can grasp onto it, his body reacting instinctively to a much more immediate threat.

Kyojuro’s inhale escapes sharply as he opens his eyes and turns to the window.

Bright yellow eyes peer back at him. The most sinister thing about Akaza’s expression is how innocuous it would have looked had he not been a demon.

Reflexively, Kyojuro’s hand travels to his hip, only to remember that he doesn’t have his sword with him.

How had the demon found him? And at the Butterfly Estate no less—there are multiple patients in other wings, there’s Kocho’s three triplet helpers, and Senjuro. Senjuro is here. Not far down the hall, in a guest bedroom, asleep.

Fear spikes Kyojuro’s heartbeat faster. He doesn’t even have anything to fight the demon with, injuries aside. The best he could do with the resources in the infirmary is to throw a bed at Akaza, and given the amount of trees their fight had taken down, Kyojuro does not think a bed would be an adequate diversion.

“Relax, Kyojuro,” Akaza finally says. “I’m not here to kill you.”

That is not at all reassuring. Kyojuro never includes himself in the count for potential casualties anyway. Tense all over, Kyojuro glares at him. “Then what are you here for?”

Akaza smiles as if Kyojuro had asked him something particularly exciting that he had been waiting to talk about. “I’m here to see you, of course,” he says. His eyes trail over Kyojuro, lingering over the bandages secured around his torso. “All things considered, Kyojuro, you’re doing quite well.”

No point in useless frustration or panic. Kyojuro appraises the situation, this time with a more level head.

At least five other patients, the triplets, Kanzaki, and Senjuro are in the Butterfly Estate. Kocho is off on a mission, so Kyojuro cannot rely on her to get rid of Akaza.

If Akaza is not here to kill Kyojuro, then at least the demon won’t likely be going after the other individuals over Kyojuro’s dead body. All he needs to do is keep Akaza’s attention on him until Kocho comes back or until Akaza leaves, and everyone else in the Butterfly Estate should remain unharmed.

Unless Akaza wants to turn him into a demon. The realization makes Kyojuro feel cold once more. Back when they first fought, Akaza had asked Kyouro multiple times. What if he tries to force the transformation now? Without a sword and night having just settled in, Kyojuro isn’t exactly in the position to resist if Akaza decides that he’s sick of asking for permission. And if that happens, then who will stop Kyojuro from hurting them?

Kyojuro chastises himself, swallowing down his fear. That will be the last thing he’ll allow to happen.

“What do you want with me?” Kyojuro asks. His voice comes out steady.

The demon tilts his head. He doesn’t seem particularly threatening right now, movements kept slow and deliberate, although Kyojuro is aware firsthand how quickly Akaza can switch from relaxed to predatory. He cannot rely on a facade to gauge the situation.

“Didn’t I tell you last time?” Akaza asks. The floorboards creak underneath his feet as he takes a step closer to Kyojuro’s bed. “Your fighting spirit is special. You are special, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro fights down a sigh. While the longest conversation he’s had with any demon up to date is most definitely with Akaza, Upper Moon Three still can’t exactly qualify for the best conversationalist. Especially not given his tendency on leading their discussion right back into the dead end he’s always so adamant on heading towards.

“So what?” Kyojuro pushes. “Then are you here to turn me into a demon?”

Akaza grins, flashing his fangs. “Does this mean you are finally seeing reason?”

“No,” Kyojuro says. “I have seen reason perfectly all along and do not want to become a demon!”

“You could heal those wounds in an instant, Kyojuro.”

“If you wanted me to heal quickly, maybe you should have considered not hitting me so hard in the first place!”

Keeping an eye on Akaza in his periphery, Kyojuro reaches over to the bedside table to light the oil lamp. A few moments later, the silvery stream of moonlight pooling through the window is chased away by the much warmer light of the fire. Shadows shrink to the corners. When Kyojuro turns to face Akaza again, the demon is also standing within the glow cast by the lamp, allowing Kyojuro to see him clearly for the very first time.

He had noticed the night prior, but Akaza’s appearance is relatively human—there is nothing particularly monstrous about him like many other demons. Instead, it’s a more subtle kind of uncanniness: the unnatural gleam of Akaza’s golden eyes, the cracked sclera, the symmetrical dark lines inking his body, the color of which is dark blue instead of black as Kyojuro had initially assumed. His skin is pale enough to be a corpse’s. Akaza is a patchwork of a monster who has been ill-fitted into the form of a human. Wide-eyed, boyish, centuries old, a killer marked above all killers by the curse branding in his irises.

Akaza does not look away from him. Kyojuro wonders if he is aware of the other people who are here in the Butterfly Estate. If he means to hurt them. To kill them.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says, soft but shattering the growing weight of silence. It’s that tone of voice again; the way he says Kyojuro’s name as if they have known each other for an eternity, the way it makes Kyojuro feel as if they have. “If only you could see what I could see, perhaps you would understand.”

“And what do you see?” Kyojuro asks. What can you see? he also thinks. What would I see? Apart from destruction and violence and hurt and death?

“You’re one of the strong and chosen ones.” Akaza’s even closer now, his legs touching the side of the hospital bed. “And it would be such a waste if death and decay is the only thing you are headed towards, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro thinks of his mother, her trembling hands cupping his cheeks, her forehead pressed against his. My gifted, kind child, she says. Do you know why you were born strong, Kyojuro? A touch of anger spreads through him. Akaza’s words feel like a callous, ugly mimicry of his mother’s.

“You’re wrong.” Akaza’s lip curls, telling of his response, and Kyojuro continues before the demon can cut him off. “I know I was given my strength for a reason, and I know that I am to use it to protect. Not to chase after pointless power.”

“To protect what, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks. He has moved even closer. If Kyojuro still had his sword on him, he would’ve swung it at Akaza. Both instinct and training are screaming at Kyojuro to put distance between himself and Akaza, but he forces himself to remain still—he can’t back down now. “Let me tell you what. You waste your strength to protect the undeserving, the weak, the useless. The weak leech from the strong, and people like you let them. You encourage it.”

“Weakness does not define deservingness!” Kyojuro retorts, unable to keep the bite of his voice. “Just like strength does not give anybody the right to trample over others. Besides, I think you have a misconception of strength and weakness. The only thing you can see is physical strength, but strength extends far beyond just the body!”

Eyes narrowed with clear contempt, Akaza lets out a short laugh. “Humour me then, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro meets his gaze. “I think you are weak, Akaza,” he says. “You received all of your power from Kibutsuji, it was never yours to begin with. And then you use it to hurt those you deem lesser than you, all the while being incapable of understanding their grief and their pain. If anything is a waste, it’s that.”

Something dark and furious crosses Akaza’s expression. For a moment, Kyojuro wonders if he’s pushed the demon too far, and he will kill Kyojuro now—along with everyone else in the Butterfly Estate. Akaza had said he wasn’t here to take Kyojuro’s life, but since when could a demon be trusted to keep their word?

Cold fingers wrap around Kyojuro’s chin, lifting his face forcefully so he’s inches away from Akaza. He smiles at Kyojuro, wide enough to show his fangs. There’s nothing pleasant about the look. Akaza is a demon through and through, and every part of Kyojuro buzzes with recognition of that fact. Anger pulses in his chest.

“Count yourself lucky, Kyojuro,” Akaza breathes, soft and threatening, “that I’m in a good mood tonight. Or perhaps I would’ve gouged out those pretty eyes of yours for saying something so stupid.”

Kyojuro glares back at him. The grip on his jaw is tight. Perhaps enough to leave bruises. “I do hope you understand that gouging out my eyes still won’t convince me to become a demon!”

Akaza releases his face and steps away. The lamplight flickers, shadows lengthening in its wake.

The next few seconds span like an eternity. Kyojuro braces himself for Akaza to attack. Tear out his throat. Crush his neck.

Akaza moves, but it is towards the open window. Lithe, feline movements that are almost too quick for Kyojuro to track—he’s gone in the course of a breath, leaving behind nothing but night air and the anger that coils deep in Kyojuro’s chest.

It’s a long time before it finally subsides.

When Kocho returns early in the morning, Kyojuro is still awake.

“Upper Moon Three?” she echoes, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “He found you so soon?”

Kyojuro nods. “I am uncertain if he knew that there were other people in the Butterfly Estate! He didn’t harm me, though.”

Kocho purses her lips, her eyes cold. “I’ll report to Oyakata-sama and stay here with you the next few days,” she finally says. “If he comes back, I will deal with him! And I’ll get you your sword, Rengoku-san.”

She turns on her heel, presumably to get Kyojuro’s sword, then pivots around again and leans over Kyojuro’s bedside. “What happened to your face?”

“My face?”

“You have bruises here,” Shinobu says, touching right above Kyojuro’s jaw.

Kyojuro blinks. He had forgotten, but now, with Kocho’s reminder, he can almost feel Akaza’s phantom touch once more, his cold fingers gripping Kyojuro. If the demon had wanted to, he could have snapped Kyojuro’s neck with chilling ease.

“Ah, it’s nothing!” he tells Kocho. “I feel fine!”

The look he receives in return is nothing short of skeptical, but Kocho doesn’t push. Instead, she steps back, lets out a small sigh, and nods. “Alright, Rengoku-san,” she says. “Well, I will go bring you your sword!”

She disappears shortly after. When the door has closed behind Kocho and Kyojuro is alone in the room once more, he lifts his fingers to his face and gingerly touches the area that Akaza had gripped him. Just regular bruises; they hurt a little when Kyojuro presses on it, but otherwise, it doesn’t seem too bad. Akaza clearly hadn’t used anywhere near full force.

But still, the thought of allowing a demon so close to him with no sword leaves Kyojuro feeling helpless. And the possibility of it happening again, even with Kocho here, is even more unsettling. He thinks of Akaza mere inches from him, smile bared like a weapon, eyes alight with something sinister.

What exactly did the demon see in Kyojuro to be this persistent? He can’t even begin to comprehend why the demon has taken an interest in him. An interest Kyojuro doesn’t want, because he feels like some toy that a child had newly obtained, obsession and excitement coursing to a peak. But what will happen when Akaza becomes bored of Kyojuro’s refusal? Will he decide to take instead of ask, or will he simply kill Kyojuro when the time inevitably comes?

The morning sunlight filters through the window, but even underneath the rays, Kyojuro shivers.

The damn woman won’t leave.

Akaza lingers at the edge of the wisteria grove which surrounds the estate Kyojuro had been staying at. He can track the fighting spirits inside; the sheer amount of wisteria makes them murkier than usual, but he can still tell them apart. The estate is a medical facility of some sort, Akaza had surmised on his first visit, though he’s not sure why there is the consistent presence of three children. It doesn’t exactly seem like the sort of place children should dwell.

Then there’s the woman. He’s pretty certain she’s another Hashira. Her fighting spirit is strong enough to make her one, but it’s entirely unlike Kyojuro’s. Kyojuro’s feels like fire: the warm flicker of flame, and when he fights, his fighting spirit blazes like the sun. This one is cold—cold that comes from the deadliest of winter. Perilous and desolate and barren. Akaza’s not so stupid to venture into the premises when she’s nearby, but for some reason, she just won’t fucking leave.

So he waits. One night, two nights, three. As time passes, Akaza turns in his mind all the things he could say to Kyojuro, although he can’t think of one thing that would reliably convince Kyojuro towards becoming a demon.

Sometimes he recalls the way Kyojuro had looked at him, eyes burning with anger. I think you are weak, Akaza. And when that memory resurfaces, Akaza finds him absentmindedly entertaining the prospect of turning Kyojuro into a demon, because at the end of the day, if he really wanted to, what could Rengoku Kyojuro do in his weakened state?

But the desire subsides almost as soon as it rises, quelled by the fact that Akaza wants Kyojuro to agree. How satisfying would it be for Kyojuro to see that there was something more than the limits of human mortality, to realize what he could be if he only gave up all his sentimental, useless beliefs.

On the fourth day, the second Hashira’s presence is finally gone. Akaza makes his way through the grove of the wisteria trees. The concentration of wisteria wafting through the air makes his lungs scorch, each breath tinged by a hint of iron. This is enough to deter even a Lower Moon. Still, Akaza presses on until he’s moved past the densest of the trees and arrives at the building nestled within.

The rest of the estate is silent, most people asleep. There’s a few less than the last time around, but Kyojuro is still in the same room, bright and alert.

This time, Akaza doesn’t bother shrouding his presence. Kyojuro must have sensed him before he saw Akaza, because when Akaza pulls himself through the window, he’s greeted immediately with the sharp tip of Kyojuro’s sword leveled steadily to his neck.

It would’ve been laughable if it were anyone else. Upper torso wrapped in white bandages, a wild sunrise of curls falling over his face, dressed in hospital clothing and arm braced against the wall, Kyojuro is in no state to even attempt to fight, much less hope to kill Akaza. But he still looks brilliant like this, fighting spirit ablaze, eyes narrowed and sword steady.

“What are you doing here again?” Kyojuro asks sharply.

“Are you going to fight me here? In the middle of the hospital?”

Kyojuro’s jaw tightens.

“I’m not here to kill you, Kyojuro,” Akaza adds, smiling when he sees Kyojuro’s eyebrows furrow more. “So unless you’re determined to worsen your wounds, you should put your sword away. Besides, fighting you when you’re still injured would be no fun for me anyway.”

Slowly, the tip of the sword lowers until Kyojuro has dropped it entirely. Entirely distrustful, his gaze slides over Akaza one last time before he lowers himself back onto the bed.

“What are you doing here again?” Kyojuro repeats.

Akaza tilts his head. “Can’t I come to see you?”

“You are Upper Moon Three.” Kyojuro sounds a bit exasperated. “Do you typically make a habit of visiting every slayer you’ve had hospitalized?”

“No,” Akaza says honestly. “No one has ever survived before you.”

Kyojuro’s fighting spirit flares slightly in response to that admittance, but otherwise, he doesn’t react.

Still, the tension written in every part of his body doesn’t subside, and neither does Kyojuro sheathe his sword. He’s clearly wary of Akaza’s presence. Akaza wonders what else he should do to reassure Kyojuro that he won’t kill him. He had thought keeping his word would be enough proof.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro says after some time.

Kyojuro says his name shortly, emotionlessly, like he’s repeating a fact or making a statement. Impersonal, almost. Akaza wonders what it will take for that to change. “Yes?”

“My answer will remain the same!” Kyojuro announces. “No matter how many times you come visit me, no matter how many times you ask me to become a demon, I will never agree.”

There it is again, the stubbornness that is starting to become so telling of Kyojuro. “You don’t know that, Kyojuro.”

“I do, actually!” Kyojuro says. “Being a demon is not the perfection you think it is. And nothing you say will convince me otherwise!”

“Kyojuro—”

“Do you know what a soul thread is?”

Akaza blinks a few times at him. “Of course.”

“Then you must know that Kibutsuji’s blood ruins them and breaks them,” Kyojuro says. “Or perhaps you have seen it yourself too!”

Akaza has—it’s the last thing to disappear when a demon dies. Dull threads of yellow, frayed and snapped and pointless. Something so small, something so insignificant, couldn’t possibly hope to hold a candle to the power that came with being a demon. Perhaps it could even be seen as another human blemish that Muzan-sama’s blood had finally fixed.

“What do you mean to say?” he asks Kyojuro.

“Emotions are felt through the soul thread!” Kyojuro explains. “But as a demon, you can’t ever hope to experience it in full, if you can even experience it at all. You’re left with a broken imitation at best!”

Kyojuro speaks of it like it’s some kind of deficit. Amused, Akaza cocks his head. “Are you pitying me, Kyojuro?”

“You keep on telling me of how you scorn humanity, Akaza,” Kyojuro says. “But you don’t even understand what it is like to be human. You are incapable of knowing what it is like to feel happiness, to feel joy, to feel grief, or to love. You cannot experience those feelings from another either! And I think above all else, that is pitiable.”

Ah. A laugh escapes Akaza. This really is amusing. All of this talk, and Kyojuro was thinking about soulmates?

A human desire, just like the soul thread. Akaza knows what joy feels like: the elation of fighting a strong opponent, the anticipation of receiving more blood from Muzan-sama. He had felt it against Kyojuro, and he feels it now picturing how it will be like to fight him again. He has no need of anything else when all he has to do is get stronger and stronger still. No need for some arbitrary bond, no need for grief and no need for love—be it his own or somebody else’s.

“You’re wasting your pity, then,” Akaza says. “All these useless human sentiments aren’t a gift, Kyojuro, they’re a curse. A demon is free from it all.”

Kyojuro’s lips tug into a frown. “You call that freedom?”

“Yes,” Akaza says. “What else would it be? No grief, no loss, no pain.”

Kyojuro shakes his head. “You have nothing, then,” he says, slowly, as if the realization had crept up on him.

His fighting spirit flickers around him as if agitated, but it doesn’t burn with the same brightness it seems to when Kyojuro is angry, or when he is fighting. Akaza looks at his expression and finds that he cannot decipher it.

All of a sudden, his chest is tight, something stretched uncomfortably taut within. For the briefest of moments, a strange feeling washes over Akaza: a hollowing, empty ache. His breath shudders slightly as it passes through his lips.

Then it is gone. Kyojuro is still in front of him, back to wary as he appraises Akaza, fingers curled loosely around the hilt of his sword. More relaxed than before, but still on guard.

For all of his strength and power, Rengoku Kyojuro is a man filled to the brim with soft sentiment. It makes him weak. It makes him vulnerable. It makes him foolish. But he is brilliant regardless, and Akaza wants to have that fire for himself and no one else.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says, the name escaping the tip of the tongue before he really knows why.

The fire in Kyojuro’s eyes turns flinty. His fingers tighten around his sword.

It isn’t either of them that breaks the tension first. Rather, from Akaza’s periphery, he feels the wintry cold of the female Hashira’s fighting spirit. He’s out of time. For now.

“I’ll see you soon, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, smiling again.

He leaves before he can hear Kyojuro’s response, if the Hashira was going to spare him one in the first place.

Outside, the light of the moon illuminates the path around them, even though Akaza doesn’t need it to see.

The yellow-white of the moon is cold, and tonight, for some reason, it looks wrong. Kyojuro’s eyes are a much warmer color, after all.

Chapter Text

“Why aren’t you killing me?” Kyojuro says in lieu of a greeting the third time Akaza visits him. He’s holding a book in his lap, although his right hand shifts to hover over his hip, where his sword lies on the bed.

“You’re talkative today, Kyojuro,” Akaza comments lightly, pulling himself through the window and into the room.

Kyojuro follows his movements, his lips thinned in displeasure. “Perhaps I will start locking the windows!”

Akaza smiles at him. “Then I will start breaking the locks.”

A moment of silence. Kyojuro looks like he’s about to retort, but finally, leans back against the backboard. His eyes never leave Akaza. “Answer my question,” he says.

Akaza tilts his head. “I thought I’d already made it clear. I’m waiting for you to heal, Kyojuro, so we can fight again.”

Kyojuro looks at him as if he just said something entirely incomprehensible, although Akaza thinks that it honestly is quite simple. Really, he’s pretty certain that the things Kyojuro says are often much more insane. Or perhaps it’s his delivery.

Then Kyojuro shakes his head and returns to reading, leaving Akaza to tug over the spare chair so he can sit next to the bedside.

Kyojuro is still on guard each time Akaza visits, a tenseness written in his body telling of distrust. Three visits turns into four, four into five. By then, Akaza notices that Kyojuro’s hand no longer hovers over the hilt of his blade when he sees Akaza, though he remains sharp and alert.

It’s during the fifth visit that Kyojuro seems capable of moving around on his own, no longer confined to the hospital bed or unsteady on his feet. His fighting spirit flares at Akaza’s presence, but otherwise, neither his posture nor expression gives away anything.

“You have been waiting for Kocho to leave!” Kyojuro remarks. He’s on the far end of the room, pouring himself a glass of water from a pitcher. Though the bandages around his torso are still there, the ones covering the smaller scratches and cuts have been removed. Underneath, injuries have scabbed and begun to scar. Akaza traces the faint line across his cheekbone, now no more than a darkened mark. He can still smell the sweet scent of Kyojuro’s blood beneath his fingertips, picture it smudged across his face in pretty crimson.

“Kocho?” Akaza echoes, rather disinterested. That must be the other Hashira with the wintry fighting spirit.

“Do you sense her presence through those fighting spirits you see?”

“Why do you ask, Kyojuro?”

“I thought it was a coincidence at first!” Kyojuro says. “You would always come to the Butterfly Estate when Kocho was away, but now I am realizing that it must have been planned.”

“How observant,” Akaza says. “Yes, Kyojuro, I can sense her presence and absence through her fighting spirit. Just like yours.”

Kyojuro frowns. “You can see fighting spirits for everyone?”

Pleasantly surprised that Kyojuro is curious about this, Akaza nods. He wouldn’t be shocked if there were an ulterior motive to these questions; a calculation for an advantage. Akaza isn’t so blind as to assume Kyojuro is asking out of pure interest, but nevertheless, it feels like a rare opportunity.

“There are seven others here in this estate right now,” he tells Kyojuro. “Four of them have been here consistently. The other three are new. Injured slayers, I presume.”

Kyojuro’s eyebrows draw together even more. “So you have been aware of them all along?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Akaza can practically see the question that Kyojuro wants to ask, so he answers before he can ask it. “They’re children or the wounded, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “I have no interest in them. None of the injured slayers have particularly impressive fighting spirits either. It would be a disappointing fight even if they weren’t wounded.”

The expression Kyojuro gives him is unreadable. It passes before Akaza can begin an attempt at deciphering it. “I see!” he exclaims. “But I have to question your ability to detect fighting spirits, because the slayers in the hospital wing are all fine swordsmen!”

Akaza almost humours him before he loses the brief grapple with his self control. “They’re weak, Kyojuro.”

Dawn is fast approaching when Akaza finally leaves the estate. Like usual, he makes his way through the thicket of wisteria trees. Breathe and burn; the wisteria congests in his lungs again, the growing familiarity of the feeling turning agony into routine. A bit of poison in order to see Kyojuro—Akaza can handle it. He’s had worse.

Being in the midst of the wisteria puts a momentary damper on all of Akaza’s senses. Even Kyojuro’s fighting spirit, clear and bright a moment before, has become blurred, like seeing fire through frosted glass.

He is scarcely one step out from the thicket of wisteria trees before something sharp and fast whistles past Akaza’s face. Senses still in disarray from the wisteria, Akaza barely manages to avoid the nichirin blade.

It takes a second for the fighting spirit to register. Winter-cold, ice-cruel.

Akaza has never seen her before—Kocho, Kyojuro had called her—but the girl in front of him is nothing like he expected. For one, she is small: short, delicate-framed, and younger than he had imagined. Large purple eyes fix on his face as the girl’s haori flutters around her like wings.

She smiles at Akaza, the pleasant look offset by the violent flicker of her fighting spirit.

“Upper Moon Three!” she says cheerfully. “My, my, it seems like I have finally caught you trespassing on my estate!”

Akaza glances at her sword. Upon closer look, it’s not a conventional blade. Rather, the sword is shaped like a rod and stinger. What kind of blade is that? He can’t imagine how it would even cut off a demon’s head without a sharp edge.

He opens his mouth to respond before realizing that he’s no longer able to speak. Rather, Akaza’s throat closes as blood wells up and past his lips. At the same time, a burning sensation begins to crawl through his veins until it feels like his body is tearing itself apart from the inside out. He coughs, throat raw and scraped.

“Kocho Shinobu, Insect Hashira,” the girl says. Her face blurs before refocusing, then blurs again. “Hm, seems like you weren’t quite fast enough, Upper Moon Three!”

Akaza’s frazzled mind slowly begins to piece together what she means. He had thought he had dodged the blow, but Shinobu’s sword must have nicked him, which shouldn’t have been an issue unless…

Poison.

The shape of her blade made more sense now. Because Kocho Shinobu stored fucking wisteria poison in her sword.

The dosage is strong, but Akaza can already feel his body breaking down the poison. Shinobu must have realized the same thing, because she darts towards him with her blade outstretched.

With a snarl, Akaza dodges the strike. His vision darkens at the corners, either from the poison or anger or both. He knows that dawn is coming, but the only thing that matters right now is the violent, growing anger that floods his veins faster than any wisteria poison could.

Poisoner. Goddamn coward. He wants to kill her.

Then there is little time to think as Shinobu attacks him again. Most of the wisteria in his blood has finally been neutralized and Akaza finds his surroundings sharpening back into focus. It’s much easier to evade the next strike, even though Shinobu moves at impressive speeds. Her haori flutters behind her like an afterimage of colourful wings.

“Aren’t you difficult!” Shinobu goads. “Are you going to fight back, Upper Moon Three, or are you going to keep running around like a coward? Perhaps Rengoku-san has been too kind to you!”

“Coward?” Akaza sneers. “What is a fucking pretender like you doing as a Hashira?”

“How rude!” Shinobu says, thrusting her sword at his eye.

Akaza moves aside again, but she seems to have gotten even faster, because the blade grazes over his arm. Immediately, a torrent of pain sweeps in.

Still, this one is easier to break down, his body having already learned from the first dosage. Rage tightens a vice-grip around Akaza’s ribcage until he feels like his bones will snap and break from the pressure. Everything about Kocho Shinobu disgusts him: her plastered smile, the sickly-sweet voice, her mockery of a real sword, and her dead-of-winter fighting spirit.

“Stop evading, Upper Moon Three!” Shinobu says. Her voice is still light, but her fighting spirit flickers with frustration. “Don’t tell me this is how you fight! You might as well run away!”

Akaza can taste the burn of dawn on the horizon, his instincts screaming at him to leave. He grits his teeth. “I have no interest in fighting a poisoner like you,” he snarls at Shinobu.

She thrusts her sword at Akaza again. This time, Akaza is prepared and slams his fist into the side of the blade.

The metal shatters with an abrasive noise, a crack of thunder in the quietness of the morning. The neck of Shinobu’s sword is easier than most to break. The force sends droplets of wisteria poison scattering through the air, some of it landing on Akaza’s skin and searing through flesh in an instance.

Shinobu’s smile is gone, a brief look of surprise crossing her face when she stares at what is left of her sword in her hands. Then, without wasting another breath, she swings the remainder of the nichirin steel at Akaza.

He knocks the hilt out of her hands before it even gets close. With a dull thunk, it lands onto the grass a few metres away.

Shinobu’s gaze flickers to her sword, then back to Akaza. She’s no longer smiling. Her purple eyes are dark, jaw tight. Then, in one quick, fluid moment she produces a dagger from inside her sleeve and stabs it towards Akaza’s neck.

He catches Shinobu’s wrist before the blade can meet flesh, squeezing until bones creak and Shinobu is forced to drop the dagger. It lands on the grass between their feet. With a sharp tug, she tries to pull her wrist out of Akaza’s grasp, expression twisting when she can’t. Without her poison, she’s weaker than any Hashira Akaza has ever encountered.

She sneers venomously at him, no longer maintaining that pleasant countenance from before. “Are you going to kill me now, Upper Moon Three?”

For a moment, Akaza wants to. Snap her neck, tear out her heart—he could take her life in the blink of an eye. Someone like her was entirely unfit to be among the Hashira.

But the rage unclouds just enough for Akaza to release Shinobu’s wrist. The sun is coming. And no matter the hatred that stirs inside him, Akaza can’t kill her.

“What a disgrace to have you ranked with the Hashira,” he tells Shinobu instead. “You’re nothing but a weakling.”

He turns and leaves before Shinobu can respond. He feels the surge of fury from her fighting spirit behind him.

The taste of wisteria lingers in Akaza’s mouth for a long time afterwards.

Kyojuro’s chest smarts with a phantom pain as he leans over his knees, trying to catch his breath.

The undercurrents of fury are fading through the soul thread, but it still lingers in Kyojuro’s memory. Something had been wrong, that much he could tell. It’s anger mixed with desperation, primal and instinctive, and the aftermath leaves Kyojuro shivering. He can barely imagine how much worse it would be to actually be reacting to something so awful to have dredged up such a feeling.

What happened to you? he wonders, the question surfacing no matter how useless logic dictates it to be. Where are you? I want to help you, I want to make it better, I want you to stop hurting.

Kyojuro leans back against the backboard of the bed and closes his eyes. He had barely gotten any sleep. Ever since he realized that Akaza’s visits were all during Kocho’s absence, he had resolved to stay up during the nights when Kocho had to depart on missions. Although Akaza hadn’t hurt him or anyone else in the Butterfly Estate, the thought of Akaza finding him when he was asleep makes Kyojuro restless with worry. There is already so little he can control—any less and he thinks it might drive him insane.

He supposes it’s reassurance that Akaza won’t go after anyone else in the Butterfly Estate, even if Akaza’s reasoning was that the injured slayers were too weak for him to bother to fight. Still, Kyojuro would be a fool to take a demon at his word. As long as Akaza is coming around to the Butterfly Estate, then everyone inside is in danger.

Footsteps sound down the hallway. Kyojuro frowns. Dawn is on the horizon, but it’s too early for anyone to be awake, much less wander into this wing of the Butterfly Estate.

The knob twists to reveal Kocho. Not expecting her, Kyojuro blinks a few times at her form, only to be more surprised.

Kocho’s hair is messy, half of it falling out of the butterfly clip. She’s cradling her sword arm to her chest, and in the other, she holds what Kyojuro recognizes is her stinger sword—except only the hilt and an inch or so of nichirin remains intact.

“Kocho!” he exclaims, shocked. “What happened!”

The corners of her lips curl into a wan smile. “I tried and failed to kill Upper Moon Three!”

Kyojuro gapes for a few moments, now properly shocked.

He knew Akaza had just left, but he hadn’t expected him to have met Kocho. Moreover, they had fought, and…

“Is your arm okay?”

“Ah,” Kocho says. Her smile remains on her face, but her eyes are dark, rimmed red underneath. “I think he may have fractured my wrist. And my sword.” She lets out a laugh, this one sounding a bit wild. “How irritating!”

Exhaustion forgotten, Kyojuro pushes the blankets off himself to help Kocho. He takes her broken sword from her hands. The metal looks like it had been entirely splintered. Did Akaza have a technique to break swords? That didn’t exactly bode well for them.

But… Kocho was alive. And, objectively speaking, these were pretty minor injuries for a slayer, especially one that had met Upper Moon Three. Even compared to what Akaza had done to Kyojuro, Kocho got away with the equivalent with a tap on the wrist.

“What exactly happened?” Kyojuro asks. Kocho sits down on one of the hospital beds, shrugging her haori off with a wince.

“I planned to ambush him near the wisteria grove,” Kocho says. “Can you get me the gauze? It’s in the third drawer down. I’ll bind my wrist for now and have Aoi splint it later!”

Following her instructions, Kyojuro brings Kocho the requested gauze, trying his best to be patient. She has Kyojuro hold one end as she wraps it with her uninjured arm, unspeaking until Kyojuro finally breaks and asks, “Did it work?”

“I poisoned him a few times!” Kocho says. “And that made him incredibly angry, it seems!”

They sit silently for at least another fifteen seconds. Kocho’s shoulders are still set in a stiff line, and when Kyojuro peers at her expression, she’s worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, eyes sharp with anger.

“Do you know what Upper Moon Three did, Rengoku-san?” Kocho asks, her voice almost too quiet to hear.

Kyojuro shakes his head.

“He broke my sword, of course.” Kocho flexes her fingers on her knee. “Then when I tried to stab him with a dagger, he fractured my wrist. He told me I was weak and that I didn’t deserve to be a Hashira. And then he left. He just—walked away.” Her fingers curl as she lets out another incredulous laugh. “Why didn’t he kill me? Why wouldn’t he kill me?”

Ah. Kyojuro could understand that feeling. Left alone in the forest, surrounded by toppled trees and his lungs aching at every breath, the only thing he could think of was why hadn’t Akaza killed me? Overceding relief was a mix of guilt and confusion. Every Hashira before him had fallen to Upper Moons—so what made him any different? It almost felt like an insult to be left alive with no explanation.

But what he didn't understand was that while Akaza clearly only held ill-will towards Kocho, he had still left her relatively unharmed.

“Ah, Rengoku-san,” Kocho says, her expression finally schooled back into a smile. “No matter. Perhaps it was because dawn was coming!” She sounds like she doesn’t quite believe herself.

“Perhaps!” Kyojuro says. “But you shouldn’t concern yourself too much over it, Kocho. What Akaza said about you is false! You are more than deserving to be a Hashira, you shouldn’t listen to a demon’s word!”

She looks at him, eyes widening. Then Kocho’s shoulders finally curl in towards her chest as she dips her head.

“I know, Rengoku-san,” she says, and for a moment, she seems much smaller and much more tired than Kyojuro has ever seen her. “I know.”

It’s mid-morning when Kocho returns with her wrist now in a cast. Kyojuro had spent much of his time ruminating over what Kocho had told him, only to find Akaza’s behaviour more and more bizarre and even less explainable. He is, by far, the most incomprehensible demon that Kyojuro has ever met.

Still, he’s come to one conclusion.

“I should spend the rest of my recovery at home!” he tells Kocho.

“What do you mean by that, Rengoku-san?”

“Akaza keeps on visiting the Butterfly Estate because I’m here,” he explains. “I don’t want to keep endangering patients with his presence especially now that you are injured too. You told me I’m healing fine, so I can just recover at the Rengoku Estate and come back here for check-ups whenever you think necessary!”

Kocho purses her lips. At least it’s not an immediate rejection to the idea, because Kyojuro knows that if Kocho has her mind set, it’s very unlikely to get her to change it.

Finally, Kocho nods slowly. “That would work,” she says. “However, if the demon could find you here, he will probably follow you back to your estate as well.”

Kyojuro nods. “I have anticipated that!”

She shifts her weight. “I know that Upper Moon Three seems obsessed with you,” she says. “But you can’t rely on his obsession to ensure your safety, Rengoku-san!”

“I know!”

The look she gives him is half exasperated and half amused. But instead of objecting, Kocho only nods—twice, shortly, almost rather resigned. “Alright, Rengoku-san,” she says. “I will trust your judgement, then!”

Kyojuro has Kaname fly ahead with a letter to Senjuro, informing his brother of his return. Kocho sends him off with a small bag packed full of bandages, tonics, and poultices and also incredibly thorough instructions of when and where to apply them. (“Ask your brother for help with the bandages, Rengoku-san!” she says lightly, by way of farewell. “I know you are not particularly talented in dressing your own wounds!”)

Kocho doesn’t tell him be careful or keep yourself safe or anything of the sort like she usually does. Instead, Kyojuro offers her a smile before he turns and heads home for the first time in a month.

The walk back takes longer than usual. Although his ribs have been healing, taking deeper breaths still causes a sting to flare, and Kyojuro isn’t near his typical speed. By the time he’s reached the Rengoku Estate, the sun is beginning to set, he’s more tired than he should be, and he’s very, very hungry.

Thankfully, Kaname was much faster than Kyojuro. His caws can soon be heard, alerting the entire estate of Kyojuro’s arrival. Senjuro rushes out a moment later, his expression bright as he ushers Kyojuro inside to eat dinner with him.

The house is the same as Kyojuro remembers it. There’s memories curled around the corners of the rooms that make Kyojuro feel warm at the same time the absence leaves a winter’s cold settling deep within his bones. Then there’s his father—ever-present in the Rengoku Estate, yet every time Kyojuro sees him, it only feels as though the distance between them is widening. No matter what he says or what he tries, it seems to reap the same result.

Still, be it duty or obligation or hope, Kyojuro finds himself going to visit Shinjuro after dinner, padding down the familiar halls. The shoji door to his father’s room is open a sliver. Kyojuro stands just outside, his chest tangled into a knot of uncertainty that he hasn’t felt in a while.

“Father?” he calls finally.

There is no response. Kyojuro waits a few moments before sliding the door open a little bit more to look inside.

The room reeks of sake. He spots his father’s form off in the corner of his room, an arm thrown over his side and half of his body barely on the futon. There is a bottle next to his fingertips, but his breathing is slow and even, and he makes no signs of acknowledging Kyojuro’s presence. Asleep.

Kyojuro releases the breath he had been holding. He doesn’t really know what he would have said anyway.

He remembers the days from over a decade and a half ago when his father would fix up his cuts and bruises from playing outside, or wash his hands with cool water to soothe the calluses on his palms. Then, both of his parents would tuck him into bed. Some nights, his mother would sing to him.

Now, Kyojuro is sporting injuries much more severe than just a scraped knee, but he will bandage his own wounds. The Rengoku Estate has lost the rose-tint of childhood; instead, what remains is nostalgia, washed cold until it bites at Kyojuro’s fingertips and nips at his heart. He walks the same halls he did as a child, through a now-silent house.

It seems as if Senjuro had cleaned his old room beforehand, because the tables are clean of dust and there is a fresh bedroll on the futon. Kyojuro lays out the poultices and bandages Kocho had given him and begins the process of cleaning and dressing his wounds.

The bruising from where Akaza’s blow had hit Kyojuro the hardest still remains, though it’s a less violent purple than a month before. Kyojuro lights the candle on his desk and sets to work.

By the time he has changed his bandages, the moon has fully replaced the sun’s place in the sky. The Rengoku Estate is much more silent than Kocho’s estate despite being smaller. No pitter-patter of footsteps outside Kyojuro’s room; even the rustling of wisteria trees can’t be heard here.

Kocho’s warning lingers in the back of his mind. If Akaza had been able to find him at the Butterfly Estate, it would be likely that the demon would find him again now.

The possibility of Akaza turning up here is neither a comforting nor welcoming thought. His father, his younger brother—they’re all here, and while Akaza hadn’t ever raised a hand against anyone in the Butterfly Estate, Kyojuro can’t place his gamble on how long a demon’s self-control could hold out. Especially not one who has killed so many to become Upper Moon Three. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down.

But as the moon travels through the sky and Kyojuro continues to wait, his sleep-muddled brain thinks that it might not be the most awful thing.

Akaza is frustrating. He is unreasonable. He is a demon, a killer, a monster. There really is no company worse than his. There really should be no company worse than his.

Still, as Kyojuro resigns himself to the fact that Akaza is probably not going to come, he finds his thoughts drifting back to Akaza nonetheless.

The night feels a little empty without him. Just tonight.

The next day at the Rengoku Estate passes fast. Kyojuro spends most of it with Senjuro.

He can’t recall the last time he was able to accompany his brother for so long. Between missions and travelling, the time he spends at home is little, especially after he had become the Flame Hashira.

It’s strange, sometimes, to think how much his little brother has grown. Being at home sometimes makes Kyojuro feel like he’s still seven years old again, Senjuro toddling after him with uneven steps. And then he blinks and the boy in front of him is almost the same age Kyojuro was when he first started demon slaying while he is the same age his parents were when they met.

Like usual, he tells Senjuro about the people he had met in between missions, the families he had visited after he had slain the demons. Like usual, Senjuro asks at the very end, “Did you meet your soulmate?”

Kyojuro smiles as reassuringly as possible. He wonders if his soul thread stirs in his chest at that question, or if it’s simply a trick of the mind. “Not yet!” he replies. “But I will wait patiently for when I do!”

His father is gone again when Kyojuro goes to see him at midday. Kyojuro can’t help but wonder if Shinjuro is avoiding him.

By the time night has fallen and the house is asleep again, Kyojuro resumes his vigil of waiting for Akaza underneath candlelight. He sits at his desk, takes out the sheets of parchment paper in the drawer, and begins to write a letter to his mother.

The habit, although seldom exercised these days, still brings the same comfort as it had years ago. He tells his mother about his injuries, about his time at Kocho’s estate, and then, with some hesitation, about the demon that has been visiting him. Kyojuro wonders what his mother would say, or what advice she would give. She always seemed to have the answers to all of Kyojuro’s impossible questions.

It must be nearing midnight that there is a rustle outside the engawa. A moment later, he feels Akaza’s demonic presence, purposefully unveiled.

Kyojuro pulls open the shoji doors to come face to face with the demon.

Akaza’s eyes gleam unnervingly brighter than the moon behind him. He tilts his head, a dangerous grin already pulling at the corner of his lips, as he appraises Kyojuro. “Are you going to invite me in, Kyojuro?”

Kyojuro often goes months without seeing his family. He is no pessimist, but he also believes in being pragmatic—so he treats every farewell with as much care as the last, because it’s always good to say goodbyes when you still have the chance to.

But for some reason, he feels as if it’s been inexplicably long since he had last seen Akaza even though it’s only been three nights. And with Akaza, there is no such thing as a farewell. Instead, Akaza has always smiled in that sharp way of his; I will see you soon, Kyojuro.

“You seem very fond of inviting yourself inside, welcome or not!” Kyojuro responds. “So I see no reason for me to do so!”

“Ah, you know me so well.” True to Kyojuro’s prediction, Akaza lets himself in through the open door. Then, with the pretence of a polite guest, he closes it delicately behind him.

Akaza lifts his chin, eyes flickering around the room. There isn’t much—a bookshelf, a wardrobe, a futon and Kyojuro’s desk. Remnants of his childhood remain if one knew where to look: a letter his mother had written to him; the colourful rock that two-year-old Senjuro had found and gifted Kyojuro. His father’s calligraphy, the strokes smooth and steady, just like the confidence in which he used to hold his sword with. Kyojuro wonders what Akaza sees. Pointless attachments? With a bit of hopeless amusement, he can almost picture Akaza repeating those exact words.

“This is your home, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks at last, when he seems to have taken everything in.

“Yes!” Kyojuro replies. Keeping Akaza in his periphery, he sits back down at his desk, folding up his letter so that the contents are hidden away from the wandering eyes.

“It took some time for me to find you,” Akaza says. “I went to the hospital yesterday and you weren’t there, Kyojuro.”

“Kocho informed me that you were likely to follow me back to the Rengoku Estate!”

Akaza’s expression darkens. The smile disappears from his face. “The poisoner.”

Kyojuro blinks. Right. In light of Akaza’s presence, he had almost forgotten that he still needed to inquire what exactly happened with Kocho. “I thought you liked fighting strong opponents, Akaza!”

“Strong?” Akaza echoes, a snarl in his voice. “She isn’t strong. She’s a coward.”

Kyojuro is not certain they are talking about the same person. “Kocho is not a coward!” he tries. “She—”

“Uses poison,” Akaza interrupts. He laughs, mirthless. “Someone who uses such backhanded measures is weak.”

Taken aback by the hatred in Akaza’s voice, Kyojuro stares at him for a few moments, speechless. He’s never seen Akaza react in such a way. Quickly, the surprise gives way to anger as well. Kocho has lost much and sacrificed more, so hearing her spoken about in such a way is infuriating.

“Kocho is not weak either!” he replies. “You were trespassing on her estate, Akaza, there is nothing backhanded or cowardly about her attacking you! I hope you have not forgotten that we are both slayers and you are an Upper Moon.”

Akaza’s hands curl into fists at his side. For a moment, Kyojuro wonders if his anger will overwhelm him and he will attack Kyojuro. He had foolishly left his sword at the other side of the room. A part of him, still angry, wants to snap back at Akaza for each frustrating word he says. The practical part of him knows that for his family’s sake, he can’t afford to provoke the demon more.

This time, Akaza is the one who gives. The slope of his shoulders loosens, his eyes clear. Slowly, his fingers unfurl.

“It doesn’t matter, Kyojuro,” he says at last. Kyojuro is not quite convinced, but lets it be.

A few seconds of silence pass. Akaza stands in front of his desk, his expression settling back into impassivity, the look more faraway than anything else.

“You didn’t kill Kocho,” Kyojuro says at last. “Even though you hate her. Why?”

“I don’t kill women.”

He says it shortly, simply. As if it were that simple. Kyojuro does another double-take.

He knows some demons have their peculiar eating preferences. But Akaza didn’t say that he didn’t eat women—rather, he didn’t kill women? Kocho’s poison has made him angrier than Kyojuro has ever seen him, yet he had intentionally let Kocho go with nothing but a fractured wrist?

“Why?” Kyojuro asks.

Akaza gives him a look. “Does there need to be a reason, Kyojuro?”

“Yes!”

He receives a faintly amused look. “There is none.”

That’s a lie—Kyojuro knows it must be. No one, demon or human, could do something so entirely inexplicable without a reason, much less someone like Akaza. Then Kyojuro wonders if Akaza even knows that it’s a lie—if he has, somehow, convinced himself that he doesn’t need a reason because he can’t recall one in the first place.

For the rest of the night, Akaza is all casual questions, his voice low and almost soft. He takes a seat across from Kyojuro’s desk, legs crossed and hands resting on his knees. He inquiries about Kyojuro’s injuries, like making everyday conversation.

When Akaza finally leaves, Kyojuro sits still in his now-empty room, not sleeping even though he feels the heavy pull of fatigue. Rather, discomfort stirs in his chest in long tidal-pulls.

It feels like they’ve built upon some elaborate lie, one that traces back to their first meeting, when Akaza had introduced himself to Kyojuro under the disguise of a human. The truth lies bare between them now, yet they still teeter upon that fragile line of pretense. One misstep would have Kyojuro drawing his blade, but right now, he can’t. Akaza is still far too strong for him to kill, so instead Kyojuro dutifully plays along with his role in whatever game Akaza wants to play.

One day, sooner or later, Akaza will tire of it and Kyojuro must be ready for when that day finally comes. Every obsession runs its course eventually—but for now, Kyojuro will use it to control whatever he can.

(He thinks of Akaza back in the town, his hair black, the marks on his skin hidden, his eyes a warm brown. Kyojuro thought he was a little strange, but sweet nonetheless.

How awful. He’s never met a demon quite so good at acting human.)

Kyojuro’s estate isn’t as big as Shinobu’s, but it’s still relatively large. As far as Akaza could tell, there were two other people inside—one with a fighting spirit that was small and timid, and another one so dim that it was even more negligible. Kyojuro’s family, he later confirms, although he has little interest with them to begin with. Neither of them are quite as remarkable as Kyojuro. Really, they aren’t remarkable at all.

Unlike the hospital, which housed neat plots of gardens outside the walls, the garden here is overgrown with a mix of flowers and weeds, as if they haven’t been tended to in a while.

As Akaza nears the estate tonight, he realizes that Kyojuro is not the only one awake. He’s not in his room either. Rather, fire flickers on the other side of the estate, close to the man with the dimming fighting spirit.

Curious, Akaza masks his presence and draws closer until he’s within earshot, right behind the open shoji doors. A door inside slides open; the soft padding of footsteps, the pattern of them belonging to Kyojuro.

The air is faintly stale with the scent of alcohol. Akaza frowns. Masking his presence also mutes his senses.

“Your food will grow cold, Father!” Kyojuro says. Akaza can’t see what’s happening but there’s a shuffling noise.

Kyojuro’s father. It makes sense, but at the same time, it doesn’t explain the stench of alcohol and why his fighting spirit is so… brittle.

Embers and wood-smoke, the feeble remains of a wildfire that has run its course. Nothing more.

There is a long stretch of silence before: “I’m not hungry.” The words are slurred and low, even though Akaza’s enhanced senses pick them up clearly.

“You haven’t eaten all day!” Kyojuro says. “Father—”

“I’m not hungry, Kyojuro,” the man snaps. “Leave me be.”

Akaza bristles, a surge of indignation rising in him, even though his mind hasn’t quite caught up with the emotion just yet.

Ever-patient, Kyojuro says, “You need to take care of your health, Father!” His footsteps move closer before ceramics knock against wood.

“Take care of my health?” Kyojuro’s father echoes, a scoff in his voice. “Have you seen yourself, Kyojuro?”

Akaza sinks his fangs into his cheeks, rage now fully beginning to register and boil in him. This is—this is wrong. The warmth in Kyojuro’s voice, contrasted so crudely by the cruelty in his father’s… it simply doesn’t make any sense. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

“Consider yourself lucky you survived an Upper Moon, Kyojuro,” his father continues. “And quit while you still can. Or it’ll just be a matter of time before this kills you.”

There is a moment of silence from the other side. Kyojuro’s fighting spirit flickers and wanes. Akaza can’t tell if he’s exactly upset, but Kyojuro has certainly never felt this hesitant.

“I won’t quit, Father,” Kyojuro says, quieter this time. “You know that as much as I do!”

There is a laugh, abrasive and mocking. “Do as you will then, Kyojuro,” comes the reply. “Just don’t come to me thinking I’ll change my mind. Everything we have done will all be useless in the end anyway.”

Akaza tracks each inhale and exhale of Kyojuro’s breathing, just on the other side of the room, separated by one flimsy wall. His vision is dark at the corners and he wants nothing more but to kill Kyojuro’s sorry excuse of a father for saying things so goddamn wrong. There he was, his fighting spirit nothing more than a pathetic flicker, weak and disinteresting, and he dared say such things about Kyojuro?

His hands tremble in anger. Akaza takes a step out from behind the wall, enough to glimpse Kyojuro and his father’s back. From behind, he has the same gold-red curls as Kyojuro, his hair even more unruly than his son’s.

Kyojuro’s eyes flicker up, widening when he sees Akaza. A hint of fear passes across his expression before it settles into neutral. He doesn’t say anything, instead jerking his chin towards the side subtly, the intent obvious. Stay back.

Akaza almost doesn’t want to. It would be so easy to cross the room and kill the man. Kyojuro doesn’t have his sword with him; even if he did, he couldn’t stop Akaza. This man is weak and spiteful and undeserving of Kyojuro’s kindness and Akaza wants him to pay. He is everything a father shouldn’t be, he is everything that Kyojuro is not, he is…

“I will leave you to rest, Father!” Kyojuro announces, loud enough to snap Akaza out of his turbulent thoughts. He meets Akaza’s eyes again: a warning. “Please eat some of your dinner. Senjuro’s cooking was very delicious!”

Kyojuro’s father doesn’t even bother acknowledging his son. Before Akaza can feel furious about that as well, Kyojuro crosses the room with a few large strides, snatches Akaza’s wrist with a hand, closes the shoji doors and tugs him away from the engawa at impressive speeds.

They cross the courtyard to where Kyojuro’s room is. It’s only then that Kyojuro stops walking so fast, even if his fighting spirit still pulses brightly, clearly agitated.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says.

Finally, Kyojuro looks at him. Then his gaze flickers down to where he’s still holding Akaza’s wrist. He lets go like a piece of hot coal.

“What were you going to do?” Kyojuro asks, uncharacteristically quiet.

Ah. So Kyojuro was worried about his father? Akaza feels himself sneering at Kyojuro. “What do you think I was going to do? What should I have done?”

Lips thinning, Kyojuro levels Akaza with a look that’s a mix between disappointment and a warning. Then, at last, he slides open the door to his room, squares his shoulders, and gestures inside.

“You’re inviting me in, Kyojuro?”

“You’ll make yourself at home either way!” comes the response, slightly brusque.

So Akaza steps into the room after Kyojuro. It’s unchanged from last night, except there is no longer a sheet of paper on the desk. Kyojuro lights a candle in silence, his fighting spirit flickering restlessly.

“You just tolerate that, Kyojuro?” Akaza finally asks when the silence has gone on for far too long. “Your father couldn’t be more fucking wrong, but you just let him say those things to you?”

“Why does what my father says matter to you?” Kyojuro shoots back.

“Because men like him are pathetic,” Akaza snaps. The fury is back, more wild than ever. “They’re nothing more than a goddamn waste of space—”

“Do not talk about my father like that!” Kyojuro interrupts, anger colouring his voice as well.

Akaza breaks off, surprised at the outburst. Kyojuro looks equally shocked. In a more controlled voice, thin with restraint, he repeats, “Do not assume you know or understand my father based on what you have seen once, Akaza.”

“Then is this an anomaly?” Akaza asks, gestures towards the direction they had come from. “Can you tell me your father has never spoken to you like that? Because I saw how you dealt with him, Kyojuro, and it’s clearly happened more than once.”

The candle flame flickers, touched by the breeze that sweeps in through the open door. Shadow flickers over and across Kyojuro’s face, his expression distant. “Father wasn’t always like this!” he replies.

Akaza exhales, exasperated. “Why are you making so many excuses for him?”

“I’m not making excuses!” Kyojuro says, this time firmer. “He loved us. He loves us. But—after my mother passed, he couldn’t bear the grief.”

For a few moments, Akaza scrutinizes Kyojuro’s face, trying to look for the hint of something—anything—that betrayed what he felt. But Kyojuro says it as if it’s some long-accepted fact, as if it’s something he has already made his peace with. As if it isn’t momentous, as if… Kyojuro’s own loss means little in light of his father’s.

“You’re still making excuses for him,” Akaza snaps, frustrated. “Loss or no loss, whether or not your father loved you, doesn’t make what he’s become any less pathetic.”

“They were soulmates,” Kyojuro says. His eyes narrow slightly. “My mother was his other half. You trample all over human sentiment and emotion, Akaza, so how could you ever comprehend such magnitude of loss?”

Akaza laughs harshly. “Didn’t you lose her too, Kyojuro?” he asks. “I don’t need to be able to comprehend his loss to know that your father is wrong.”

Kyojuro’s lips thin. Then his shoulders slope out of their tense line. “I do not condone my father’s behaviour,” he says at last. “But I have learned to understand his grief. I am not making excuses for him, Akaza, but he is my father and I love him, so I ask that you do not hurt him no matter how much you despise him!”

This isn’t a threat or a command as much as it is a request. Taken aback, Akaza stares blankly at Kyojuro for a few moments.

He’s accustomed to Kyojuro’s hostility and distrust. But… this is neither. Perhaps it was born out of desperation or simply the lack of another choice, but it feels like something more nonetheless. A step forward from the stalemate they’ve been stuck in, and Kyojuro is the one to finally give.

“Alright, Kyojuro,” Akaza relents. “I won’t harm him. You have my word.”

The relief is evident on Kyojuro’s face. Akaza doesn’t understand how he can still love someone who has so clearly hurt him. It feels like self-inflicted punishment, like Kyojuro is resigning himself to a task he doesn’t even want to do in the first place. What a burden, Akaza thinks. If Kyojuro were a demon, he could cut himself free from all these useless weights dragging him down. He wouldn’t have to bear the brunt of his father’s sorrow.

“Thank you, Akaza!” Kyojuro says after a couple beats of silence.

Akaza blinks, other thoughts abruptly forgotten. Kyojuro has said his name many times before, always in that tone of indifference—distant and cold, uncaring. But right now, the shape of his name sounds right from Kyojuro’s lips; warmer than before, something personal. He wants to hear it again.

Instead of repeating his name like Akaza wants him to, Kyojuro sits down in front of his desk. Akaza decides to mirror the movements. Kyojuro doesn’t stop him, though he receives a somewhat questioning glance.

“What happened to your mother?” Akaza asks.

“My mother?” Kyojuro echoes. “Ah, she was sick. The doctor said there was no cure, and her health gradually got worse. She eventually passed away when I was ten.”

She was sick. Something about those words feel familiar. Akaza isn’t sure why. He traces the shape of Kyojuro’s features—looking for a line of grief, a tug of his lips, but Kyojuro’s expression remains stoic. Akaza’s swallows, his throat tight.

“And yet you still think the soul thread is worth it?” Akaza asks. “You’ve seen what it did to your father. What a burden to feel such emotions.”

“It’s not a burden!” Kyojuro argues. “It is a gift to be able to experience such a thing.” He tilts his head at Akaza. “To be honest with you, Akaza, I have never seen a demon that was truly happy with a broken soul thread! They all seemed to be searching for something they could never have.”

Akaza raises his eyebrows. “Such as?”

“You only see the grief and loss from a soul thread,” Kyojuro says. “But it’s so much more than that. Like…the first bite of a meal you’re looking forward to! Or seeing the buds first bloom after winter, or when you’re re-acquainted with the people you love after a long time…” He looks at Akaza, serious and wide-eyed. “Without a soul thread, you’re empty. And no matter what you do, you can’t fill that emptiness.”

“Emptiness is easy to fill, Kyojuro,” Akaza laughs. “Neither am I missing anything. You say I can’t comprehend the magnitude of human loss. Perhaps it’s because I can see all the things that are more important.”

“Like strength?” Kyojuro asks, a faint hint of hopeless amusement in his voice.

Akaza smiles back. “See? You’re beginning to learn as well.”

Still, a seed of curiosity has been lodged rather uncomfortably in his chest. Akaza doesn’t particularly want any of the things Kyojuro has described. Human food has no appeal to him. He’s seen so many seasons following seasons that the arrival of one or another isn’t anything special. There is no one Akaza has ever particularly looked forward to seeing again. So he doesn’t understand how Kyojuro can speak of those things so highly, but… part of him wants to at least know why.

Then the thought hits him, rather sudden and unpleasant. All this talk of soulmates, and—

“Have you met your soulmate?” Akaza asks.

Another beat of silence. Then, “Not yet!”

Surprised, Akaza stares at Kyojuro. For someone who has spoken so fondly of soul threads and soulmates, Akaza had assumed those words would be stemming from experience rather than expectation or assumption.

But then again, the thought of Kyojuro having already met his soulmate—having met the person who he believes is meant to be his other half and complete him…it also leaves a sour taste in Akaza’s mouth.

It’s all sentiment, of course. Akaza pictures a faceless somebody, someone Kyojuro would easily love, to whom all of Kyojuro’s longing and affection belongs, and he already hates them, wants them dead. Such human things tethering Kyojuro down to mortality. Such weakness. As a demon, by Akaza’s side, he could be so much more.

“You seem very surprised!” Kyojuro’s voice breaks through his thoughts, leaning forward over his desk. “I don’t see you speechless very often, Akaza!”

“It is rather surprising,” Akaza replies, biting down a crueller response he is half-tempted to give. “You speak so highly of soul threads and soulmates and yet you haven’t even met yours.”

“I will wait!” Kyojuro replies, the words confident, “However long I have to!”

How funny. Kyojuro makes it sound so simple, but Akaza had been a hairbreadth from killing him a month ago. As a slayer, as a Hashira, he was on borrowed time, no matter how brilliant and strong he was. Did he even have the luxury of waiting?

Akaza lets out a laugh, and even to his own ears, it sounds mocking. “They certainly are lucky, whoever they are,” he replies.

Something ugly still storms in his chest after the conversation drifts off to an end. Akaza can’t shake off the thought of Kyojuro belonging to someone else, soul thread and fate be damned. It’s only a few seconds later that he registers the blood in his mouth, spilling out from where he had sunk his fangs into his cheeks.

Abruptly, Akaza gets to his feet. Kyojuro’s eyes immediately follow his movements, alert.

“Are you leaving?” he asks.

Between what had happened with Kyojuro’s father and all of this pointless talk of soulmates, Akaza is suddenly too restless to stay here and continue their little facade of civility. He wants to feel bone break beneath his fists, taste the metallic scent of blood, and have the pulse and burn of battle.

“Will you ask me to stay?” Akaza replies, derisive over the fact that he already knows what Kyojuro will say.

Kyojuro’s jaw tightens. He does not give an answer, which is one in its own right.

Because at the end of the day, one instance of Kyojuro’s gratitude means nothing. Even Akaza’s name is a curse to him. Akaza had almost forgotten for a moment.

He turns to leave. Something in his ribcage feels stretched taut unpleasantly, a storm of unease that Akaza has no reason to be feeling.

He doesn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Kyojuro rolls over to his side on the futon, restless.

It’s been some time since Akaza had left—perhaps an hour or so. Kyojuro had gone off to bed very soon after, but sleep now lingers just out of reach.

Attributing it to the summer heat would’ve been easier, but as it is, tonight is quite temperate and Kyojuro’s room has been cooled down substantially by the breeze. Rather, he lays awake, thoughts circling back to Akaza like a fly to sugar, making Kyojuro too uneasy to hope to fall asleep.

He replays their conversation over and over, his mind sifting through the details, trying and failing to make sense of Akaza’s behavior.

Akaza had clearly been upset—or at least irritated—about something when he left. Kyojuro can only think it’s the talk of soul threads and soulmates that had been the cause. Although now that he thinks about it carefully, the last time they had discussed it, Akaza had been more mocking than upset.

Then there was Akaza’s hatred for what he deemed weak, except Kyojuro still couldn’t put a finger down on what exactly Akaza believed constituted weakness. And yet despite Akaza’s hatred, he had let Kocho live, he had agreed that he wouldn’t harm Shinjuro.

The question eddies in Kyojuro’s mind, inexplicable. Why. Everything Akaza does feels more and more like a mystery and a half. If he had been human, Kyojuro could perhaps be convinced that Akaza’s restraint was because he cared about Kyojuro. But Akaza is a demon, and Kyojuro has seen evidence of his callousness and cruelty firsthand. He cannot attribute human sentiment to the demon who denies it with both word and action.

Obsession, Kocho had warned him, and now the warning rings back twofold. Akaza is obsessive in many things he says and does towards Kyojuro. But there are also some things that Kyojuro isn’t quite sure obsession covers.

With a sigh, he turns underneath the blankets again, rolling over so that he’s facing the open window. The pale gleam of the moon greets Kyojuro. Even after he closes his eyes he still sees its light imprinted at the back of his lids.

You speak so highly of soul threads and soulmates and yet you haven’t even met yours, Akaza had said, his face twisted in a sneer, the words spat out like half an accusation.

Will you ask me to stay?

Kyojuro breathes in slowly, deeply. He wonders if Akaza knows what he had looked like when he had asked that question, said so differently from his usual teasing. As if—Kyojuro wasn’t a slayer and he wasn’t Upper Moon Three. He feels cold just recalling it. He must draw the line where Akaza does not. Keep his head above the water even when it feels like Akaza is dragging him down to drown.

But as Kyojuro finally begins to drift off, exhaustion blurs the conversation with Akaza in his head until only pieces and edges remain in Kyojuro’s semi-consciousness. In this in-between state, his mind somehow stitches together the visage of a monster walking in the borrowed disguise of a human’s appearance. Akaza’s voice, now-familiar, repeats the sound of a memory.

Will you ask me to stay?

I can’t, Kyojuro replies. Because it’s not you who I’m waiting for.

Eyes like the moon, framed by broken pieces of glass. Kyojuro doesn’t know who he’s waiting for either.

“You can start practicing your forms!” Kocho informs Kyojuro during his checkup. “Just make sure you do all the breathing exercises I showed you, and make sure you don’t practice for too long. Or else you’ll strain your ribs and they may take even longer to heal!”

“Thank you, Kocho!” Kyojuro exclaims. “I will make sure that I am being careful!”

Kocho looks rather skeptical. Rightfully so. Kyojuro had not obeyed her instructions the last time he got sent to the infirmary—but, in his defense, those injuries had been much less severe. “Yes, that is the goal!” she says. “If you feel any acute pain, Rengoku-san, it is best you stop immediately and come for a check-up. Some aching and discomfort may be unavoidable, though.”

Kyojuro nods. He will do his best to follow Kocho’s instructions. She seems tired as it is, and he doesn’t want to create more work for her. Besides, with her wrist still healing from the fracture caused by Akaza, the Corps is effectively down two Hashira.

“Did Akaza visit you?” Kocho asks as she begins putting away her equipment with her one functional hand. Kyojuro gets up to try to help, only for her to wave at him to sit back down.

“Yes!” he says. “Twice, actually!”

“I’m not surprised he found you,” Kocho replies. “Is there anything new about him that I should report to Oyakata-sama?”

Kyojuro thinks about it. “Ah! He told me that he does not kill women!”

Kocho’s eyebrows raise. “He does not kill women,” she repeats, looking even more skeptical than when Kyojuro had promised he would be careful with his wounds. “Really!”

“I asked Akaza why he did not kill you,” Kyojuro admits. “And that is what he told me.”

Her lips twisting into a frown, Kocho looks down at the cast on her arm. “I see,” she says.

Concerned, Kyojuro tries to read her expression. He decides to reach over to pat Kocho’s shoulder. “Please don’t take what the demon said about you before to heart, Kocho!”

“Oh, I know,” Kocho says, letting out a little laugh. “We have much bigger problems to worry about than Upper Moon Three’s eating habits, which we may actually be able to play to our favor. Although I do wonder how vigilant he is with following this principle!” She shakes her head. “Ah, I’m digressing. Your family has been alright, Rengoku-san?”

Kyojuro nods. Then, after a bit of hesitation, he decides to tell Kocho about the conversation he had with Akaza about his father, his mother, and soulmates.

When he finishes, Kocho has a troubled look on her face. “I would advise you to be careful, Rengoku-san,” she says, her smile gone for once. “Demons are territorial creatures to begin with, and if Akaza is obsessed with you, I wouldn’t put it past him to act on more dangerous impulses sooner or later. He could start hurting or killing the people around you. Make sure to keep your family as far away from Akaza as possible and do not divulge any information about them to the demon!”

Kyojuro assures her that he will, although he can’t help but wonder. He had felt reassured in spite of everything when Akaza promised not to harm his father last night. Now he doesn’t know how much weight he can assign to those words. And even if he’s insured his father’s safety, what about everyone else he cares about? Is he to list them out one by one to Akaza and place a fool's hope in hoping that Upper Moon Three will be softhearted enough to leave them be?

“And yourself, Rengoku-san,” Kocho says, snapping Kyojuro out of his thoughts. “Don’t forget that his target has always been you! Do not let your guard down.”

“I won’t, Kocho!” he promises.

He touches the sword, now strapped back to his hip, and decides not to also tell Kocho that the one thing he won’t ask of Akaza is sparing Kyojuro’s own life.

Kyojuro is not in his room when Akaza comes to visit him the following night. Rather, Akaza finds him outside in the garden, holding a bokken in his hands as he goes through the forms of Flame Breathing with slow but steady movements.

Although he must have noticed Akaza, Kyojuro doesn’t redirect his focus. So for a while, they remain unspeaking. He listens to the faint whoosh of air as Kyojuro’s bokken glides through the air, surety in each swing; the methodic sound of his breaths; the on-and-off song of cicadas in the near distance. The grass is soft beneath Akaza’s feet, the night air cool.

Just for a little while, his mind feels quiet too. Kyojuro’s fighting spirit has become comfortably familiar to Akaza nowadays, and he enjoys the feeling of being so close to its warmth.

The bokken stops. The cicadas resume. Kyojuro turns to face Akaza, though he doesn’t speak immediately even after their gazes meet.

Akaza is well-aware that the last time they had seen each other had been sharp with tension and distrust and derision. He tries not to think of it now: Kyojuro’s nameless, faceless soulmate, someone Akaza already hates beyond words can convey. Kyojuro’s misguided affection for them makes him softhearted in all the places Akaza wants to cut out of him.

But he’s not here to argue about that today. Swallowing down each angry word, Akaza smiles at Kyojuro instead. “You’re well enough to train?”

“Yes!” Kyojuro exclaims. “Kocho informed me that I could begin to practice, as long as I was careful with my ribs!”

He eyes Akaza after mentioning the Insect Hashira’s name. Akaza feels amused. “I’m not going to lose my temper just because you said her name, Kyojuro,” he points out.

“Well!” Kyojuro replies, sounding unconvinced. “You have before!”

Akaza remembers belatedly that he, in fact, had.

“How much longer will it take for your wounds to heal fully?”

“You are changing the topic!” Kyojuro says. Before Akaza can even open his mouth to protest, he continues, “Kocho said that it should be at least another three weeks before I can take on missions again. Perhaps longer.”

“You’re mentioning her name on purpose now, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro lets out a faint laugh. It’s brief and Akaza has barely heard enough before Kyojuro stops laughing, but… it had been genuine. Bright and cheerful and—

Akaza shakes his head. He feels strange.

“She is my doctor!” Kyojuro is saying. “All my diagnoses are from her, so I’m simply mentioning her where credit is due!”

Now Akaza definitely has had enough of Kocho Shinobu. “Show me your forms again, Kyojuro.”

The faint amusement on Kyojuro’s face dissipates. He looks at Akaza, questioning. “What for!”

“I like to see you fight.”

“I do not think it would be very wise of me to show my enemy my sword forms!” Kyojuro says. “Have you ever heard of a tactical advantage, Akaza?”

Enemy. Of course; Kyojuro is a Hashira and Akaza is Upper Moon Three. They are enemies, written by blood and oath and fate. But it certainly hasn’t felt like that in the past month, where Kyojuro’s distrust and wariness has been blunted down to something just a little less sharp. And Akaza won’t kill him—not now. Not yet.

(When? his mind whispers. It’s easy now. Take Kyojuro’s throat; crush it beneath his fingers. Tear out his heart and feel its beat caged in Akaza’s palms.

Not now. Not yet. He can, but he won’t.)

“I have already seen most of your sword forms,” Akaza replies, shaking useless thoughts away. “When we fought, you performed six different forms. I still remember what they were like. It won’t make a difference in your tactical advantages if you show them to me now, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro’s frown deepens a little bit. He ponders for a few more moments before he says, “I will show you my first form today if you grant me a request in return!”

Akaza laughs. “Fair’s fair, Kyojuro,” he replies, shifting his weight. “What do you want?”

“I want your word,” Kyojuro says, “that for every night you visit me, you are not permitted to hunt or eat any humans.”

Predictable of him, really, so Akaza isn’t sure why he feels so taken back. Then again, he thinks back to every time Kyojuro has asked will you kill me?—how it was never a question as much as it was a statement and nothing but stoic acceptance behind Kyojuro’s tone. He wasn’t asking for his life as much as he was asking about it.

Kyojuro is lucky Akaza has no interest in killing him right now, despite his miraculously nonexistent self-preservation and his tendency to worry about everyone but himself.

“Okay, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “You have my word.”

“Can I trust you to keep your word?”

“I will keep it,” Akaza says. The words feel thick on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t know why.

Kyojuro’s eyes flicker over his face, searching. Whether or not he believes Akaza is difficult to tell, because he nods. “Alright!” he exclaims. “I will show you my first form, then.”

Akaza takes a seat on the grass, settling back on the heel of his palms so he can look up at Kyojuro. The soft blades tickle his skin, a little bit dewy from the humidity in the night air.

Kyojuro draws back into stance. Akaza traces the outline of his figure, the warm flickering of his fighting spirit. Even dressed down in a yukata, hair untied and holding nothing but a wooden sword, Rengoku Kyojuro is brighter than anything else Akaza remembers seeing. In his memories, Akaza has never known the sun—his life always started from when he became a demon.

But Kyojuro is familiar, like something that runs deeper than memory, something carved right into bone, even though Akaza has no conscious recollection of why.

“The first form of Flame Breathing is called Unknowing Fire,” Kyojuro explains, pulling Akaza from his thoughts. “Like its name, it’s meant to utilize speed to strike the opponent before they are able to react!”

Ah, Akaza remembers that one. Kyojuro had been fast—in the blink of an eye, he had closed the distance to slash at Akaza’s neck. Not quite fast enough to succeed, but it would’ve been deadly for most lesser demons, and perhaps even some of the Lower Moons.

Kyojuro performs it much slower this time; probably minding his injuries. Still, the strokes of his sword are smooth and steady. The wooden bokken has scratches and scars all over its surface yet Kyojuro still wields it like a second limb, with an easy grace like it has fit right in the palm of his hands from the start.

Akaza wants to fight him again, to feel the sharpness of Kyojuro’s sword slicing through skin and muscle and bone, making him feel so alive. He can almost feel the rush of adrenaline and excitement. The last thing he wants to do is wait.

But wait he does. Kyojuro lowers his bokken and turns to face Akaza.

Akaza meets his eyes and smiles. “You would truly be magnificent as a demon, Kyojuro,” he says.

In the beginning, Kyojuro used to tense at any mention of becoming a demon. Today, he fixes Akaza with a pointed look. “You have a very active imagination!” Then he begins to head back towards the open door to his room.

Akaza hops to his feet to chase after Kyojuro until their arms are just shy of touching, in-step. “Show me another form, Kyojuro.”

“If you come tomorrow night,” Kyojuro says, “perhaps I will consider it!”

For every night you visit me, you are not permitted to hunt or eat any humans, Akaza recalls.

He grins. Of course that would be the reason Kyojuro is trying to maximize Akaza’s visits.

But he doesn’t mind playing along, so he leans even closer and flashes his fangs at Kyojuro. “Because you asked me so sweetly, Kyojuro, I will.”

Kyojuro does not show him another form when Akaza comes to find him the next night. Instead, he’s sitting inside his room, writing something on a sheet of parchment paper.

“I have already done my training routine!” he tells Akaza. “Perhaps you will catch me in time tomorrow!”

Akaza briefly considers eating someone just to spite Kyojuro, but he had given his word, so now he has to honor it.

He spends much of the next night searching for the Blue Spider Lily. When Akaza returns to the Rengoku Estate, it’s nearly dawn and Kyojuro is asleep inside his room, so he leaves to find a place to wait out the sun.

The following night, Kyojuro is already waiting for him in the gardens of his home. With a touch of delight, Akaza recognizes that the sword strapped to Kyojuro’s hip isn’t the bokken, but rather his real blade. He wears a loose, cream-colored yukata that flutters in the night breeze. Not entirely recovered just yet, but clearly improving, if the switch to his real blade means anything.

“Kyojuro!” he greets.

“Where were you yesterday?” Kyojuro asks, always cutting directly to the chase.

Akaza had spent a few miserable hours searching for a flower he isn’t even sure exists with no avail. Kyojuro is clearly assuming much worse.

“Did you miss me?” he replies instead.

“No! I would just like to know if you killed anyone.”

So blunt. Akaza laughs and decides to stop teasing. “No, Kyojuro,” he says. “I was searching for something.”

He receives a skeptical look. “Searching for what?”

“I can’t tell you,” Akaza replies. Then, because he really does not want to discuss the Blue Spider Lily right now with Kyojuro, he asks, “Are you going to show me a new form today?”

Kyojuro evaluates him, like he’s taking to make a decision. Then he shakes his head. “You won’t tell me, so I don’t see why I should show you a new form!” he says cheerfully.

Akaza stares at his retreating figure as his mind tries to decide if he’s frustrated or amused. Or both.

“What will you do when you meet your soulmate?” Akaza asks one night.

He hasn’t touched on the topic ever since a week ago when Kyojuro had spoken about his parents. Akaza hasn’t seen Kyojuro’s father again either and hasn’t tried to bring him up. He isn’t too keen on revisiting that conversation with Kyojuro, who extends his care and sentiment to all the wrong people. A father who Kyojuro could only speak of in once-has’s; a soulmate who he has never met, never known. They are nothing but a waste of Kyojuro’s time.

It still drags up that angry, ugly feeling inside Akaza, but curiosity wins over so Akaza had asked the question despite the fact that he’s pretty certain he’ll despise whatever answer it is that Kyojuro gives.

“When I meet my soulmate,” Kyojuro echoes after a couple of seconds. “What do you mean by that!”

“Will you quit being a Hashira?” Akaza asks. “You could die in the line of duty, after all.”

“Ah,” Kyojuro says, giving him a slightly wry look. “You could kill me!”

“There are other Upper Moons.”

“So you won’t kill me?”

“You’re changing the topic, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro goes silent for a few moments, his expression thoughtful. “I won’t quit!” he finally says. “I hope, whoever they are, will understand that when the time comes.” He flexes his fingers open, palms resting against his knees. “But I will uphold my duty and keep my promise, above everything else!”

Akaza doesn’t know how to feel about Kyojuro’s words. Perhaps it’s a good thing to know that he won’t throw everything behind him—his skill, his strength—for his soulmate, but…

He thinks of Kyojuro, body mangled like too many corpses Akaza has grown accustomed to, and he finds that he can’t quite bring himself to accept that image. Eyes unseeing, hands slack. Kyojuro would be so wrong dressed in the sheer finality that comes with death, because everything about him has always felt so alive.

“Why do you ask me, Akaza?” Kyojuro is saying.

Akaza flashes his fangs at Kyojuro, baring his teeth in a grin. “I don’t want to see you give up all of your potential for something so insignificant, of course.”

“It is not insignificant!” Kyojuro argues back immediately. “But no, neither will I give up being a Hashira. Not until Kibutsuji is gone and all demons have been eradicated.”

“Hm,” Akaza hums, leaving forward until he and Kyojuro are inches apart. “Starting with me?”

To Kyojuro’s credit, he does not shrink back. “Starting with you!” he replies.

Akaza can’t help but grin. “I am looking forward to it, Kyojuro.”

“Come see me in a week,” Kocho had said to him. “I believe you should be able to go on missions then, but I will do one final check up!”

A week before he heads back out on mission. It feels soon, but also painfully long. It’s been nearing two months since he had been hospitalized, and while Kyojuro knows that the wait is necessary, it still leaves him restless on most days. Two months could be life and death for many people; though the Hashira’s patrol regions have been redistributed in his absence, they are already spread thin as it is. With Kocho also out of commission, there are even more demon attacks slipping through their fingers. More casualties that could have been prevented.

Tonight, Kyojuro waits outside again. It’s become a little bit of a habit these days. As the sun sets and the world settles into sleep, Kyojuro rises to prepare himself for Akaza’s arrival. Save the few nights where he claims to be searching for something he keeps secret from Kyojuro, Akaza has always visited without fail.

It had put Kyojuro on edge for a few weeks at the hospital, and then the wariness came back in full force when he returned to the Rengoku Estate. Now, again, it ebbs like the tide; he is still wary, still on-guard, but far less than before. Kyojuro is beginning to see predictability in the parts of Akaza that had once been a mystery to him. And despite his angry words, Akaza has yet to harm anyone, which Kyojuro begrudgingly admits is impressive for a demon.

Of course, Akaza is Upper Moon Three—though he is bound to have more control over his impulses, his rank itself is a testament of how many people he has killed to obtain his position. Still, there are odd moments when Kyojuro finds himself looking at Akaza and remembering that sometime long ago, he had been human once too. Sometimes he tries to imagine it: Akaza with his soul thread unbroken, less cold and less cruel. It is a picture of impossibility, Kyojuro knows, even as he can’t help but wonder if Akaza would have once looked like the man he met back in the streets of the small town, the air smelling like smoke from the fireworks. Dark hair, dark eyes, skin unmarred by the demonic tattoos.

When Kyojuro does a check of his house, both his father and his brother are asleep already. It’s a small blessing, he supposes, that neither of them have stumbled across Akaza yet. Kyojuro is glad that he’ll finally be reinstated for duty the following week. It resolves many of the things he has been concerned about, one of which being keeping his family away from Akaza.

It’s much colder in the nighttime now with autumn fast-approaching. Some of the leaves have begun to yellow at the edges, though not many have begun to fall just yet. Kyojuro settles down on the grass, his sword resting over his thighs, and begins to go through his breathing exercises.

His lungs no longer ache at each inhale—only during the deepest of breaths. Kyojuro casts out his focus and begins to work through his breathing.

There is a soft thump of someone’s weight landing on the grass. Kyojuro doesn’t turn towards the source of the sound and continues his exercise. Akaza is enough of a habit that Kyojuro can keep him in his periphery on most nights, but still too much of a wildcard to ignore entirely.

“Good evening, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, voice silky. “Are you going to practice your forms today?”

Kyojuro turns to face him. “I am!” he exclaims. “Now, in fact.”

Akaza’s gaze slides down to the sword in Kyojuro’s lap. He looks faintly contemplative for a moment before he says, “Spar with me, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro frowns, taken aback. “Spar with you?”

Gesturing at Kyojuro to stand, Akaza moves closer. “You need practice, don’t you?” he asks. “Let’s spar, then.”

Kyojuro is not entirely sure what he’s to make of this. Spar is not the same as fight and Akaza has been telling Kyojuro the past few weeks that he wants to fight with Kyojuro after he’s healed, but…

Friendly sparring with his comrades and friends at the Corps is entirely different from doing it with Upper Moon Three. He trusts them to pull their swings, to make sure they don’t hurt each other in practice. But Akaza?

He must have hesitated for too long, because Akaza lets out a small laugh. “I’m not going to hurt you, Kyojuro,” he says. “I’ve been watching you all these weeks. I’m aware of your limitations right now.”

Akaza has always been observant when it comes to Kyojuro. And of course, there was also the fact that the demon probably would’ve killed him a long time ago if that had been his plan in the first place.

Metal sings as Kyojuro draws his sword from the sheathe, turning so he is face-to-face with Akaza.

He can feel the beat of his own heart beneath his ribcage, the thrum of his soul thread. For a moment, Kyojuro traces the features of the demon in front of him: the curve of his jaw, the way his lashes sweep over his cheeks when he blinks, the unnatural brightness behind his gaze.

A patchwork of a human stitched into a monster, he had once thought when he had seen Akaza. It still holds true, but now Kyojuro realizes that perhaps what he once thought was a mimicry of human likeness was actually glimpses of the human Akaza had once been. Before Kibutsuji’s blood had transformed him into a monster.

Akaza tilts his head. “Just do what you were doing before, Kyojuro,” he encourages. “I’ll match your swings.”

In an ideal world, Kyojuro is not spending all of his nights with the enemy. In an ideal world, he has already killed Akaza and is not trapped in this inexplicable stalemate with him. Upper Moon Three is not the most frequent company he has had in years, either.

But instead, Kyojuro bites down on any selfish discomfort or guilt that builds. He has resolved himself to whatever it takes to minimize any carnage, any destruction left in Akaza’s wake. If keeping Akaza close means keeping Akaza away from hurting anyone else, then it is an easy decision to make.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza repeats, an invitation.

So Kyojuro complies. A slowed, sweeping arc of his blade forward, which Akaza blocks and redirects with the back of his hands.

He’s barely using a fraction of his strength and for a moment Kyojuro wonders if it had been accidental. Then when Kyojuro swings again and Akaza guides the blow down with the same tight control he used before, he realizes that it had been entirely purposeful. Focus is scribbled all over Akaza’s features as if he’s doing his best to keep the force out of his fists.

For some time, they continue the slow spar, trading methodic blows. When Kyojuro has gotten comfortable with their pace, Akaza begins to change from the defensive to offensive. His fist meets the metal as Kyojuro is forced to shift back and block—but never hard enough to hurt.

Time bleeds and blurs. The night is silent except for the soft clangs of metal. Kyojuro forgets, if just for a moment, who it is that he’s sparing with. Just that he is, and every stroke of metal through the air feels right, his breaths mixing with Akaza’s, like lock and key.

Akaza’s eyes glow at Kyojuro, their brightness a rival to the moon. Kyojuro’s chest is suddenly inexplicably tight.

It doesn’t quite feel like it’s caused by his injuries. He doesn’t know what it is.

The sharp edge of his blade meets the skin of Akaza’s forearm as he blocks the blow. Instead of redirecting like he has been doing before, Akaza stops completely. Metal sinks into flesh to form a shallow cut before Kyojuro pulls his sword away, the wound healing as he retreats.

“You’re straining yourself, Kyojuro,” he says. “You’re not completely healed yet, you should take a break.”

Inexplicable. What sort of demon noticed a slayer’s injuries and told them to rest?

But since Akaza has done and said even more perplexing things and followed through with all of them, Kyojuro lowers his blade. “How can you tell!”

“You’re adjusting your movements,” comes the response. “Compensating for when you feel pain. It’s subtle, but I can see where you’re shifting your swing, and how it’s changed from the beginning.”

Two months ago, Kyojuro would’ve been incredibly put-off by how Akaza was so observant of these minor details. Surely, wouldn’t doesn't bode well for anyone fighting him. Now, he files it away in his mind to keep track of in the future. One more thing he must be watchful for.

He sheathes his sword and steps away from Akaza. “Kocho is thinking that I am able to return to duty in a week’s time!” he decides to tell Akaza.

Akaza blinks. “Already?”

“It has been two months!” Kyojuro exclaims. “What do you mean by ‘already’!”

“A week still isn’t enough time for you to fully heal. You’ll be limited by your injuries.”

“Yes, I am sure you recall the reason why!” Kyojuro can’t help but say.

He turns heel and begins heading towards his room, already knowing Akaza will be right behind him.

Sure enough, Akaza chases after him without pause. “Where will you be going?”

“Kaname will inform me where I am needed!”

“Kaname?”

“My Kasugai crow,” Kyojuro explains, setting his sword against the wall.

“Ah,” Akaza muses, half to himself. “I think I saw him when we first met.”

He says it like he’s recalling a fond memory. Kyojuro wonders if he should remind Akaza again that getting multiple ribs broken was in fact not an incredibly pleasant experience on his side.

“What I mean is that you will no longer need to come to the estate!” Kyojuro says. “I will not be here.”

The realization finally seems to dawn on Akaza. The corners of his lips tug down into a frown before he finally says, “Let me accompany you on your missions, then.”

Kyojuro blinks. He had not expected Akaza to be so straightforward. But then again, Akaza never speaks in a roundabout way. Kyojuro is half convinced he isn’t capable of doing so.

When he doesn’t reply immediately, Akaza prompts, “Kyojuro?”

“My missions are for slaying demons,” Kyojuro says. “You are a demon! Are you going to stand by and watch me kill your kind? Or will you stop me?” He hesitates. “When I am finally back on duty, Akaza, is that when you will finally try to kill me again?”

Akaza’s expression darkens. “Why do you keep on asking me when I will kill you?”

“Are you not going to?” Kyojuro presses. “Do you mean to stay around me until you convince me to become a demon? You should know by now that I have made up my mind.”

“The most stubborn minds that have been made up can still be changed,” Akaza says. “Nothing about you humans is eternal, Kyojuro. Even if you think it is.”

“Yes, nothing is eternal,” Kyojuro replies. “But the same goes for demons as well. While you may live for a few centuries longer than a human, eventually, one day you will die too. And you will have left nothing behind! No one to miss you, no one to mourn you. Or to remember you.”

“I don’t care about those things,” Akaza snaps sharply. He leans forward on his haunches so that the two of them are close, inches apart, a low snarl building in his throat. “I have been alive for centuries and no one has come close to killing me, Kyojuro. Don’t mistake your own mortality with mine. I am the one who has eternity and you do not.”

Kyojuro thinks of his father’s grief and his mother’s absence; Senjuro’s timid footfalls around the house when he used to run around so carefree and loud.

“I do not want eternity, Akaza,” Kyojuro says quietly. “And I am glad that I do not have it.”

Silence stretches between them, taut with tension. Kyojuro finds that he cannot read Akaza’s expression when he is usually an open book.

Not for the first time, he wonders about what lies behind Akaza’s words. Many demons have gloated over their long life, their strength, their ability to heal. Some had been sick in their human lives. Others had been weak. What forgotten memories motivate Akaza’s strange insistence on eternity?

“What do you need eternity for, Akaza?” Kyojuro asks.

Akaza sits back, and as the distance widens again between them, Kyojuro suddenly realizes that he looks oddly stricken. Eyes wide but unseeing, Akaza’s exhale trembles slightly when it passes through his lips.

At last, he says, “To get stronger, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro does not tell him how hollow the words sound. He wonders if Akaza knows as well. Or if repetition has numbed the emptiness into something to be looked over.

Even if Kyojuro could bring himself to forgive Akaza, the forgiveness is not his to offer. As it is, he can’t—not with the reminder etched right into Akaza’s eyes, each stroke of the kanji paid by lifeblood.

Still, he can’t help but feel a little sad. If not for Akaza but for the human he once was. Although pity is useless, it stirs in Kyojuro’s chest anyway.

“We are digressing, Akaza,” he says. “You may accompany me on missions if you promise me a few things!”

The anger fades entirely from Akaza—from both his expression and his body language. Instead, he smiles. “What is it?”

Kyojuro raises one finger. “You cannot interfere with my missions!” he says. Then he raises a second finger. “And if you wish to accompany me, you are not to harm any humans!”

“The first won’t be an issue,” Akaza says slowly. “I have no interest in meddling with the life or death of weak demons. But I can only go so long without eating, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro frowns. He knows that newborn demons often emerge starving and mindless, guided by instincts of hunger and fear. “How long?”

“A month,” Akaza replies. “Two, perhaps. The longer it is, the less control I will have.” He shrugs his shoulders, nonchalant. “Then I will not discriminate who it is that I kill to eat. Is that what you want, Kyojuro?”

He suppresses a shudder at the thought. A newborn demon already leaves behind considerable carnage to satiate their appetite. If someone as strong as Akaza were to do the same thing…

“No!” he exclaims. “But while you are traveling with me, I do not wish for you to kill anyone.”

Akaza tilts his head. “Would it ease your conscience if I did not tell you when and whom I eat?” he asks, like it’s as simple as that. Perhaps it is for him. “Or if I only eat those you humans would deem deserving of death?”

“This is not about my conscience!” Kyojuro says. “Nor am I here to play judge, jury or executioner about who is deserving of death. That is not your role either!”

Akaza smiles again, sharp and wide so that Kyojuro can see the gleam of his fangs. “What about the husband who murders his wife to hide his affair?” he asks. “Or the father who beats his son black and blue and then threatens him to lie about his bruises?” He tilts his head. “Or the thief who broke into an old woman’s house to steal her heirlooms, then pushed her down the stairs when she caught him?”

Kyojuro has a creeping suspicion that all of these scenarios are too specific to be made-up examples. “Are you telling me that you have only killed those you deem deserving of death?”

“No,” Akaza replies. He says it lightly, as if they are conversing over dinner. “But you are the one feeling unnecessarily guilty over who I will hunt and eat, so I thought I would make it easier for you.”

The worst part is that Akaza truly thinks he’s coming from a place of twisted sincerity. That he really is making things easier for Kyojuro, assuaging his guilt as if this were about Kyojuro in the first place.

That’s the problem, Kyojuro thinks, weary. Akaza is revolving his decisions and actions around Kyojuro. He sees no issue in murdering anyone, deserving or not, but will choose to be selective because he thinks it eases Kyojuro’s conscience. Not because of right or wrong. In doing so, Kyojuro can’t help but feel the responsibility of the lives Akaza has taken and will take lie even heavier on his shoulders.

But Kyojuro can bear that weight if it means mediating worse outcomes.

“Eat only when you must, Akaza,” Kyojuro finally says. “Just so that you don’t lose yourself to your hunger!” He pauses. “And when you do, I want you to tell me. I do not want you to lie or omit the truth to ease my conscience, because it won’t!”

For a moment, Akaza looks like he may disagree. He sets his jaw, clearly thinking over what Kyojuro has said.

It really is just a formality. If Akaza wanted to, he could follow Kyojuro around without agreeing to any of the conditions Kyojuro had listed. But Akaza has a strange habit of asking for permission for things, so Kyojuro figures he might as well try to play it to his advantage.

To his relief, Akaza nods. “Alright, Kyojuro,” he says. Then he lets out a laugh, this one sharp. “Didn’t expect you to be such a masochist.”

“I must hold you accountable for the lives you take,” Kyojuro says. “I cannot do that if I am purposefully turning a blind eye!”

Before Akaza can reply, footsteps sound outside his door—quiet and timid; Senjuro’s. Akaza turns his head to look towards the direction, his eyes narrowing.

“Aniue?” Senjuro calls. “Is someone here?”

Warily, Kyojuro glances at Akaza. Although he’s pretty much paid Senjuro no heed, Kyojuro is aware that if Akaza wanted to, he could hurt Senjuro easily. And even if he doesn’t, he’s not sure how he’s supposed to explain what Upper Moon Three is doing in his bedroom if his brother comes in.

“No!” Kyojuro replies, then gestures at the shoji doors leading outside and mouths go at Akaza. “I am talking to myself!”

Akaza’s shoulders relax, something more playful slipping onto his face. He leans forward until he is right by Kyojuro’s ear, close enough that Kyojuro can feel the puffs of air when he speaks.

“You’re a terrible liar, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, voice low and velvet. Kyojuro has to fight down a shiver.

Before he can reply, Akaza hops lightly to his feet. He brushes his fingers over Kyojuro’s shoulder—brief and barely-there, their skin separated by nothing but the thin fabric of Kyojuro’s yukata. He is aware of how close Akaza’s hands are to his throat, how the demon could crush his neck so easily in an instant. He draws away instead. “I’ll see you soon.”

Less than a second later, he’s gone. Kyojuro sits still for a few seconds before he hears the floorboards creak and remembers that Senjuro is still outside.

“Come in!” he calls.

The door slides open and his brother peeks in, eyes wide as he surveys Kyojuro’s room—perhaps looking for an intruder and seeing none.

“Why is your door open, Aniue?” Senjuro asks, gesturing to the one that Akaza had just left through. “Do you still find it too hot?”

Kyojuro follows the direction Senjuro is pointing at. A faint breeze, now much cooler than a month before, curls through the room.

“Ah, we can close it!” he says, smiling at his brother. “I suppose having it open made me feel like it would be summer for a little longer!”

Chapter Text

A crescent moon hangs low in the sky as Akaza makes his way to the Rengoku Estate.

Kyojuro is officially back on duty and he’s supposed to head out for his first mission today. The thought of traveling with Kyojuro is a rather exciting one. Akaza finds himself anticipating it as he counts down the days until zero. He’s long since become accustomed to traveling alone to search for the Blue Spider Lily. Akaza had never minded it, except these days, nights always feel a little emptier without the warmth of Kyojuro’s fighting spirit.

He finds Kyojuro waiting for him just outside the town. As Akaza draws closer, he sees that Kyojuro is once again dressed in his uniform, haori fluttering gently in the wind. Ever-alert, he tilts his head when he sees Akaza, although he’s long since shed the habit of reaching for his sword.

Akaza takes him in, starting to smile. He’s reminded of the first time he had seen Kyojuro, standing out against the crowd of people. The uniform looks right on Kyojuro. It matches his fighting spirit; strong and steady, the perfect image of what a slayer should be like.

“Good evening!” Kyojuro says. He hadn’t always greeted Akaza. He used to just look at Akaza like he was contemplating running him through with his sword. Admittedly, he still does that sometimes. Just a lot less.

“Good evening, Kyojuro,” Akaza replies. “Where are we headed?”

Before Kyojuro can reply there is a loud caw and the furious flutter of wings. In a flurry of black feathers, something swoops down from the sky and lands on Kyojuro’s arm. It nips at a lock of Kyojuro’s hair to draw his attention.

“DEMON,” a crow shrieks rather shrilly. “STAY AWAY.”

Akaza levels the crow with a baleful glance in hopes of scaring it off—certainly, it has better self-preservation instincts than its master? Kaname, Akaza recalls Kyojuro calling it. He never understood the Corps and their obsession with the stupid birds. Akaza certainly didn’t want the thing to be constantly interrupting his time with Kyojuro.

“I’m traveling with Kyojuro,” he feels inclined to point out. “So I won’t be going anywhere.”

“YOU CANNOT TRAVEL WITH KYOJURO,” the bird continues as if it hadn’t heard Akaza at all.

Akaza is shocked for a few moments about being told off by a fucking crow before he remembers that what he should really feel is indignant. “You can’t tell me what to do,” he says. “Because I’m going to do it, whether or not you—”

“Kaname!” Kyojuro interrupts before they can continue arguing. He reaches over to stroke Kaname’s head. “It is alright! I gave Akaza permission to travel with us!”

Us. Akaza frowns. He does not like the inclusion of the crow in Kyojuro’s definition of us.

Kaname pecks Kyojuro's shoulder gently and gives a questioning caw. Kyojuro smiles at him instead. “I’ll be alright,” he repeats. “Can you scout the village ahead and give me a report?”

At long last, the bird ruffles his feathers and seems to get ready to take off. Then, in another flurry of ink-black wings, it pitches itself off of Kyojuro’s arm and swoops directly at Akaza. It curves sharply up right before Akaza can get his eyes clawed out.

“What the fuck,” Akaza hisses. Kaname’s caws have finally quieted down. He turns around to look at Kyojuro. “Does your crow have a death wish?”

Kyojuro’s eyes are wide and he looks a little surprised himself. Then he shakes his head quickly. “You are a demon!” he says. “It is only natural that Kaname feels antagonistic towards you! He also found me bleeding in the forest after we fought, I imagine your presence here is a rather jarring sight for him to witness!”

Akaza scoffs. “Does he know how easily I could have killed him for that?”

“Please do not hurt Kaname!” Kyojuro says, and looking at him, all of Akaza’s irritation dissipates like dew. “He is only worried for me. I have known him since I was small, as he was my father’s Kasugai crow too.”

Akaza sighs. He doesn’t want to ruin a perfectly good start to the night by continuing this conversation. “Fine, Kyojuro,” he says. “Let’s get going.”

They head down a path that winds down from the town. Up the slope of a hill; around some farmland, and finally, into a forest.

The last few days of summer have teased the shifting color of the leaves; some trees were beginning to turn yellow while others still clung onto lush green. Now, autumn has descended with vigor and dressed just about every tree in a palette of warm colors that reminds Akaza a bit of Kyojuro’s fighting spirit: yellow, orange, red. The fallen ones layer the ground like a carpet. Soon, they will lose their hue, wither, and turn brittle. Autumn is a season of ephemerality, and Akaza isn’t particularly fond of it.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says after they have been walking in silence for a while. He has been ruminating on the question for some time, but now he finally asks it. “Do you believe you need to make up for the guilt I do not feel?”

Kyojuro turns to look at him. “What do you mean, Akaza?”

“You said you must hold me accountable for every life I take because you can’t turn a blind eye,” Akaza says. “Why? You don’t need to feel guilty for what you are not responsible for. You’ll only end up creating unnecessary burdens for yourself, because in the end, it won’t change a thing.”

“Guilt and accountability are very different things!” Kyojuro replies. “Accountability is an action taken. Guilt can be the emotion that drives it, but it does not have to be.” Kyojuro turns away, though Akaza keeps his gaze on him. “Know that I am not making up for anything, Akaza, not in what I do or what I feel!”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t decide that I must feel guilty to compensate for the fact that you do not,” Kyojuro explains. “I feel saddened by the lives you have taken and will take because it is only human. I may feel guilty for the ones I was not able to save. But no amount of guilt or regret from me will make up for what you have done.”

“Kyojuro—”

“Emotions are not a decision we make! In fact, it is typically decisions that are driven by emotions.”

He sounds a bit like a teacher lecturing a student. Akaza gives him a look. “I know that, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro appears unconvinced. “For example,” he continues. “I think it is a pity that there are so many things you fail to appreciate or acknowledge. But when I appreciate the things I find wonderful or lovely, it is not because I am attempting to make up for your inability to do so but because it comes naturally to me!”

“Like what?”

“Look around you!”

Akaza makes a point of spinning on his heels so he glances at their entire surroundings. He raises his eyebrows at Kyojuro when he has finished turning his circle. “I don’t see anything.”

“The trees are changing color,” Kyojuro says, his tone light. “I have always liked spring best, but autumn has its own kind of beauty that can’t be compared to any other season.”

“The leaves will turn brown and fall soon, Kyojuro,” Akaza points out.

“Yes!” Kyojuro agrees. “But they will grow again as well!”

And then they will die again, Akaza wants to say, just to get the last word in. And grow, and die, and grow, and die. How tedious and how pointless.

Instead, he watches as Kyojuro catches a falling leaf spiraling down from the branches between his fingers. It’s yellow with darkening patches of red near the stem, shaped like a fan and so tiny in Kyojuro’s hands.

“My mother and I used to collect leaves when they fell,” Kyojuro muses, voice softer. “We would stick them in books for a few weeks until they dried completely and were preserved. But I would get impatient and went to check on the leaves before they were done! Sometimes it would ruin the progress.”

Akaza blinks at Kyojuro. That must have been over a decade ago. He seems so patient now that it’s hard to picture a time when Kyojuro was any less forbearing.

“Here,” Kyojuro says, holding out his palm between them.

“You’re giving it to me,” Akaza says.

How silly. Here they were, walking through the autumn-gowned woods, and Kyojuro was giving him a single leaf out of millions upon millions, one that had so coincidentally tumbled from the branches at that exact moment.

But for a moment, between one blink and another, Akaza thinks that the yellow and red coloring of the leaf is rather pretty, like that of Kyojuro’s hair and eyes. He’s seen a hundred autumns and will see a thousand more, but how many times will he stand on this road, next to Rengoku Kyojuro, who holds his outstretched palm to Akaza?

The feeling retreats as quickly as it had come. The leaf is just a leaf, and now, separated from its branch, it will soon wither and die.

“If you put it in a book,” Kyojuro is saying, “You can preserve it!”

“Does it appear that I have a book on me?” Akaza asks wryly, but decides to take it from Kyojuro nonetheless. Just the brief contact of the tips of his fingers against Kyojuro’s palm tells Akaza that his skin is still as warm as the day they first met.

He pockets the leaf despite himself. Perhaps Akaza can find a book after all.

The first obstacle arises when they near the village and Kyojuro fixes Akaza with a critical eye.

“Your outfit is not going to work!” he says. “You stand out far too much!”

Akaza isn’t entirely sure if it’s just the outfit or if it’s the pink hair or if it’s his markings. There’s also the likely possibility that it’s his eyes, although most people don’t notice that first. Or maybe it’s the combination. He can usually disguise himself pretty easily when he goes into crowds.

“Would you like me to strip then, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks, grinning at Kyojuro.

“No, that would attract even more unwanted attention!” comes the immediate response. “You are able to shapeshift your appearance, Akaza, I know because you did it when we first met! I can go find you a new set of clothing to wear when we enter the town.”

“I don’t want to wear anything else,” Akaza says, just to be difficult and push on Kyojuro’s buttons.

Kyojuro is about to answer when a black shape swoops down from the sky—Kaname, Akaza recognizes with a touch of irritation. Announcing his presence with a series of rather ear-splitting caws, Kaname lands on Kyojuro’s raised arm and fixes Akaza with the most murderous gaze he has ever received from an animal.

“What do you want,” Akaza growls, baring his fangs at the bird.

Kaname snaps his beak at him, fluttering his wings in agitation. “BAD DEMON,” he squawks.

“Shut your crow up, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “Before I do it myself.”

To Akaza’s indignation, Kyojuro ignores his request entirely and turns to look at Kaname instead. “Do you know where the demon is?”

“SOUTHWEST.” Puffing out his feathers, Kaname looks at Akaza. “AND ONE HERE. CAW.”

“It’s okay!” Kyojuro says, smiling at the bird. “Akaza isn’t going to harm or interfere with the mission. Let’s go!”

Kaname doesn’t dive towards Akaza this time when he takes off, but Akaza is leveled with one more vicious glance before Kaname circles back into the sky.

Before Akaza can open his mouth to complain about Kaname, Kyojuro squares his shoulders. “Let us head southwest!” he announces. “There is no time to waste, we will return to the town later!”

He takes off, leaving Akaza no choice but to follow.

The demon Kyojuro is assigned to is not a strong one. It makes an attempt to ambush them in the woods not too long after Kaname’s message. It’s almost twice Akaza’s size, built like a giant with dark gray skin and sunken eyes. Still, what it has in size and stature it seems to lack in tact because it swings mindlessly at Kyojuro, movements imprecise and brash. Barely much of a fight.

Akaza watches from the side. Kyojuro can easily handle this on his own, which he does. His blade races through the air in a blur of red and black, meeting its target cleanly. In the matter of a few seconds, the demon has been decapitated and is turning to ash, its remains carried off by the wind.

Kyojuro stands still above the disintegrating body. With his back to Akaza, it’s impossible to see his expression, but Akaza realizes after a few moments what Kyojuro is looking at.

“Let’s go, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “There is nothing to see here.”

A coiled thread of rusted gold, darkened and frayed and the ends snapped. It lays amidst the dust, where it belongs. How ugly. How worthless. The little leaf that Kyojuro had given him is more pleasant to the eyes than this demon’s soul thread.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza presses.

The thread flickers and begins to fade as well. Soon, there is nothing left. Just fallen leaves on the forest floor. Gold and orange and red.

Kyojuro finally turns around. He looks at Akaza, his gaze strangely solemn.

Akaza can’t help but hate that expression. There is sadness in Kyojuro’s eyes, and sadness is pity, and pity is for the weak. Akaza is not weak.

But Kyojuro doesn’t say anything. Instead, he sheathes his blade carefully—which Akaza thinks is rather funny, because he has seen firsthand how strong and durable Kyojuro’s sword is. Yet he still treats it with the same care as one would with delicate porcelain. The metal sings as it slides into the sheath.

“Let’s go back, Akaza,” Kyojuro says finally. His voice is cheerful, but it doesn’t quite match the look in his eyes. “We will find an inn!”

The next few days pass in a similar fashion.

Most towns within Kyojuro’s patrol region have wisteria houses for slayers to rest in after their mission, but he has decided not to visit them as long as Akaza is traveling with him. On some nights, Akaza departs—not to hunt, he tells Kyojuro, perhaps after seeing Kyojuro’s alarmed look. There is really no guarantee that he is keeping his word, so Kyojuro is left with no choice but to trust him, if it can even be called trust in the first place.

(“What is it that you have to do?” Kyojuro presses.

Akaza is adamant in keeping his lips sealed. He only smiles at Kyojuro, infuriating to the core. “I can’t tell you, Kyojuro.”)

Even when Akaza leaves, he always finds Kyojuro again without fail. Kyojuro has become so habituated to Akaza’s presence that he barely flinches when he reappears, even when he can feel the full extent of Akaza’s demonic aura. Perhaps his mind and body has simply stopped categorizing Akaza as a threat altogether and has learned to focus on more important things.

During some of Kyojuro’s patrols, Akaza asks him to spar. On nights when Kyojuro finishes early, he agrees.

In the beginning, he had simply gone along with it because he had been wary about refusing Akaza too many times. Now, Kyojuro begins to think that perhaps there's a method to the madness, because sparring with Akaza is helpful. Akaza is stronger than any opponent that Kyojuro has ever faced, and even when he isn’t aiming to kill, he is still a brutal fighter. The challenge that comes with sparring with Akaza each time is beneficial to his own improvement even if Akaza’s intentions are selfish to begin with.

Days turn a week and then two, and still they continue their routine of precarious, fragile middleground, unsaid until-whens lingering between them.

Ever since Kyojuro became a Hashira, he’s grown accustomed to taking missions on his own. With the Corps’ resources already spread thin, it would’ve been a waste for Hashira to work in pairs or groups. So Kyojuro is used to traveling alone, resting alone, fighting alone. You will die alone too, his father had told him once, the lines on his face deepened by his scowl.

But now, Akaza is a constant shadow. Even when he isn’t there, Kyojuro can feel the anticipation of his return like a phantom presence. A part of himself also seems to have accepted the fact that he will die to Akaza, even if he doesn’t know when.

Sometimes he looks at Akaza, and the demon will appear almost human. His face set neutrally, fangs hidden when he does not smile or speak. He looks up at the autumn canopy overtop, head tilted and eyes wide. And it’s then that Kyojuro will think of all the strange, inexplicable things Akaza has done and he wonders and wonders and wonders and receives no answer, because he knows Akaza won’t be able to give him one even if he asks.

Other times, Akaza is nothing but scorn and cruelty. He sneers wide and mocking at Kyojuro, bone-white fangs gleaming, eyes narrowed but still clear enough for Kyojuro to see the kanji in it. He looks at each fraying soul thread of a demon Kyojuro has killed as if it is the worst thing in the world. Kyojuro wants to ask Akaza if he believes he is any different. If he is any less broken, just because he is stronger. When you die, do you think you will leave behind something any more whole?

Pointless, Kyojuro knows Akaza will answer, because he’s since learned all the infuriating replies Akaza will make in response to many of the things Kyojuro holds most dear. A soul thread is no use to me, whole or broken.

He wonders, most of all, if Akaza perhaps had a soulmate before all of this. If, by scorning soul threads and soulmates, Akaza is also scorning someone. Someone he would have loved, long before Kibutsuji’s blood made him incapable of doing so.

At the end of the day, perhaps Akaza is right in one regard—it is pointless. Pointless for Kyojuro to be wondering all of these things about him when the demon in front of him is already a killer made by centuries of blood, with far too many sins to deserve pity or sympathy.

But some small part of Kyojuro is treacherous after all, because it knows all these things and yet still has a little bit of grief to offer, and because he knows Akaza can’t do the same.

“HEAD NORTH,” Kaname caws. “HEAD NORTH.”

The sky is overcast tonight, the remnants of the moon covered by a thick layer of dark gray clouds. Autumn has lost the vibrancy it carried in the very beginning: leaves have turned brown, withered, and crumple under Kyojuro’s steps like dust. (Akaza had made a comment about it a few days ago.) The weather turns colder while the trees turn bare.

Still, during the missions that Kyojuro doesn’t stop by populated areas, Akaza remains dressed in his open haori and white pants, not the least bit affected by the changes in temperature. Curious, Kyojuro had once asked him if he had felt cold.

“I’m a demon, Kyojuro,” came the response, spoken as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t get cold.”

“Still!” Kyojuro had replied. “Even if you don’t feel cold, please wear something more if you stop by villages with me, they will think you are insane for being dressed in so little when it feels so cold outside!”

As they head up north, Akaza falls in step with Kyojuro. He has never interfered with Kyojuro’s missions—just watched from the sidelines, apparently having no qualms in witnessing other demons killed and not doing a single thing about it.

“There has been a string of disappearances from the village,” Kyojuro informs Akaza. It's become a habit nowadays to fill Akaza in on the details of missions; a good way to repeat to himself anything of importance. “Eight people were reported missing, but from what I have been told, all eight lived by themselves and seldom made contact with others! It seems like the demon has been going after people who are isolated, so there are potentially more victims that we do not know about!”

Akaza no longer looks visibly bored about Kyojuro’s mission details as he did in the beginning, but he doesn’t look particularly interested either.

“Let’s spar afterwards,” he says after a few moments.

Kyojuro considers it. “Perhaps!” he says.

“Perhaps, Kyojuro?” Akaza echoes, leaning closer to Kyojuro. He smiles, wide and teasing. “What would you have me do for you to agree?”

“Unfortunately it is not up to you!” Kyojuro says. “We will see how long this demon takes to track and kill!”

As they head down the path, a thick fog begins to descend, the air heavy with moisture—it must be raining soon. He stops speaking to Akaza in favor of concentrating.

The demon must be close, because Kyojuro can feel goosebumps prickle his skin, coldness traveling down his spine, warning him of something unnatural. He breathes in deeply, trying to pinpoint where exactly it is in the fog.

“Northwest,” Akaza says. He’s still right behind Kyojuro, but he can barely see through the rising haze. “Turn that way, Kyojuro.” A moment later, he feels Akaza’s hand land on his shoulder, giving Kyojuro a slight push to steer him in the right direction.

Kyojuro huffs out a laugh. “Are you trying to make sure I finish this mission as soon as possible!”

He feels a puff of warm breath near his ear. “I’m simply helping you, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, amusement coloring his voice. “So ungrateful.”

Kyojuro makes a point in not replying, but he does head down the direction Akaza had pointed out.

Fog curls even heavier, thicker. The path is barely visible beneath Kyojuro’s feet.

Akaza is right. A few minutes traveling northwest and he can feel the oppressive weight of the demon’s presence. Not nearly as petrifying as Akaza’s had been the first time they met, but this demon he’s hunting isn’t a weak one either.

The forest meets the rocky side of a cliff, a small creek running beneath it. As Kyojuro approaches, the first droplets of rain come splattering down as he trades the skeletal covering of tree branches for open sky. They’re cold, stinging when they meet exposed skin.

Beside him, Akaza suddenly stops. On instinct, Kyojuro glances over at him, only to see his eyes narrow, looking at something in the distance Kyojuro can’t see.

“What is it?”

“There are three other fighting spirits,” Akaza says. “Humans.”

Humans. The demon was said to have taken eight people from the nearby village. Probably more, but if there were three others still alive…

Kyojuro breaks off into a run, not looking back to see if Akaza is keeping up with him.

The skies begin to pour in earnest. Kyojuro almost misses the entrance of the cave because of it, his vision half-obscured by the water in his eyes.

He skids to a halt a moment later, alerted by the chilling aura of the demon. It’s nowhere in sight, but it’s close—too close, and it’s probably aware that Kyojuro is here as well.

The mouth of the cave is half-hidden behind a rocky overhang which curves above the rocky stream. Kyojuro splashes across the water, ankle-deep, a hand on the hilt of his sword as he steps inside the cave. It’s even colder than the rain.

The first thing he notices is that there is a warm light pulsing along the walls, the dancing patterns of candle-flame. The narrow entrance of the cave then opens into a larger cavern. Kyojuro takes in the sight in front of him with a touch of confusion that quickly blossoms into horror.

Set up to imitate a cozy room, the cavern is covered with numerous candles, all lit up and burning away with cheerful warmth. They decorate the walls and the ground. In the center of the room a long table is surrounded evenly by twelve chairs, three of which are filled.

These must be the fighting spirits that Akaza had recognized: three individuals each seated on a respective chair, all of them unmoving. If it weren’t for the faint rise and fall of their chest and the occasional blinks, Kyojuro would have questioned whether or not they were alive. Even now, the absolute stillness makes them appear corpse-like.

The two women are side by side, their hands folded neatly on their laps and their backs ramrod straight. Diagonally across from them is an older man, positioned in a similar manner. All of them are dressed in intricate kimonos. Silk, from the look of it.

Footsteps sound behind Kyojuro, but he doesn’t turn around. The demon responsible for this is near—Kyojuro can feel it like a sixth sense—but he registers the presence behind him as Akaza. For now, the other one hasn’t chosen to show itself just yet.

“It’s already eaten the rest,” Akaza comments. He says it callously, uncaringly. “But you know that already, don’t you, Kyojuro?”

The air is pungent with the smell of blood, both stale and newly spilled. Kyojuro narrows his eyes and does not respond. There are two sake tokkuri placed on the table and twelve cups shining with dark red liquid. Blood. Traces of dark red also stain the wooden table.

The entire setup is sickening. Like a twisted imitation of a child’s pretend-play, but with humans instead of dolls, blood instead of water.

It must be some kind of Demon Art to keep all of the victims here alive yet unmoving. Slowly, Kyojuro draws his sword and moves near them. The first woman’s eyes flicker towards Kyojuro, wide and fearful.

“Don’t worry!” Kyojuro reassures, smiling at her. “I am here to help!”

She blinks wildly at him, pupils dilated with terror. The warning, paired with the sudden pressure behind him, is enough for Kyojuro to whirl around, tightening his grip on the hilt.

The demon stands at the edge of the cavern, peering at Kyojuro with a pair of unnaturally bright violet eyes. In his periphery, he sees Akaza by his side, who has apparently shifted the tattoos from his skin and the kanji from his pupils.

It has taken on the visage of an incredibly well-dressed and neat young man, perhaps around Kyojuro’s age: neatly combed hair, striking eyes, and porcelain clear, too pale skin—almost colorless to the point where Kyojuro can see the mapping of veins underneath the paper-thin layer. The more he looks at the demon, the more the uncanny feeling rises. The demon is doll-like in appearance, and the animated movements are strikingly wrong.

“Lovely scene, isn’t it?” the demon asks, voice soft and saccharine. Kyojuro sees two rows of jagged teeth lining its mouth. “Finding the perfect set-up took me quite some time. The ones I had before simply didn’t fit what I had envisioned.”

Kyojuro tightens his grip on the sword. “How many did you already kill?”

“I have twelve seats to fill,” the demon replies. Slowly, it tilts its head, never blinking once, until its neck is bent at an angle that is just a touch unnatural. “A pity that the rest didn’t fit. But… perhaps you could.” Its eyes flicker away from Kyojuro, towards Akaza. “Another demon?”

Akaza makes a noise that sounds downright irritated. “This one is fucking insane,” he mutters to Kyojuro, and for once, Kyojuro is inclined to agree with Akaza. “Can you just kill it now?”

The demon regards the two of them in silence for a few moments. Then, it smiles widely, a glimpse of twisted excitement crossing its features. “No matter. You can be my guest here as well, even if you are a demon too.”

Akaza makes a growl low in his throat. Kyojuro has had enough of it as well. He breathes in sharply before swinging his sword at the demon in front of him.

It evades the first blow, confirming Kyojuro’s suspicions that it has consumed quite a few humans to have gained such power. With movements similar to a string puppet, it ducks just out of reach, all the while continuing to smile eerily at Kyojuro.

“A slayer girl visited me as well,” it comments. “Too bad she wasn’t fit for a seat at my table. But don’t worry, I made good use of her.”

Kyojuro grits his teeth. He is well familiar with Akaza’s indifference and cruelty when he talks about human lives, but this is different. To Akaza, things are black and white. He enjoys a fight, but Kyojuro has never heard him talk about killing simply for the fun of it. He’s neither sadistic nor manipulative. But this demon speaks of its victims as if they are playthings. A child’s dolls to arrange around a table, to discard when they’re bored or break when they’re angry.

“Do not speak of her that way!” Kyojuro snaps.

“What way?” it echoes. “You see, slayer, not a single part of her was wasted. I ate her flesh. Her blood will be given to my guests to drink. And with her bones, I carved the utensils they will dine from.” It spreads its arms wide. “I will be a gracious host to you as well. Even after you have outlived your welcome.”

Without giving Kyojuro a chance to respond, it attacks him first. It’s fast, but Akaza has always moved with more grace and precision than this demon, and Kyojuro blocks the slash of claws easily. With another swing, he cuts off the demon’s arm, the sound of wet flesh echoing in the chamber.

The demon regenerates again and presses forward. Kyojuro parries and cuts another deep gash in its chest. Bones creak and muscle tears, a river of crimson spilling from the wound before it can heal.

“Ungrateful,” the demon says. The first hint of agitation finally touches its voice. “All of you are so damn ungrateful.”

In his periphery, one of the women in the chairs makes a muffled noise. Her words are unintelligible, but her intent is clear. Help me. Slowly, her entire body trembling, she manages to push herself to her feet.

The demon’s eyes flicker towards her, narrowing with fury. “Shut up,” it hisses. “You were alone before me. Don’t you see what I’ve done for you? What I’ve given you?”

“What did you do to them?” Kyojuro asks. “Why are they unable to move or speak?”

It looks back at Kyojuro, calculating. For a split second, neither of them move. The woman sways, unsteady upright.

Then the demon lunges forward, claws outstretched, and Kyojuro immediately understands what it is reaching for. He slashes his sword through the demon’s arms again before it can reach the woman, then catches her body as she falls forward.

She’s light, barely weighing anything. The village disappearances have been going on for quite some time before the report had reached the Corps. Just how long has the demon kept her here? Given the tokkuris that are full of blood, there must have been no real food for any of them. Kyojuro is pretty certain the demon wasn’t making a habit of providing any of them human sustenance.

The woman makes another muffled noise, still unable to speak. Eyes still blown wide, she begins to shake her head back and forth.

“It’ll be okay, I promise!” Kyojuro says. Her kimono feels strangely wet. Carefully, he sets her down against the wall of the cavern and straightens to face the demon again.

It hasn’t made another move. Instead, standing on the other side of the table, it peers at Kyojuro with that same, uncanny expression. Entirely emotionless like its features are nothing more but paint on wood.

“I will not allow you to hurt anyone else!” Kyojuro says.

In response, the demon only tilts its head again.

Kyojuro lifts his sword, only to realize that his arms won’t obey the command.

Surprised, he glances down briefly. It feels as if the blood in his veins has turned into lead, because all of a sudden, his arms have become incredibly heavy. With a touch of alarm, he realizes that he can no longer feel where his fingers are wrapped around his blade.

“Kyojuro?” Akaza finally speaks up. “What’s wrong?”

Kyojuro opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out. In the span of a few seconds, control seems as if it has been severed from his mind to his limbs and his entire body is not his own to command. He attempts to take a step forward and stumbles instead.

Kyojuro is pretty certain he would have collapsed entirely if Akaza hadn’t caught him. Faster than he can blink, Akaza is at his side, an arm wrapping around Kyojuro’s midsection before he can hit the floor.

He tries to breathe. His airways haven’t been entirely cut, but Kyojuro’s lungs feel partially paralyzed and the only thing he can manage is shallow breaths: too little air. Total Concentration Breathing isn’t possible like this.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza repeats. His voice is different this time. Kyojuro isn’t sure if his mind is playing tricks on him or if there is a touch of panic coloring Akaza’s tone.

“He will only just be paralyzed,” he hears the other demon murmur. “I have decided to keep him at my table, and I want all my guests to be able to enjoy our time together. I won’t kill him yet.”

The kimono. When Kyojuro had caught the woman, there was something wet on her kimono. He had brushed it off as water, but…

The attempt to push himself into a sitting position without having to rely on Akaza’s grip is fruitless. A bolt of pain shoots through Kyojuro’s entire body, something burning underneath his skin, in his blood and in his bones.

“The more you struggle, the more painful it will be,” the demon continues. “My poison is specifically designed for this, after all. Even a slayer is no match if they are unaware.”

“Poison?” Kyojuro hears Akaza echo slowly.

His body isn’t obeying any commands anymore. Paralysis—temporary, if the woman who had stood up from her seat at the table is any clue, but it had clearly been incredibly potent. Kyojuro has a sinking feeling that he won’t recover any time soon, especially when he can’t even maintain Total Concentration Breathing.

He needs to kill the demon. He needs to get the three victims to safety, to the kakushi. Akaza won’t let him die like this, but that means very little for everyone else in the cave. It isn’t exactly reassurance.

Kyojuro wants to ask Akaza to save them. Beg him to. But even if he could speak, he doesn’t know if Akaza would listen—after all, Akaza has told him again and again that he cares little for human lives. Kyojuro blinks again, feeling his vision blur and spot.

The grip around him tightens. Ragdoll-limp, Kyojuro feels Akaza rearrange his body, an arm supporting the back of his neck and another slipping under the bend of his knees. His chest burns with the attempts to take deeper breaths, each time only feeling as though his airways are being restricted more and more.

It is rather ironic, Kyojuro thinks. Here he is, unable to move, Upper Moon Three’s fingers so close to his throat yet Akaza holds him with a sort of gentleness that is entirely unbecoming of a demon.

Why? Kyojuro wants to ask him again, because Akaza has never given him a true answer. Why won’t you kill me? Why are you protecting me right now? Because I am yours to kill?

Obsession, Kocho’s words ring over and over and Kyojuro can't help but begin to hate that explanation. It isn’t nearly enough. He would be able to accept it if only it could explain everything about Akaza’s actions, but it can’t.

“You poisoned him,” Akaza repeats, and this time, there is no mistaking the tremble of anger in his voice.

Despite the poison, Kyojuro can still feel the fast rhythm of Akaza’s heart because he’s holding Kyojuro so, so close. The heat of his skin at every point of contact. And there is a scorching, years-old rage in Kyojuro’s chest that seems to crescendo to the pattern of Akaza’s breathing.

In, out. Akaza’s exhale shudders ever so slightly as it passes through his lips. They’re parted enough so that Kyojuro can see the gleam of his fangs peeking through.

Kyojuro blinks again, trying to see through the rapid blurring of his vision. The demon’s poison is liquid metal searing inside his body and it hurts but all he can focus on is the chilling fury on Akaza’s face, the way it is so familiar. Singing to the anger in his own chest, pulsing through the soul thread like a lifeline, because it is the only thing he has known about his soulmate all these years.

It echoes that night when Kyojuro had been fifteen and he had felt this rage for the first time. It repeats year after year with Kyojuro biting down the emotion each time, wondering and yet never given an answer.

The answer is here now, scribbled across Akaza’s features. The answer is here and it is the furious tumble of Akaza’s heartbeat. The answer is here and it burns in Kyojuro’s chest like the blistering branding of iron, red from the forge, carving itself deep into Kyojuro’s bones and inscribing itself into the very making of his being against all logic or reason.

(“So who is my soulmate?” Kyojuro asks his mother, curious. He is six years old and there is nothing more vast to him than the depth of his father’s fond laughter and his mother’s gentle hugs. “When will I find out?”

She smiles. “You will know,” she replies. “Just like your father and I did. If the universe has intended for you to meet, then you will despite any and all odds.”)

I think I know now, Mother, Kyojuro thinks. He tries to blink but his eyelids are heavy. He can’t slip away yet. He needs to stay awake for a while longer. I know, I know, I know but I don’t know what this means and how it could be.

((“Will you ask me to stay?” Akaza asks, nothing but derision.))

Kyojuro finds that he’s unable to open his eyes again. The last thing he remembers is Akaza’s anger.

It’s as hollow as the very first time Kyojuro felt it.

Chapter Text

Drip.

The rain outside is still falling. Akaza can hear each droplet with perfect precision. It is a thunderous cacophony in his ears.

Drip.

Kyojuro’s breaths are shallow. He never breathes like this. Not even after Akaza had injured him.

Drip.

Eyes shut and body limp in Akaza’s arms, Kyojuro almost looks as if he were dead. If it weren’t for his ability to see the flicker of Kyojuro’s fighting spirit surrounding him, Akaza might have already assumed the worst.

He can feel the brush of Kyojuro’s soft hair against his arms. The exact temperature of his skin. Each too-small exhale of air. Akaza has only ever held his prey this close, fangs poised to tear out someone’s throat, fingers positioned to rip into someone’s rib cage. He is used to breaking, to taking, and some more lucid part of his mind is acutely aware of the fragile mapping of skin and flesh and bones of Kyojuro’s body. He would be as easy to kill as anyone else right now.

But instead, Akaza holds Kyojuro tightly, irrationally paranoid that if he lets go, Kyojuro’s already-weak breaths will cease entirely. If Kyojuro is to die, it can’t be like this—deceived by the cheap trickery of some weak, dishonorable demon.

Poison.

This is familiar, Akaza thinks. He’s been here before. He’s heard this before. He’s held someone and it had been wrong, wrong, wrong but he doesn’t know, doesn’t remember, he can’t remember…

No. Sinking his fangs into his cheeks, Akaza tries to orient himself, even though he’s dizzy and clouded with fury. The woman whom Kyojuro saved had been paralyzed entirely when they first entered the room; the fact that she had managed to stand up on her own meant that the poison and paralysis would wear off. Besides, the demon had said that Kyojuro wouldn’t die. This must be temporary. Kyojuro will wake up and this will recover. He has to. There is no other direction this can go.

Akaza lifts his gaze to look at the demon standing on the far end of the cavern, who remains observing them with its uncanny violet eyes. The anger surges back, more prominent than ever. It corrodes underneath his skin with more force than any degree of poison could hope to have.

“You goddamn coward,” Akaza snarls. “You couldn’t even touch him in a fair fight, so you poisoned him like this?”

The demon’s eyes widen. For the first time tonight, something fearful flickers across its face.

Akaza’s furious mind doesn’t put an explanation to it until the demon says at last, voice thin: “Upper Moon Three.”

Ah, he realizes belatedly. He must have lost control over his disguise. Sure enough, when Akaza looks down, the tattoos stretch across his skin again. He can only assume the kanji marks his eyes once more.

“I didn’t realize who you were,” the demon continues. It has schooled its voice back to controlled smoothness, even though Akaza can practically smell its fear as it speaks. “I should have known better than to interfere with your kill.”

“My kill?” Akaza echoes.

The demon’s eyes flit towards Kyojuro. “I—”

“Shut up,” Akaza growls at it. The demon immediately goes silent.

Carefully, Akaza sets Kyojuro’s body down and stands up. In his periphery, the demon takes a step back.

The fighting spirit surrounding it is nothing short of unremarkable. Weak and muted, Akaza watches as it darkens more and more with fear. He sees the demon tense, readying itself to run.

Pathetic. It must be stupid as well to think it can get anywhere. It must be stupid to think that Akaza won’t make it pay.

(There is a body. There is blood on her collar. The weight in his arms is stiff and cold. Someone has closed her eyes already, which must be the universe’s only mercy to him because he doesn’t think he could bear to see them open yet unseeing. Then again, this is already too much to bear, so perhaps it wouldn’t have made a difference.)

The demon makes a sudden pass towards the cave’s entrance. Akaza crosses the cavern in a split second and slams it into the wall by the neck.

The cave shudders as dust and debris rains down over them. With a choked gasp, the demon wraps cold fingers around Akaza’s wrist and claws at him to loosen his grip. Akaza doesn’t give. He only squeezes harder.

“I’m sorry,” the demon wheezes, still trying to free itself. “I didn’t know, Upper Moon Three, I didn’t know who you—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Akaza repeats. The more it begs, the more he wants it dead, if just to get that sickly voice to stop. “Your excuses mean nothing to me.”

“He’s a slayer,” the demon continues, voice raising into a shriek. As Akaza tightens his fingers, blood begins to seep through the demon’s skin from where vessels burst and airways collapse. “H-he’s a slayer! Why are you protecting a slayer?”

With an anguished sob, the demon stops speaking and thrashes more violently as Akaza snaps through tissue and bone entirely, severing its head from its body. Not nearly enough to kill it, but enough to incapacitate the demon.

Akaza stares down at the now-separated body and head, still buzzing with fury. It hadn’t even put up a proper fight for a second, entirely too weak. Yet it had poisoned Kyojuro, had mocked him, had treated Kyojuro like he was an object to be acquired and put on display…

“Please,” the demon rasps again. “I didn’t mean it. I just…”

“You didn’t mean it?” Akaza echoes. “You planned for and meant every fucking thing you did. What’s the use of lying to me now?”

The demon’s bottom lip trembles. Akaza sneers in disgust as it starts to cry.

Why is it always, always like this? Those who have done the unforgivable beg for forgiveness when they were the ones to forfeit their chances in the first place.

“I just didn’t want to be alone,” the demon finally says. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Akaza laughs. He thinks of the elaborate scene set in the cave: the dining table, the candles, the sake cups full of blood. Each victim paralyzed and chained to stay to create some fake illusion of company. The demon was a fool.

“Do you truly think any of this made you any less alone?” Akaza asks. “They’re only here because you forced them to stay here with you. They would leave in a heartbeat if you gave them the chance.”

“No,” the demon breathes. “No, no, no, that’s not true!”

Akaza can’t help but glance towards Kyojuro’s still body in his periphery.

Will you ask me to stay? he had asked Kyojuro that night, over a month ago.

Akaza stays now because he knows Kyojuro won’t risk refusal. But would Kyojuro want him to stay, if he had a choice in the matter?

He laughs again, feeling slightly hysterical. Akaza already knows the answer. Of course Kyojuro wouldn’t.

All of a sudden, Akaza doesn’t want to see this demon for a second longer. Without another pause, he tightens his grip as flesh splatters and bone breaks with a sickeningly wet sound. He destroys the rest of the body until there is nothing left to regenerate.

A single dull gold thread remains pulsing weakly in the dust. The ends are frayed beyond repair.

If Kyojuro were awake, he would probably look at it and pity the demon. Akaza hates it more than words can convey.

For a moment, Akaza stands very still. His breaths come and go in uneven intervals. There’s the demon’s blood splattered over his face, so he rubs the back of his hand over his cheeks in a futile attempt to wipe it off, only to smudge it further.

Slowly, the violent thrum of rage inside his chest ebbs. Akaza returns to Kyojuro’s side and kneels down next to him. His first order of business is to pry Kyojuro’s sword from his fingers, which turns out to be less simple than Akaza expected: Kyojuro is still clutching it with an impossibly tight grip and Akaza struggles with easing it out of his grasp without breaking one of Kyojuro’s fingers in the process. After a few tries, he finally frees the hilt. He slides it into the sheath at Kyojuro’s hip, the scraping of metal echoing throughout the chamber.

With the sword out of the way, Akaza carefully slips an arm under Kyojuro’s neck and another behind the bend of his knees. Kyojuro’s skin feels warmer than before: he’s beginning to burn up. Although the demon is gone, it seems that the effects of its poison are still circulating. The only way to combat the Blood Demon Art now is the sun, or to wait it out.

It will be fine. It must be fine. The demon itself had said the poison was meant to paralyze but it wouldn’t kill Kyojuro. Akaza repeats those words to himself and finds that he still has trouble believing them. Because he’s never seen Kyojuro like this, so vulnerable. Kyojuro has always seemed strong but at the end of the day he is still a human, and his life is just as fragile as any other.

Akaza hoists Kyojuro up, making sure not to jostle his body too much. His head lolls limply towards Akaza’s chest.

He’s about to turn and leave when he hears a small noise behind him. Akaza glances over his shoulder. The woman whom Kyojuro had saved remains curled up against the wall, her knees pulled to her chest and trembling like a leaf. With wide, frightened eyes she stares up at Akaza.

The other two victims haven’t regained their ability to move or speak yet, but their fighting spirits are still visible: alive. That’s good. Akaza is pretty certain that Kyojuro would be upset if he learned they had died.

He smiles at the woman sharply, wide enough that she can see his fangs. From the way she cringes back in terror, it’s effective. “Kyojuro wanted to save the three of you,” he tells her. “So when I return to the town, I’ll give your location to the kakushi and they’ll come find you and bring you home. But do not say a thing about me to them. Do you understand?”

When she doesn’t give any sign of having heard him, Akaza tilts his head. “Do you understand,” he repeats, irritated and restless. He needs to leave here as soon as possible so he can get Kyojuro proper medical attention.

She nods twice, trembling. Akaza shifts his grip on Kyojuro into a more secure position and turns towards the mouth of the cave.

It is still raining quite heavily when he steps from the overhang of rock. Thunder rumbles in the near distance, and in effectively no time, both he and Kyojuro are drenched entirely. It washes the demon’s remaining blood off of Akaza’s face, the diluted pink liquid running down his arms in rivulets.

Akaza narrows his eyes, water dripping from his eyelashes and obscuring his vision. Just as Akaza is deciding where he should go, a now-familiar caw sounds as Kaname swoops in from the sky.

“BAD DEMON.” Akaza hears the crow shriek by way of greeting. Before he knows it, Kaname has landed on his shoulder, his tiny talons digging into Akaza’s skin. He’s also given a harsh peck against his cheek. “KYOJURO. WHAT HAPPENED TO KYOJURO.”

He can’t exactly shove Kaname off his shoulder when he’s holding Kyojuro with both of his arms. Akaza scowls at the bird and holds Kyojuro tighter. “Are you fucking stupid? I didn’t do this to him. He’s hurt and needs medical attention.”

Kaname pecks him again, this time even harder. “WHAT HAPPENED.”

Akaza lets out a frustrated snarl, patience worn thin. “He was fucking poisoned!” he snaps. “So unless you don’t want your master to die, lead me to the closest wisteria house so he can be treated as soon as possible!”

For a few seconds, Kaname stares at Akaza as if trying to register his outburst. Akaza is about to head back to his town and find the wisteria house on his own when Kaname takes off from his shoulder abruptly. He circles the sky above Akaza’s head before making a sharp turn to the left.

There is no telling where the damn bird is leading him. Akaza hopes it’s the wisteria house. If it isn’t, he has half the mind to skin the crow alive.

Kaname guides him back through the forest they had traveled through on the way to the cave. It had barely been an hour ago, and now Kyojuro is still and silent in Akaza’s grasp, his skin feverish and his breathing shallow. He shivers sometimes in bouts, eyelashes fluttering as if he’s in pain.

What if. What if. What if. Akaza’s mind spins treacherous possibilities. There is poison… poison where? He blinks and the memory is once again out of his reach, locked in the furthest, most cobwebbed crevices of his memories.

Not long after, they pass into the village. The streets are entirely empty at this time of light, with only the occasional glow of lanterns. Charms and ofuda talisman mark many doorways and windows. Most villages with demon problems become withdrawn and paranoid as time goes on and disappearances continue; this one seems to be no exception.

Kaname swoops lower so that he’s gliding in front of Akaza. With a series of urgent caws, he weaves through the village, turning down streets and alleys until they finally arrive at a small, unassuming house.

The rain dampens most scents, but Akaza can pick up a faint undertone of wisteria wafting through the air. It’s nowhere as dense as the wisteria grove surrounding Shinobu’s estate, so he follows Kaname through the gates without further hesitation. Sprigs of dry wisteria hang all around, a repellant more useful than any charm or talisman the villagers could use. Akaza can sense two muted fighting spirits inside.

Kaname swoops down to perch on Akaza’s shoulder again, giving him another peck on the cheek. “DEMON.”

Akaza tries to shake him off to no avail. “What?”

“DEMON,” Kaname repeats, flapping rain-soaked feathers in Akaza’s face. “YOU CANNOT ENTER HERE.”

Oh. He’s right for once. Since there’s nothing Akaza can do about his clothing at this point, he focuses on shifting his features until the tattoos are gone, his hair is dark, and his eyes are brown.

Kaname peers at him with beady eyes, but given that he doesn’t peck Akaza again, this arrangement must work. Then the crow leans forward and raps his beak against the door with surprising force.

Akaza clutches Kyojuro a little closer to himself. Despite the coldness of the rain, it seems to have done very little to bring down Kyojuro’s temperature because his skin remains burning to the touch.

Kaname thumps his beak on the wooden frame again. Knock. Knock. Knock.

The rain patters down with no sign of ceasing. In addition, water drips down Kyojuro’s slack fingertips and the ends of his hair, now darkened.

Akaza closes his eyes, trying to will away the uncomfortable feeling that settles tightly within his ribs. He feels cold and hot all at once which is stupid because demons don’t get cold, and he isn’t the one burning up with a fever from the poison.

Kyojuro is so—so fragile like this. Akaza has always known that if he really wanted to, he could kill Kyojuro. It had just been a matter of not now. He could be patient. He could wait. Kyojuro still had so much more potential. His refusal to become a demon now didn’t necessarily mean he would always give the same answer.

But now, for the first time, Akaza feels… lost. Kyojuro is no closer to agreeing, yet the possibility of Kyojuro’s death has become more and more unsettling and more and more possible. Standing here, with the rain and wind behind him and a closed door before him…

(He presses his hands against a too-warm forehead. The fever is not going down, no matter what remedies he tries. She tosses and turns underneath the blankets so he arranges them around her shoulders again. It’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. It has to be okay.)

“You can’t die, Kyojuro,” Akaza says softly. Kyojuro does not reply to him. “I won’t let you.”

Kaname tilts his head at Akaza. Then, sharply, he pecks at Akaza’s cheek again.

“What was—” Akaza begins to snap. Before he can finish the sentence, footsteps sound from inside the house and the doors swing open.

A woman peers up at Akaza with wide eyes, holding a lamp in her hands. Her gaze flickers to Kaname, still on Akaza’s shoulder, then to Kyojuro. Recognition lights up her features.

“Rengoku-san?” she finally says, sounding shocked. Then she seems to recover her composure as she straightens and looks back at Akaza. “Ah, please come in. What happened to him?”

Akaza swallows, remembering at the last moment that he’s still disguised as a human. “I think he was poisoned,” he says. “By a—by the demon that he was hunting.”

The woman nods. She steps aside so that Akaza can cross through the doorway. Water puddles at his feet and drips noisily onto the wooden flooring. “Can you carry him this way, please?” she asks, pressing the back of her hand briefly against Kyojuro’s forehead. “He’s burning up. I’ll do a check-up and see what I can do for him. Follow me.”

Inside, the air smarts with even more wisteria. Akaza wrinkles his nose and tries not to cough. She leads him through the house until they arrive at a room and Akaza is instructed to lay Kyojuro down on the futon.

There is a perch for Kaname in the room, which the crow flies to, his dark eyes never leaving Kyojuro’s form. Akaza sits down next to Kyojuro’s side, beginning to feel rather numb. The wisteria is becoming more of an afterthought too, the pain no longer registering.

At some point, the woman calls for her son to come help find herbs. A boy of no more than five or six years comes padding down, rubbing his eyes but obediently going to search for the requested ingredients.

She makes no comment about Akaza sitting vigil beside Kyojuro the entire time, nor does she ask him any questions. Instead, the woman works in silence—first mixing a tonic, then lifting Kyojuro’s head up enough so he can drink it. Then they change Kyojuro out of his wet uniform into a simple yukata. Akaza catches a glimpse of scars, old injuries mapped out across Kyojuro’s body, each one so damning.

Seconds turn into minutes into an hour. The rain outside does not cease. At some point, she offers Akaza dry clothing, which Akaza turns down. At another point, Akaza remembers belatedly to inform her about the three victims who are still in the cave and mentions sending the kakushi, if only so Kyojuro won’t worry about them when he wakes up. She agrees and he settles back into silence.

In, out. So shallow. Akaza matches his breathing with Kyojuro’s. At least he is still breathing.

“I have done everything I can,” the woman tells him softly after some time. Her eyes search Akaza’s face before she turns away. Akaza wonders if she knows what he is, though if she does, he can’t smell fear on her. “His fever should ease soon and he should wake up. I will leave you two be. If something happens, you can just call for me.”

Akaza thinks he nods. He can’t quite remember.

In the quiet, small room, he kneels on the tatami mats next to Kyojuro and waits.

Within the sickly sweet fragrance of wisteria, under the pitter-patter of the rain, nursing some inexplicably hollow feeling in his chest, he waits.

The rain makes everything look a little gray. So Akaza closes his eyes. And waits.

***

Everything is hazy when Kyojuro finally comes to.

His limbs are heavy, it’s difficult to open his eyes, and when he automatically tries to switch into Total Concentration Breathing, he realizes he still can’t quite fill his lungs to full capacity.

Poison, Kyojuro recalls faintly, the taunting smile on the demon’s face coming to mind.

The rage in his chest is nowhere to be felt. The other side of his soul thread is silent.

“Kyojuro?”

Akaza’s voice is low but urgent. Kyojuro forces his eyes open in time to see Akaza’s face dip into his line of vision. He’s a little surprised to realize that Akaza’s hair is black, his eyes the same warm brown as they had been the first time they met at the summer festival.

“How do you feel, Kyojuro?” Akaza presses, leaning down even closer.

Kyojuro stares at him, his mouth dry. He doesn’t know what to say. Or—there are too many things he wants to say.

All he can think of is that moment of frightening clarity, when the fury on Akaza’s face had fit, lock and key, with the violent sensation lighting down his soul thread. So familiar, so right, in the most wrong way possible. Year after year of wondering and hoping and fearing. Talking with Akaza in Kyojuro’s childhood room, watching Akaza’s lip curl and his expression darken at the mention of soulmates. And yet.

Perhaps it’s all a huge coincidence and he had been wrong, Kyojuro thinks, even though he can barely begin to convince himself. Now the realization has settled, it is all he can see, all he can feel, and he wonders how it took him so long to realize.

All this time it had been Akaza on the other end of the soul thread. All this time, and his soulmate was—a demon. Upper Moon Three.

Akaza.

Kyojuro blinks quickly, head spinning.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza repeats, his eyebrows knitting together. “Can you hear me?”

Did you know? Kyojuro wants to ask, although he already knows the answer.

“The three humans,” he manages to croak out. “What happened to them? The demon?”

Akaza is still an open book, his expressions easy to read. Relief softens his features at the sound of Kyojuro’s voice. Something in Kyojuro’s chest twists painfully at the sight. “I informed the woman who runs this wisteria house,” he tells Kyojuro. “She sent your crow to the kakushi to lead them to the cave. That was hours ago, they should have all been retrieved.”

That is, admittedly, a huge reassurance. “You saved them,” Kyojuro says, wincing at the way his throat feels scraped raw.

“I killed the demon,” Akaza corrects. “Not to save them but because it was a fucking waste of blood.” His face darkens. “It was weak and a coward and didn’t deserve to live. And it poisoned you.”

Kyojuro closes his eyes. Predictable as always, he thinks, but this time it comes with a touch of heaviness. He’s become so accustomed to Akaza’s behavior: the way he moves, the way he speaks, the expressions he wears. Yet today, everything feels novel, a new meaning inscribed to each that wasn’t there before.

How many sleepless nights, curled up as if he could nurse that vicious blaze of anger into something gentler, more merciful? How many times had he wondered if he could help his soulmate just by meeting them and shoulder just a fraction of what they felt? Now, Akaza says the cruelest things with a sneer on his face, careless in the entirety. He is furious about things Kyojuro doesn’t understand, and Kyojuro has a feeling that Akaza doesn’t know the origin of his anger either.

He doesn’t know what to do with this revelation. This new truth. Kyojuro isn’t sure how he’s supposed to accept it. He hadn’t even known demons could have soulmates with broken soul threads.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says again. Before Kyojuro can react, he leans over and presses the back of his hand against Kyojuro’s forehead. A frown tugs at his lips. “I’m going to ask the woman for some water. You probably need to drink. And you still have a fever.”

The floorboards creak slightly as Akaza rises to his feet. His footsteps grow softer before a door slides open and shut, the quiet sound of Akaza’s voice saying something Kyojuro can’t discern.

Akaza had saved him. And not just him—he had killed the demon and saved the lives of the three other humans and even informed the wisteria house’s owner so she could send the kakushi to them.

Kyojuro exhales, ignoring the ache in his lungs. Now that Akaza is gone, his thoughts seem to settle into something neater and more logical.

Akaza’s anger when the demon had poisoned him is just the latest instance, but now that Kyojuro thinks retrospectively, there are many moments that slide together like puzzle pieces. How easily Akaza has always found him. When Kocho poisoned Akaza. How furious Kyojuro had felt when Akaza had threatened Shinjuro. The many times where Kyojuro had snapped at Akaza with uncharacteristic anger, his patience worn strangely short. He had chalked it up to his own frustration, but could it have been Akaza’s fury all along and he simply didn’t notice?

In. Out. He tries to breathe like his father had once taught him. It’s hard with the poison still affecting him. Or maybe that’s just a convenient excuse.

Ever since his mother had told him about soulmates, Kyojuro had looked upon his parents with admiration. Even after his mother had passed and his father had spiraled deeper into his grief, Kyojuro had remained convinced that it had been worth something; that one day, he would have even just a fraction of the love his parents shared.

But Akaza—Akaza is a demon. He is the enemy Kyojuro has sworn to kill. And all of that notwithstanding, what Akaza has left is nothing more but the broken remnants of a soul thread. He isn’t capable of love even if he wanted to.

Then Kyojuro suddenly remembers those equally lonely nights when he had been so overcome with a sorrow greater than anything he has ever known. The tears he had shed were Akaza’s. The grief was his, too.

It feels strange finally putting a face to the emotion, and even stranger to think that Akaza most likely doesn’t understand or remember what caused his own grief.

But as it is, it’s still Akaza’s. Kyojuro doesn’t know what to make of that either.

As they spent more time together, he began to piece together bits and pieces about Akaza’s human past. Although it’s nowhere close to a full picture, it’s obvious that Akaza had lost something—someone. But even with the knowledge, it’s difficult to connect the abstract idea of Akaza’s loss to the same grief Kyojuro has felt so intimately, so rawly. He had always assumed Akaza had distanced himself to his human past, yet what Kyojuro has felt all these years has been anything but distant.

Every year, without fail during the summer festivals. Watching the fireworks with his brother. With his fellow slayers. On his own. The most recent time, pulled to a halt by a sorrow so unfathomable that the rest of the world had blurred into indiscernibility around Kyojuro. Right before he had met Akaza.

He had always wondered about his soulmate’s grief and ruminated about the ways in which he could one day help, if only he knew what caused it. All Kyojuro had to do was to finally meet them. Except now, he is no closer to finding out the reason.

Kyojuro is pulled from his thoughts when the shoji doors slide open again and Akaza steps inside, holding a tray with a pitcher and a cup. His eyes flicker to Kyojuro immediately, but he doesn’t say anything in particular. Instead, Akaza crosses the room, sets down the tray, and kneels back down beside Kyojuro.

“You need to drink, Kyojuro,” he says. “I’m going to sit you up for a moment.”

He is surprisingly gentle when he slips an arm under Kyojuro’s back so he can be eased into a sitting position. Or perhaps it isn’t supposed to be surprising anymore, Kyojuro doesn’t know. He feels out of his depth next to Akaza and he’s no longer certain about the things he had placed so much surety in.

Kyojuro’s hands are unsteady when he takes the cup from Akaza. Still, he manages to drink the water on his own. Akaza’s fingers remain splayed against the small of his back, keeping him upright until he finishes the water. Then Kyojuro is eased back down to lie on the futon.

He should know better than to attempt to attribute unsaid meaning to this. But for a moment, Kyojuro feels almost desperate to prove that there’s more—that Akaza wants more from him than just his strength or his fighting spirit. He wants to be able to believe that perhaps there is something left inside Akaza that isn’t broken beyond repair or that maybe he does care, even if it’s just a little.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro says at last.

Akaza glances at him. “Yes, Kyojuro?”

“What were you really doing that night, the first time we met?”

A slow blink. “I’m not sure I am following, Kyojuro.”

“In that town,” Kyojuro clarifies. His throat aches from the effort of speaking. “The summer festival. I asked you if you were there to hunt. To feed. I assumed you were. Were you?”

“And if I were?”

Kyojuro holds his gaze until Akaza relents. “No, Kyojuro,” he says at last. “Not that night.”

He had been in the same disguise as he is now: the dark hair, warm brown eyes, winter-pale skin but not the same inhuman shade as his demonic appearance. Honey-sweet voice and a too-familiar smile.

“What were you there for?” Kyojuro presses.

Akaza works his jaw, clenched tight as his eyes darken. For a moment, Kyojuro can see a shine of yellow-gold beneath the brown. When he speaks at last, it’s soft, like it’s half a secret he’s surrendering to Kyojuro. “I was watching the fireworks.”

Ah. Kyojuro doesn’t know if he wants to laugh at the incredulity, the impossibility, or how blind he had been. “Do you watch them every year?” he asks instead.

Akaza’s gaze focuses. “Why must you know, Kyojuro?” he asks, baring his fangs in a sharp smile.

“I am curious!” Kyojuro replies. “It seems to be an odd habit for you, Akaza.”

“There is no real reason,” Akaza replies. The lightness in his tone isn’t exactly fake. But it doesn’t quite match the expression on his face. “Don’t go looking for sentiment when there is none, Kyojuro.”

The irony is not lost to Kyojuro. Rather, it sinks like a heavy weight in his chest. As silence settles in again, Kyojuro chides himself for his moment of weakness.

Akaza doesn’t even understand his own grief or pain. He has been nothing but derision towards soul threads and soulmates. This human countenance—Kyojuro must call it what it is: a disguise, an illusion, a trick. Upper Moon Three is not a gamble he can afford to place his bets on, even if Akaza is his soulmate.

If the universe intends for it to be, his mother used to say, then it will be. Gentle hands encasing Kyojuro’s own, Ruka’s palms smooth while Kyojuro’s already has begun to develop calluses from the hours upon hours he trains. She taps the tip of her finger against the center of Kyojuro’s chest. It is already written here.

Did you know? The question rises again, though Kyojuro knows better than to say it out loud. For all his faults, Akaza has never been good at hiding anything from Kyojuro. If he had known something so momentous, he would have acted on it one way or another.

So he swallows the words down, one by one, even if he wants to tell Akaza. Even if he wants to take this moment of uncharacteristic gentleness and pray that it’ll last longer than the disguise of a human Akaza has on.

“The poison is still in your system,” Akaza breaks the silence, entirely ignorant of what Kyojuro has come to realize. “The woman told me that when the sun rises, it should burn away any remnants of the Blood Demon Art. But the sunrise is still an hour or so away.”

“Alright, I will head outside as soon as the sun rises!” Kyojuro says, swallowing. The lump in his throat does not go away. “Thank you for saving them, Akaza.”

Akaza’s expression turns flinty. “I killed the demon for what it did to you.”

“You still sent the kakushi to save them!”

“Not me,” Akaza replies. “I told the woman of this wisteria house to, because you didn’t want the humans to die.” He laughs, but he doesn’t look particularly happy. “If they died, you would have blamed yourself, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro does not know what to say to that. Akaza is right. He would’ve blamed himself for making such a careless mistake. But what difference would that make to Akaza?

“Still,” he says at last. “Thank you!”

Akaza holds his gaze for a few moments before he looks away, uncharacteristically quiet and strangely difficult to read. Kyojuro cannot feel anything through the soul thread, which he supposes makes sense. He has only felt the loud extremes of Akaza’s emotions and never the in-betweens, if those still exist despite Akaza’s ruined soul thread. Kyojuro has an inkling that what he feels through the thread does not run both ways. After all, Akaza has never given any indication that he thought he himself had a soulmate.

Before Kyojuro can say anything else, Akaza rises to his feet. “Go outside when the sun rises to purge the poison, Kyojuro,” he says. “I will see you tonight.”

The floorboards creak again. Kyojuro attempts to sit up, but his body is still too weak. “Where are you going?”

Akaza’s footfalls halt. “I don’t want to be trapped in here when the sun rises,” he replies. He glances over his shoulder. “Why, Kyojuro?”

Will you ask me to stay?

Kyojuro exhales. His chest is tight to the point of pain. Akaza always says his name like so: with soul-deep familiarity, like they have known each other for the span of lifetimes.

Upper Moon Three. Demon. Akaza. Names and titles he’s gotten used to these last two months.

Soulmate.

On Akaza, it is strangely foreign and jarringly familiar all at once. Years of hoping and waiting and yet Kyojuro no longer knows what it is he wishes for.

He blinks. Inhales. “It is nothing!” Kyojuro replies. “I will see you tonight, then.”

Akaza smiles sharply, though it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Then he disappears from the room. The shoji doors slide shut, bumping against the frame. In seconds, the faintly demonic aura in the house is nowhere to be felt, like Akaza had wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

For some time, Kyojuro lies still on the futon, staring up at the simple wooden patterns that make up the ceiling.

Acceptance—he has always understood that it was entangled with duty. Kyojuro has learned to accept even the things he doesn’t want to because he knows that he can’t afford to linger on what he can’t change.

But this: what is he supposed to accept? Akaza being his soulmate is an unchangeable fact, no matter how difficult Kyojuro still finds it to believe. Or perhaps he must simply accept that despite everything, his duty remains the same: to kill Akaza, because he is a demon and Kyojuro is a slayer.

(He thinks of peering at his parents, his mother’s hand in his father’s. His father used to always laugh when she was around, even on the days he came back exhausted from missions. With her gone, he doesn’t even smile anymore.

It’s become a habit of his own to smile as often as possible, because ever since his mother had told him about soulmates, Kyojuro had always thought he should do it for his soulmate’s sake—for Akaza’s sake, it seems. Now, he wonders if any of it had been of meaning. Akaza would not have felt a single one, even if Kyojuro had held onto the childish hope so long that he would be able to help. And yet Akaza’s anger and his grief remains the same: desolate and unchanged.)

Kyojuro would have been happy to give everything of himself to his soulmate, whatever they wanted to request of him. But all of the things Akaza asks of him are those that compromise his duty. To concede would be to abandon everything he has promised and everything he fights for.

He exhales softly, thoughts turbulent and chest tight.

Akaza is the answer on the other side of a decade-long yearning, but he is far from the answer Kyojuro ever imagined. Back when they first met, it had been instinct to hate Akaza for who he was and what he had done. Now, this—Kyojuro almost wishes that things could go back to being simple. Back when he didn’t have the answer, but when duty and acceptance did not make him feel so torn.

Outside the windows, the sky lightens. Kyojuro remembers Akaza’s words to go outside in order to purge the rest of the demon’s poison from his body.

Slowly, painstakingly, he pushes himself into a sitting position. He still feels a phantom hand splay against his back, supporting the weight of his body.

How jarring. Akaza is capable of such violence and cruelty, yet he had also been so gentle with Kyojuro, almost as if…

Kyojuro shakes his head. He is no longer a child. He knows better than to place his wishes on the impossible.

With unsteady steps, he makes his way outside, sliding open the doors that lead to the engawa. Then he sits back down, crosses his legs, and focuses on his breathing once more as he waits for the sun.

In. (Akaza’s eyes, burning with an anger that is so, so familiar.)

Out. (Kyojuro hadn’t asked him to stay.)

((He had wanted to, if only for a moment.))

Chapter Text

As the sun’s rays spill over Kyojuro, the lingering poison in his system also begins to dissipate.

The effects are pretty much instantaneous: the weight dragging his bones down lessens, each breath becomes easier, and the faint but persistent headache brewing in the back of his head disappears. For a few moments, Kyojuro allows himself to bask in the relief of being able to do Total Concentration Breathing again, filling his lungs to full capacity without feeling any unwelcome pain.

Akaza had been right about the Blood Demon Art. Kyojuro flexes his fingers and looks down at his open palms, resting upon his knees. The demon’s poison may be gone, but his thoughts are no less messy.

Kaname must have directed Akaza to the wisteria house, which means Akaza must have carried Kyojuro all the way back. And then he had just—waited? Kyojuro can’t even imagine it. Akaza has never been patient. Yet before he left, he had been attentive to Kyojuro’s injuries, and even spoke familiarly with the woman who ran the wisteria house without a hint of threat or anger.

It’s not really kindness, Kyojuro thinks; at least, not quite. But it’s also so far from what Kyojuro would expect from a demon. From Upper Moon Three.

He shakes his head again. He can’t go around second-guessing every single one of Akaza’s actions with the wishful hope of there being something more behind them. It would be easier to resign himself to the fact that even if Akaza is his soulmate, no matter what grief he has felt, his soul thread is broken beyond salvaging because of Kibutsuji. The twisted remainders of Akaza’s emotions are barely enough to ever love anyone, much less a soulmate Akaza doesn’t even know he has.

Perhaps Kocho is right. The closest Akaza will ever get is his obsession with Kyojuro. Perhaps that is all he is capable of.

Kyojuro doesn’t know where he stands, or where he should stand. He doesn’t hate Akaza anymore—soulmate or not, familiarity has worn down his guard, and this uneasy truce has become an indefinite middleground. Kyojuro has always been prepared to turn his blade on Akaza the moment he needed to, his own feelings aside. But now…

Can he still be ready to kill Akaza, if duty demands it? Should he see Akaza any differently, owe him anything more, just because the universe has written it to be?

Pointless thoughts and irrelevant musings. Kyojuro’s duty remains the same. Who Akaza is to him won’t change it.

Kyojuro picks himself up to return into the room. Now that he is free of the poison, there are things he must do: write up a report regarding the demon, check in with Kaname about the other victims, and receive his orders for his next mission. There is no time to brood in his thoughts.

Kaname has returned to his perch when Kyojuro re-enters the room. With a soft and inquiring caw, he flaps over and takes his usual position on Kyojuro’s arm.

“I’m okay!” Kyojuro reassures Kaname, offering his crow a smile. “I feel much better now. Is everyone else safe?”

Kaname pecks him once indicating, yes.

“DEMON BROUGHT YOU HERE,” Kaname suddenly says.

Kyojuro blinks. “Ah, yes!” he says. “Akaza brought me here. Thank you for leading the way, Kaname!”

“DEMON GONE NOW?”

“Akaza is gone!” Kyojuro agrees. “He will join us again tonight.”

Kaname seems to consider those words before he seems reassured enough to leave Kyojuro’s arm and fly back to his perch on the wall.

Now that Kyojuro is feeling better, he takes in the surroundings fully. The room he is in isn’t large: a futon, a few shelves filled with herbs, a desk, and the little perch for Kaname. His sword has been placed a little ways from his bedside, sheathed. The faint scent of wisteria wafts through the air—not as pervasive as it could be, but probably enough to have made Akaza uncomfortable while he was still here.

Then again, he used to cross through Kocho’s wisteria grove to see Kyojuro, so Kyojuro figures that Akaza has gone through worse.

Kyojuro makes his way to the desk. He will write his report before he goes out to find the owner of the wisteria house. The sooner he sends it off with Kaname, the better.

There is already paper, ink and a pen. Smoothing the parchment down with his hand, Kyojuro dips his pen in ink and begins the report.

In his periphery, Kaname ruffles his feathers and then begins to groom himself. A patch of morning sun peeks into the room from the engawa doors. Kyojuro wonders where Akaza is. He must have found shelter.

Kyojuro finds himself idly thinking about how Akaza would react if Kyojuro told him. Would he be indifferent? Would he be surprised? He can almost hear Akaza’s laugh, derisive and scornful.

Soulmate. Akaza has always said the word like it is the most awful thing in the world, like the way he talks about weakness and mortality. As if it is a curse. Would he hate it all the same, knowing Kyojuro was his soulmate? Would he hate Kyojuro too?

Nothing good will come out of telling Akaza, Kyojuro knows. Nonetheless, it feels wrong to withhold it from him. Consequences aside, he can’t help but feel that Akaza has the right to know.

Kyojuro blinks. There is a large splotch of ink on the paper from when he had rested his pen for too long. Hastily, he lifts it from the page, although the damage has already been done.

He’s forgotten he isn’t supposed to think of Akaza right now. The mission report is the priority.

“KYOJURO OKAY?” Kaname calls from his perch.

He must really look absentminded if even Kaname is noticing.

“Yes!” Kyojuro exclaims, dipping his pen into the ink again. “Don’t worry, Kaname!”

Fifteen minutes later, he’s finally finished the report. Kyojuro rolls up the paper and puts it into Kaname’s carrier pouch, then sends him off with instructions to deliver it to Oyakata-sama.

The floorboards creak softly as Kyojuro crosses the room to the second door. It slides open smoothly, leading him down a hallway that opens into a kitchen area. The wisteria scent is overpowered by the sweet smell of freshly cooked rice and fried fish.

A woman and a small boy sit at the table, where breakfast is spread on the table. She looks up when Kyojuro enters.

“Rengoku-san,” she greets, dipping her head. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes!” Kyojuro exclaims. “Thank you very much for all of your help!”

She nods, a smile gracing her lips. “Please join us for breakfast if you are willing.”

“That would be amazing!” Kyojuro says. “I am very hungry!”

Breakfast is a simple affair, but it’s lighthearted enough to take Kyojuro’s mind off more complicated things just for a little time. The boy’s name is Fukuhara Keisuke, and although he is shy and quiet in the beginning, he starts to warm up to Kyojuro, giggling when Kyojuro says the food is delicious and soon imitating him. By the time breakfast is done, he’s chattering non-stop about every topic under the sun.

Fukuhara tries to separate her son from Kyojuro when Keisuke insists on tagging along back to the room. “I’m sorry, Rengoku-san,” she says with a chagrined laugh. “He’s usually not like this.” She bends down to Keisuke’s height. “Why don’t you come help prepare the tonic again for Rengoku-san?” she asks.

Keisuke considers it, then ultimately goes running off with an excited nod.

“Where is the young man who brought you here?” Fukuhara asks after Keisuke’s footsteps have faded.

Kyojuro hesitates for a moment. “He had something else to attend to!” It’s not exactly a lie. He just doesn’t know how she would react if he told her Akaza was a demon.

Fukuhara appraises him for a few moments before setting the bowl in her hands down onto the table again. “He was very concerned, Rengoku-san, when he showed up with you,” she says.

The words I know are caught in Kyojuro’s throat. He does know. It’s just once again jarring to think of.

From a bystander’s eye, Akaza’s concern is care. Kyojuro is hesitant to label it that, because the consequences of being wrong are so incredibly steep.

“He stayed by your side the entire time,” Fukuhara adds. She looks at him with solemn eyes. “I thought that perhaps you would like to know.”

Kyojuro recalls Akaza’s relief when he had woken up. The splay of his fingers against the small of Kyojuro’s back as he offers him the water.

Then he remembers that he had told himself not to linger on those thoughts. “Thank you for hosting the two of us!” Kyojuro decides to say instead. “I appreciate it, Fukuhara-san!”

She doesn’t ask him any questions, which Kyojuro is relieved with, especially since he doesn’t exactly think he can offer her the truth but he doesn’t want to tell her any lies either.

A little while later, Kyojuro has changed back into his uniform and strapped his sword to his hip. Keisuke and his mother walk him out to the front door, and Keisuke hugs Kyojuro’s leg tightly and asks him to come visit so they can eat breakfast together again.

Fukuhara watches them with a small smile on her face. Gently, she pries Keisuke away from Kyojuro.

“Rengoku-san has to go,” she tells her son. “You can say goodbye.”

Keisuke looks at Kyojuro, pouts, but obediently says, “Bye-bye, Rengoku-san.”

“Goodbye!” Kyojuro says, waving at the two of them. “Thank you for all of your help!”

Fukuhara smiles at him. “The wisteria incense made him cough a lot last night,” she adds. “I snubbed it for the day.”

Surprised, Kyojuro blinks at her. She gives him one last smile before she and Keisuke head back inside.

Akaza finds a cave to shelter in during the day.

He’s never particularly concerned himself with comfort. As long as it blocked the sun well, Akaza had never minded anything else. It wasn’t as if he needed a comfortable bed to sleep on. If he found a good one, there would be enough space for him to train. If not, it wasn’t the end of the world.

But this—this seems to be a far cry from all the inns Kyojuro has stayed at. It is empty and cold and Akaza’s mood is rather sour for some reason he doesn’t understand. He feels irate and tired of waiting and now that he thinks of it, he really should have just stayed at the wisteria house with Kyojuro.

He doesn’t even know why he left so suddenly because he had been planning to stay. Except Kyojuro had thanked him, so painfully sincere, even though he hadn’t smiled like he usually did, and…

Akaza shakes his head, wanting to expel the unwelcome tightness in his chest.

For much of the day, he paces the cave, counting down minutes and seconds to when the sun finally set and he could go find Kyojuro again. The restlessness, the unease—it’s all rather stupid, Akaza thinks angrily. Kyojuro is fine. He had recovered from the poison, and a little exposure from the sun would purge the remainder of the demon’s Blood Art from his body. There is nothing he has to worry about.

Poison. Akaza squeezes his eyes shut, fists curling at his side. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t expel the image of Kyojuro’s unmoving body, his breaths shallow. It bleeds and blurs in his mind until the person he’s holding in his arms is much smaller, dressed in a pink kimono and blood spotting her collar. The white paper slips from her face to reveal slack and emotionless features behind it. She is cold in death when her skin has always been so warm.

A low snarl builds in his throat, agitation washing over Akaza in waves. The moment he tries to grasp at the memory it slips through his fingers like water, and he’s left with nothing but the fleeting impression of hollowness.

The rest of the day drags on like that: painfully slow. At some point, despite the cramped space of the cave, Akaza attempts to go through his techniques to pass time. He’s only a few minutes in before he’s thinking about how he’d much rather train with Kyojuro. There’s also a faint but insistent growing hunger in the pit of his stomach, and while Akaza does his very best to ignore it, the restlessness only makes his focus return to it.

By some miracle, Akaza makes it to sunset with his sanity intact. The moment the fading light retreats from the mouth of the cave, he’s heading out and making his way to the village that Kyojuro had said he would be going to next.

Akaza senses Kyojuro’s fighting spirit before he actually sees him. To his relief, it looks as bright as it usually is, instead of the muted, weakened pulse from after the demon had poisoned him. He must have recovered fully.

He finds Kyojuro a few minutes later atop a small stone bridge that overlooks a creek. Although he doesn’t turn to look at Akaza, he shifts his posture ever so slightly.

Akaza joins him at his side. Beneath the bridge, the water ripples dark in the cloak of the night. The crescent moon’s wavering reflection peers back at them.

The silence is fragile. Kyojuro does not break it, so after a few moments Akaza decides to. “You only just recovered, Kyojuro,” he says. “You shouldn’t be heading out on a mission so soon.”

Kyojuro looks towards him. His eyes are always bright, so full of life. Or perhaps it’s just Kyojuro himself, because Akaza can’t recall the last time he’s met anyone as brilliant as Kyojuro. He is the midday sun; the first weeks of summer. All the unease from before suddenly seems less pressing now that he’s next to Kyojuro.

“Demons don’t take breaks from eating people!” Kyojuro says. “Therefore, I cannot take a break either!”

“You were poisoned less than a day ago.”

“Yes, well, I am fully recovered!” Kyojuro replies in his usual no-nonsense tone. “Besides, I am not going on a mission today. I only have to patrol!”

Akaza tilts his head. “So we can fight afterwards?”

There is a slight pause before Kyojuro nods. “Yes!” he agrees. “Afterwards we can spar. Let’s get going!”

His haori flutters after him as he turns around and makes his way down the path. Akaza stares blankly at him for a few moments before speeding up to catch up with Kyojuro.

He’s not used to Kyojuro’s direct agreement. It’s usually a roundabout answer—or as roundabout as Rengoku Kyojuro can get. Either way, something feels… different.

For some time, they walk down the path silently, a plethora of unsaid words growing heavier by each passing second. Akaza wonders if Kyojuro will bring up the previous night; about the demon who poisoned him, about the wisteria house, about everything that has happened.

If Akaza closes his eyes, he can still feel the weight of Kyojuro’s body resting in his arms, his soft breaths, the feverish burn of his skin. The possibility of Kyojuro’s death makes a strange, unwelcome feeling restrict his chest, something rather akin to fear.

No. Not fear. Just—discomfort.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro says, his voice cutting through the silence with the same sharpness as his blade.

Akaza looks at Kyojuro. The eyes that meet his are oddly solemn, and he can’t even begin to guess what Kyojuro is thinking.

“What is it?”

“Have you ever felt another’s emotions?”

For a second, Akaza is taken off guard by the question. Then the implications sink in. This is really not what he wants to discuss. “No,” he says. “And even if I did, it wouldn’t change anything. Why?”

“I am curious!” Kyojuro replies. “I had always assumed demons did not have soulmates because their soul threads were broken.”

“And now you assume differently?”

Something crosses Kyojuro’s face. He presses his lips together for a moment. Then, instead of answering Akaza’s question, he says, “Fukuhara-san said you stayed with me the entire time until I woke up, and she said that you were concerned!”

Now they’re talking about it and Akaza realizes he actually doesn’t want to discuss this either. “Fukuhara?” he echoes.

Kyojuro shoots him a look. “Don’t be purposefully daft, Akaza!” he scolds. “Was she right?”

“That I waited by you until you woke up?”

“That you were concerned!”

Akaza holds Kyojuro’s gaze for a few moments. He can feel Kyojuro searching his face, as if he’s already looking for an answer different from the one Akaza will give.

“I wasn’t going to watch you die,” Akaza says at last. “Not to any other demon. I won’t let you.”

“Is that all that you want from me?” Kyojuro asks. “My death?”

Akaza laughs. It sounds harsh and mocking even to his own ears. “You won’t give me anything else, would you, Kyojuro?”

Kyojuro lets out a breath. “Let us hurry!” he says. It’s not the first time today that he’s ignored Akaza’s question. “Or else we won’t have time before the sun rises to spar.”

Despite Kyojuro’s best efforts to treat Akaza the same as before, he has a strong feeling that he’s not quite managing.

Kyojuro is not a stranger to guilt, but he has never allowed it to be debilitating or interfere with duties. Yet now, he can’t shake off the persistent thrumming just beneath his skin, something that just won’t leave him be no matter how he rationalizes the problem.

He’s drawn out a hundred possibilities, and he knows that nothing good will come out of telling Akaza. So he holds the secret close to his heart. Sometimes he looks at Akaza and Kyojuro feels as if he owes him something more, but he doesn’t know what he can offer that Akaza would want and Kyojuro can afford to sacrifice.

All his life he had imagined he’d give every part of himself to his soulmate. And now he withholds everything, right down to the truth.

“Kyojuro.” Akaza’s voice cuts through his thoughts. He steps closer, tilting his head as he smiles at Kyojuro. “Are you paying me any attention?”

Kyojuro blinks. “No!” he admits, raising his sword again.

Akaza huffs faintly, although there seems to be no real irritation on his face. “You’re tired, Kyojuro,” he says.

“I am not!”

“You’re either lying to me or to yourself.”

“You wanted to spar!”

“Not when you’re falling asleep on your feet,” Akaza replies. “Let’s go back to the inn, Kyojuro. We’ll spar tomorrow.”

It’s apparently not a suggestion because Akaza doesn’t wait for him to reply before he turns on his heel and starts heading down the path, a five-minute walk from the town.

After a few seconds of debating, Kyojuro sheathes his sword and follows after him.

The last bits of autumn have been replaced by winter chill in the last week or so. There is a bite in the air that predicts the snow, but for now, the clouds hold onto them as the temperature drops steadily.

Strange to think that Kyojuro has known Akaza throughout three seasons already. A midsummer’s meeting, autumn, and now, into winter. So many things are different these days with Akaza. He concedes more, demands less, and Kyojuro very rarely feels the storm of anger that was so prevalent in the beginning. The casual cruelty of his comments have also mellowed out.

He wonders if it’s just wishful thinking. Some lingering rose-tint of childhood, a fool’s hope to think that Akaza has somehow changed. That he could be any different than what Kibutsuji’s blood has turned him into.

Kyojuro still hasn’t told Oyakata-sama about his soulmate. He drafts multiple letters in his mind, worried that if he writes it down on paper, Akaza will glimpse the contents and find out. None of what he plans out ever sounds right. Kyojuro divulges to the Corps all other details of his missions and of Akaza, but keeps just one thing to himself. Just like he has never told anybody about Akaza’s anger and his grief, instead letting it be a silent companion all these years.

Every time Kyojuro almost makes up his mind to report to the Corps, he’s reminded of those warm summer nights after the fireworks, of a sorrow greater than any other Kyojuro has known, something so… unbearably human. So Kyojuro is stuck at an impasse.

“I think it won’t be long before it starts snowing!” he decides to tell Akaza as they walk. “Any day now!”

Akaza raises an eyebrow. “Are you excited for it?”

“I rather enjoy the first snow!”

“You seem to enjoy every season, Kyojuro,” comes the wry response.

“You seem to enjoy none!”

Akaza lets out another one of his little scoffs, but he doesn’t continue to argue with Kyojuro.

He had been gone the previous night, once again searching for the thing he refused to tell Kyojuro. It’s one of the only things he always keeps his lips sealed about. It must be something that Kibutsuji has ordered him to do.

Tonight, though, Akaza sticks to his side. They arrive at the inn, Kyojuro pays for a room, and they head up the wooden staircase.

It’s a quiet routine, one that Kyojuro has gone through hundreds if not thousands of times on his own, but he is just starting to get used to it with Akaza here. He sets his bag of belongings down and opens the window a sliver for when Kaname arrives back with tomorrow night’s instructions.

Akaza never sleeps, but Kyojuro has since developed the habit of asking for a room for two. Today, he sits cross-legged on top of the layer of blankets, elbows resting on his thighs as he leans forward. Kyojuro can feel the sharp gaze pinned on him, tracing his every movement.

Kyojuro doesn’t allow himself to meet Akaza’s eyes, instead keeping the demon in his periphery.

During these moments, sometimes it feels as if only the two of them exist. It’s so deep into the night that the entire world is asleep. Between the flickering lamplight under Kyojuro’s fingertips as he strikes the match and Akaza’s presence, now more familiar than anyone else’s, there is nothing more. It stirs a touch of longing and a flurry of guilt in Kyojuro’s chest, because he knows it’s an indulgence he can’t afford to be tempted by.

And longing—for what? For all of his childhood wishes and wanting? For the accumulation of the things Kyojuro has waited for, and now has no other option to place onto Akaza? He chose to allow Akaza to travel with him and to allow this temporary truce. But Kyojuro never chose Akaza.

The sound of pecks against the window breaks Kyojuro from his thoughts. Akaza’s gaze shifts away from him as well. He raises his eyebrows. “Your crow is here.”

“Just on time!” Kyojuro says, getting up and moving to the window. He pulls it open fully, and Kaname hops in followed by a gust of winter wind and—

“Snow!” Kyojuro exclaims, the chaos in his thoughts settling down for a moment. “It finally started to snow!”

Sure enough, small white flakes drift down. Not enough to cover the ground noticeably, but there is a very thin layer starting to build on the windowsill.

The blankets rustle behind Kyojuro, followed by the creak of wooden boards. A few seconds later, Akaza is standing behind him. Kyojuro moves aside so that Akaza has room to peer out the window as well. They stand, arm to arm, close but not touching. He wonders if Akaza feels the presence of the minimal distance as acutely as Kyojuro does.

Part of him expects Akaza to scoff, to tell Kyojuro he’s being foolish for being excited for something so small. There is a first snowfall every year, Kyojuro, he’ll say. It’s all the same.

Instead, Akaza extends an arm out the window, palms splayed open to the sky. Snowflakes land on his skin, melting against ink-stained fingers.

“Is winter your favorite season?” It suddenly occurs to Kyojuro. “After all, your compass is shaped like a snowflake!”

Akaza turns away from the window to meet Kyojuro’s gaze, his eyes wide. For a moment, he looks confused—lost, even. Something passes over his face just for the briefest of seconds, open and raw and human.

Then his features settle into an impassive smile, the sort where Kyojuro thinks that Akaza is smiling only because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Longer nights and shorter days,” he replies. “What demon wouldn’t prefer winter? It’s not like we get cold either.”

It doesn’t feel like a sufficient explanation, but Kyojuro is equally sure that Akaza won’t elaborate—or be able to—if he asked. So instead, he mirrors the smile with his own and gently shuts the window, cutting off the chilly breeze.

Later, as he pulls the blankets over and closes his eyes to sleep, Kyojuro hopes that when he wakes up in the morning, the ground will be covered in snow.

Something is different, but Akaza does not know what.

It’s been a fortnight after Kyojuro has been poisoned, and Akaza thinks that it must have something to do with that night. The way Kyojuro treats him, the way he talks, the way he acts—it’s… not the same. But Akaza isn’t able to pinpoint any concrete evidence, and when he brings it up to Kyojuro, Kyojuro only tells him that he has no idea what Akaza is talking about. So Akaza is left fitting together the clues on his own and he ends up no less lost than he was before.

The first snow had quite promptly been followed by much more. Now, it lines the ground in a thin layer, dressing trees in white sleeves. Kyojuro’s breaths billow out in puffs.

Tonight is a patrol. Akaza follows close to Kyojuro along the designated route. Kyojuro had agreed to spar after they finished.

It’s another thing these days; Kyojuro seldom denies any of Akaza’s requests. Akaza also does not know what to make of it, because he has always known that Kyojuro’s every move around him was carefully calculated. It feels less so now.

That’s a good thing, he tells himself. If Kyojuro is letting his guard down around Akaza, then it means that he is one step closer to convincing Kyojuro to become a demon. A push here, a shove there, and in no time, Kyojuro will soon forget all of his foolish notions of humanity.

Behind them, a familiar caw splits the night. Akaza glances over his shoulder to see Kaname gliding through the air towards them, his black feathers barely visible against the night sky.

He’s gotten used to the crow’s presence. It used to irritate him to no end, but now Akaza has accepted that he’s not getting rid of Kaname anytime soon.

Still, he bares his fangs at Kaname. “You again.”

“STUPID DEMON.”

Akaza just barely suppresses the urge to stick his tongue out like a child. “Pigeon,” he calls.

Kaname lets out the most indignant squawk Akaza has ever heard. In a flurry of wings, he flies upwards.

It’s only a second later, when the snow hits Akaza, that he realizes that Kaname’s goal had been to shake the branch of the tree to dump all of the snow onto him.

Akaza sputters. The snow is in his mouth and also in his clothing and although he doesn’t get cold, the sudden chill is still a bit shocking and rather uncomfortable. Then he remembers that he should be angry.

“Kaname!” Kyojuro exclaims, sounding like he’s holding back laughter.

Akaza wipes the snow from his eyes and turns to level a glare at Kyojuro. “Don’t laugh,” he hisses. “Tell your crow to fuck off before I start skinning him.”

Instead of telling Kaname off like he really should, Kyojuro seems to lose the battle over his smile because he lets out a laugh. Kaname seems to have taken it as encouragement because he gives another light hop on the branch, sending more snow raining down onto Akaza.

Akaza cannot believe it. He is Upper Moon Three and a fucking Kasugai crow was shaking snow on him?

Just as he’s moving away from Kaname’s branch, a more compact bundle of cold hits his back. Akaza whirls around to see Kyojuro holding a snowball in his hands.

“You too?” Akaza demands, although he’s having trouble even pretending to sound angry. There is snow in his hair and in his eyelashes and sticking to his haori, but Kyojuro is smiling and Akaza can’t remember when he has ever seen anything brighter.

“You should not have called Kaname a pigeon!” Kyojuro says. “I would say you brought this upon yourself!”

He throws his next snowball at Akaza. This one Akaza dodges easily. He picks up a handful of snow to fling at Kyojuro too.

In the end, there is more white in Kyojuro’s hair than red. In the end, Akaza can see Kyojuro’s fingers are pink from the cold, his cheeks flushed.

In the end, Kyojuro’s smile is as infectious as it is wide, and for a moment, Akaza can’t help but smile back.

(Really, Akaza doesn’t understand what is happening, what is different.)

The sun sets so early now that by the time Kyojuro eats dinner, it is already dark. One day, Akaza joins him at the restaurant. Human food tastes and smells unappetizing to demons, but Kyojuro looks excited at the table of food he’s ordered, so Akaza endures the rather loud restaurant and watches Kyojuro eat.

Akaza has no idea how much food humans are supposed to consume, but a quick glance at the tables around him suggests that Kyojuro is eating enough for at least three grown men.

“I am very hungry!” Kyojuro says when Akaza asks why he ordered so much food. He takes a bite. “This is delicious!”

It is not anywhere near as appealing to Akaza. “It’s just food,” he says critically.

Kyojuro’s chopsticks stop on their path to his mouth. “Food is to be enjoyed!” he replies at last.

“Food is just to make sure you aren’t hungry,” Akaza argues back. He shrugs. “I eat so I don’t starve. Why else would I do it?”

Kyojuro looks a little bit contemplative. “Well,” he says at last, “Given your diet, I suppose I should be glad you are doing that!”

They don’t talk about Akaza’s eating habits for the rest of dinner.

Still, as Akaza watches Kyojuro somehow finish all the food he ordered, eyes bright and smile genuine as he thanks the owner of the restaurant, something foreign and long-forgotten stirs in his chest.

It feels like weakness. It feels like imperfection.

(It feels like the sun and it feels like being whole.)

“Do you not remember a single thing at all?”

The question comes out of nowhere. At the end of a short spar, right after Kyojuro sheathes his blade. The snow crunches beneath their feet.

“What are you talking about, Kyojuro?”

“Your human memories,” Kyojuro explains. “Do you really not remember anything at all, Akaza?”

They haven’t had this conversation in a while, although Akaza doesn’t know what Kyojuro hopes to accomplish by bringing it up again. It’s not as if anything has changed in a few months.

“No,” he says, although he can’t quite bring himself to scoff at Kyojuro like he used to do. There is nothing accusatory or argumentative in Kyojuro’s tone today. He only sounds curious. “My memories started when I became a demon.”

“I see!” Kyojuro replies. He starts down the path, checking over his shoulder to make sure Akaza is following. “When I was little, my mother once told me that everyone is a map of who they have met and loved.”

The sky is clear and adrenaline from their spar still buzzes pleasantly through Akaza’s veins, so he decides he’ll entertain Kyojuro a bit tonight, even if an innocent question is going to have them fall back into their fundamental disagreements again. “And what does that mean?”

“Well,” Kyojuro says, tilting his head. It must be one of the things he seems happy to talk about, Akaza thinks. There are certain topics where Kyojuro speaks with fondness, if not a touch of nostalgia. “My breathing, my swordsmanship—much of it is learned from my father! My mother taught me why I am to fight and protect people. From her, I learned to find joy and appreciate small things, such as enjoying every meal I eat!” He raises his arm, and within three wingbeats, Kaname has landed on Kyojuro’s wrist. “A friend I made in the Corps once instructed me how to hold out my arm like so for a crow to land on, because I used to have Kaname land on my shoulder and I couldn’t do it for a while when I was injured badly there.”

“A friend,” Akaza echoes.

“Yes!” Kyojuro says. “He is gone now. He died on a mission with me years ago. But I still have things to remember him by.” He squares his shoulders. “My point is, Akaza, that we are all made up of pieces and memories of the people we have once known. You are too, even if you cannot remember.”

Akaza laughs. He can see very well why Kyojuro may think this way, because beneath tempered steel and remarkable strength, Kyojuro has always been soft with emotion. Akaza thinks that if he peeled apart the layers of duty, of promises and of resolve, Kyojuro’s heart would be tender, fragile, and too sentimental.

“Which parts of me, then?” Akaza asks. “Since you seem to know me so well now, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro’s eyes are wide and serious when he meets Akaza’s. “Why don’t you kill women, Akaza?” he asks. “Why do you watch the fireworks? From where did you learn your techniques?” He hesitates for a moment, as if about to say something else. Instead, Kyojuro says, “Your life did not start when you became a demon, and all of that is proof.”

(Calloused fingers smooth something cold and soothing on his back. It eases the ache of the whip marks, which flare up in the extremities of the seasons.

“These are memories of your love,” he says. “Never forget that.”)

Akaza blinks, suddenly feeling as though someone has pulled the ground from right under his feet. His chest is hollow but hadn’t there once been something there to fill it?

“Why does it matter to you, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks at last, although the words seem to stick to his throat, as if he can’t quite give them up. “Whoever I knew back when I was a human, they’re long gone. I’ve forgotten them and they mean nothing to me anymore.”

“Is that the reason you have forgotten?” Kyojuro asks. “Because they meant nothing to you?”

“It must have been,” Akaza replies.

The conversation trails off there, but it invites itself as an unwelcome residence in Akaza’s mind hours after they have moved on.

Late that night, when the candles’ flame has dwindled down to nothing more but breaths of smoke and Kyojuro asleep on the futon, Akaza sits alone in the silence. The discomfort that has settled inside him is unnerving. It must be the hunger, Akaza thinks, because it’s been far too long he’s eaten. But then he listens to the ins-and-outs of Kyojuro’s breathing and he knows deep down that’s not the reason why.

He wonders if, one day, he will forget Kyojuro too. Months are mere blinks of the eye in the lifespan of a demon, which stretches for centuries and millennia before Akaza. A hundred, two hundred, five hundred years from now—will he forget the depth of Kyojuro’s laugh, the exact color of his eyes, the tone of his voice? Will he forget how, just for some ephemeral moments, his mind had felt a little less war-torn in Kyojuro’s presence?

There has never been anything Akaza has particularly cared to remember. But tonight, suddenly, he finds himself afraid that he will forget one day.

Chapter Text

The Harajuku District is bustling with activity when they arrive, despite the increasing winter cold and the reports of demon attacks.

Akaza has very reluctantly conceded to change into a weather-appropriate set of clothing for an indefinite time after a lengthy discussion—in such populated areas, he’ll stick out even more if he keeps on his usual outfit.

Kaname had delivered Kyojuro’s mission report a day ago: multiple women have reported on the disappearance of their husbands, who have all seemingly vanished without a trace. Eighteen victims and counting, and Kyojuro is certain that there have been more that haven’t been reported.

At twilight, they head out from the inn. Kyojuro holds the parchment containing the address of the wife of the most recent victim, Kaname circling close by above them and Akaza at his side. During the walk, Kyojuro turns to glance briefly at Akaza, only to see a faint scowl lining his features.

“What’s wrong, Akaza!”

Akaza’s expression smooths over as he glances at Kyojuro. “Kyojuro?”

“You’re frowning,” Kyojuro points out. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s crowded,” comes the response. “I can see everyone’s fighting spirits and it’s—” Akaza curls his lip. “It’s irritating. Everyone is so weak, but there’s so much of it.”

“It is pretty crowded tonight!” Kyojuro agrees, tactfully deciding to ignore the latter statement. “Well, I believe Ikeda-san’s house will be much quieter, and we are almost there!”

Someone bumps into Kyojuro, jostling him. The man lets out an annoyed huff. “Watch where you’re going,” he snaps before disappearing into the crowd.

A touch of anger rises in Kyojuro, though he’s quick to snuff it down a second later when he realizes it isn’t his emotion to begin with.

He looks over at Akaza again, who is staring in the direction the man left in with his eyes narrowed.

“It is alright!” Kyojuro says quickly, stepping between Akaza’s gaze. “Let’s hurry, he’s gone anyway!”

“I can still see his fighting spirit in the crowd,” Akaza says lowly.

“Yes, well, please don’t waste your time on that!”

Akaza shifts his eyes up to look at Kyojuro’s. For a few moments, he looks as though he’s about to argue. “Fine, Kyojuro,” he replies at last, then turns and starts walking again.

Kyojuro breathes in, out, in, out. On the third exhale, he can no longer feel the flare of Akaza’s anger in his chest anymore.

These days, he experiences the sparse flow of Akaza’s emotions. Ever since the demon had poisoned him, he hasn’t felt any of the extremities that Kyojuro had gotten used to in the past five years. Instead, the unpleasant anger and heavy grief have mellowed, lightened. The connection between their soul threads isn’t exactly empty as it had been before, but… different.

He doesn’t know what it means. Sometimes, Kyojuro is tempted to ask Akaza if he has felt something too. If, even though his soul thread is broken, it isn’t so broken that he can’t feel a thing, that perhaps there is something fixable and human left in the remnants. Something Kyojuro can salvage, because if the universe has meant this to be, it must have left him with more than a fool’s hope and desperate wishes.

But as quickly as it comes, the temptation passes, and Kyojuro knows better than to ask. So he will hope and wish, foolish as it will be, and keep it locked up where no one else will know.

A few minutes later, they arrive at the address that had been written on Kaname’s parchment. With Akaza at his heels, Kyojuro pushes open the gate and heads down the path to the door.

“Her name is Ikeda-san!” Kyojuro informs Akaza. “But please leave the talking to me, Akaza!”

Akaza raises an eyebrow, the corners of his lips tugging into a rather infuriating smirk. “What? Am I not good enough to help you, Kyojuro?”

“You’re not very tactful!”

“That’s really rich, coming from you.”

Before Kyojuro can retort, the door slides open. A young woman peers up at them with wide, solemn eyes.

She’s wearing a black mofuku, hair pinned in a simple updo. Her eyes flicker over Kyojuro and then to Akaza.

“Ah,” Ikeda says, dipping her head. “I had received news that you would come.”

“Yes!” Kyojuro says. “My name is Rengoku Kyojuro and I am here to ask you a few questions. This is my—” He hesitates for a moment. “This is my companion, Akaza. And we are very sorry for your loss, Ikeda-san.”

“Thank you,” she says softly. “Please come on in.”

The interior of the house is neat. The floorboards are polished to a shine, the decorations on the shelves are perfectly placed, and there are no extraneous items lying around. The more Kyojuro looks, the less it feels like an actual home. He’s used to small messes that indicate that a space is occupied. The crooked placement of shoes. A book lying on the table. A cushion out of place. There is not a single thing here that isn’t perfectly right, and that in itself feels wrong.

Ikeda leads them into a sitting room. “I will be right back with tea,” she tells them.

The moment her footsteps fade out of earshot, Akazza leans forward on his cushion, his chin propped in his hand. “You’re saying the demon ate her husband?”

“Her husband disappeared,” Kyojuro corrects. “But yes, we do think that the demon might have eaten him!”

“She’s limping,” Akaza comments. His gaze flickers over the room as if taking everything in. “Barely noticeable. But she’s favoring her left leg over her right when she moves.”

Kyojuro frowns. “Do you think the demon hurt her? She mentioned she was unharmed in the report I received from Kaname.”

There’s a thoughtful expression on Akaza’s face, the sort which tells Kyojuro he definitely has something to say.

Ikeda returns before Kyojuro can ask Akaza what he’s thinking, holding a tray steaming with a tea holder and three ceramic cups. There is a pleasant clink and the aromatic scent of green tea wafting through the air.

She pours Kyojuro a cup, then makes a move to do the same for Akaza. He shakes his head. “I’ll pass,” he says.

Kyojuro shoots him a look.

“Thank you,” Akaza adds, sounding like he forced the two words through his teeth. “But I’m fine.”

Ikeda takes the cup for herself and leaves the last one empty.

The green tea is fragrant. Kyojuro blows on the hot water and takes a sip. It washes away all the winter chill that has accumulated.

“Ikeda-san,” Kyojuro begins when she has settled down in her seat. “I understand this may be a difficult time for you, but in your report, you didn’t really cover any of the specifics about your husband’s disappearance. Would you be able to tell me what happened in more detail?”

She nods. Another clink sounds as she sets her cup down against the table. Kyojuro waits patiently.

For a few moments, Ikeda doesn’t reply, wringing her hands in her lap until her knuckles turn white. Seeing her discomfort, Kyojuro offers a smile. “Why don’t you begin by telling me when it happened!”

“Okay,” she says at last, still in that soft voice. “It was… it was six days ago. During the night. My husband—my husband often works late, and most of the time I’m already asleep when he returns.” Ikeda takes a deep breath, her eyes shifting down to her hands. “I wasn’t asleep that night. I heard him coming back, and when I went to the door to greet him…”

She breaks off. Kyojuro waits for a few moments before suggesting, “Did you see something, Ikeda-san?”

Another nod. “It was… it was a monster,” she finally says. “Bigger than any person I’ve ever seen. The eyes were red. I couldn’t see much in the dark, but I ran as soon as I saw it. It must have killed my husband.”

“Did you see it kill your husband?” Kyojuro asks.

“No,” Ikeda admits. “But what else could it have done with him? He—he would’ve come back if he were still alive.”

They exchange a few more questions and answers. Kyojuro inquires if the creature she saw had spoken or interacted with her at all, but it seems as though she had only caught a glimpse of the demon. Her husband must have been the primary target and the demon hadn’t paid her extra heed.

It’s a little while later when they finally leave. Ikeda remains soft-spoken but polite, thanking Kyojuro for his help as they leave. He offers her one of Kocho’s wisteria sachets, which she takes after bowing to them.

Akaza remains silent as they depart. It’s only when they step through the front gates that he says abruptly, “She’s not sad.”

Kyojuro blinks. “What!”

“She’s not sad,” Akaza repeats. “She’s become a widow as of six days ago and her husband probably got brutally killed and then eaten, Kyojuro, but she’s not sad about it at all.”

Kyojuro stops walking with half the mind to chide Akaza, but there’s nothing mocking about Akaza’s words. He’s being blase, although not unkind or cruel. Just stating a fact.

“Grief is different within individuals!” he says. “We don’t know the full extent of Ikeda-san’s situation or her emotions.”

“Yes, people grieve in different ways, whatever,” Akaza replies, sounding a bit impatient. “But she wasn’t grieving, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro thinks back. Ikeda had seldom met their eyes, but he could barely fault her for that. She’d recounted everything with some prompting and hesitance, which was entirely expected given her situation too.

He swallows. Akaza isn’t being purposefully difficult, so he must believe what he’s saying. And… a month ago, he would have questioned Akaza’s ability to identify and relate to grief. Now, Kyojuro thinks back to those lonely summer nights and realizes that Akaza perhaps understands a lot more than Kyojuro had given him credit for.

“Why do you think that?” he asks.

Akaza shrugs. “She was nervous, that’s why,” he says. “Like she was hiding something or lying.” Something crosses his face. “Believe me if you want, Kyojuro. It doesn’t matter to me either way.”

Ah. The doubt in Kyojuro dissipates at the touch of uncertainty behind Akaza’s voice. It doesn’t matter to me either way. It’s funny how easily Akaza can tell lies apart while being so unaware of his own.

“I believe you,” Kyojuro assures. “But I don’t think it would be a wise idea to march back in and demand Ikeda-san to tell the truth! We will have to be more tactful.”

The clouded expression on Akaza’s face clears. “Tact,” he drawls, beginning to grin again. He leans closer to Kyojuro, head tilted and eyes amused. “Not entirely your strong suit either, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro takes a second much too long to respond, momentarily distracted by Akaza and his slightly lopsided grin. It’s teasing, not malicious, despite the gleam of his fangs that had once unnerved Kyojuro like so. He’s used to it, now. On another demon, it would be the sign of danger, of a predator, but Akaza is just… Akaza.

Then Kyojuro remembers that he’s supposed to respond. He straightens away from Akaza. “We have three other people to visit, so let us hurry with that!”

“Their stories all corroborate!” Kyojuro says when they depart from the final house. “All of their husbands were taken by the demon, and the ones who saw it described it looking the same!”

Akaza glances at Kyojuro. They have spent the majority of the night talking and being offered tea, and he’s rather sick of Kyojuro’s attention being so focused on this mission. “So do you believe it?”

Kyojuro presses his lips together. Then he admits, “Not entirely!”

“And why not?”

The streets are empty now that it is so deep into the night, the late-evening busyness having settled down into quiet. It is just the two of them walking down the street toward the inn, underneath the silvery gleam of the moon.

“Their stories are too perfect!” Kyojuro finally says. “When these demon attacks happen, most victims either don’t see anything, or they’re so frightened by what they witnessed and it twists their recall. All four of them told me an identical story! I just don’t understand why they would be lying about the demon. Perhaps it is threatening them!”

“None of them seemed scared,” Akaza points out. “If the demon were threatening them, at least one of them should have been afraid.”

Kyojuro’s eyebrows furrow. He stops speaking, clearly deep in thought. His fighting spirit flickers with a touch of agitation.

“We’ll track down the demon tomorrow night, Kyojuro,” Akaza offers. “It’ll be more difficult given the amount of people in Harajuku, but it shouldn’t be too hard.”

Kyojuro’s expression smooths out, eyes rounded. For a few moments, he just looks at Akaza.

“Thank you!” he says at last. “I appreciate that you are trying to be encouraging, Akaza!”

“The sooner you slay this demon, the sooner we get out of Harajuku district,” Akaza says. “I don’t like it here. There are too many people.”

A faint smile touches Kyojuro’s face, soon widening. Moonlight’s gleam, winter’s flush. He is still so bright like this, and Akaza is momentarily stricken by how much he wants Rengoku Kyojuro all to himself. He can’t quite stand the fact that no part of Kyojuro is fully his: Kyojuro will offer that same smile to many other people, he will laugh with another, his soul thread is entangled with someone else’s, and one day Kyojuro will leave him just like—

Then Kyojuro turns away and starts walking again, and Akaza has no other option but to chase after him.

These days, he often finds himself wondering if things could be different if he pushes Kyojuro a bit here, and demands more there. In the beginning, it had been clear that Kyojuro barely tolerated his presence, and he only agreed to Akaza’s requests when he had no other choice. But now, it must extend past tolerance, even though Akaza isn’t so naive as to assume Kyojuro would want him to stay if he had no stakes on the line.

Still, if he asks for more, surely, surely, Kyojuro would give.

He could. He should. It is easy to take, especially with Kyojuro so conveniently conceding at the expense of himself.

Akaza curls his fists, the temptation losing its allure after a moment’s clarity. Every choice Kyojuro makes is for duty, but Akaza wants it to truly be Kyojuro’s choice—whether becoming a demon or accepting Akaza. Because if it isn’t a choice, then what is given still won’t truly be Akaza’s.

Not long after, they arrive back at the inn. They head up to the second floor and Kyojuro begins his nightly routine, preparing for his sparse few hours of sleep before he sets off again. He shrugs off his haori, folding it carefully and smoothing his fingers over the cloth. Then goes the outer layer of the slayer uniform, and Akaza finds himself watching the curve of Kyojuro’s throat when he swallows, keenly aware of the pulse of blood underneath—

He blinks. “Kyojuro,” Akaza says.

Kyojuro doesn’t stop folding his uniform, but he glances at Akaza briefly. “Yes!”

“I’m hungry.”

Kyojuro does stop this time. He doesn’t speak for a few seconds before he finally asks, “How hungry!”

“I need to eat, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, hating the way Kyojuro’s shoulders tighten at that. Regardless, he won’t lie to Kyojuro after he promised not to. “Soon.”

“I will try to find a solution!” Kyojuro finally says. He sets down his folded uniform. “There must be some way around this that does not involve you killing someone.”

“A solution?” Akaza echoes. “I told you what happens if you starve a demon for too long. You asked me to only eat when I have to, and I have to now.”

“Now?”

“Soon. Now. In a day, a week, two.” Akaza presses his lips together. “That’s not the point.” He pauses. Kyojuro’s eyes are worried. “You don’t have to feel guilty, Kyojuro.”

Instead of replying to that, Kyojuro asks, “What does your hunger feel like, Akaza?”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to know if it is similar to human hunger!” Kyojuro replies. “Do you get dizzy? Or tired?”

“Is that what human hunger feels like? Dizziness and exhaustion?”

“Partly!” Kyojuro replies. “Only after too long of not eating. And—well, you would feel hungry.”

Akaza laughs. Kyojuro makes it sound so… harmless. His senses map out the people in this building more acutely than ever, the ever-present temptation of finding something to eat. Kyojuro is the closest, every beat of his pulse audible to Akaza, and he can feel the warmth Kyojuro’s body radiates even from here. Hunger coils in Akaza’s stomach like a monster, growing in size and demanding its fill the longer he goes without satiating it.

“It’s a matter of control,” Akaza says at last. “My senses are much more focused on food the hungrier I am. At some point, it’ll reach a point where I can’t control myself.”

“Do you feel any discomfort?”

“Some. I suppose.” He shrugs. Half a lie, but for some reason, Akaza doesn’t want to admit the full truth to Kyojuro. “Hardly dizziness or exhaustion, though.”

“I see!” Kyojuro exclaims. His tone is unfaltering as usual, but there’s something unreadable behind his eyes, and his fighting spirit stirs with an emotion Akaza can’t put a name to. Still, Kyojuro meets his gaze, unwavering. “Thank you for telling me, Akaza.”

“You asked me too, didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did!”

They settle into silence again.

Akaza can’t even begin to picture how Kyojuro is supposed to find a solution to this. Having to kill someone for a meal is inevitable. It would be easy enough to track down a human that no one would miss and leave not even a single drop of blood behind.

But Kyojuro seems determined about this, so Akaza will control the monster that waits underneath his skin for just a little while more.

A few minutes pass. Kyojuro finishes his usual routine. He reaches for the lamp and blows the flame out.

Darkness descends. The room is a warm bubble against the tearing wind just outside. The windows rattle at particularly strong gusts, but remain sturdy.

Akaza sits with his back to the wall, on the second futon, because Kyojuro always asks for a room for two even though Akaza never uses the bed for its intended purpose. He can see Kyojuro clearly in the dark, head against the pillow and his hair spread out dark-gold around him.

He breathes evenly, but too fast to be asleep. Akaza remembers Kyojuro’s wariness during the first few nights they travelled together, when Akaza’s presence had clearly unnerved him even though he never said it outright. Kyojuro had simply accepted it until he became accustomed. Only Rengoku Kyojuro could hope to do something so insane, Akaza thinks: sleep in the same room as the demon that almost killed him and trust Akaza not to do it again. Or perhaps it isn’t trust.

Now, Kyojuro turns onto his side so that he’s facing Akaza. He can’t see in the dark, but his eyes are still trained to where Akaza is.

“Akaza,” he says.

Akaza tilts his head. Kyojuro can’t see him or his expression, he reminds himself. “Yes, Kyojuro?”

A pause. Hesitation.

“I hope it snows again tomorrow!” Kyojuro says at last, and Akaza has an inkling that it is not what he had initially wanted to stay. He doesn’t push, though.

“Why is that?”

“You like the snow!” Kyojuro replies. “Goodnight, Akaza.”

Akaza blinks. Kyojuro’s eyes slip shut and he curls a little deeper into the blankets.

He wonders what it would be like to feel Kyojuro’s warmth beneath his palms, against his own skin. Not the feverish, too-hot burn after he had been poisoned, but just how Kyojuro usually is. Hearthfire.

For some reason, he feels rather small in the dark room, like there is only the two of them. Outside, the wind continues to howl. Here, Kyojuro’s breathing slows and his fighting spirit dims. Not even the sting of hunger can puncture through the quiet, and Akaza finds that his mind, too, is comfortably silent.

“Goodnight, Kyojuro,” he says, long after he knows Kyojuro won’t hear him.

Kyojuro had wished for snow and it seems like the heavens listened to him, because the sky is entirely dark hours before when the sun is supposed to set. The wind whips past with violent gusts, and in very little time, it is snowing in earnest. Even with his demonic senses, Akaza can’t see across the street clearly in such weather.

“Are we going out tonight, Kyojuro?” he asks. “The snowstorm will probably only get worse.”

“Yes!” Kyojuro replies. “We must catch the demon as soon as possible. Let us go try to track it down today.”

“Won’t you be cold?”

“I should be asking you that question!” Kyojuro replies. “You are not wearing the kimono I gave you!”

“No one’s going to be out in this weather except us,” Akaza says, glancing down at his usual outfit. It’s easier to fight, and if they’re going to hunt the demon, he doesn’t want to end up tearing the clothes Kyojuro has given him. “So they won’t question it.”

“Well, I am questioning it!”

“I don’t get cold, Kyojuro,” Akaza laughs, even though he knows Kyojuro is aware. They’ve gone through this conversation a dozen times and now it’s become more of a routine than anything else.

They slip past the innkeeper, who has fallen asleep with a cup of lukewarm tea next to him. The moment the door is opened, snow immediately begins drifting indoors.

“Don’t let the cold in!” Kyojuro scolds. “Not everybody is like you, Akaza!”

“Unfortunate,” Akaza drawls, but he closes the door dutifully.

Snowflakes tumble down from the sky. A day prior, the snow on the streets had mixed with dirt, but now it is coated with a fresh layer of white, unblemished and untouched. Perhaps the worsening weather has driven most sane people off of the streets.

Kyojuro starts off, leaving freshly printed footsteps for Akaza to follow. His breath billows out in front of him like small ghosts.

Kyojuro had narrowed down an area to search for the demon based on the houses of the four women they had visited the previous night. “It’s hard to hunt demons in cities,” Kyojuro had explained. “It’s easier for them to blend in if they don’t want to be found, and possibilities of casualties are always higher.”

Akaza does his best to focus, sending out his senses and keeping track of the flicker of fighting spirits, looking for anything that would stand out.

For most of the night, the search remains the same: useless. Harajuku is an abundance of fighting spirits, but inside the houses, they are crowded and overwhelming. With so many people, Akaza has trouble discerning individuals, much less narrowing down on something when he isn’t completely sure what they’re looking for in the first place. Especially when all four women seemed to have been lying about the demon.

He is feeling rather irritated a few hours into the night. In front of him, Kyojuro carries on without complaint, even though snow has gathered on his hair and shoulders. Akaza wonders if Kyojuro would ever voice his discomfort. He can’t quite imagine it.

“This is useless,” Akaza finally says after some time. Kyojuro turns around to look at him. “Maybe the demon won’t show. And I can’t find it either.”

“There’s still hours until sunrise!”

“The storm is getting worse.”

He sees Kyojuro work his jaw, clearly not wanting to give up. Finally, he says, “Let’s retrace back to Ikeda-san’s house one last time.”

“She won’t tell you the truth, Kyojuro, you already know that.”

“I will ask and see!” He is walking again before Akaza can argue back, leaving him no choice but to follow.

They are nearing Ikeda’s house when there is a flicker of someone’s fighting spirit—near, out in the street. This one Akaza recognizes from yesterday.

“Kyojuro.”

No response. It must be the wind, which whistles loudly down the road and carries Akaza’s voice away from Kyojuro.

“Kyojuro!” he repeats, reaching for Kyojuro’s wrist to grab his attention.

Kyojuro glances back, eyes wide and questioning. He doesn’t pull away.

“It’s her,” Akaza hisses, giving him another tug. “Hide.”

They end up standing in a narrow alley that forks away from the main road. Kyojuro still looks confused when Akaza peers over his shoulder to look at his expression, but given that he doesn’t question Akaza nor speak up, at least they seem to be on the same page about not being seen.

Sure enough, Ikeda passes by them a few seconds later. A small bubble of light radiates from a lantern she holds, though it is barely visible in the heavy snow. It’s easier to see her fighting spirit in this weather.

Akaza counts to ten after she passes. Kyojuro’s shoulder is pressed against his. Akaza can feel his body heat even through his uniform. He counts to ten again.

“Is that Ikeda-san?” Kyojuro finally asks. He takes a step forward to peer around the corner so they are no longer touching, and Akaza feels strangely cold for a moment.

“Yes,” Akaza says, suddenly wondering if he should’ve taken Kyojuro’s suggestion to wear the kimono. “We should follow her.”

“Okay!” Kyojuro says. “This is definitely not the sort of weather she should be wandering around in, so she must have somewhere important to go!”

Ikeda’s figure has long since been swallowed up by the weather, but her fighting spirit is more visible than ever, isolated in the snow. Akaza leads Kyojuro down the streets, making sure to keep a safe distance between them and Ikeda. She winds down alleyways, twisting and turning. All the while the snow continues to fall. It must have already concealed their earlier footsteps, because Ikeda’s are already disappearing even though they aren’t far behind her.

Kyojuro remains bright and alert, not appearing very affected by the storm. Several times, Akaza almost asks him if he’s cold but finds himself swallowing down the words.

It’s a while later when Ikeda finally stops in front of a small storefront. They watch as she glances around her, rings the bell, and then disappears through the door.

Akaza glances at Kyojuro. Some of the snow has melted in his hair, which darkens to a rusted gold and deep crimson from the water, clinging a bit messily to his forehead and cheeks. He brushes the back of his hand over his eyes, blinking away the snow.

“There is a demon!” Kyojuro says at last.

“Yes, and now Ikeda is going to visit it,” Akaza says. “No wonder she was so nervous around you yesterday.”

Kyojuro frowns. “We don’t know the full story yet,” he tells Akaza. “The demon could be threatening her, or someone she cares about!”

“Like her husband?” Akaza replies wryly. “I’m pretty sure he was eaten and she wasn’t actually that torn up about it. She doesn’t seem scared right now, anyway.”

Kyojuro presses his lips together, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Let’s go inside,” he says.

“After you admit I was right,” Akaza says, beginning to grin.

Kyojuro looks like he’s contemplating running Akaza through with his sword. Then he matches Akaza’s smile with a rather blank one of his own. “Okay! You were right!”

He starts walking towards the storefront. Akaza chases after him. “There’s no satisfaction when you say it like that, Kyojuro.”

“Good!”

Before he can retort, Kyojuro is reaching for the door. Akaza will just have to remind him later that he was right. He shifts the kanji out of his eyes before entering behind Kyojuro.

The interior is dimly lit with a light that is tinted slightly red. Akaza is immediately hit with a mixture of incense and spices, perfuming the air in an overwhelming disarray of sharp scents.

Ikeda is nowhere to be seen. The wind blows in gusts of snow through the entrance until Kyojuro closes the door behind him, abruptly cutting off the chill.

Akaza narrows his eyes. It looks like a typical store that sells all types of miscellaneous items: talismans, stones, ceramic cups and pots. Incense sticks line the shelves, some still smoking.

He can sense Ikeda’s fighting spirit further off in the building, and another one nearby, this one very clearly demonic. Neither Ikeda nor the demon are in this room, although Akaza can see no other visible doors that would lead elsewhere.

Kyojuro walks around a display to the small table up front, a variety of charms laid out on it. “Prosperity,” he reads out loud, looking thoughtful.

Akaza joins his side. Prosperity. Health. Love. Humans and their superstitions can be so ridiculous. As if sticking up a piece of paper with a few characters scribbled on it will change a single thing. Yet they are desperate enough to place their hopes in useless decorations like a talisman will make up for their weakness.

“Quite a storm out there, isn’t it?” someone says. “What can I help you with?”

Akaza glances up, having already sensed the demon. He’s slightly surprised to see that the woman in front of them looks entirely human: her hair twisted in an elegant updo, red makeup lining her eyes and lips and dressed in a kimono too fancy for an evening like this. The only thing that gives her away is the slitted pupils.

She smiles at the two of them, a sharp gleam in her eyes. She must already know what they’re here for, although she doesn’t seem taken aback by Akaza’s presence.

Kyojuro turns away from the talismans. He takes her in for a moment. “Ikeda-san gave me a very misleading description of you!”

The woman laughs, saccharine and pleasant. She circles around a table and picks up a stone from the shelf. “Oh, don’t fault her for it, slayer,” she laughs. “Umeko was only following the instructions I gave her.”

“And where is she now!”

“No need for your concern, although it is very sweet,” she replies. “Now, how can I help you?”

Kyojuro’s fingers curl around his hilt. “Did you kill Ikeda-san’s husband?”

“Did I, indeed,” she murmurs, setting down the stone and picking up a charm. Protection, this one reads. She scrutinizes it, perfectly painted lips twisting into a contemplative line. “I was simply helping her out.”

“Not just him, but you have killed multiple people,” Kyojuro says. “There were reports of at least a dozen men missing! Not all of them were like Ikeda’s situation.”

“Hm.” She stops right in front of Kyojuro, and Akaza watches warily. Most lower demons are creatures of base instinct. Hunger, fear, power. She is far too composed, too calculating, and it’s uncanny. “Tell me, slayer, did you know that Umeko walks with a permanent limp?”

She had been limping when they visited her the night prior. Akaza had assumed it was because of a recent injury.

“Her husband pushed her down a flight of stairs in a so-called fit of drunken rage,” she continues before giving either of them a chance to respond. “Apologized for it afterwards, of course. He wasn’t in his right mind.” She laughs. “Of course, according to what Umeko has told me, he seems to be so rarely in his right mind…”

Kyojuro’s fighting spirit flickers, troubled. “So she asked you to kill him.”

“There you go!” she says, and Akaza bristles at the patronizing tone. “You see, slayer, all these women are the ones who came to me. They are the ones who begged me to help them get rid of their husbands who neglect them, threaten them, and hurt them.” Each word is sharper than the last until her sentence finishes with a snarl, entirely inhuman. “And now you are here to execute me for it.”

“I cannot allow you to continue killing, no matter the cause you have decided for it!” Kyojuro says. He swallows. “Those women did not deserve what happened to them. But what you are doing is not right either.”

She takes a step away from Kyojuro, unhurried. “Right or wrong,” she muses. “What about you? A demon slayer with a demon following at your heels?” She looks at Akaza. “You two are such an unexpected combination. I almost can’t decide who is the bigger hypocrite.”

Akaza sneers at her. “Don’t assume you know anything,” he says. “At least I’m not killing people and deluding myself into believing that I’m some sort of saviour.”

“Akaza,” Kyojuro says. A reminder. Don’t let her get under your skin.

“You’ve got me wrong,” she says, her eyes flickering to Akaza. “I know he’s here to kill me and I have no intention of dying a martyr.” She smiles at Kyojuro now, empty and dark. “So why don’t you draw your sword?”

Kyojuro’s eyes narrow warily, but his fingers tighten over the hilt of his blade as he complies. The metal sings sharply as he draws it from his scabbard and angles it towards the demon.

She tilts her neck, baring pale skin towards the silvery edge. “So righteous,” she says to Kyojuro. “Aren’t you such a selfless liar?”

Kyojuro’s knuckles whiten, but he doesn’t bite the bait. “I am not here to play judge or jury,” he says.

The demon lets out a sharp laugh. “Just executioner, then?”

Akaza tenses, on edge that she’ll suddenly spring. She isn’t particularly strong judging by her fighting spirit, but no demon would willingly offer themselves up to die so easily, without even attempting to fight or flee.

He can see Kyojuro readying himself to swing his sword. Right before he moves, a door slams open.

“Don’t!” Ikeda’s shrill voice cuts through the silence.

She’s no longer wearing the black mofuku, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, messy and unpinned. Her eyes are fierce as they flicker between Kyojuro and the demon. “Don’t hurt her,” she repeats, raising one shaking hand.

Akaza catches the gleam of something silver and sharp in her hands: a knife, poised over her chest.

Kyojuro must have seen it too, because his expression grows concerned. “Ikeda-san—”

“Put your sword away,” Ikeda says, taking a step forward. “Don’t hurt her. I asked her to help me. I asked her to kill him.”

For the first time tonight, the demon’s composure slips. “Umeko, this no longer involves you.”

“Put it down!” Ikeda shrieks at Kyojuro. “Or I’ll—or I’ll do it. And if I die, it will be on your hands.”

She’s shaking so much that Akaza is half-convinced she won’t even be able to strike the knife down if she tried. This is a far cry from the timid, soft-spoken woman who had greeted them last night and offered tea. It seems like they just had to find the right buttons to push.

Kyojuro slowly lowers his sword away from the demon’s neck. Akaza can tell the way his entire body is tensed, coiled and ready to move at any moment. “Alright,” he says. “Ikeda-san—”

“Let her leave,” Ikeda interrupts. “Hisae-san, go.”

The demon takes a step away from Kyojuro, her eyes wide. She must not have planned for this, because all her previous confidence has transformed abruptly into uncertainty.

Ah. Akaza finds himself hating her features twist into an expression that is so… weak. So human. Cracked is the mask of mockery and disdain, and instead fear leaks out from behind it.

“Hisae-san,” Ikeda pleads. “Please go.”

It is a second too late that Akaza realizes what she plans to do. Both he and Kyojuro start forward.

The knife sinks into flesh with a dull, wet noise. Ikeda’s expression does not change, her lips set into a determined line even as red blossoms out from the wound and begins to rapidly stain her clothing.

In a blur of movement, the demon is gone, fleeing to and out the door and leaving it wide open for snow to gust inside.

Akaza reaches Ikeda first, catching her before she hits the ground. Kyojuro is at her side a moment after, his eyes wide.

Blood perfumes through the air and overpowers even the incense. It smothers Akaza’s senses for a brief moment before he snaps back into action.

The knife isn’t high enough to have punctured lungs or her heart, but it’s only a matter of time before she loses too much blood. At least she hadn’t pulled the blade out. That’ll stall the blood flow for now.

“She’s losing too much blood!” Kyojuro exclaims. “We need to—”

“I’ll get her to a doctor,” Akaza interrupts. “You go after the demon.”

Kyojuro hesitates for a moment, looking conflicted. Akaza can almost hear the underlying question, and he knows that Kyojuro’s hesitancy is warranted. What sort of slayer would leave behind a wounded victim with a demon?

Then Kyojuro stands up and nods. “Okay!” he says abruptly. “I trust you to get Ikeda-san to a doctor as soon as possible! I will follow the demon.”

Trust. Strange. Akaza had once counted down the days until he finally gained Kyojuro’s trust, tore down his inhibitions, and corroded that steadfast adherence to duty. Yet this is nothing like he pictured.

“Go,” he tells Kyojuro instead.

Kyojuro nods again. Without wasting another moment, he’s making his way towards the door, soon swallowed by the storm.

“Hisae-san,” Ikeda repeats softly, her eyes glazed, hands covered with crimson and slack at her side. The words are slurred and feverish. “Hisae-san, leave, please leave, please just leave.”

First he must put pressure on the wound to staunch the flow of blood. Then he must find a doctor. Akaza breathes in deep, then exhales all the air in his lungs. A habit he must have caught from Kyojuro, he realizes belatedly, because there’s no reason for a demon to regulate breaths.

“She’s already gone,” Akaza tells Ikeda. She doesn’t seem to hear him at all. “She left you, just like you wanted.”

“Just go,” Ikeda whispers, and Akaza doesn’t tell her again that she’s already begging a ghost.

Chapter Text

The storm is only getting worse.

Snow whips at any exposed skin with needle-sharp stings, made painful by the harsh wind. Kyojuro is barely keeping up with the demon—everything is muted and difficult to pinpoint in this sort of weather.

Her little shop is on the outskirts of Harajuku District, it seems. For some time, he pursues her down twisting streets and alleyways, but it’s not long after that they leave the confines of the district into open fields that would have been farmland in the growth and harvest months. Right now, everything is a hazy picture of white and Kyojuro cannot see more than a few feet in front of him.

He doesn’t know how far away he is from the city anymore. The demon keeps on moving deeper into the storm. Kyojuro grits his teeth and follows, regulating his breaths so that the cold doesn’t seep too far into his body.

It feels like an eternity before she stops. Kyojuro narrows his eyes and tries to focus his senses, but he’s having trouble hearing anything other than the wailing of the wind and feeling the sharp sting of snow.

A blur of movement behind him, darker than the snow. Kyojuro draws his sword and swings it in an arc.

Flesh and fabric tear. The demon stands behind him, one of her arms a bloody stump. Slowly, the limb regenerates, barely a fraction of Akaza’s speed that Kyojuro has gotten accustomed to.

Hisae, Ikeda had called her. She spoke the name with familiarity, like they had known each other for a long time. She had pleaded for the demon to leave as well; she had sacrificed her own life for Hisae’s.

Blood drips from his sword onto the snow, ruining the pristine carpet of white. The demon looks at him with an unreadable expression.

“Why did you lead me out here!” Kyojuro asks, raising his voice above the howl of the wind. “You weren’t running for your life, were you?”

She smiles, although it is an empty look. “As perceptive as always, slayer,” she says. “I simply wanted to separate you from your demon companion.”

Kyojuro flexes his fingers around the hilt. His hands are beginning to numb. “What is your reason!”

The demon steps closer to him. She is just a sword’s length away.

“Is he your soulmate?” she asks.

Kyojuro freezes. The world suddenly feels like it’s shrinking around him. It’s jarring—a secret he’s kept to himself all this while, and she flays it open so easily, so casually. “What did you say?”

“He is,” the demon muses, her lips twisting. “A demon and a demon slayer. How nostalgic.”

He should kill her now. It’s easy: his sword is in his hands, she is close, and this demon isn’t particularly strong. It will be over in a few seconds.

Instead, Kyojuro asks, “How did you know?”

“I saw Umeko’s limp when she came into my store to buy a talisman that she hoped would soothe her husband’s anger,” the demon says. “She concealed all her bruises with powder, but it didn’t quite match her complexion.” She tilts her head at Kyojuro. “I see the way you look at your demon and I hear your pulse quicken when he speaks to you. But he doesn’t know, does he?”

This is a conversation Kyojuro knows that he does not have the luxury to entertain. All of his training demands against it, yet he wavers for a moment, too taken aback by her words to follow through with his swing.

“He does not!” Kyojuro replies at last. “But that does not concern you!”

“Perhaps,” she says. “But you remind me of someone I knew. He was also a slayer.”

Kyojuro narrows his eyes, blinking away the snow. It hadn’t stood out to him back at the shop, but it now strikes him just how human the demon in front of him looks. Young, too. She must have been around his age when Kibutsuji turned her.

Her features twist, anger behind the painted smile, and Kyojuro is suddenly reminded a little of Akaza.

“He had a wife,” she continues. “They were soulmates, of course. She loved him and she thought he loved her too. Until she was turned into a demon, and he came back home and immediately tried to kill her.”

She’s still smiling. It’s a helpless, tired, furious look all at once.

“You,” Kyojuro realizes, and it sinks in heavily.

“Yes,” she agrees. “Me. He told me it was only duty. He told me he was sorry. I wasn’t going to hurt him. But then he turned his blade on me, so I killed him first.”

Kyojuro doesn’t know what to say to her. Duty has always been something he followed without question, but up until Akaza, it has never put him at such an imposition. He has turned his blade on Akaza long before he knew who Akaza was, but now, if circumstances call for it, can he do it again?

“He was a noble slayer, perhaps that much was true,” Hisae says, her voice barely audible over the wind. She closes her eyes, the smile slipping from her lips. “But wasn’t he also supposed to love me?”

Does this really mean he did not? Kyojuro wants to ask, but he knows it would mean little.

“I am sorry for your loss and for your pain,” he says at last.

Hisae opens her eyes again. “What use are apologies?” she asks bitterly. “I want to know what you will do, slayer. Will you kill him too when the time comes? When he is no longer useful to you?”

Kyojuro wants to say no. But he can’t. He has made an oath to protect, and not even his soulmate can stand in the way of that.

Then he thinks of Akaza, crumbling to dust like every other demon he’s slain, nothing left behind to even bury. The broken remnants of a gold thread, frayed and ruined like the ones Akaza has so often scoffed at. It has always seemed impossible to kill him because Akaza is so strong. But Kyojuro has since learned that there are parts of Akaza too that are vulnerable and fragile, even if his grief is hidden behind centuries-old anger.

“I am a slayer before anything else!” Kyojuro says. “That is how I must base my judgments and my actions. Even if it is difficult!”

“Even if it is difficult,” Hisae echoes. “Can you really choose to love him when something that was meant to be easy becomes the most difficult thing you’ll have to do?”

Fingers splayed against Kyojuro’s back, his other arm extended with a cup of water. Akaza sits close, his brows furrowed with worry that he probably isn’t even aware of. Snow on his lashes and in his hair, his scowl quickly smoothing into a smile. Summer, autumn, winter; Kyojuro has seen and felt the seasons of Akaza’s emotions the same way the months have shifted.

Kyojuro didn’t choose Akaza. He was handed these cards and he had accepted them, and—then what?

Can you really choose to love him?

“He could have loved you still,” Kyojuro says. “Even though he chose to kill you.”

Hisae’s eyes flash, but she doesn't reply. She lifts her chin. “I won’t regret those men I killed,” she says. “But I have no desire to continue living either. I’ve said what I wanted. Finish it, slayer.”

Kyojuro takes a deep breath. The wind buffets violently against his back, the snow continues to sting. Hisae tilts her head to the side and bares her throat.

He can no longer feel any circulation in his fingers, but he forces himself to wrap them tightly around the hilt of his sword. Hisae’s eyes flicker to the sky.

“The storm is getting worse,” she says. “Perhaps you won’t be able to make it back. How do you think your demon will react if you die?”

“I won’t die!” Kyojuro replies.

“Ah, I hope not,” Hisae says, half a smile hanging on her painted lips. She blinks, her slitted eyes glassy. “I am curious to see how this one will play out. Or if we were all just doomed from the very start.”

Kyojuro draws his arm back before swinging his blade.

It’s a clean cut, a thin line of red appearing at Hisae’s neck: a quick death, a merciful one. She shouldn’t feel much pain like this.

The demon crumples forward onto her knees, red splashing out against the white snow to create a stark blemish. She makes a small, choked noise in the back of her throat.

“What price are you willing to pay?” she asks quietly, nothing more than a whisper.

Kyojuro breathes in, out, still trying to maintain his body temperature, even though it’s getting harder by the moment. She starts to disintegrate into the snowstorm, bit by bit. When he looks at her, he can’t quite see the demon that he should. Just a young woman, a too-deep sorrow behind her eyes and all so human grief. But wasn’t he also supposed to love me?

“I am sorry,” Kyojuro says softly, although only the wind hears him.

Hisae’s intricate kimono lays on the ground. Nestled within the fabric is a once-golden thread. The colour is dulled and the ends looked blackened, as if they had been burnt. The soul thread pulses weakly once, twice, before it disappears too.

Shivering from the cold, Kyojuro manages to sheathe his sword. He picks up Hisae’s kimono. For demons, there is always nothing left to bury—not even bones. Perhaps Ikeda would want this remnant of Hisae, or perhaps he can bury it for her when the storm ceases. Either way, after everything she had told him, it feels wrong to leave it here for wild animals to pick at and time to decay.

Kyojuro turns around. He has a relatively good idea of which direction he had come from, even though he can barely see a few feet in front of him, much less any outline of the city.

The wind buffets sharply against his face, the snow stinging. He tucks his frozen fingers inside the kimono he’s clutching.

Snow has piled up from the storm, and each of Kyojuro’s steps sinks down halfway to his knee. Total Concentration Breathing is probably the only reason his body isn’t shutting down entirely from the cold, but time is slipping through his fingertips and it won’t be too long before the exhaustion and the weather catches up to Kyojuro. He just needs to make sure he makes it back to the city before then.

Each breath sends cold air flaring into his lungs, which doesn’t exactly help in keeping warm.

How do you think your demon will react if you die? Hisae had asked.

Kyojuro wonders, too. He thinks that Akaza would probably be upset—after all, he had told Kyojuro he wasn’t allowed to die to any other demon. Freezing to death in a snowstorm was arguably even worse than getting killed on a mission.

Would Akaza miss him? Mourn him? Or, would he look back three hundred years from now, and scoff at the foolish, too-soft human who he had known for an insignificant, forgettable period of his unspeakably long life?

Ah. Kyojuro doesn’t know what to make of that thought. It shouldn’t be what he’s focusing on when his priority should be finding shelter.

Kyojuro isn’t sure how long he walks with nothing but endless white all around him. He’s beginning to wonder just how far out he had chased Hisae, or if he’s even heading in the right direction, because it’s impossible to gauge in the storm. He breathes, he tries his best to breathe, but everything is so cold and even the kimono’s cloth wrapped around his hands isn’t enough to stop his fingers from turning numb and stiff.

One step after the other. The wind howls, but it still feels silent, as if he is the only one who exists. Left foot, right foot. Exhale, inhale—

“Kyojuro?”

The voice is familiar, but Kyojuro’s muddled mind doesn’t register the owner until Akaza repeats, “Kyojuro!”

In a split second, there’s someone by his side. Akaza’s arm slips around Kyojuro’s waist and he realizes just how close he was to staggering forward if Akaza hadn’t caught him.

“Can you hear me, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks, leaning closer. His eyes glow unnaturally bright in the storm, even if snow coats most of his hair and, funnily, his eyelashes. Kyojuro very belatedly realizes that the cold must be getting to his brain, because his thoughts feel foggy and a little bit nonsensical. “Fuck. You’re freezing.”

“I can hear you!” Kyojuro says. His lips are numb too, the words rather difficult to get out like his tongue is too big for his mouth. His teeth are chattering. “I’m afraid I got a little lost in the storm!”

Akaza’s wide eyes never leave him. Something flares in Kyojuro’s chest, some desperate feeling that is jumbled and messy. Akaza looks concerned. Is it genuine, or is it just a trick of the eye? Perhaps Kyojuro is assigning meaning to something that isn’t there in the first place, because the wound torn open by Hisae’s words is still fresh on his mind.

“We need to get back to the inn immediately,” Akaza says. “You’re—you’re going to freeze to death.”

Kyojuro opens his mouth to reply that it’s not that bad, but he’s too cold to speak so maybe it is a little bad. Although Akaza’s bare skin is a welcome heat against the weather, it’s not nearly enough and Kyojuro can’t really feel too much of Akaza’s warmth through the layers of his ice-cold uniform.

Before he can protest, Akaza is picking him up. Kyojuro shivers in bouts. He no longer knows if the cold causes it, or if it’s Akaza’s proximity, or his touch, or an unwelcome combination of all three. Either way, Akaza adjusts one of Kyojuro’s arms around his shoulders—presumably for a more comfortable position—before he moves forward through the storm.

Kyojuro does his very best to regulate his breaths, but he’s been out in the snow for far too long and he’s slipping. He fights back the urge to close his eyes. He hasn’t felt this exhausted in a long, long, time.

As if he can sense it, Akaza’s hand squeezes his arm, hard enough to hurt even though the numbness. “Don’t fall asleep, Kyojuro,” he warns, raising his voice above the wind. “Don’t even close your eyes.”

“I k-know,” Kyojuro says, even though he’s struggling to do as Akaza says. It doesn’t seem as cold anymore, for some reason, which the logical part of his mind recognizes as a problem.

“We’re almost there,” Akaza adds. Another warning squeeze.

Everything is a haze of snow, wind, and… Akaza. His head is a jumbled mess of Hisae’s words, which burn with feverish insistence in the forefront of his mind. Can you really choose to love him?

What choice do I have? Kyojuro asks back, but he knows deep down that that’s not what she’s talking about. Akaza being his soulmate was not a choice either of them made, but what he does with that fact is still in his hands. There are still choices he can make.

He wishes it were simple, like his parents. When he was little, his mother had spoken of her meeting with Shibjuro with so much affection and fondness. She would smile recounting it, how easy, how right it had been to love him.

“Kyojuro.” Akaza’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife. He’s being shaken. “Kyojuro, don’t close your eyes. Kyojuro!”

Kyojuro blinks. He hadn’t even noticed that his eyelids had shut. A bit reluctantly, he opens his eyes and peers back up at Akaza.

His expression is of unguarded concern, so unfitting on Akaza’s features. Eyes wide, mouth set in a thin line… it’s almost unbearably human.

Who do you grieve, Akaza? Kyojuro wants to ask. Will you grieve me too, one day? He must be so selfish at this moment to want to hear Akaza say yes. To know that despite being in only a mere fraction of Akaza’s unspeakably long life, Akaza would still miss him when he’s gone.

It feels like forever when they finally arrive at the inn. Akaza shoves open the door, clearly not bothering to reign in his strength, because Kyojuro thinks he hears something splinter. It startles the innkeeper from his spot behind the table.

“What—” he begins.

“Heat up water and bring it up to our room,” Akaza says. “Now.”

The innkeeper must have been about to protest, because Akaza all but snarls, “Now!”

Footsteps rush away. Akaza turns on his heel and begins heading up towards their room.

The warmth inside the inn is jarring—too much and too sudden all at once, and it makes Kyojuro feel as if his skin is burning up. At the same time, his clothing is still too cold. He’s shivering so hard that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be warm enough to stop.

“Stay awake, Kyojuro,” Akaza repeats.

“I am awake,” Kyojuro replies, his voice catching uncomfortably in his throat.

In very little time, they’re back in the room. Akaza sets Kyojuro down and takes Hisae’s kimono from Kyojuro’s hands. He returns, sits back on his haunches, and then reaches forward and starts to undo the top buttons of Kyojuro’s uniform.

Kyojuro’s mind is still sluggish from the cold, but he has enough sense left to try to move away. “What are you doing!” he manages.

Akaza stops for a moment, blinking. “Your uniform is waterproof, but it’s freezing, Kyojuro. You need to take it off so you can start warming up.”

That is… probably correct. Kyojuro attempts to undo his buttons, but his fingers aren’t obeying him. Akaza eyes him, silently asking for permission.

Kyojuro drops his hands and lets Akaza do it.

Akaza’s much more nimble than him, not the least bit affected by his time spent out in the storm, just like he had always claimed about demons and the cold. He unbuttons the outer layer of Kyojuro’s uniform and helps him pull it off, then tugs Kyojuro’s belt through the loops.

All the while, Kyojuro tries to relax his body, but he has an inkling that cold notwithstanding, he’s not doing a particularly good job. This feels too—intimate. Akaza is far too close, undressing him carefully as any lover might, and Kyojuro’s afraid that Akaza will hear his heartbeat just like Hisae had: I hear your pulse quicken when he speaks to you. Kyojuro has drawn careful lines around their relationship that he won’t allow himself to cross, and this is one step in the wrong direction that will send everything crumbling down.

Akaza is all concentration, quiet for once, although Kyojuro had half-expected him to make some sort of comment. Kyojuro wonders if he is the only one who is acutely aware of the lack of distance between them. Akaza has always kept himself at arm’s length with the occasional, fleeting touch, but now their breaths mingle, the brush of Akaza’s fingertips inked all of him.

The last layer of his uniform is just about unbuttoned when there’s a knock on the door. Akaza freezes, turning to glance over his shoulder.

“That is probably the innkeeper!” Kyojuro reminds him. “I can do the rest myself.”

Akaza looks a bit skeptical but he rises to his feet to open the door. Fumbling, Kyojuro manages to take off the undershirt of his uniform and the slayer pants before crawling under the blankets. He’s shivering nonstop, even though the blanket is much warmer than his uniform had been.

Akaza speaks in a low voice to the innkeeper, but there’s shortness telling of impatience in his tone. A few moments later, he returns to Kyojuro’s side, holding a basin of water with steam rising from it.

“This is too hot,” he says after dipping his fingers into the water. “You have to warm up slowly.” He picks up the untouched blanket from his futon and arranges it over Kyojuro.

Not long after, the innkeeper knocks again, returning with another basin. Akaza sets it down next to the first one.

“You should thank the innkeeper,” Kyojuro reminds him.

Akaza gives him a look of exasperation, although there’s no real sting behind his gaze. “Kyojuro—”

“You should be polite!” Kyojuro adds, in case Akaza needed the clarification. He most likely does not.

Akaza looks like he’s trying very hard to bite down a retort. To his credit, he succeeds in the end and instead focuses his energy on dipping a washcloth into the second basin.

“Give me your hands, Kyojuro,” he says.

Kyojuro slips his arms from underneath the blankets. Akaza catches his wrist with one hand, his lips twisting. “Can you feel anything?”

“Not really!”

Brows furrowing further, Akaza shifts the basin closer. The water is lukewarm—perhaps just a bit above room temperature—although it still feels near-scalding when Akaza wipes the washcloth over Kyojuro’s fingers, massaging them until feeling returns to them in the form of pins and needles. It’s a painful process and by the end of it Kyojuro’s hands feel as if they’ve been scraped raw, but at least some sensation has more or less returned and none of his fingers have ended up frostbitten.

A few minutes have passed since either of them have spoken when Kyojuro remembers, far too belatedly, why Akaza had been late in the first place. He shifts so he can meet Akaza’s eyes. “Is Ikeda-san alright?”

“Ikeda?” Akaza echoes. “Ah—I brought her to a doctor. He said she lost a lot of blood but she didn’t hit anything vital when she stabbed herself, so he told me that she’ll probably live.” Akaza lets out one of his sharp laughs, this one with a bite of mockery. “It was a useless sacrifice. What was she even thinking?”

“She cared for the demon and wanted her to live,” Kyojuro points out. “That’s why she did it!”

“A shame you killed the demon, then,” Akaza says with a scoff. “She loved someone who saw her life as nothing more than a tool.”

Kyojuro doesn’t reply immediately. Somewhere, buried beneath the hurt and the anger, he thinks that Hisae must have cared too—she wouldn’t have helped Ikeda in the first place if she hadn’t.

“Hisae-san wanted me to kill her,” Kyojuro admits. “I wouldn’t have caught up with her in the storm otherwise.”

Akaza fixes him with a skeptical look. Kyojuro swallows and continues. “She told me about her late husband. He was also a slayer.”

“And she killed him when she was turned into a demon?” Akaza guesses.

“Not quite! When he found that she became a demon, he tried to kill her,” Kyojuro corrects. “So then she killed him before he could.”

Akaza laughs again, harsh and derisive. A jarring antithesis to the careful way he holds Kyojuro’s hands, the wet washcloth slowly bleeding bits of warmth back into his veins as it drags over his knuckles. “What a predictable story,” he drawls. “Humans speak of care and affection, but in the face of death, they’re all the same.”

Kyojuro shakes his head. “I don’t think that was what Hisae-san was trying to tell me!”

“Really,” Akaza says. His eyes flicker around the room but ultimately land on Kyojuro’s face. The flame in the lantern flickers and sends shadows dancing across his features. “And what do you think she was trying to tell you?”

In the very end, he isn’t sure if Hisae herself was aware of it, even though she had been ever-so-perceptive of everyone else. The way she had cried, right before Kyojuro’s sword had met its mark. Perhaps he loved you even though he had to kill you, and perhaps you still love him even though you killed him.

“I think she missed him,” Kyojuro ends up saying, wondering if Akaza will understand. “Despite everything.”

Akaza’s jaw tightens. The water splashes loudly as he dips the cloth in, out, wringing it before returning to Kyojuro’s hands.

“How foolish,” he says at last, on a soft exhale.

“To love?”

“And lose,” Akaza says.

They lapse into silence once more. Despite the layered blankets, Kyojuro’s body still feels unnaturally cold, wracked with bouts of shivers that just won’t go away. He’s exhausted, but sleep doesn’t seem quite possible right now. Not with Akaza kneeling at the edge of his futon, his warm fingers wrapped around Kyojuro’s wrist delicately, almost like he’s afraid of breaking something if he exerts too much force. Kyojuro wonders if it’s just him, or if Akaza can feel the weight of all of Kyojuro’s unsaid words and innermost thoughts riding on the silence. Things he wants to tell Akaza. Things he can’t tell Akaza.

Outside the window, the storm continues to rage, tearing against the building with vicious strength. It builds and builds alongside the silence, until the increasingly frequent desire to confess the truth all but overwhelms Kyojuro.

But he doesn’t. He can’t. It feels cruel to withhold the truth this way, but would it be just as cruel if he did offer Akaza the truth, only to tell him that Kyojuro will always have to put duty above him?

Hisae told him it was a choice to love Akaza. A difficult one. Kyojuro has never had trouble with difficult choices, but this one is feeling a lot more like impossible.

Part of his slayer training had been to curb fear in any sort of situation: fear was debilitating, a matter of life and death. But right now Kyojuro feels afraid—of stepping too far over rapidly blurring lines, afraid of loving someone who isn’t capable of loving him back, afraid of what all of this will mean for him when they inevitably reach a point where it is too late for Kyojuro to turn back.

He wishes his mother were still here. She would know all the words to say and the right advice to give, even though he can’t tell if that’s just a belief carried over from when he was ten years old and the world was much smaller and simpler than it is now.

What price are you willing to pay?

At last, Akaza sets down his hands. They tingle, but Kyojuro can move his fingers and feel the warmth of Akaza’s skin through them.

“You’re still shivering, Kyojuro,” Akaza comments, his brows creasing.

“I’m better now!” Kyojuro reassures.

Akaza’s frown deepens. “I’ll go ask the innkeeper for more blankets,” he decides. He draws away, about to rise to his feet.

This time, Kyojuro is the one to catch his wrist. Akaza stills immediately.

His expression is open and unguarded, slightly surprised. When he asks, “What’s wrong, Kyojuro?” Akaza’s voice is hushed like what Kyojuro will say next is a secret between them.

Kyojuro wants to say it’s fine or I don’t need more blankets or even we should probably leave the poor innkeeper alone! but none of those are near sufficient.

Can you really choose to love him? Hisae asks, and Kyojuro wonders if it’s half a challenge in her voice when she had said it.

Will you ask me to stay?

“Stay,” he tells Akaza.

Akaza blinks, once, twice, his eyes wide. Kyojuro almost anticipates that Akaza will scoff at him, or tell him he’s being weak. Too sentimental; too human.

Instead, Akaza only relaxes. “Okay, Kyojuro,” he says softly.

Silence rests over them again. Kyojuro releases his grip on Akaza’s wrist but Akaza doesn’t leave, settling back down on his knees.

When Kyojuro continues to shiver a few minutes later, Akaza shifts from his position so he can draw a little nearer, his knees resting on the edge of Kyojuro’s futon. “You still haven’t warmed up,” he says. The words are careful, like he’s trying to avoid saying all the other unsaid things that need to be said.

“I don’t think an extra blanket will help!” Kyojuro points out.

A beat or two of thought before Akaza lifts the corner of the blankets and crawls underneath as well. The futon is small, not made for two, so there’s very little space between their bodies.

Kyojuro breathes in, out. He can feel every little movement, far too aware that he shouldn’t allow this to go any further—that he shouldn’t nurture the small bloom in his chest that fills with helpless affection when he looks at Akaza. Even with the blood on his hands, even with the unadulterated anger and profound grief.

But Akaza is warm, comfortably so. Kyojuro traces the dark markings inked over his features, the familiarity of his eyes. Hisae was wrong when she called him a selfless liar because if anything, he feels unbelievably selfish right now. This is a dangerous indulgence.

The blankets rustle softly when Akaza shifts to rest his hand against Kyojuro’s upper arm. He shivers again, although this time Kyojuro doesn’t know if the lingering chill is to blame.  “You’re still cold,” Akaza murmurs.

“I’m alright,” Kyojuro replies.

The lamp flickers, the flame beginning to burn into embers as it dies down. They are achingly close like this: almost skin-to-skin, breath-against-breath, and for a moment, Kyojuro doesn’t feel like he’s a slayer and Akaza is a demon.

“Sleep,” Akaza says. “I can tell you’re exhausted, Kyojuro.”

So Kyojuro closes his eyes despite himself. He hears the beat of Akaza’s inhuman heart and marvels that it sounds very human after all, not unlike his own. At last, the cold seems to steep from his bones, replaced fully by fatigue.

Before Kyojuro drifts off, he wonders if Hisae has finally met the one she’s been wishing for.

Chapter Text

Kyojuro is warm again, so Akaza figures that he should probably leave. He’s no longer at risk of hypothermia and he’s long since stopped shivering.

There’s still a while until sunrise and the inn’s window faces the west and not the east, but the sun’s threat isn't the main reason for the growing lump in Akaza’s throat. Rather, it’s this: Kyojuro’s limbs tangled with Akaza’s as he sleeps, all of his guards stripped down to nothing. It isn’t as if Rengoku Kyojuro doesn’t know how capable Akaza is of hurting him and killing him. He knows, and he had allowed Akaza this close regardless.

Inhale. Exhale. Akaza can feel each puff of air from Kyojuro’s breathing, the exact temperature of his bare skin against Akaza, the slowed and steady pulse of his heart.

He isn’t stupid. This is dangerous intimacy, both for him and for Kyojuro. Akaza is Upper Moon Three, and yet he’s here, curled under blankets with someone who should be his enemy—and somehow, somehow, all he can think of is the way Kyojuro had caught his wrist and asked, Stay.

Akaza wouldn’t call Kyojuro calculating, but he is purposeful in most of the things he does. Although it’s overshadowed by his loudness and bright attitude, behind all of that, Kyojuro is one of the most careful people he’s ever met.

Will you ask me to stay? Akaza had asked him so long ago, back on the edge of summer. Kyojuro had not answered him then, and it had been enough of an answer. Until now.

Stay.

He must have known. He must have remembered. He wouldn’t be so careless otherwise—even if he had been exhausted from the cold, Kyojuro was too sharp to have said it by accident.

Kyojuro shifts slightly, curled against his side, his hair spread messily on the pillow. Akaza swallows. His heartbeat is a chant of too-close too-close too-close. He should get up and leave before the sun rises, or else he’ll be trapped in the inn for the entire day. The thrum of hunger coursing through his veins is only getting worse. Kyojuro’s nearness isn’t doing any favors, not when there’s the sweet scent of blood so close and so easily accessible. As soon as his mind returns to the prospect of feeding, it takes all of Akaza’s effort to consciously ignore each pulse of Kyojuro’s heartbeat.

Akaza shifts slightly, trying to move further away from Kyojuro if only to curb the temptation of hunger. Apparently, the miniscule movement is enough to wake Kyojuro because his fighting spirit flickers brighter.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro murmurs, his voice rough from sleep. The blankets rustle as one of his hands brushes over Akaza’s arm. Accidental or not, Akaza doesn’t know. “Ah, you’re still here.”

Akaza swallows again. His throat feels impossibly dry. “Did you want me to leave?” he asks lowly, a sudden and unexplainable trepidation rising when he waits for Kyojuro’s answer.

“No,” Kyojuro replies after a second or two passes. “I just wasn’t sure if you’d stay.”

Akaza’s breath catches in his throat. It can’t be a coincidence.

Kyojuro blinks a few times like he’s trying to orient himself. The futon is designed for one person only, so there is practically no space between them.

“Are you still cold, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks, for lack of anything better to say.

“I’m okay!” Kyojuro replies. “I feel much better now. Thank you, Akaza.”

Akaza wonders if Kyojuro is just as aware of their nearness, the burn of every touch of skin—or if it’s just Akaza who feels this. Perhaps to Kyojuro, this is still an extension of last night, when Akaza had the incredibly convenient excuse of having to keep Kyojuro warm.

They are silent for a moment. Akaza really should get up. Move. Say something; anything.

Kyojuro blinks again. Akaza traces the line of his face, the curve of his jaw, the colours of his eyes, and his chest feels a little tight.

For a moment, Akaza wonders what it would be like to stay longer, for things to be like this more often. Kyojuro has long since stopped looking at him with the sharp hatred he did in the beginning, and even his disagreements feel more teasing than antagonistic. But despite that… Akaza is not the one Kyojuro is waiting for. He wouldn’t even make an adequate replacement.

The thought plants a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and the brief reprieve shatters. Akaza pushes the blankets off of his body and sits up. “The storm has stopped,” he says. “What are you going to do today, Kyojuro?”

“I want to bury Hisae’s kimono!” Kyojuro says, gesturing towards the bundle of cloth he had left on the side last night. “And I want to go see Ikeda-san if she is awake.”

Akaza has no desire to do either of those things. Ikeda was a lovesick fool and Hisae was a cruel enabler.

“Kaname may come by the inn during the day,” Kyojuro adds. “I think he might have sought out shelter when the storm hit last night, so he’s running a bit behind. If you can, let him in!”

“Who says I’m going to remain at the inn?” Akaza asks.

Kyojuro looks like the thought hadn’t occurred to him. “Where are you going?”

Akaza has no clue. He shrugs. “Somewhere to wait the day out.”

“You can wait it out here!” Kyojuro says.

“Why?” Akaza can’t help but ask. “Do you want me to stay?”

He hopes his voice doesn’t betray the coil of turmoil that has been present since last night. And deeper still, there is something even more insane: a foolish, impractical touch of hope. Akaza has never prayed to any higher being or deity because what he wanted, he could simply take. But god, he can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to know he was wanted just like he wants Kyojuro—a wildfire’s burn that eats away at Akaza until he feels made anew and terrified of what it means. But still, he wants.

“Only if you want to!” Kyojuro says at last. “I do not want to force your hand to do anything, Akaza.”

How absurd. What kind of Hashira would say that to a demon, much less Upper Moon Three?

“Fine,” Akaza says. He gives Kyojuro his sharpest smile, baring his fangs in the same way that he knows used to make Kyojuro’s fighting spirit flicker with wariness. These days, he barely reacts. “Because you asked me so sweetly, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro gives him one of his blank smiles. “You are misconstruing my words, Akaza!” he says brightly.

A few minutes later, Kyojuro is dressed in his uniform again. It’s dried and warmed from the night before. Akaza allows him silence as he sifts through his belongings, then takes Hisae’s kimono and folds it into a neat bundle. In little time, Kyojuro is shouldering his bag and heading for the door.

He pauses right before he leaves. Akaza can already anticipate himself succumbing to boredom the moment Kyojuro walks out the door. He can’t quite remember just what he used to do to keep himself entertained during the day, because none of it seems particularly entertaining anymore.

“Thank you for helping me last night, Akaza,” Kyojuro says, softer than how he usually speaks. If Akaza let himself indulge in blind ignorance, he could almost say that Kyojuro sounded fond.

“I wasn’t about to just let you die,” Akaza replies. “Not to any other demon.”

Kyojuro smiles. “Yes,” he agrees. “And certainly not to a winter storm! I’ll see you in the afternoon, Akaza.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

For a moment, Akaza sits still on his futon. He can still feel the lingering warmth of Kyojuro’s skin underneath the tips of his fingers and the depth of each breath Kyojuro takes.

And it’s electric and dreadful all at once, this type of wanting. All-consuming until Akaza does not know anything else. He doesn’t need anything else.

He wonders what it would be like to allow himself to fall without regard to anything else. Terrifying, Akaza knows, but maybe, maybe, maybe it’ll be a gamble that’s worth the consequences. (Maybe Kyojuro is worth the consequences.)

Kyojuro buries Hisae’s kimono a little past the bustle of the city, on top of a small hill that overlooks a little bit of the sprawling buildings in front of him.

He doesn’t have much to remember her by. He doesn’t even know if Hisae had been her real name, or if it had been something she had adapted after she became a demon. Come to speak of it, he doesn’t even know if Akaza had been his human name or an alias he adopted when Kibutsuji turned him into a demon. Although it’s not as though Akaza would know either, so he supposes that the both of them are equally in the dark.

For a little while, Kyojuro stands on the hill, even as he begins to feel the cold biting his nose and the tip of his fingers. Still, the sun is out and there isn’t a single cloud left in the sky, so at least there isn’t a storm on its way anytime soon.

Light beams and reflects blindingly off the snow. Like a moth to a flame, Kyojuro’s mind continues to circle back to Hisae’s words.

It’s… jarring, to say the least. He knows better than to let himself be affected by a demon—he has long since trained himself out of it—but things simply haven’t been the same since he found out that Akaza was his soulmate. And somehow, Hisae had seen right through every carefully hidden truth and then knew exactly where to twist her knife and flay open the wound.

Then there was last night, and Kyojuro almost wishes that Kaname would come back with another mission so he can take his mind off of Akaza. When he had woken up in the morning pressed against the warmth of Akaza’s body, Kyojuro’s first thought had been, perhaps I could get used to this.

He could, he could, but he shouldn’t. Kyojuro knows he’s already being unfair to Akaza by keeping this all from him. The last thing he wants is to drag the both of them further past a line of no-return.

Can you really choose to love him? Hisae had asked, and now, standing in the daylight with his mind clear from each cold breath he draws, Kyojuro thinks, I shouldn’t. It’s the logical answer, the right decision, and yet his chest squeezes so awfully that Kyojuro is afraid that Akaza will feel it through their soul threads.

After a little while, he makes his way back to the city. Akaza had given him directions to the doctor’s clinic where he had dropped Ikeda off at, so Kyojuro heads down the winding streets. It’s quite close to where Hisae’s shop had been.

The waiting room is empty when Kyojuro enters, although the windchimes tinkle cheerfully as the door shuts behind him. The air is clean with a faint undercurrent of something pleasantly medicinal. He’s more accustomed to the Corps’ medical facilities, which always carries the insistent scent of wisteria.

A few moments later, a middle-aged man in glasses steps out from behind the curtains. His eyes land on Kyojuro.

“Hello,” he greets. “How can I help you?”

“Hello!” Kyojuro echoes. “My name is Rengoku Kyojuro. I believe my friend brought in a patient yesterday! Ikeda Umeko?”

The doctor looks at him for a few moments. “Are you a family member of Ikeda-san?” he asks.

“No!”

When Kyojuro does not elaborate, he asks, “What is your relation to the patient, Rengoku-san?”

Kyojuro supposes that it will not be very helpful if he tells the doctor that he had been part of the reason Ikeda stabbed herself. The thought comes with a touch of guilt. Kyojuro has seen many casualties during his time as a slayer, but no one has ever hurt themselves because of him. If the knife had cut deeper or Akaza had been any slower, Ikeda could very likely have died.

“I wanted to come see if she was alright,” Kyojuro ends up saying, which is as close to the truth as he can offer. “I was quite concerned for her!”

The doctor hesitates for a few moments before nodding slowly. “She refuses to speak to me,” he says. “Perhaps it may be helpful if you could, Rengoku-san.”

He leads Kyojuro behind the curtained doors and down a hall. He stops in front of a door, knocks twice, then pushes it open.

It’s a simple setup: a cabinet, a table, and a bed. Ikeda lies on it, her eyes open and alert, but otherwise unmoving.

She looks worse for wear: dark circles underneath her eyes, a sickly pallor, lips cracked and dry. Recognition touches her features when she sees Kyojuro. Her eyes flicker over him once, twice, before moving towards the doctor. “I want to talk to him alone,” Ikeda croaks.

The doctor looks taken aback. “I don’t—”

“Please,” she says, more insistent.

“Very well,” the doctor says. He looks at Kyojuro and dips his head. “Please try not to vex the patient.”

The door opens and clicks shut behind him. Kyojuro remains standing where he is, for once not knowing what he should say.

It felt obligatory to come here, although now that they’re face to face, Kyojuro doesn’t know what his presence would do but cause Ikeda more distress. No apology is enough, and there isn’t anything he can offer her but closure for something she had bet her life against.

“You killed her,” Ikeda says, her voice a matter-of-fact. “Didn’t you, Rengoku-san?”

Kyojuro takes a step closer, but it feels wrong to approach the bedside. He nods. “I am sorry.”

Ikeda makes a little sound, and it takes Kyojuro a moment to realize she had laughed. Her entire body trembles from the effort, and after a few seconds, Kyojuro wonders if she’s laughing after all, or sobbing.

“Why?” Ikeda finally asks. “Because she was a demon? Is that why she deserved to die?”

“It is my duty as a slayer to kill demons,” Kyojuro replies. The words feel heavy. “Hisae may have been helping you and those other women, but she has also killed innocents! I could not turn a blind eye and let her continue.”

The bed creaks as Ikeda shifts. Alarmed, Kyojuro starts forward, but Ikeda shakes her head at him as she pushes herself into a sitting position, her entire body trembling from the effort. “And what of your companion, Flame Hashira?” she asks. “The demon whom you allow to travel with you. What makes him so different from Hisae-san?”

Kyojuro bites back his words. Ikeda is right. Akaza has killed and hurt far more than Hisae has. Who Akaza is to him does not change Kyojuro’s duty.

And yet he doesn’t know if he can still follow through with that swing anymore, even if he had the chance to do so. Akaza is a demon…but he’s become much more than that. Quick spars beneath the moon, a presence more grounding than anyone else’s and so terrifying in its familiarity. It’s a sort of helpless affection Kyojuro can’t shake off, and part of him knows it’s only a matter of time before it blooms into something else.

“See?” Ikeda asks, soft but sharp. “Love is hypocrisy, Rengoku-san.”

“I know that I must pay a price for not killing Akaza,” Kyojuro replies. “And when the time comes, I will not shy away from it.”

Ikeda evaluates him with her dark eyes, grief-stricken and exhausted. Her shoulders slump. In the hospital gown with the bleached white blankets and white walls, she suddenly looks very small.

“I truly am sorry,” Kyojuro says. “I know I cannot make up for Hisae’s death with well-wishes or any sentiments. But I did not mean to impose this loss on you.”

“I know,” Ikeda says. “But you still did, anyway.”

It’s not resentment, per se—just a brief statement with tired resignation behind it. Kyojuro knows that he deserves it and probably more. Ikeda had put her life on the line to make sure that Hisae survived, and it had all been for nothing.

Protecting people had always meant protecting their hearts too; there was never any conflict. Kyojuro feels guilty and out of his depth looking at Ikeda, because even if killing Hisae meant saving other lives, he is the hand behind Ikeda’s grief now.

“I buried her kimono on the hill just outside the city,” he tells Ikeda. “Just southwest, underneath the tree.”

Ikeda’s bottom lip trembles. Her eyes flicker down, clearly biting back tears. “Okay,” she says shakily. “Was it at least painless? And quick?”

Kyojuro nods.

“Okay,” Ikeda repeats, more to herself than to Kyojuro. “Okay.”

Feeling as if his presence will do more harm than good if he stays longer, Kyojuro bows to her before leaving, his heart heavy. He retraces his steps down the hallway until he reaches the waiting room, where the doctor is seated beside the table. He looks up when Kyojuro enters.

“Please take care of her,” Kyojuro tells him. “I will make arrangements to cover the costs!”

The doctor nods. “I will,” he promises. “She’ll be in good hands.”

Kyojuro thanks him once more before leaving. He stops in front of the building, peering behind him, where he can remember all the steps he took to see Ikeda. Love is hypocrisy, Rengoku-san.

She is right. Even now, even after everything, Kyojuro finds himself looking forward to returning to the inn knowing that Akaza is waiting for him there. He had thought he’d tried his hardest to draw lines between him and Akaza, to make sure that he ignored the treacherous longing inside his chest, but now Kyojuro wonders if perhaps he didn’t try hard enough. If part of him had been subconsciously fighting tooth and nail the whole time to let Akaza in, until he suddenly wakes up one day to realize he is far, far past the line he thought he was still standing behind.

For a moment, Kyojuro closes his eyes. He prays to his mother that he will never become too compromised to do the right thing, even if it is difficult.

He wonders if she still listens to him.

Akaza had told himself he wasn’t responsible for letting Kaname in—that wasn’t the reason he stayed. But the thought has been planted, so he spends much of his time with his eye on the window and anticipating the crow’s familiar caw.

Kaname does not return, but Kyojuro does. Akaza senses his fighting spirit outside the inn, a comfortable flicker of flame in his periphery. A few minutes later, the door of their room unlocks and Kyojuro steps inside.

“Kaname hasn’t returned,” Akaza feels obligated to update Kyojuro.

“I see!” Kyojuro replies. “He may be a little behind. I think he will probably be back in the early evening!”

Akaza nods. Kyojuro no longer has Hisae’s kimono with him; he must have buried it.

“Did you go visit Ikeda?” he asks.

Kyojuro sits down behind the desk. “I did!” Papers rustle. “She was awake when I went. The doctor said she’s not in a critical condition anymore, so if everything goes well, she will recover given time! I am writing a letter to inform the Corps of what happened, as I told the doctor that I would cover the costs of Ikeda’s treatment.”

“You feel guilty,” Akaza surmises.

Kyojuro does not reply immediately. The pen makes a soft scritch-scratch across the paper.

Finally, he says, “I did not want to hurt her in such a way.”

“You can’t account for everything, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. It makes him uncomfortable seeing Kyojuro so reserved. “Maybe she should have also considered the consequences too, before she went and fell in love with a demon.”

The pen stops for a moment, then resumes. “It is not Ikeda-san’s fault!”

“So you think it’s yours?”

“Hisae was kind to Ikeda-san,” Kyojuro answers. “She saved her. That’s why Ikeda-san tried to do the same for Hisae.”

“And that went very well,” Akaza says drily. “In the end, Hisae didn’t even care for her the same way. Still so caught up with her lover that she murdered.”

Kyojuro sets his pen down, raising his eyes so he can look at Akaza. It’s early afternoon, but the blinds are drawn shut in the room, so the only illumination is from the flame in the lamp. “What do you think love is, Akaza?”

Taken aback by the question, Akaza stares at him for a few moments. Kyojuro is entirely serious, eyes expectant, his letter set aside.

Love… is unnecessary. Akaza has survived on his own for all of these years, he has grown stronger and will grow stronger still, and has never had any need for it. Love is soft sentiment, a human’s desperate gamble to infuse worth into their fleeting lives—immaterial, unreliable, pointless.

Century after century by himself, apart from the short few months that he has spent with Kyojuro. It was so easy to be alone before, and yet now, Akaza can’t quite imagine how things will look like when Kyojuro is gone one day.

“Love is weakness,” Akaza says. “It makes you soft. Vulnerable. ”

Kyojuro’s gaze is pinned on him, analyzing and scrutinizing him. It feels as though he will peel back the layers and layers of skin and muscle and bone to find that there is nothing of Akaza left but rot and decay.

Love is weakness. The words don’t sound exactly right, but Akaza doesn’t know what else he would say.

“What sparked this, Kyojuro?” he asks, because another moment with the silence and Akaza is afraid Kyojuro will be able to tell that he doesn’t quite mean the words as much as he should. That somehow, Kyojuro will be able to tell that the first thing that came to Akaza’s mind in response to that question was Kyojuro’s tentative grasp around his wrist, his soft request: stay.

“I was curious!” Kyojuro replies. “When I spoke to Ikeda-san, she told me that love was hypocrisy. I was wondering if you would offer a more hopeful explanation!”

Akaza manages something halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “You wanted to see if I had a more hopeful explanation?” he says, incredulous. “Well, entertain me with yours, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro tilts his head thoughtfully. “I think,” he says, “to love is to surrender.”

“To surrender,” Akaza echoes. “To surrender what, Kyojuro?”

“Fears,” Kyojuro says. “Loss. Weakness. Like you said, it is vulnerability! But that doesn’t make it a bad thing.”

Akaza opens his mouth to ask: how can vulnerability not be a bad thing? Vulnerability is showing the awful, monstrous parts of himself and trusting the receiver not to turn away—an impossibility. Surrender is for the weak, for those who know they cannot win. Akaza is not weak. Not anymore.

Kyojuro returns to writing his letter, his pen scratching quietly across the surface of the paper again. Akaza keeps his gaze on Kyojuro, wanting him to speak more about it, but Kyojuro does not elaborate.

How foolish. Here he is, trapped within this small inn, separated from the sunlight by nothing but a layer of curtains that hang over the window. Akaza sinks his fangs into his cheeks, but the sharp prick of pain does very little to divert his attention from the turmoil warring in his chest.

A little while later, Kyojuro finishes his letter. Paper rustles again as Kyojuro folds the parchment. Then he sets his pen down, rounds the table, and goes to sit on his futon, across from Akaza.

“I have a question, Akaza!”

Akaza tilts his head, eager to hopefully move onto another topic. “Yes?”

“Would blood help with your hunger?”

Akaza raises his eyebrows, unsure of where this is going. “Yes?”

“You sound uncertain!”

“It will,” Akaza repeats. “I suppose blood is like water for humans, but more nutritious. I just don’t know how you’re going to get your hands on human blood without killing somebody.”

“I have blood!” Kyojuro points out.

It takes a few seconds for the implications of that to settle in. He raises his eyebrows higher, not sure if he’s completely understood Kyojuro. “You’re offering me your blood?” Akaza asks.

“Yes,” Kyojuro says. He squares his shoulders, apparently very much set in his determination. “Enough to make sure you don’t starve. I’ve lost much more blood from injuries before, so if I offer you enough blood in moderation, it should be able to sustain you and should not affect me too much!”

Kyojuro’s throat bobs when he swallows. The awareness of Kyojuro’s pulse is once again brought to the forefront of Akaza’s senses after he had tried so hard to ignore it.

That deep, treacherous sort of wanting is back, intermixing with the growing hunger that Akaza has wrestled to keep buried for weeks. Part of him thinks he shouldn’t—even if he’s careful, he could hurt Kyojuro: take too much blood, tear too deep, lose his grip on his taut leash of control. Another part of him is dizzy with triumph over this extension of reckless trust. Kyojuro is a slayer, a Hashira, and yet he’s offering the most vulnerable parts of himself to Akaza.

Love is weakness. Vulnerability. Surrender. But that doesn’t make it a bad thing.

No, Akaza corrects immediately even as the thought surfaces. It would do him no good to conflate two very different things. Kyojuro only offers this because he mistakenly cares too much for the one or two human lives he can save if he staves off Akaza’s hunger for a little while longer. He trusts Akaza because he has no choice of anything else.

It’s a bitter realization. Or maybe it’s not realization but something Akaza has known all along, something he has forgotten briefly these past few weeks. Kyojuro may extend trust, kindness, and even fondness, but at the end of the day, it isn’t Akaza he waits for. Or wants.

So he tilts his head and smiles at Kyojuro, wide enough for his fangs to show. Suddenly, Akaza wants to draw out some other reaction out of Kyojuro that isn’t his steadfast determination. A touch of fear. A reminder of who—of what—Akaza is.

“Do you even understand what you’re offering, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks.

“I have given it some thought!” Kyojuro replies, unwavering.

Akaza crosses the small distance between the two futons so he can bend down in front of Kyojuro, sitting back on his haunches. Kyojuro doesn’t move away.

“I could kill you,” he says. “I’m hungry enough. I could take too much blood, or I could lose control, and you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”

“I know,” Kyojuro says. “You could.”

Akaza lifts a hand to Kyojuro’s throat, touching his fingers against his carotid. He can map out all of Kyojuro’s veins and feel each jump of his pulse. Kyojuro lets him.

“I could tear out your throat,” Akaza says. “You don’t even have your sword at hand, Kyojuro.”

“I know,” Kyojuro repeats, his voice soft. He doesn’t look away, and all of a sudden Akaza feels as though he no longer has the upper hand. Or maybe he never did. It’s as though someone has stripped him of all his skin. All the tender parts of him are exposed, and he is weak, he is vulnerable, he is…

“You should be afraid,” he says, one last valiant attempt.

“I’m not,” Kyojuro says. There is aching sincerity in his voice, and Akaza knows he means it, even though he shouldn’t.

“Why?” Akaza asks.

“I trust that you won’t hurt me!” Kyojuro shifts slightly so he can roll up the sleeve of his uniform, baring his wrist. “You have saved me on numerous occasions. I see no reason why you would suddenly decide to harm me now!”

“You’re placing a lot of trust in someone whom your duty is to kill.”

Kyojuro fixes him with a level gaze. “The more you hesitate, the more convinced I am that you will be careful, Akaza, so you really aren’t helping your argument right now!”

He holds out his wrist to Akaza, something akin to a challenge in the gesture.

Akaza bites down the urge to say something sharp in return. His fangs aren’t meant for delicate bites but to rip and tear, to break through bone. The skin on Kyojuro’s wrist is unblemished and soft, which means that he won’t even have to apply much pressure to puncture it. Some cruel part of him wants to make sure he will hurt Kyojuro if only so he has to carry a reminder that Akaza will always take more than he can give.

Instead, Kyojuro tilts his head, waiting, infuriatingly calm, and Akaza realizes that he doesn’t want to hurt Kyojuro, not really. It is a delicate impossibility, but he aches to prove that he can be trusted—that he can hold Kyojuro’s life in the palms of his blood-drenched hands and keep it unharmed even when every part of his nature screams at him to act otherwise.

Akaza steadies Kyojuro’s wrist with a hand. This close, Akaza can see and sense the major arteries and veins that stand out beneath Kyojuro’s skin. He can’t afford to bite anywhere near those or else Kyojuro will bleed too much and too quickly.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro says, on the tail end of an exhale. A second later, Akaza’s fangs are breaking into sensitive flesh. He sees Kyojuro tense, but he doesn’t try to pull his arm away.

Blood spills into his mouth, warm and sweet and satisfying. It’s been far too long since Akaza has eaten, and for a few terrifying moments, he can’t focus on anything else but how good it feels to finally feed. The wound in Kyojuro’s arm isn’t deep; enough and not enough at the same time. It turns out that the monster beneath his skin isn’t one for satiation, because the more he drinks, the more it demands. There’s the urge to tear fully into flesh, to rip and take and—

Then Kyojuro shifts slightly and Akaza’s mind clears slightly from the fog of hunger. He is so hazy he can’t remember how much blood he’s taken or how long it’s been.

Feeling entirely out of his depth, Akaza pulls back. The two puncture marks on Kyojuro’s lower arm are bloody, a trail of crimson dripping down towards Kyojuro’s hands. He’s not bleeding too profusely, which is a good thing because it means that Akaza had been careful enough not to tear any surrounding flesh.

“Akaza?” Kyojuro leans forward closer, and Akaza automatically lifts his eyes to meet Kyojuro’s. “Do you feel better!”

Akaza blinks, his mind still fuzzy. “What?”

“Do you feel less hungry now?”

It takes a few moments for the question to fully register. It is better—nothing close to a full meal, but the hunger is nowhere near as insistent, so it’s a decent improvement.

“Yes,” he says slowly, then looks back down at Kyojuro’s bloody arm. “You need to staunch the blood flow, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro follows his gaze. “I suppose I do!” he says but makes no move to go retrieve any gauze or bandages.

Akaza should do it for him, especially since he knows Kyojuro’s first-aid skills leave a great deal to be desired. Instead, he can’t bring himself to move away either. Belatedly, he realizes he’s still grasping onto Kyojuro’s arm—he had all but forgotten. Kyojuro’s blood perfumes the air, a dangerous temptation, except maybe it’s not the blood, maybe it’s just this. Maybe it’s just him.

For as long as Akaza could remember, he has been fine alone. He has lived two centuries and knew what he wanted: to become stronger and stronger. To defeat the ones ranked above him. He has known Kyojuro for a few short months, and yet all of a sudden he’s seeing things he never cared to notice before: the exact brightness of the moon, the vibrancy of autumn, the song of the wind. Since when did he start clinging onto each of Kyojuro’s offered smiles; since when did he stop caring about how it made him feel so, so weak each time? It’s as if someone has peeled aside layers and layers of his skin and muscle and bone, digging out something so remarkably delicate underneath it all.

Kyojuro is so close, too close, and…

To love is to surrender.

But surrender is not in Akaza’s nature. Not for the strong.

He releases the breath he was holding and lets go of Kyojuro’s arm. “Do you have any bandages or gauze in your supplies?” Akaza asks.

It’s Kyojuro’s turn to blink at him a few times, looking confused for a moment. “Yes!” he finally exclaims a few seconds later. “In my bag.”

Akaza pulls away to go search for it, although his limbs feel heavier than usual.

Later on, with the wounds on Kyojuro’s arm cleaned and bandaged, Akaza moves back to his own futon and Kyojuro returns to the desk to finish his letter. They drift off to silence, and Akaza wonders if Kyojuro feels the unsaid weight of words weighing on the quiet as much as he does. If it is also near-unbearable to him.

Stay, Kyojuro had said to him last night. Akaza has all but memorized the exact cadence of his voice, the softness colouring his tone.

Not a command. Not a plea. Just a request.

So he will, just for a little while longer.

Chapter Text

Kaname returns late that evening just as Kyojuro is changing the bandages wrapped around his arm, mostly because it was the last thing Akaza told him to do before he had left long after sundown. (He still hasn’t divulged what it is he’s searching for, or what sort of task Kibutsuji had given him. It can’t be good, Kyojuro is certain.)

Two sharp knocks sound against the window. When Kyojuro opens it, Kaname tumbles inside with a flurry of cold wind, ruffling his feathers and shaking his wings.

“Hello!” Kyojuro greets, sitting back down so he can resume the bandaging. It’s a lot harder without Akaza’s help. “I am happy to see you are alright!”

“BIG STORM,” Kaname explains. He hops over to Kyojuro, and when he sees the two dark puncture marks on Kyojuro’s arm, lets out an affronted squawk. “KYOJURO HURT?”

“Ah!” Kyojuro lifts his arm. “I am okay, don’t worry!”

Kaname gives him the most skeptical look Kyojuro has ever received from a bird. He retrieves the gauze and begins to wrap it around the bite wounds. “Really!” he reassures.

“WHERE DEMON?”

“Akaza has something he has to do,” Kyojuro replies. “Where am I heading next, Kaname?”

Kaname relays his instructions to Kyojuro while Kyojuro rolls up the letter he had written to Oyakata-sama about what happened with Ikeda. Then he digs out the sunflower seeds he has in his bag for Kaname, who has thankfully dropped his questioning about Kyojuro’s arm in favour of some treats.

Kyojuro offers him a handful. He sits cross-legged next to his crow as Kaname eats happily. He wonders if he can have Akaza feed Kaname next time. They’ve clearly learned to tolerate the other’s presence better, but maybe it’s high time they moved past begrudging tolerance and into some sort of mutual respect. Although he’s not sure if Akaza is capable of mutual respect with a crow. Sometimes Kyojuro isn’t even sure if Akaza respects him.

He realizes he’s smiling to himself a few seconds later when Kaname gives him his second questioning look of the night.

Since he won’t be here when Akaza returns, Kyojuro leaves behind a short note telling Akaza of his next destination—he’s sure Akaza will catch up sooner or later. Probably sooner. Kaname watches him write, hanging around until Kyojuro gives him another handful of sunflower seeds. Then he’s off, gliding across the night sky until he’s barely visible silhouetted against the dark.

Kyojuro takes a few minutes to gather his sparse belongings. He never brings much along during missions—just minimal necessities.

On the drawer at the corner of the room, he spots the kimono he had gotten Akaza for when he needed to blend in with crowds. Kyojuro moves it over with the note he had left behind and hopes that Akaza will return to the inn and see it. Then, on second thought he folds the blanket on his futon, smooths out the wrinkles in Akaza’s, and evaluates the room for a little while longer.

It feels a little empty without Akaza here.

Kyojuro shakes his head. He needs to be alert for his next mission. Not…thinking about Akaza.

Shouldering his bag and deciding that one last look is unnecessary, Kyojuro steps outside the door.

Although it doesn’t snow as often, winter persists in the way that winter does. There is a bite in the air every time Kyojuro leaves the warmth of inns, especially prevalent at night. His winter uniform does a good job of keeping out most of the chill but it still leaves him feeling a bit cold.

He and Akaza settle into a familiar routine again despite the slight break at Harajuku: patrols, missions, travelling. If Akaza had been a constant before, he is an ever-present shadow now. He rarely even leaves for his occasional searches. Kyojuro wants to ask if it is because Kibutsuji relieved him of that duty or if Akaza is choosing to stick with him above it.

Each passing day is a step closer to the edge of a precipice from which there is no return. Each day Kyojuro thinks that he understands Hisae a little bit more, what she was meaning to tell him. He is not bound to Akaza in the same way he is bound to duty, but it doesn’t make it any less important.

And… it doesn’t seem so awful nowadays. When Kyojuro first found out that Akaza was his soulmate, it felt like the entire world had been torn out from under his feet. The one thing he had always wished for, poisoned past repair by Kibutsuji’s curse. His soulmate was the enemy he took an oath to kill, which didn’t even feel half as bad as the fact that Akaza’s soul thread was too damaged for him to love Kyojuro back.

But slowly, he’s grown used to the facts. Kyojuro doesn’t know if it’s acceptance or something else. Akaza isn’t someone who acts on senseless cruelty, and Kocho hadn’t been exactly right when she had called it obsession. There’s care and perhaps even touches of kindness hidden behind Akaza’s usual callousness. Kyojuro wonders if it’s hints of his human past just as much as his anger and grief are.

Really, now, it doesn’t seem so awful after all. He sits next to Akaza after a particularly long mission, arm stretched out between them as Akaza bandages Kyojuro’s cuts for him and Kyojuro thinks that if Akaza is capable of all of this, maybe with time, he’s capable of love as well.

Love is weakness.

Had Akaza been aware of the uncertainty in his own voice when he had said those words? Had he heard the answer in Kyojuro’s? He knew better than to say it aloud then, but Kyojuro had wanted to. Can you allow yourself weakness, for me?

He’ll wait a while longer. Just until he can be a little more certain of Akaza’s answer. They can have some more time.

The days are slowly but surely getting longer, which means it minimizes the time Akaza can spend travelling with Kyojuro.

When he brings it up to Kyojuro, he receives a thoughtful look in response. “What if you use an umbrella?” Kyojuro asks, brightening as if he had thought of the most groundbreaking discovery.

Akaza gives him a look. “I’ll most likely end up burning to death.”

“I see!” Kyojuro says. “We can’t have that!”

“No,” Akaza agrees drily. “That’ll make things much too easy for you, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro doesn’t seem to think of any more solutions.

With longer days comes the gradual arrival of spring. Akaza never used to pay attention between the shifting of seasons, because there wasn’t anything for him to particularly look forward to. Snow melted, leaves grew, it rained—year after year, it was all the same.

Tonight, the sky is clear. Half of the moon is hidden in shadow, the other half gleaming with its silvery light down on the path. Kaname hadn’t returned with more mission instructions, so Kyojuro patrols around his route. His fighting spirit is bright and alert but not particularly on edge.

Akaza keeps in step with Kyojuro. It’s been nearly a month since he last went to search for the Blue Spider Lily. He thinks that he enjoys time spent like this much more, especially when they have the chance to spar at the end of the night. And it isn’t as if he’s ever had any success looking for the damn flower anyway.

Kyojuro stops walking all of a sudden, and Akaza slows to a halt as well. “Kyojuro?”

Kyojuro touches a hand to an overhanging branch. “The trees are budding!” he exclaims. “Look!”

Akaza opens his mouth to make a comment about how he’s seen the trees bud approximately two hundred times, which would be true, except he’s never actually paid enough attention to look at it closely, so theoretically he’s seen the trees bud two hundred times and in actuality…

Biting down what is probably a very unnecessary comment, he joins Kyojuro’s side to peer at the branch Kyojuro holds carefully.

Small brown buds line the length of the branch, furled tightly. When Akaza looks at them closer, he realizes that he can see a very faint tint of green, still barely visible in these early stages of almost-spring.

Kyojuro turns to glance at Akaza over his shoulder. He’s smiling. “It won’t be long before leaves start growing!”

It won’t be the first or last time you see spring, Kyojuro, Akaza wants to say. Instead, the words don’t make it past his throat. There’s a bubble of—of something that constricts in his chest looking at Kyojuro’s smile, syrupy and warm and not as foreign as it had once felt. For a moment, he wants to see Kyojuro smile like that more, just for Akaza, just between the two of them.

“See?” Kyojuro says after a little while, turning fully. His shoulder brushes against Akaza’s. “You may have been alive for two hundred years, but there are still clearly a lot of things you’ve missed!”

“Is that so?” Akaza asks. He grins, leaning forward a little bit more. “What else have I missed?”

To Kyojuro’s credit, he does not move away. “The list is quite extensive!” He tilts his head, and Akaza doesn’t know if his mind is playing tricks on him or if Kyojuro has closed the distance even more. “I’ll show you when the flowers bloom.”

And then he’s turning away, walking down the path as though nothing had happened.

Akaza stands still, staring at the tree branch and all its little buds for a solid five seconds before chasing after Kyojuro.

Acknowledging Kyojuro’s nonchalance would mean acknowledging that something should’ve happened and Akaza isn’t entirely sure if that was his intention. He wonders if this game is all in his head: who will close the distance fully, who will snap, who will step across the line first. Akaza could if he really wanted to, but he waits for Kyojuro to be the first one to break the stalemate. He wants this to be Kyojuro’s choice.

The rest of the patrol sees Kyojuro stopping underneath several trees to inspect the growing leaves, until there’s around an hour or so before the sun rises.

He spins on his heel to look at Akaza. “Let’s spar!” Kyojuro announces. “Then we can head back afterwards.”

A bit taken aback, Akaza raises his eyebrows. He’s always the one to ask Kyojuro to spar, not the other way around.

“You’re asking me to?”

“We didn’t have time yesterday!”

Metal sings softly as Kyojuro draws his blade from his sheath. He levels the tip towards Akaza, tilting his head expectantly, clearly knowing what Akaza will do.

Akaza laughs. It feels so long ago that he used to have to pester Kyojuro to agree to spar with him. How the tides have turned.

He closes the distance between them with his fist pulled back in a punch, Kyojuro redirecting with his blade immediately. Red-gold eyes narrow as Kyojuro tracks and anticipates Akaza’s movements. They’ve fought with each other often enough that both of them have gotten good at predicting the other’s moves. It sends a thrill down Akaza’s spine to think about just how well Kyojuro knows him in combat. Out of everyone else in this world, Kyojuro is the one who knows his techniques, who can guess his attacks, and there is a sort of intimacy in that.

Akaza draws low to the ground, sweeping his leg out in a wide arc. Kyojuro pivots back on his heels, fast and light, before his blade swings towards Akaza again.

A very thin gash of red opens across Akaza’s sternum, but he can immediately tell that Kyojuro had purposefully softened his blow to minimize the injury. If he had swung with his full force, he probably would’ve torn open Akaza’s chest cavity.

Grinning, Akaza springs again. He twists into Kyojuro’s blind spot. “You’re holding back, Kyojuro!”

Kyojuro is quick to compensate as he whirls around, but it isn’t before Akaza manages to splay his hand against the small of Kyojuro’s back for a brief moment. A second later, the flat of Kyojuro’s blade slams against his wrists and knocks him aside.

“You’re holding back too!” Kyojuro says. “So that makes the two of us!”

“C’mon, Kyojuro,” he teases. “Surely you can’t be concerned about hurting me. I can heal easily.”

The corner of Kyojuro’s lips twitch in a minute smile. They meet again in the middle, with Kyojuro still refusing to cut Akaza with the sharp edge of his blade. He twists it with masterful precision at every last second so it’s always the flat that meets Akaza’s skin and no blood is drawn.

Swing. Akaza gives up the offensive and offers it up to Kyojuro instead, enjoying where this is going. Block. A dull thunk when the nichirin metal meets his skin. Snap. A twig breaks underneath his feet.

This is barely a fight. This is barely a spar, really. Akaza knows he’s hardly trying, and Kyojuro’s stopped putting effort into his blows. This is a game of push and pull, something both he and Kyojuro know yet refuse to acknowledge aloud.

Kyojuro’s blade sings through the air, gleaming in a silver arc, and Akaza doesn’t try to block or redirect.

It stops a hairbreadth away from his throat, Kyojuro’s arm stilling.

Akaza drops his hands to his side. He can almost feel the coolness of metal even though it hasn’t touched his skin. If Kyojuro moves just a little bit more, then it would surely cut into Akaza’s neck.

The air puffs white in front of Kyojuro as he breathes out, his eyes fixed on Akaza and never looking away.

There must be a sort of danger to this: a slayer, a Hashira as strong as Kyojuro, holding his sword right against Akaza’s neck. Except with Kyojuro, it doesn’t feel like danger. Instead, all Akaza can focus on is each steadied rise and fall of Kyojuro’s chest and the much faster beat of his heart. Adrenaline and excitement thrum through his body like a lifeline, and Akaza can’t help but think how alive he feels when he’s with Kyojuro.

“You stopped,” he breathes.

“You didn’t block,” Kyojuro replies. He doesn’t move his sword away, but his stance relaxes slightly. He tilts his head. “Would you have stopped me?”

Akaza is entirely helpless against the warmth that spreads in his chest, and he lets out a small laugh. He wants more, more, more even though he doesn’t fully understand what it is exactly that he yearns for. All he knows is that he is terrifyingly, electrifying out of his depth right now, and yet the possibility of being swept from shore is far from an unwanted one.

“Would you have cut my neck?” he shoots back.

Deliberately slow, Kyojuro lowers his sword. The cool flat of the metal blade drags over Akaza’s shoulder for a fleeting second before pulling away. “No,” he says. “I suppose not!”

“Even if I let you?”

The sword sings as Kyojuro slides it into his sheath.

“No,” he repeats. “Not even then.”

The air between them hangs heavy with tension. Akaza could be the one to snap it, but he wants Kyojuro to be the one to do it. Acknowledge this unspoken thing.

“Let’s go back!” Kyojuro finally says. “The sun will be rising in an hour or so, Akaza, you don’t want to be stuck out here!”

He spins on his heels and starts heading down the path toward the village they had been staying at.

Akaza doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until Kyojuro is a few paces away from him. He exhales, inhales, repeats, and then finally runs to catch up.

It’s on a rainy spring evening that Kaname arrives with a letter containing the Ubuyakishi family’s official seal.

Akaza is sitting on the other side of the room. These specific letters are strictly confidential, Kyojuro knows—more than just mission reports and directions. Kyojuro takes it out of Kaname’s carrier pouch and unrolls the piece of paper, keeping an eye on Akaza in his periphery. Thankfully, Akaza neither asks nor makes a move to cross the distance.

The elegant scrawl he recognizes as Amane-sama’s, but the letter is clearly Oyakata-sama’s words.

Dear Kyojuro,

Spring is upon us, although I’m sure that you were among the first to notice. Just today, Amane brought me some fresh flowers to put in my room. I could smell their fragrance.

Thank you for the invaluable information you have passed along regarding Kibutsuji and Upper Moon Three. I am incredibly relieved to know that you have been unharmed and have also been able to mitigate casualties in the process. I trust that you will always protect others’ lives, but please make sure that you are also valuing your own.

I have received word that one of our Mizunoto is an incredibly unique case, and I would like to discuss it further with the rest of the Hashira. We will meet at noon three sunrises from today at Headquarters. If Upper Moon Three insists on traveling with you, please keep him in the dark about these plans as much as possible.

I am glad to be able to see you again soon, Kyojuro. Please keep in good health. I will continue to pray for your safety and success.

Ubuyashiki Kagaya

Kyojuro reads the letter once, then twice. Oyakata-sama had signed his own name. The penmanship is noticeably different from Amane-sama’s: shaky and uncertain, but there’s still a touch of familiarity to it—a practiced signature reminiscent of someone who used to write much more. He still remembers how Oyakata-sama’s handwriting had looked before he had lost his sight.

Oyakata-sama’s unwavering trust in Kyojuro brings a lump to his throat. He has been diligent in reporting every detail about Akaza except what is the most important. As if he could compensate for the lie, even though Kyojuro knows he can’t. He’s afraid that he’s also becoming increasingly selfish in his motivation to keep Akaza close. Mitigating the inevitable carnage of Upper Moon Three should be the most important reason, and yet some days, all Kyojuro can think of is how he simply enjoys Akaza’s presence near him.

Swallowing, he lifts the letter over the lamp’s flame. A moment later, the paper is burning to ash, drawing Akaza’s attention from the other side of the room.

He doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head as ash flakes down, the firelight’s gleam reflecting in Akaza’s eyes.

“I’m going to head back home!” Kyojuro announces to Akaza. “Just for a few days.” Will you come with me?

Akaza appraises him for a few moments. To Kyojuro’s relief, he doesn’t mention the burned letter. “Do you want me to come, Kyojuro?”

The answer that comes to mind immediately is neither practical nor logical, and yet it’s Kyojuro’s first thought: he does. Seven months ago, he had been on edge the entire time knowing that Akaza was so terrifyingly close to Senjuro and his father. Akaza could raise a hand against his loved ones and Kyojuro would be too injured to stop him. He had nothing but an untrustworthy demon’s word to weigh for the lives of his family.

Yet now, Kyojuro has grown to trust Akaza enough to know that Akaza will not hurt his family, or even anyone else in the village. And despite having seen Akaza almost every day for the past few months, Kyojuro finds himself wanting Akaza to come home with him.

The thought of this between them—whatever this is—growing out of Kyojuro’s control is a terrifying one. He knows it will be a slippery slope, but he also thinks that he might already be halfway down with no route of return.

It’s moments like these, when it’s just the two of them held underneath lamplight and the four walls of the room, that make Kyojuro feel so weak. Vulnerable. He wants to let himself be tempted and surrender all the things he can’t afford to offer Akaza.

“The flowers might be growing when we return!” Kyojuro says. “I said I would show you when they bloom. Quite a few varieties grow in my family’s garden.”

Akaza’s eyes search his. Six months ago, he would have scoffed.

Yet no disdain travels through the soul thread, nor any sneer twists Akaza’s features. Instead, he only tilts his head at Kyojuro, knees pulled to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs. “Okay, Kyojuro,” he says, surprisingly soft. “I’ll go with you.”

The sun ends up rising before Kyojuro can reach the Rengoku Estate, so he and Akaza part so that Akaza can shelter the day out—at an inn or in a cave, it wasn’t entirely clear. Kyojuro makes the rest of the journey alone, arriving home in the afternoon. Akaza knows where he is. He’ll probably arrive not long after the sun sets.

Senjuro is not home when Kyojuro arrives. Kaname glides down to perch on his shoulder as Kyojuro walks through the front gates, peering around the estate.

He sees the flowerbeds at the side of the house. They’re not as well-tended as they used to look in the frames of Kyojuro’s memory; his mother used to do a little gardening before her health had taken a fall for the worse. These days, he knows that Senjuro tries to maintain the flowers, but it’s not exactly the same.

Green is just beginning to sprout from the dirt. A little amused, Kyojuro thinks that he won’t be able to show Akaza the flowers for at least another few weeks, and they’re definitely not going to be staying at the Rengoku Estate for that long.

He drops off his belongings in his room before his footsteps lead him to his father, be it habit or duty or something else drilled even deeper than both.

This wing of the house always carries the persistent scent of sake. Kyojuro stops in front of the half-open door, where inside, he sees his father sitting cross-legged on the futon. There is a jar beside him, but it looks unopened.

“Father,” Kyojuro greets.

Shinjuro does not turn to look at him nor particularly acknowledge Kyojuro’s presence. Still, Kyojuro knows that he’s aware.

He used to report his mission details to his father, talking about the people he met along the way, those he saved, the time he spent with them. He hadn’t realized how much his days were filled with Akaza until right now, when he thinks back and one person in particular crowds just about all his memories. It’s probably not a very good idea to tell his father about Akaza. Or the fact that Akaza is his soulmate. Kyojuro is having trouble even imagining how that would go.

“Oyakata-sama called me back!” Kyojuro tells Shinjuro. “He said there is a Mizunoto who is a special case. We will meet tomorrow!”

Shinjuro makes a faint noise. His voice is gravelly when he speaks as if he hasn’t done so in a long time. “The matter of the Corps no longer concerns me, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro hesitates. “I know, Father,” he says. “But I am sure Oyakata-sama would be happy to see you again if you were to visit.”

“I have no interest in being involved with that cursed family again,” Shinjuro says. “I have wasted enough useless blood and time for them.”

Kyojuro bites down a protest. He knows better than to argue with his father about the Corps’ mission. “I will bring you dinner later on!” Kyojuro says instead. “Perhaps Senjuro will let me help him cook!”

He shuts the door carefully behind him.

He has known all this time, of course, that his mother’s death had torn his father apart. The loss had simply been too much to bear, and Kyojuro had known not to blame him. Every bit of anger and devastation was years of time and care and love with nowhere left to go.

Now, though, it feels a little more personal and a lot more real. Even with all the uncertainty of just exactly where he stands with Akaza, the thought of losing Akaza brings a horrid ache to his chest, buried deep in the strands of his soul thread. Perhaps it is inevitable, just like it had always been. Like Hisae had said: they were doomed from the very start.

But hadn’t the universe also written their soul threads together? Even if Hisae is right, fate or no fate, Kyojuro wonders if they can still have something—something worth sacrificing for, something worth loving, even if this will have to end sooner or later. And maybe if he can play his cards right, it doesn’t have to end.

The sound of the front door sliding open pulls him from his thoughts. Senjuro.

Kyojuro heads down the hallways to greet his brother. He finds him holding food piled high, trying to take off his shoes.

“Aniue!” Senjuro exclaims, then nearly drops the entire pile.

Kyojuro catches what appears to be a bag of sweet potatoes. “Hello!” he says. “You bought so much food, it seems like Kaname informed you I was returning!”

Senjuro smiles sheepishly. “I haven’t seen you in a while, Aniue,” he says. “I thought I’d cook your favourite dishes for you.”

“I’ll help!” Kyojuro offers.

Senjuro hesitates visibly.

“I’ll follow your instructions,” Kyojuro adds.

Senjuro lets out a little laugh. “Okay, Aniue,” he says. “Then let’s go prepare dinner!”

Dinner is a familiar routine. Kyojuro had forgotten how much he enjoyed spending time with his brother until they were gathered in the kitchen, with Senjuro’s borderline-panicked instructions that Kyojuro does his very best to follow. They end up with a decent set of dishes that are a bit visually lacking, most likely thanks to Kyojuro, but smell delicious.

After bringing a bowl to his father, they sit across the table and eat. Unlike Shinjuro, Senjuro is eager to hear of everything Kyojuro has to tell him about his missions.

It’s a bit difficult navigating around all that’s happened in the past few months without adding, Upper Moon Three was travelling with me, especially given the holes in Kyojuro’s stories if he doesn’t include Akaza. Still, he does his best to avoid bringing up Akaza, and apparently does a decent job because Senjuro doesn’t question him.

They’re just about finished dinner when Senjuro leans forward, swinging his legs beneath the chair, and asks, “Have you met your soulmate?”

Kyojuro blinks. For a moment, he is almost tempted to tell his brother the truth. He has, and it turns out that his soulmate is not only a demon but also Upper Moon Three. He is everything that cannot and should not be, that Kyojuro had hated this at the start, hated him at the start, and yet now…

The wind rustles past the windows, and Kyojuro is belatedly aware of the presence just outside these walls. It has already gotten dark—Akaza had said he was going to come as soon as the sun set.

“I am afraid not!” he tells Senjuro, offering a small smile. “But that is okay!”

Senjuro nods, none the wiser about the lie his brother has gotten quite proficient at telling, and the conversation slips into more questions about Kyojuro’s missions.

The hour is late when they finish cleaning up and Kyojuro retires to his room. Lamplight is already shining from the cracks underneath the door. When he slides it open, Akaza is sitting cross-legged near his desk, waiting. His eyes gleam with the flicker of flame.

“You took a long time, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, a hint of petulance in his voice.

Kyojuro bites down a laugh. “I was helping my brother wash the dishes!”

Akaza gives him a look. Something syrupy and warm settles in Kyojuro’s chest, and he is helpless against it. “I’m sorry to have made you wait,” he adds, smiling.

“No matter, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. A concession; his voice softens. “Besides, you haven’t returned home in a long time.”

“Indeed!” Kyojuro agrees. “In fact, the last time I was here was with you!”

Things seem so different, thinking back now. Kyojuro wonders if Akaza feels the same way, that strange dissonance of recalling the past where they almost feel like two different people.

He isn’t sure what has changed the most: his own views of Akaza, or Akaza himself. Maybe it’s a combination of both. All Kyojuro knows is that six months ago, he would not have looked at Akaza with anything remotely close to fondness, nor would Akaza agree so easily to all the things he had openly scorned.

“How long are you staying here?” Akaza asks.

“Just for two days!” Kyojuro replies. “Will you wait out the day here?”

Akaza’s eyes flicker over the room. “Probably not. It’s too open.”

Kyojuro nods. For a few moments, neither of them speak. Then Akaza pushes himself to his feet, tilting his head at Kyojuro. “You said you were going to show me the flowers,” he says.

“Yes!” Kyojuro replies. He thinks of the little green sprouts in the garden and smiles a little to himself. “Although I am afraid I have mistimed when they bloom!”

Akaza raises his eyebrows, although he does a good job holding back what Kyojuro can tell would have been a teasing comment.

He slides open the doors to the backyard. Senjuro had gone to bed already, so Kyojuro hopes that his brother is asleep—his father had been when he had gone to check on him.

The moon is just about full, gleaming down in a cloudless, endless sky. They aren’t so far into spring that the grass has turned green yet. Instead, it’s a yellowed brown, crunching softly underneath their feet as they cross the lawn. The night air bites not as sharp as it did in winter, but enough for Kyojuro to feel the chill.

He kneels down next to the flowerbeds, where small sprouts of green have started to push out of the dirt. With a rustle of fabric, Akaza settles down next to Kyojuro so that they are shoulder to shoulder. He’s wearing his usual haori. Kyojuro can feel the warmth of Akaza’s skin even through the fabric of his yukata.

“They’re just beginning to bud!” Kyojuro feels inclined to tell Akaza. “See!”

He’s pretty sure Akaza can see better than him in the dark. Still, Akaza indulges and leans forward even more on his knees so he can peer at the small sprouts.

“Marigolds,” he says.

Kyojuro blinks. “What!”

“Those are marigolds,” Akaza repeats. “The sprouts. I recognize them.”

Surprised, Kyojuro turns to look at Akaza, who is still staring at the flowerbed with utmost focus. Given Akaza’s record of disinterest towards these sorts of things, the last thing Kyojuro had expected would be for Akaza to recognize the flower simply from looking at the growing seedlings.

“How did you know?” Kyojuro asks, curious.

Akaza hesitates for a moment. Then, a bit brusque, he says, “I know my flowers.”

That’s not nearly a good enough answer to satisfy Kyojuro’s curiosity because it is, quite frankly, a rather insane thing for Akaza to know. “How!”

A touch of chagrin passes Akaza’s features for a moment, which he’s quick to hide. “That one’s an iris.”

Kyojuro follows the direction Akaza is pointing in, now not sure if he’s more shocked or more impressed. “I was supposed to be the one showing you the flowers!” he exclaims. “Now it seems to be the other way around.”

“What flowers, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks. When Kyojuro turns to look at him, Akaza is smiling lopsidedly. “Even the earliest of these aren’t going to bloom for another few weeks.”

“I suppose so!”

“Unless it was just a convenient excuse to have me come back with you.” Akaza tilts his head, leaning back on his heels as his eyes search Kyojuro’s face, slow and deliberate. “Was it, Kyojuro?”

Kyojuro suddenly finds that it’s a lot more difficult to maintain Total Concentration Breathing with Akaza sitting so close to him, that teasing expression written on his face, his voice lowered. In this small, dangerous bubble that consists only of the two of them, Kyojuro wants to indulge in this—in him—so badly.

“Do you want it to be?” he asks instead, because a roundabout answer is somehow still easier than a straightforward yes.

For a moment, Kyojuro wonders if Akaza will be the one to take the step; cross the bridge. Acknowledge the fact that both of them have gone far beyond the careful lines Kyojuro had once tried to draw around their relationship. Kyojuro has half the mind to think that if Akaza will, then he will let go and allow himself to be swept away by the tide too.

But Akaza does not. He only sits back on his haunches, and both of them know, they do, but neither of them do anything about it. Not yet.

“That one is Asagao,” Akaza says, gesturing at another tangle of green. “They won’t bloom for another few months, though. They are summer flowers.”

“You should introduce all my family’s flowers to me!” Kyojuro exclaims. It comes out a little too loudly. “Although I’m not sure you’ll know all of them!”

Akaza lifts an eyebrow, resting an arm over his propped knee. Kyojuro can immediately tell that Akaza’s taken it as a challenge, and he fights down his smile. Tomorrow can bring what tomorrow will bring; for now, Kyojuro wants to linger in just this moment. The dark’s quiet, the promise of spring in the air. They aren’t a demon and a slayer; the Demon Slayer Corps’ Flame Hashira and Kibutsuji Muzan’s Upper Moon Three. Just…this. Soulmates, because the universe has written something deeper and more ancient that goes beyond duty or blood.

Then Akaza smiles, the sort of look that softens his features. And oh, how foolish it is to hope, but how Kyojuro does anyway.

“Alright, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “Show me where they are, then.”

Chapter Text

Kyojuro arrives at Oyakata-sama’s estate long before the Hashira meeting is supposed to start, so he waits in one of the rooms while Kuina brings him a cup of steaming, fragrant tea. Kyojuro sips it slowly, watching as the shadows stretch and lengthen with the rising of the sun. He wonders where Akaza has gone to wait out the day.

The next person to arrive is, rather unsurprisingly, Kocho. She’s always had a penchant for showing up early, and today is no exception.

“Good morning, Rengoku-san!” she says as she steps inside the sunroom, tilting her head to the side and looking at Kyojuro in that politely scrutinizing way of hers. “I hope you’re doing well!”

“Good morning!” Kyojuro replies. “I am fine, thank you for asking, Kocho!”

Kocho takes a seat next to him, reaching for the teapot and pouring herself a cup. “Your injuries haven’t bothered you, have they?”

“They healed well!”

Kocho hums. “That’s good,” she says. “I was afraid your ribs would prove to be a problem if they didn’t heal properly.”

For some time, both of them sit in silence, taking slow sips from the cup. Kyojuro can tell that Kocho has something to ask him. She’s gotten exceptionally proficient at hiding her emotions beneath her smile these past few years, but Kyojuro can still remember a time when Kocho Shinobu had been sharp and brash and never bothered pretending to look a way she did not feel. Back before her sister had been killed.

“How is Upper Moon Three?” Kocho finally asks. “I heard from Oyakata-sama that he is still travelling with you?”

“Yes, he is!” Kyojuro says. “Thankfully, he is on his very best behaviour these days!”

Kocho’s eyebrows raise in clear disbelief. “Is that so?” she asks.

“He hasn’t eaten anyone for months!”

“Ah,” Kocho says, sounding a tad bit unconvinced. “That is an excellent improvement, Rengoku-san! I am happy to know that everything is as well as it could be, all things considered.”

Kyojuro bites down his guilt. To Oyakata-sama and Kocho, it must look like he’s simply following duty to the best of his ability. Mitigating a demon’s carnage, especially one as powerful as Upper Moon Three, is supposedly no little feat. Yet the lie festers underneath his skin, this pretense that he carries—that these days, keeping Akaza close is more Kyojuro’s own selfish desire than anything else.

And it feels wrong. Unfair to everyone else. Standing under the sun, far from the whisper of temptation near Akaza, Kyojuro feels like a mockery of the sort of slayer he promised to be. Even if he follows every other rule in the book, his heart seeps treason in every beat.

Kyojuro takes another sip of tea. “What about you, Kocho?” he asks. “How have you been!”

“Not bad!” Kocho says. She sits back, smiling. “I was just on a mission last night at Mount Natagumo! With Tomioka-san, no less.”

“I see!” Kyojuro says, not sure if he’s supposed to offer his condolences or congratulations. He can never figure it out with Kocho. “I trust that it went well?”

“Yes, indeed,” Kocho says. She continues smiling. “Although to be quite honest, I prefer going on missions with you, Rengoku-san! Tomioka-san never even talks. Rather boring, don’t you think?”

Condolences, it seems. Kyojuro recalls Tomioka’s silence during most of their Hashira meetings. He can see why that is a concern.

“Tomioka is indeed very quiet!” Kyojuro agrees. He, too, has never had much success in engaging in mutual conversation with Tomioka. It ends up quite one-sided.

“We were sent to aid slayers when many of them were sent to Mount Natagumo and never returned,” Kocho continues. “Among the few that were still there was a Mizunoto and his sister. They are the reason for today’s Hashira meeting, actually!”

Kyojuro sets his tea down. “Oyakata-sama mentioned that he was a unique case. Do you know why?”

“Ah, you’ll never guess,” Kocho says, shaking her head. Her smile does not reach her eyes. Instead, she watches Kyojuro with the same acute scrutiny as before. “He carries his little sister around in a wooden box because she is a demon.”

He knows Kocho is looking carefully for a reaction, and Kyojuro thinks he might have given one regardless of the anticipation. “What!”

“His name is Kamado Tanjiro,” Kocho says. “He started training under the former Water Hashira. All of that is written in his report. But his little sister is a demon, and has been one for two years! Tomioka knew but never told us. Isn’t that interesting!”

Kyojuro doesn’t know if Kocho is calling Kamado Tanjiro interesting or the situation interesting or Tomioka’s failure to report such a huge detail interesting. Either way, he manages, “And Oyakata-sama knows?”

“He does,” Kocho says, twisting her mouth thoughtfully. “He sent a crow directing us to bring Kamado Tanjiro and his demon sister back here! Until then, I didn’t even know Tanjiro-kun was the Mizunoto we were supposedly meeting about!”

“There must be a reason Oyakata-sama knew and decided to hear them out,” Kyojuro finally says. “I trust his judgment!”

Kocho is still looking at him, picking him apart. She leans forward on the table between them, her voice soft. “What do you think, Rengoku-san?” she asks. “If it weren’t for Oyakata-sama’s instructions, I would have killed her. A quick poison, of course. But she has to die nonetheless because she is a demon. Because I am a slayer.”

Her purple eyes are piercing, and there is nothing gentle behind Kocho’s perpetual smile. Kyojuro knows what she’s trying to gauge from him.

A slayer, his little sister turned into a demon. There’s not much Kyojuro knows about Kamado Tanjiro’s situation, but a touch of sympathy stirs within him regardless. A few months ago, it would have been an easy decision: sentiment or family regardless, she was a demon, and his duty would be to kill her. Even Tanjiro’s life would likely be forfeit for his failure to abide by the Corps’ laws.

But Kyojuro thinks of Hisae and Ikeda. Of Akaza. He is no less guilty than Tanjiro or his sister, perhaps much more so.

Love is hypocrisy, Ikeda had said. She was right too.

“I do not know,” he finally admits. He doesn’t want to lie to Kocho. He doesn’t think he can. “I suppose I would like to give Kamado-kun and his sister a chance to explain themselves before making my judgment!”

“Hm,” Kocho says. She finally looks away, her eyes fixed on her tea instead. She swirls it slightly but does not drink. A faint breeze drifts by, catching the fresh scent of spring. “You’ve changed, Rengoku-san.”

I know, Kyojuro wants to say. “I hope that is not a bad thing!”

Kocho tilts her head at him. Then her expression softens just a bit, and Kyojuro is abruptly reminded of the missions they’d taken together, the time she’d spent caring for him at the Butterfly Estate after his injuries.

“You have always done what’s right, Rengoku-san,” she says quietly. “I trust that you always will.”

They sit in silence for a little while longer. It’s only when Kuina and Kanata come to fetch them that Kocho speaks up again.

She catches Kyojuro’s wrist. Surprised, Kyojuro stops.

It’s only a moment later that he realizes Kocho is looking at the bandages that encircle his arm. Akaza had done them the night prior, staunching the flow of blood from the puncture wounds. They still ache faintly when Kyojuro puts pressure on it, but he’s gotten accustomed to the feeling.

“You were hurt?” Kocho asks.

“I’m healing!”

“Be careful, Rengoku-san,” Kocho says. Her voice is lined with her usual barbed sweetness, but the touch of concern is unignorable. “I’d much rather be sent on a mission with you than Tomioka-san next time!”

“I will be,” Kyojuro promises. “Let’s go!”

When Kyojuro and Kocho arrive at their usual meeting place, there’s already a handful of Hashira present. Uzui and Kanroji are next to each other, Tokito standing further off, and Himejima at the very end. He sees Iguro’s black and white striped haori dangling from the branches of a tree, where he overlooks the courtyard.

Uzui spots him first. His expression brightens. “Rengoku!” he calls, draping an arm over Kyojuro’s shoulder and hauling him close. He grins. “I haven’t seen you in so long!”

“Me neither!” Kyojuro agrees. A second later, he’s tackled by Kanroji in a tight hug.

“Careful, Kanroji-san,” Kocho calls, fondly teasing. “He had his ribs broken a few months ago, you don’t want to crack them again.”

“Ah!” Kanroji exclaims, releasing Kyojuro. “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s okay!” Kyojuro says. “My ribs feel fine!”

A second later, Kanroji is excitedly telling him about the restaurant that opened nearby. She suggests getting lunch afterwards, decides that it would be better to do both lunch and dinner, and then Uzui jumps in and says that he’s supposed to have dinner with Kyojuro (which Kyojuro is pretty sure was not agreed upon beforehand).

It’s nice seeing everyone again, Kyojuro thinks. He rarely sees the rest of the Hashira outside of the biannual meetings with everyone’s regions spread so far apart and the Corps’ resources already stretched thin.

“Shinazugawa isn’t typically late!” Kyojuro says, looking around. Tomioka is also missing.

“Indeed!” Kocho says. “And the star of today’s show hasn’t arrived yet! I had one of the kakushi treat him quickly before bringing him over. He’s in a bit of a rough shape after yesterday.”

Sure enough, one of the kakushi rounds the corner carrying an unconscious boy on his back. Kyojuro can’t see his face from the way he’s being held, but he’s wearing a checkered green haori overtop the Corps’ usual uniform, his forehead wrapped in bandages and looking rather like he rolled through a thistle bush.

“He had to deal with Lower Moon Five,” Kocho says cheerfully. “All things considered, he did exceptionally well for a Mizunoto!”

Uzui seems much less impressed. “All this fuss about one slayer, and he looks so drab. Not a single flashy bone in that kid’s body.”

Tanjiro is deposited rather unceremoniously on the ground, which Kyojuro thinks cannot be good for all the injuries he must have sustained. The kakushi bends over him and gives him a shake. “Hey. Wake up.”

When Tanjiro doesn’t stir, he’s shaken again, harder. “Hey. I didn’t bring you here to sleep all day. Wake up.”

It takes a few more attempts before Tanjiro comes to with a gasp. He lifts his head to the best of his ability, eyes flitting around wildly. He looks to be not much older than Senjuro. “Where—who are—”

The kakushi gives his head a firm push. “Show some respect! Do you know who you’re standing before?”

“He’s not technically standing!” Kocho chips in cheerfully. “It’s alright. You’re at the Demon Slayer Corps’ headquarters, and you’re about to be put on trial, Kamado Tanjiro.”

Tanjiro looks even more confused. “Trial?” he repeats, still disoriented. “I don’t…I…”

“Now!” Kocho interrupts, smiling. “Before we start the trial, why don’t you explain to us the crime you’ve committed? I’m sure you’d like to provide some details!”

Before Tanjiro can go on to explain anything, Iguro cuts in, “What’s the point of a trial? It’s clear he’s violated the Corps’ laws a dozen times over. Might as well behead him and the demon now.”

“No!” Tanjiro blurts. He looks around again, confusion melting into panic. “Nezuko…where did you take Nezuko?”

“Kocho-sama asked you a question,” the kakushi snaps, giving Tanjiro’s head another solid whack. “Answer her.”

“Forget it, this is a lost cause,” Iguro snaps, sounding even more irritated. Kyojuro glances over at him. He’s known Iguro since he was Senjuro’s age, and although he’s come out of his shell over the years, he is definitely a lot more prickly now than before. “What do we do about Tomioka? Seeing him over there is giving me a headache. Based on what Kocho told me, he’s just as guilty of breaking Corps rules and needs to be punished.” He narrows his eyes. “What do you have to say for yourself, Tomioka?”

Kyojuro hadn’t even noticed Tomioka was there at all. He’s standing further off, silent as he appraises the rest of the Hashira, his blue eyes unreadable. Right. Kocho had said he was fully aware of Kamado Tanjiro’s situation and hadn’t reported it.

“Oh, what’s the harm?” Kocho asks. “Tomioka-san came without resisting and now he’s going to stand there like a statue and contribute nothing like he always does! I want to hear this boy’s story.” She leans forward. “You’ve been going on missions with a demon in tow, Kamado Tanjiro. Are you aware that that is against the Corps’ rules?”

Tanjiro coughs. “I—I know. But Nezuko never hurt anyone.”

“Bullshit,” Iguro hisses. “It’s a goddamn demon.”

“She’s my little sister!” Tanjiro nearly shouts, then breaks off into another coughing fit, his face twisting in pain.

“Oh dear.” Kocho steps forward and produces a little gourd from somewhere inside her haori. “Tanjiro-kun, please drink this! It contains a painkiller and should make you feel better. Your jaw was broken, after all.”

Kyojuro watches as she raises the opening to Tanjiro’s mouth, turning the words over in his head. It sounds impossible—a blatant lie. The boy wasn’t even denying the fact that his sister had become a demon; what sort of demon didn’t hurt people at all? Even Akaza had told Kyojuro that going long enough without food would be as good as making him lose his mind. He’d seen the destruction newborn demons left behind in their hunger.

Tanjiro somehow manages to drink Kocho’s tonic. He swallows, eyes still flitting nervously over the rest of the Hashira before he looks at Kocho again.

She smiles, unreadable. “Tell us what happened, Tanjiro-kun.”

“My sister… My sister was turned into a demon when my family was attacked. I was away, and when I got back, they were all—” Tanjiro hesitates. “—they were all dead. Everyone but Nezuko. I tried to take her to the town doctor, but halfway down the mountain I realized something wasn’t right with her.” He shakes his head wildly. “But she’s never harmed anyone! Never has and never will! I swear on my life.”

“Your life,” Uzui repeats, sounding unimpressed. “Your life was already forfeit the moment you had a demon around you and you didn’t kill it, you idiot. What’s swearing on your life gonna do?”

“The boy’s insane,” Iguro agrees. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Um…” Kanroji leans forward. “If I may, I have some doubts about doing anything without Oyakata-sama’s permission. He was the one who called us to meet about Kamado-kun, after all! Shouldn’t we wait?”

“We’re within our rights to execute him without Oyakata-sama’s blessing,” Uzui replies. “Seriously, look at him. We might as well put him out of his misery.”

“Rengoku-san?” Kocho towards him, tilting her head. Her eyes are sharp, searching. “You’ve been rather quiet today! What do you think?”

Kyojuro looks at Tanjiro, who has followed Kocho’s gaze to look at him. His eyes are wide and watery, desperation written all over his face. At his left, Uzui also turns to peer at Kyojuro.

Kyojuro hesitates. It would’ve been an easy decision six months ago. He might’ve pitied Tanjiro, but carrying around a demon and speaking blatant lies was strictly against the Corps’ rules, not to mention that it was simply impossible for a demon not to have hurt anyone before. The demon needed to be killed to prevent any further destruction.

Now, part of him wants to believe that it’s the truth—that somehow, despite the impossibility, it is possible.

Before he can speak, Tanjiro blurts, “She’ll fight with us! She does fight with me to protect other humans, I swear!”

“What kind of fucking bullshit is that?” Shinazugawa storms into the clearing carrying a large wooden box in his hands. Kyojuro had been wondering where he’d been because if he had been here with the rest, Tanjiro probably would not still be conscious.

Then Kyojuro realizes the faint demonic presence inside the box Shinazugawa holds. Tanjiro’s sister. Nezuko, she had been called.

“Put that down!” Tanjiro says. “That’s—”

“Your sister?” Shinazugawa sneers. “Are you fucking stupid? It’s a demon, not your sister anymore.”

“Shinazugawa-san,” Kocho warns, her voice pressed flat. “Please don’t act out of line.”

Shinazugawa ignores her. He draws his blade out of its sheath, the metal screeching harshly. Without another word, he pulls his arm back and stabs his sword through the wooden box.

There’s a muffled noise of pain inside. Tanjiro surges forward, managing two steps before he trips over his feet, gasping in pain. He doesn’t let it hinder him, because a second later, he’s pushed himself to his feet again and has charged at Shinazugawa. “Stop!” he shouts. “I don’t care if you’re a Hashira, no one hurts my sister!”

Shinazugawa sidesteps a blow from Tanjiro. Blood spills onto the ground as he withdraws the sword, disintegrating underneath the sun’s rays rapidly. “It’s not your fucking sister,” he spits. “Your sister is dead.”

With a shout, Tanjiro charges forward again. At the same time, Tomioka’s voice, uncharacteristically loud, calls: “Oyakata-sama is coming!”

It apparently distracts Shinazugawa for a brief moment, because in the time he glances away, Tanjiro draws back and delivers the most effective headbutt Kyojuro has ever seen in his life. He does it with enough strength that it sends Shinazugawa stumbling back, finally dropping the wooden box that holds Nezuko. Tanjiro scrambles towards his sister and throws his body over the box protectively.

“You little—” Shinazugawa begins to snarl. Before he can finish the rest of the sentence, wood scrapes against wood and the door to the engawa opens.

“Oyakata-sama has arrived,” two soft voices chorus in unison. Kyojuro turns towards the building, where he can see Oyakata-sama’s figure standing out against the dark of the interior.

The sickness has taken much of the upper half of his face; the skin around Oyakata-sama’s eyes is a mottled purpling colour, and each step forward he takes is supported heavily by Amane-sama and his two children. Still, Oyakata-sama smiles at them, gentle as always.

“So good of you to come, my beloved children,” he says.

Kyojuro sinks into a bow, Uzui and Kanroji doing the same at his side. “Oyakata-sama,” he greets, the murmur echoing around him.

Shinazugawa grabs Tanjiro’s head and shoves him down in a bow. There’s a muffled noise of pain. “I am happy to see you are in good health, Oyakata-sama,” he says.

“Thank you, Sanemi.”

“Before we start the Hashira Meeting,” Shinazugawa continues, “can you tell us why this swordsman is carrying out his missions accompanied by a demon?”

Kyojuro glances at the box on the ground. No movement seems to be coming from it anymore. He realizes, belatedly, that it must have been what Tanjiro used to carry his sister around during the day as to avoid the sun. She must be incredibly small—he can’t envision anyone older than a five year old child fitting inside there.

The thought occurs to him that if it works for Nezuko, then theoretically, he can carry around Akaza during the day in a box. Then on second thought, Akaza would probably rather walk into the sun if they could even find a large enough box to fit him in the first place.

“I apologize for startling you all,” Oyakata-sama says. “This boy is the reason I called for the meeting today. I’ve sanctioned his situation with Nezuko and I’d like all of you to accept it.”

There’s a brief pause before the line of them interrupts with protest. “Even if you have sanctioned this, I cannot accept it.” Himejima protests. Uzui, in a somewhat politer manner than before, insists that the right course of action and the best they can offer Tanjiro and his sister is to flamboyantly cut their heads off. Iguro and Shinazugawa have no preferences on the manner of execution, just that it’s done.

“The letter,” Oyakata-sama says, calm as always. Everybody quiets down.

One of his children fetches a sheet of paper from her pocket. “This is a letter we have received from a former Hashira, Sakonji Urokodaki. He asks for Tanjiro to be allowed to be accompanied by her sister, a demon, because she has displayed resilient mental strength and has not lost her human emotions.” Hinaki pauses, unfolding more of the parchment. “Despite being in a starved state, Nezuko never devoured humans, and this remained true even two years later. This is an indisputable fact that Urokodaki-san has observed and confirmed. The curse binding her to Kibutsuji has been broken and she acts upon her own free will. In the event that Nezuko ever harms a human, then Kamado Tanjiro, Sakonji Urokodaki, and Tomioka Giyu will atone by committing seppuku.”

Still held down by Shinazugawa, Tanjiro lets out a quiet sob. Kyojuro’s mind reruns what Hinaki had said. She’d been a demon for over two years, and yet she’d never harmed a human. How was that possible? Akaza’s self-control was already remarkable, and he had told Kyojuro that the longest he could go without eating was a few months.

“So what if they commit seppuku?” Shinazugawa demands. He keeps his voice low, but it’s taut around a tight leash of anger. “Do we have to wait until she does harm a human? What sort of guarantee do we have that it won’t happen one day? We can’t take that kind of risk.”

“Wait,” Kyojuro says. “Oyakata-sama, what does it mean that she’s broken the curse from Kibutsuji?”

Shinazugawa turns to him, his scowl deepening. “You too, Rengoku?”

“I just want to understand!” Kyojuro replies. “I have never heard of such a thing. If it is true, it does make Kamado’s sister different from the other demons we have dealt with!”

“So what?” Shinazugawa snaps. “What proof do we have that she won’t attack a human except the word of three people I have no reason to trust? If she does hurt and kill someone, then does committing seppuku in retrospect bring anyone back?”

Shinazugawa is right. Broken curse or not, Kyojuro cannot let his judgment be clouded by his own foolish hope for what might be for Akaza. If this is a possibility, then he will look into it later. Nezuko is the current matter at hand.

“You are right!” he concedes. “If Kamado’s sister is constantly in a starved state, then I suppose we need some sort of assurance do we have that she won’t act on her hunger sooner or later!”

Oyakata-sama smiles at them. “I understand all of your concerns, my children,” he says. “But the indisputable fact is that Nezuko has demonstrated remarkable restraint from eating humans for two years, and has even begun to fight on Tanjiro’s side. Are we to condemn her for actions that she may commit in the future?”

Shinazugawa’s tone is carefully respectful, but he doesn’t back down. “She is still a demon. That fact remains the most indisputable of them all.”

“Hm.” Oyakata-sama’s expression remains mild, patient. “There is one more thing that I have yet to share with you all. Tanjiro has met Kibutsuji.”

The clearing bursts into noise once more. Uzui leans forward. “This brat?” he demands. Tanjiro’s still being held down to the ground by Shinazugawa, but Uzui leans forward to jab a finger at his face. “What did Kibutsuji look like? What were his powers? Did you fight him?”

“You met him?” Shinazugawa pulls Tanjiro up from the dirt enough to give him a rough shake. “Did you find his hideout? What was he doing?”

“Hey!” Uzui exclaims. “Shut up, Shinazugawa, I asked him first—”

“My children,” Oyakata-sama calls. A hush falls over the clearing again, the line of Hashira lowering into their bows again. “When Tanjiro was in Asakusa, he bumped into Kibutsuji. Tanjiro recognized him by scent as the same person who had killed his family and turned his sister. Kibutsuji did not actively engage against Tanjiro, but sent two of his demons after Tanjiro and Nezuko to kill them. I have reason to believe that something is happening to Nezuko that Kibutsuji never accounted for, and may be of benefit to us.” He pauses. “With this information, can you try to understand why I have granted Tanjiro his pardon?”

Kyojuro dips his head. If Nezuko truly hasn’t harmed anyone for the whole time she’s been a demon, then that truly is something impressive. Perhaps he can talk to Tanjiro to seek answers on how his sister controls her hunger. If what she does is a feasible option to introduce to Akaza.

And if she can break the curse, then maybe…

“I can’t accept it, Oyakata-sama.” Shinazugawa’s voice cuts through the silence. “This is still a demon we’re dealing with, and if there’s one thing all of us are familiar with, it’s what a demon’s nature is.” His eyes narrow. “I’ll show you.”

With quick movements, he draws his sword. The metal sings against its sheath before it tears sharply through the flesh of Shinazugawa’s arm.

Shinazugawa bares his bleeding arm at Nezuko’s box like a weapon. “Hungry?” he asks, a sneer twisting his features. “Why don’t you come out and feed?”

There’s a thump on the box. Tanjiro makes a faint noise, pushing himself to his feet now that Shinazugawa isn’t physically holding him down. “Leave her alone,” he rasps, trying to cross the distance to Nezuko’s box.

He barely manages a step before Iguro replaces Shinazguawa. With even more aggression, he slams Tanjiro back onto the ground. “It won’t come out because there’s sun,” Iguro tells Shinazugawa. “Take it into the shadows. Then it’ll act.”

“Shinazugawa-san, please remember where you are,” Kocho says. Her expression is still schooled to neutral, but there is a faint, displeased downturn to her lips, and her voice is more clipped than usual.

Shinazugawa ignores her. “I apologize for my discourtesy, Oyakata-sama,” he says. “But this thing cannot be trusted and you need to see why.”

Shinazugawa hauls the box into the shadow of the building and then tosses it to the ground unceremoniously. Then, without waiting, he stabs his blade into the wooden box again. “Well?” he snaps. “Aren’t you going to crawl out now, demon?”

Blood splatters from Shinazugawa’s sword as he withdraws it. Then, without pausing, he stabs the box once more. This time, Nezuko makes a noise of pain.

“Stop!” Tanjiro shouts. “You’re going to k—argh!”

“Iguro-san,” Kocho warns. “You’re holding him down too tight.”

“Maybe if he stops struggling,” Iguro hisses. “Stay still, do you hear me?”

Meanwhile, Shinazugawa seems to have finally tired of stabbing Nezuko, because he flings open the wooden box instead. “Come out, demon.”

A second later, a small girl crawls out of the box. In front of all of them, she grows until she comes up to full height—up to Shinazugawa’s shoulder. A little younger than Senjuro’s age, with long brown hair and eyes a shade brighter than her brother’s. There’s a bamboo muzzle over her mouth, but every other part of her looks remarkably human.

Shinazugawa grins wildly, baring his bleeding arm in front of Nezuko. He is a marechi, Kyojuro recalls. He’d taken a mission with Shinazugawa nearly two years ago and had been quite shocked when Shinazugawa drew his sword and cut himself first rather than the demon, but the effect had been instantaneous. That demon hadn’t even been particularly hungry and it had lost its mind at the scent of marechi blood. If it’s true that Nezuko hasn’t eaten a single human since becoming a demon, then Kyojuro has no idea how she is to resist her hunger in the face of Shinazugawa’s blood.

Nezuko stares at Shinazugawa’s bleeding arm, her eyebrows furrowed, a low snarl building in her throat. In the sleeves of her slightly too-big haori, her hands ball into fists. Still, she doesn’t move.

“Well?” Shinazugawa goads. Drip, drip, drip. Blood gathers around the wound and splatters onto the wooden floor. “I heard you were hungry, demon.”

It sounds as though everyone is holding their breath; even the faint breeze that had been sifting through the air has come to a halt. Nezuko’s entire body is trembling from effort, and yet she doesn’t move. Her own hands are bleeding too.

Kyojuro wants to believe Oyakata-sama and Tanjiro when they say she is different. That it’s possible for a demon to not eat humans, to break the curse, to be good—to be what they used to be, back when they were human. Akaza is not innocent like Nezuko is, but if all this is true for Nezuko, then at least he may have a chance as well.

Because Kyojuro has come to know him outside of his fury and violence, and he knows that beneath it all, there still remains something remarkably human. Maybe it’s his own wishful thinking that has grown with this helpless affection, but it’s become easier to believe that Akaza’s soul thread isn’t just broken for good.

Hope against hope. Isn’t that what they’re all doing?

“Nezuko!” Tanjiro shouts. With surprising strength considering his injuries, he shoves Iguro’s grip off of himself. He scrambles forward towards the engawa. “Nezuko, fight it!”

Tanjiro’s intervention clearly has done something, because the next thing Kyojuro knows, Nezuko lets out an irritated huff, raises her chin, and turns her head away from Shinazugawa with purposeful defiance.

A murmur of shock sweeps through the Hashira. Everyone knows that Shinazugawa’s blood is rare even among marechi, and Nezuko had withstood the temptation just like that. The Kamados’ situation—insane and unbelievable as it sounds—seems to be true after all.

“What just happened?” Oyakata-sama asks softly.

“The demon girl turned away from Shinazguawa-san,” Hichika tells him. “Even though he had stabbed her three times and he flaunted his bleeding arm to her, she refrained from biting or even attacking him.”

Oyakata-sama smiles. “Then I believe this has proven to us that Nezuko won’t attack humans,” he says. “Although I am sure that even after this, there are many of you who do not want to accept Tanjiro and Nezuko. So, Kamado Tanjiro.” He turns towards the boy. “Prove them wrong with your sister. You have my blessing.”

“Ah…” Tanjiro sniffles. He takes a step back from the engawa so he can bow. “I… Nezuko and I will! We will defeat Kibutsuji Muzan and put an end to this once and for all!”

There is a pause of stunned silence. Kyojuro cannot tell if Tanjiro is being truly optimistic or if he’s currently unaware of just how powerful Kibutsuji is.

Oyakata-sama smiles again. “You may find yourself ill-equipped to do that right now, Tanjiro,” he says gently. “So let’s start with one of the Twelve Kizuki first, alright?”

Tanjiro lets out something between a cough and a squeak, embarrassment colouring his face. “Yes!”

Beside Kyojuro, Kanroji lets out a muffled giggle. He hears Kocho laugh as well, much less restrained than Kanroji.

“One last thing, Tanjiro,” Oyakata-sama says. “The Hashira before you are all exemplary individuals who have given every bit of themselves to the Corps’ mission. That is why they are deserving of your respect. So next time, Tanjiro, please mind your manners.”

Tanjiro goes even redder. He bows again, pressing his forehead against the ground. “I will! I sincerely apologize!”

Oyakata-sama turns his head. “And Sanemi, Obanai… don’t torment your juniors so much.”

Shinazugawa lowers his head and kneels. “As you wish, Oyakata-sama.” Iguro echoes the words.

“Tanjiro, we have concluded our business here,” Oyakata-sama says. “You may take your leave. I believe that you have injuries that should be treated as well. We will ensure your sister is taken to a safe space.”

“Yes,” Kocho agrees, stepping forward. “Please take him to my estate, I will have him treated there!”

Kyojuro watches as two of the kakushi pick Tanjiro up, this time slightly more gently than he was deposited, and he’s taken away. Likewise, Nezuko is ushered back into her box and carried off.

In a few quick minutes, the only ones remaining in the clearing are the Hashira, Oyakata-sama, Amane-sama and his daughters. Hichika helps his father sit down, which Oyakata-sama does slowly. His unseeing gaze sweeps across them all, and Kyojuro is reminded with a pang that the last time he saw Oyakata-sama, he still had vision remaining in one of his eyes.

He speaks with the same unwavering steadfastness as before, though. “Let us finish our discussion then,” he says. “Shinobu, Giyu, might you start with your mission report of Lower Moon Five?”

By the time Kyojuro returns home, the sun has gone down and dusk mixes the sky into shades of dark blue and purple hues. He’d eaten lunch with Kanroji and then dinner with both Kanroji and Uzui less than two hours later. There’d also been a new dango shop that opened next door in which Kanroji insisted they try after dinner. Kyojuro now holds a bag for Senjuro, courtesy of Kanroji.

To his surprise, he senses Akaza’s presence in the east wing of the house—Kyojuro’s room—when he nears. He must have returned immediately after the sun set.

Kyojuro goes to find Senjuro first. He’s already retired to his room, reading a book. His eyes brighten when he sees Kyojuro. “You’re back, Aniue!”

“Yes!” Kyojuro says, holding up the bag of dango. “Kanroji wants me to give these to you, she got your favorite flavor! She says she’s very sad she won’t be able to visit this time.”

“It’s okay!” Senjuro says, accepting the dango from Kyojuro. “She still sends me letters and tells me about her missions. I got one from her last month.”

“Kanroji is very fond of you,” Kyojuro replies, smiling. “She says the next time we’re around, we should have a picnic together!”

They talk for a little while longer. After a bit of hesitation, Kyojuro doesn’t tell his brother about Tanjiro, concerned that Akaza would overhear the conversation. Whether or not the Kamados’ situation made him any more hopeful about Akaza’s, it didn’t change the fact that Akaza’s loyalty still lies with Kibutsuji. The last thing he wants to do is compromise such intel. A step at a time, Kyojuro decides.

A little while later, Kyojuro bids Senjuro goodnight. A quick check on his father reveals that he’s already fast asleep, so Kyojuro makes his way back to his room.

These days, he doesn’t come home very often, so he cherishes the chances he has. But as much as Kyojuro misses it, there is a sort of melancholy to these halls. He remembers the days when they had been less empty. Senjuro’s quick footsteps running down, his mother’s gentle reprimand, his father’s laughter. The ghost of all these things still lingers, but now Senjuro’s steps have become much more timid. His mother is long gone, and Kyojuro cannot quite remember the last time he saw his father smile, much less heard him laugh.

Sometimes he can’t tell if things had truly been easier back then, or if the world had only felt smaller because it seemed as though his mother and father had the answers to every question he could think of.

Kyojuro thinks of the countless days he’d spent in his room, nursing his soulmate’s anger and grief and praying for just a chance to meet them. And now Akaza waits here for him.

Kyojuro slides open the doors. Akaza sits cross-legged near Kyojuro’s desk, a stack of books laid out, some flipped open. It takes Kyojuro a moment to realize what he’d been doing: laying out all of the leaves he and his mother had once carefully dried within the pages, inspecting them with surprising concentration.

“Good evening!” he greets. “I see you’ve found a new way to entertain yourself!”

Akaza tilts his head at Kyojuro. The lamp on the desk flickers with flame. Knowing that Akaza doesn’t need light to see in the dark, he must have lit it for Kyojuro, anticipating his return.

“You’ve collected a lot of leaves,” Akaza says, pointing at the table, where he’s laid them out.

“I have!”

Akaza sets the book in his hands onto the desk. “Are we leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes! Kaname has already debriefed me on where I will be headed.”

Yellow eyes flicker around Kyojuro’s room briefly. “You don’t come back home very often,” Akaza finally says. He phrases it as a statement, but there’s a hint of a question in his voice.

“I do miss it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s not what I was asking.”

Kyojuro smiles. “So you were asking something?”

Amusement lifts the corner of Akaza’s lips even as he narrows his eyes at Kyojuro. Kyojuro sits down next to Akaza at his desk, looking at the leaves Akaza has spread out. Most of them have lost the vibrancy of color they had in the beginning, but they’re preserved well enough that he can see the tiny veins that map out the expanse. Even after the years have passed, they still retain hints of once-colorful hues. Despite his memory is a bit fuzzy at the corners, Kyojuro can still remember the way his mother taught him to carefully tuck the leaves into the pages of his heaviest books.

“How long were you waiting?” Kyojuro asks. For me, he almost adds, but doesn’t say it.

“I came when the sun set.” Akaza pulls his knees higher against his chest. “Why were you back so late? You don’t have a mission today.”

Kyojuro hesitates, running through what information he can and can’t tell Akaza. Revelations gained from the Kamado siblings still swirl in the back of his mind, but for now, he keeps it to himself. He needs to figure out a more roundabout way of asking Akaza whether or not he can break the curse, because where things stand now, Kyojuro isn’t certain Akaza would take kindly to the direct suggestion of betraying Kibutsuji.

“I ate dinner with my friends!” he ends up saying. “I haven’t seen them in a while, so it was really good to catch up!”

Akaza’s eyebrows furrow. “Who?”

“You wouldn’t know them!”

“Hashira?” Akaza probes.

“Yes!” Kyojuro replies. “One of them used to be my tsuguko. She is the Love Hashira now.”

“I thought you didn’t have any tsuguko.”

“Just Kanroji! It was back before I became a Hashira.”

“Who else was there?”

Kyojuro eyes Akaza, wondering if Akaza knows he’s scowling. “The Sound Hashira also joined us for dinner,” Kyojuro says. “Clearly, you have never met either of them, because they’re both very memorable people!”

“I have no interest in meeting them,” Akaza replies blandly.

“I thought you liked fighting strong opponents, Akaza! And they are both very strong!”

“I—” Akaza pauses, eyebrows knitting together even more. “I have you to fight with, Kyojuro. I don’t care about your friends.”

Kyojuro unsuccessfully fights down his laugh, feeling amused and fond all at once. Akaza never seems to know when he has every emotion written plainly all over his face. It’s grown on him, and now Kyojuro has stopped pretending he doesn’t find it endearing.

“You don’t have to sound so jealous!” Kyojuro says. “Since I’m pretty sure I’ve spent more time with you in the past few months than I have ever spent with Kanroji and Uzui combined!”

Akaza’s expression smooths out, and Kyojuro thinks briefly that he probably should have chosen his words more carefully because now he’s given Akaza full leeway to tease. Sure enough, Akaza leans forward. He’s never particularly been one for personal space—from their very first meeting and onwards. But these days there’s a little less threat and a little more promise to each closed distance, and today isn’t an exception.

“Why would I be jealous, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks, all silk and honey. His tone is soft but his grin is sharp. It is only through years and years of training that Kyojuro keeps his breaths steady, and even then it is a close thing when Akaza reaches behind Kyojuro’s head and nimbly unties the ribbon that keeps his hair up. Fingers card through his hair briefly before Akaza draws his hand back, holding the red string that lends sharp contrast against his fingers. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? At the end of the day, I’m still the one you’re coming back to.”

A challenge. Kyojuro could call Akaza’s bluff if he wanted to. He could deny it all too easily—tell Akaza that he’s given Kyojuro no choice, that Akaza has gotten it all misconstrued. But then he would be lying, and he thinks that he’d much rather let Akaza have this.

So Kyojuro mirrors Akaza’s smile and takes back his hair ribbon from Akaza’s open palm. “Indeed!” he agrees. “Only because you’ve been asking so politely nowadays!”

Akaza tilts his head. “Is that what you want me to be, Kyojuro?” he asks. “Polite?” A low laugh, amused. “Did you forget I’m a demon?”

“Ah, well,” Kyojuro says, “You’ve done more surprising things than being polite, despite being a demon! So I’m quite confident you can manage it!”

This time, Akaza’s smile is the sort when he gets taken by surprise: less restrained, less purposeful. Half a laugh escapes his lips.

There’s always a certain thrill and adrenaline to their back-and-forths: a blatant disregard of the other’s space, the pushing and pulling and testing of boundaries, the waiting for the first person to snap.

But there is something else to this, seeing Akaza smile so openly. It reminds Kyojuro of the very first time his mother told him about soulmates, back when she had planted that small seed of hopeful anticipation for him to meet his. He’d nurtured and shielded it all these years, throughout winters of waiting. Spring is finally here now, having crept up on Kyojuro without him even noticing until the seed has grown to sprout.

He thinks of Kocho’s warnings. Of everything he’s learned today from Oyakata-sama and the Kamado siblings. He thinks of his mother’s finger pointing at his heart: You will know too, one day when you are older.

Kyojuro stands up. “Let’s go see the flowers again!” he announces. “Maybe they have grown a little bit more!”

“It’s been a day, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, even though he gets to his feet as well. “You’re not going to be able to see any difference.”

Still, he makes his way to the engawa door, looking back for Kyojuro to follow. Although the spring breeze still has a touch of winter chill to it, it’s much warmer than it had been a week ago.

Kyojuro had shown Akaza around all the gardens in his family’s estate the night prior, so Akaza retraces that path now. He’s right: there’s no noticeable growth from the sprouts, but he also doesn’t bring it up again.

“Didn’t you want to look at the flowers, Kyojuro?” Akaza prompts when Kyojuro stops. Then, drily, “Or, the lack of them?”

Kyojuro laughs. “Okay!”

Above them, the moon has begun to rise. It’s finally full tonight, a pale yellow. He glances at Akaza, who looks at Kyojuro expectantly.

Kyojuro isn’t sure how he once thought Akaza’s eyes were a similar color as the moon. He looks closely now, with the past three seasons behind him, and thinks that Akaza’s eyes are a lot brighter.

Chapter Text

It isn’t long before springtime picks up speed. All of a sudden, the earth is a flurry of growth: once-barren branches have been traded for sleeves of light green mist; grass sprouts from underneath the yellowed brown; the flower seedlings pick up speed as they grow towards the sky. Akaza tries to think of the springs he’s experienced before this—after all, he’s gone through two hundred, give or take a few. This is no new sight. It shouldn’t be.

Except it feels like it is. He’s seeing things he’s never noticed before, even without Kyojuro having to point it out. The other day, he had lingered beneath a tree, watching as a pair of birds flew back and forth with straw and twigs for their nest.

These things are so unimportant, Akaza thinks, in the grand scheme of things. The mundanity and repetition of an uncaring universe. And yet he finds himself waiting for when the flowers will start blooming, knowing that Kyojuro will most definitely be happy when they finally do.

A week or two after they’d left the Rengoku Estate, Akaza brought up how much the nights had shortened.

Kyojuro got one of his thoughtful expressions, the sort that usually preluded an insane suggestion. Sure enough, he asks, “Can you shrink, Akaza?”

“Shrink,” Akaza repeats, tempted to say no just because he’s certain this isn’t going anywhere good.

“Yes! Like shapeshifting,” Kyojuro says. “I heard some demons can do that! Can you make yourself smaller?”

“I’ve never tried,” he ends up saying. Pride ends up winning over reason. “But I probably could. I doubt it’s hard. Why, Kyojuro?”

“Well,” Kyojuro muses, entirely serious, “if you can shrink, I can put you in a box and then carry you around during the day!”

“Absolutely not,” Akaza says, now very much certain he should have shut this conversation down a few exchanges ago.

Kyojuro gives him a regretful look, but he doesn’t push the idea. Perhaps he had begun to see the flaws in it as well.

Another week passes. Then another. Buds turn into leaves. The first of the flowers break through in vibrant colours, much to Kyojuro’s delight. Akaza indulges him, telling him the names of each flower that he knows, and Kyojuro seems to file each away in his memory because he’s able to name most of them correctly when he sees them again.

The sun is setting as Akaza waits impatiently at the inn, waiting for it to fully sink underneath the horizon so he can finally leave and find Kyojuro. He shouldn’t be far off; he’d killed the demon haunting this area the night prior, and tonight was just supposed to be a patrol.

Kyojuro beats the sundown to the inn. Akaza feels his fighting spirit down the hallway before he actually enters; a moment later, the lock clicks and Kyojuro steps aside, dusting off his uniform. Perched on his shoulder is Kaname, who squawks either a greeting or an insult at Akaza. It could be both.

“Good evening!” Kyojuro greets, stroking Kaname’s head, who ruffles his feathers happily in appreciation. “I hope you weren’t too bored waiting!”

“I’m not reconsidering your box idea, if that’s what you’re aiming for,” Akaza says.

Kyojuro blinks innocently at him. “It wasn’t!”

Kaname flaps his wings, gliding down from his perch on Kyojuro’s shoulder so he can stand in front of Akaza. Akaza looks down at him critically, except Kaname is never really intimidated by him because he continues staring up at Akaza.

“What,” Akaza snaps.

Kaname pecks his hand twice, as if for emphasis. Then, he says, “KYOJURO BIRTHDAY.”

Not expecting that, Akaza blinks at Kaname. “What?” he repeats, this time genuinely surprised.

“KYOJURO BIRTHDAY.” Another peck. “TODAY.”

The words sink in. Akaza raises his gaze from Kaname to Kyojuro, who’s standing at the door watching them with an unreadable expression on his face.

“It’s your birthday today?” Akaza asks.

“Yes!”

Rather offended, Akaza glares at Kaname one more time. “Neither of you told me,” he accuses. “Today is almost over.”

“Kaname just told you!” Kyojuro points out helpfully.

Kaname puffs out his chest at the acknowledgment.

“You have nothing to be proud about, you stupid bird,” Akaza tells Kaname, earning himself an even harder peck. “Why didn’t you tell me, Kyojuro?”

Kyojuro laughs slightly, although he does at least sound a tad bit sheepish. “Would you have done something if you knew?” he asks. “Besides, don’t you think that birthdays are pointless? You told me that they aren’t important because demons lived for so long!”

“They are,” Akaza shoots back on instinct, but then he reconsiders. He does remember telling Kyojuro that, except… “But you’re not a demon. You have a limited number of birthdays.”

“That’s correct!” The agreement really should not sound so chipper.

Akaza frowns. He’s not too familiar with human customs during these sorts of celebrations. He knows that people give gifts to celebrate, share meals together… and what else? He doesn’t know, but he does know that it is important, somehow. Because his time spent with Kyojuro is finite, and for some reason or another, this shouldn’t be taken lightly. Even if the day is almost over.

“How old are you turning?” he asks, the thought suddenly occurring.

“Twenty!” Kyojuro says. He tilts his head. “How old are you, Akaza?”

“Two hundred or so.” Akaza considers it. “Give or take a decade, maybe. I don’t remember.”

Kyojuro gives him a look of bewilderment. “You really don’t remember?”

“Does it look like I keep track?”

“Not really,” Kyojuro muses. “But I didn’t expect you’d be two decades off!”

He’s smiling, faintly teasing. Akaza huffs. “When you’re alive for so long, it’s no longer important, Kyojuro,” he says.

Instead of replying immediately, Kyojuro is silent. Even Kaname gives a questioning caw.

Akaza has an uncomfortable feeling that he said something to make Kyojuro sad, except Kyojuro doesn’t look sad, so he doesn’t know where the feeling is coming from. Not wanting to linger in his conversation for any longer, Akaza gets to his feet. Kaname startles slightly and hops a few steps away from him, then ruffles his feathers and gives Akaza a look of disapproval.

“Let’s go,” Akaza says.

Kyojuro blinks at him. “What! Where?”

“You were talking about the food stalls in the town yesterday, Kyojuro, but you didn’t get a chance to go there.”

He feels a little pleased with himself at the unadulterated surprise that crosses Kyojuro’s face. Then Kyojuro smiles, bright and infectious. “Alright!” he agrees. “We should! Kaname, you should come along for some time before you report back!”

Kaname lets out a happy little caw.

“He’s coming too?” Akaza asks, eyeing the bird. He receives a baleful look back.

“I will get Kaname some sunflower seeds,” Kyojuro decides. “Wait. Let me fix your obi!”

It takes Akaza a second to realize what Kyojuro is talking about. Kyojuro had gotten him a few new yukatas for the spring for when they passed through towns because he still insisted that Akaza’s typical demon attire was ‘not appropriate for large crowds’. He’d argued with Kyojuro over it for the sake of arguing, but ultimately agreed to accede as he’d been doing for the past few months.

He’d tied the obi like usual: securely. Akaza knew there were a few proper ways to knot it, but he hadn’t bothered and Kyojuro never pointed it out.

“It’s fine, Kyojuro,” he says.

“Even Senjuro knew how to tie his obis properly when he was ten!” Kyojuro says. “Turn around!”

“How impressive,” Akaza says drily, but does as Kyojuro asks. He can feel Kyojuro’s deft movements behind him as he tightens the sash and begins to tie it, hearing the rustle of fabric. Akaza counts the steady in and out of Kyojuro’s breathing, his fingertips ghosting over Akaza’s back through the thin separation of cloth. He wonders if this is purposeful too. After all, he’s been tying his obi wrongly for months now. Kyojuro has no good reason to decide to fix it today, does he?

“Do you do this for others too?” Akaza asks softly. He itches to turn around to see Kyojuro’s expression.

“Everyone else around me is quite competent in tying their own obis!” Kyojuro replies. “So it’s just you.” Before those words can sink in fully, Akaza feels Kyojuro step away. “Done!”

Akaza turns around to face Kyojuro, but Kyojuro is already moving past him and heading towards the door. Kaname hops past him and flies to his perch on Kyojuro’s shoulder.

Akaza reaches behind him to feel the knot that Kyojuro had tied. It’s neat and secure.

He hurries after him.

The town must have been much more crowded during the day, but there’s still a decent amount of people on the streets. Kyojuro’s first order of business is to purchase a bag of sunflower seeds for Kaname. He cups a handful in his palm and offers it to Kaname.

Akaza trails after them, silent. He’s never been fond of crowds. Although he’s gotten more accustomed to it travelling with Kyojuro, the amount of people still overwhelms him with their fighting spirits, and he always has to make a conscious effort to keep his human disguise from slipping. Still, he was the one who told Kyojuro they should go to town and get food, so it would be wrong of him to complain.

Kaname is finally satisfied after two handfuls of sunflower seeds. He pecks Kyojuro affectionately on the cheek before opening his wings and gliding off.

Akaza falls into step with Kyojuro, who is looking around the stalls with bright eyes. “Where do you want to go first?”

Kyojuro considers it. “Let’s get dango!” he says. “I already had dinner, so I want something sweet!”

There is a stall nearby selling dango, which Kyojuro spots almost immediately. He makes a beeline towards it and leaves Akaza no choice but to follow.

The woman running the stall sees Kyojuro peering at it. She leans forward with a wide smile. “Try the hanami dango, young man,” she prompts. “It’s cherry blossom season, after all. Or perhaps you’re looking to buy it for someone?”

“Ah, they look good!” Kyojuro exclaims. “Can I have fifteen!”

She looks taken aback by the number for a moment, but quickly complies and begins fitting them away neatly into a box. Kyojuro thanks her as he hands her the money.

“The cherry blossoms are still blooming, by the way,” the woman tells him. “Just outside the town, if you make your way down to the lake, you’ll see them. Just a small grove, but they’re quite the sight.”

Kyojuro accepts the box and a bag. “Thank you!” he says, then glances over his shoulder at Akaza. “We should go see the cherry blossoms then!”

Surprised by the straightforward request, Akaza stares at Kyojuro for a few moments. In his periphery, the dango shop owner has turned her attention to him as well.

“Akaza?” Kyojuro prompts. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“No, we can, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. The shop owner is still watching them and he’d rather not the scrutiny, so he turns away from the dango stand and starts walking down the street again. This time, Kyojuro is the one to fall in step with him. “If there is enough time.”

“There is!” Kyojuro takes out one of the dango. He holds it out between them; stacked neatly in threes of pink, white and green. For a few seconds, he eyes it contemplatively. “Have you tried dango before, Akaza?”

Akaza gives him a look, flashing his fangs in a smile. “Does it look like I can eat dango?”

“I meant as a human!”

(He holds out his open palm to her. “Wagashi,” he says. “Your father bought them. He said that you could have one when you feel well enough.”

Her eyes brighten as she reaches out for the candy in his hands. “Really?”

He draws his hand back. “Drink your water first,” he says. “Then you can have a bit.”)

Whatever long-forgotten memory that Kyojuro’s question dragged up from the furthest recesses of Akaza’s mind is gone like a breath of smoke in an instant, leaving him grasping at air.

“I don’t have my human memories, Kyojuro,” Akaza says.

A pause. “I know.”

They don’t speak about the topic after that.

Kyojuro finishes ten dango and decides he’ll save the other five for breakfast tomorrow. Then he gets four taiyaki. At that point, Akaza isn’t sure what’s more endless: Kyojuro’s appetite or his money. They meander through the street, nothing but casual conversation, and Akaza thinks that this—this is nice. He could get used to it, even. Kyojuro’s happy, all bright eyes and cheerful smiles. Akaza watches from the side as Kyojuro chats to a vendor or compliments the food he’s eating, and the feeling returns, the sort that makes him feel awfully out of depth as if the world has been turned upside-down under his feet.

Inside his chest there is a tangle, knotted and messy but a little more tangible than before. Something raw and vulnerable, but something that Akaza can no longer deny is real.

In a sense, it’s terrifying. Around Kyojuro, sometimes Akaza all but forgets that he is a demon. The sun’s threat is a faraway thing, and Muzan’s commands for him are an afterthought. It’s as though something inside him has fundamentally shifted: who he was before Kyojuro has been taken apart, rearranged, until Akaza is left with a self that is unrecognizable and so, so different. Two centuries of the seasons, and yet it is only with Kyojuro that he is truly noticing the details that had been there all along.

They spend a little while longer on the street until all but a few vendors are closing their stalls. The sky has faded from twilight colours to the deepest blue just a hint off from black, dotted with a splattering of stars. The moon has begun to wane.

“The cherry blossoms!” Kyojuro says cheerfully. The bag of remaining dango and some other sweets he’d gotten swings from the tips of his fingers. “See! We have time.”

And even if Akaza didn’t want to go, he’s not sure how he’s supposed to deny Kyojuro when he’s smiling like so. They head down the path as it slopes towards the lake, in step with each other.

“What do you usually do on your birthday, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks after Kyojuro has been quiet for a while.

“I’m usually on missions!” he says. “At least, since I passed the final selection when I was fifteen.”

“What about before that?”

There is a pause. Akaza glances at Kyojuro, whose expression is unreadable. “When my mother was alive, we used to celebrate together!”

“Tell me about it, then.”

So Kyojuro tells him. He paints a picture of a home so different than what the Rengoku Estate feels like now that Akaza has trouble imagining it to be the same place. He talks about how his mother would cook all his favourite dishes, and how his father would try his best to make it home despite his missions, smiling while he recalls it all.

A phantom ache settles in Akaza’s ribcage, a feeling he struggles to ascribe a name or cause to. Kyojuro talks about the past with so much fondness, yet Akaza can’t help but think that there must be some degree of grief he’s denying himself.

“And today, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks. “Was there anything you wanted to do?”

Kyojuro looks towards him, eyes rounded. “I am happy spending today with you, Akaza!” he says.

Intuitively, Akaza knows that Kyojuro isn’t the sort to lie to spare his feelings, yet hearing him say it aloud feels incomprehensible. “You’re happy spending your birthday with a demon,” he says, ultimately unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

Instead of being remotely offended, Kyojuro only laughs. “Well, you are my favourite demon!”

Favourite demon. It’s such an inconsequential thing. If Akaza really thought about the specifics, it would be more shocking if he weren’t because Kyojuro pretty much killed every other demon he’d met. But hearing Kyojuro say it with such ease is another thing altogether.

It’s not long before Akaza spots the pink haze telling of the cherry blossom grove. He points it out to Kyojuro, who narrows his eyes in the direction.

“It’s too dark for me to see!” he says after a few seconds. “Let’s head closer!”

The dango stand owner had been right: the grove isn’t a big one, although it’s not small either. They must be nearing the tail end of the flowers’ short bloom, but much of the tree still clings onto veils of pink even despite the carpet of fallen petals that layer the ground. Kyojuro’s gaze is bright as he takes in the sight.

A faint breeze sweeps through. It’s gentle, but enough to tear petals from the branches’ delicate hold on them. They scatter like raindrops from the trees.

Kyojuro opens his palm as one flutters into his hand. Akaza counts the ins and outs of Kyojuro’s breathing until his mind shutters with the recollection of something similar.

Had he been here before, in a time that goes beyond memory but remains too deeply inscribed into his being to ever truly forget? Akaza doesn’t know, he doesn’t want to know, and yet the question haunts with unrelenting intensity.

He looks towards Kyojuro now. The warmth in his eyes, careful hands cupping that single petal, the corner of his lips lifting in a minute smile. This, he won’t forget. This, he can’t forget.

“My mother used to tell me about seeing the cherry blossoms with my father,” Kyojuro says. He lets the petal in his palm fall. “She told me that he’d always catch one for her so she could make a wish.”

“Did her wishes come true?” Akaza asks.

“I’m not sure!” Kyojuro replies. “She told me that you’re not supposed to tell people your wishes! Or else they won’t come true!”

Akaza opens his palm as another gust of cool wind shakes more flowers from the trees, a thousand wishes fluttering to the ground. It’s all too easy to catch a stray petal, so he does and offers it to Kyojuro. “Don’t tell me then, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro accepts it, the tips of his fingers brushing over Akaza’s. He lingers for a moment too long; too long to be anything but intentional.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro says a few moments later. Exhale, inhale. His eyes are serious, his tone is soft. He says Akaza’s name as if he is something—someone important, someone precious. Akaza can’t help but want to know what Kyojuro’s wish is. “I…”

“Don’t tell me, Kyojuro,” he repeats, suddenly afraid of what Kyojuro will say. “Or else it won’t come true. You said it yourself.”

Kyojuro shifts his weight, strangely hesitant. Then his eyes flicker away from Akaza as he turns his gaze towards the trees again. “You’re right!” he says. “Then maybe I will tell you once it has come true.”

By the time they return to the town, all the vendors have packed up their stalls for the day and the streets are mainly empty.

Kyojuro and Akaza walk step-in-step. Akaza used to chase after him when he sped up in the beginning. He’s learned to slow his steps to wait for Akaza, who, while able to match Kyojuro’s brisk pace with ease, has the habit of walking slower. As if he’s unconsciously adjusting his speed for someone else.

As far as birthdays go, Kyojuro had truly spent most of his recent ones on or between missions. He usually returned home for Senjuro’s birthdays to celebrate with his brother, but it was often difficult to find the same time for his own. He’d gotten used to it and had no qualms with the mundanity of what used to be a celebrated day.

Today, though, he can tell that Akaza is trying his utmost to make him happy. It’s a warm thought, but it doesn’t come without an underscore of guilt. Kyojuro has long come to terms with the fact that his best course of action was not to tell Akaza about their soul threads, but the weight of the decision has only grown with time. These days, he turns the possibility over in his head, and wonders if the fallout would even be what he initially feared. Akaza has a right to know, after all. And Kyojuro does not have the right to withhold it from him.

The truth had been at the tip of his tongue back at the cherry blossom grove. Under the haze of springtime pink, Akaza’s hand outstretched between them as he offers Kyojuro a flower upon hearing about his parents.

In the beginning, these sorts of actions had been a concession between them, a middleground. They’re far beyond that now. Kyojuro thinks that he might have told Akaza in that moment if Akaza hadn’t interrupted him.

He wonders if Akaza has ever suspected about their soul threads. If he has ever looked at what’s grown between them and traced its roots to something deeper than their mere time spent together.

“We’re here,” Akaza says, a brief touch to Kyojuro’s arm. “You almost passed the inn, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro turns, startled from his thoughts. Akaza is right—he’s a few paces past the door.

“I was lost in thought!” he admits, spinning on his heel to pivot to the inn’s door.

“I noticed,” Akaza says a bit drily, a hint of amusement colouring his voice.

The innkeeper seems to have retired to bed because the front desk is abandoned. They head up the staircase to their room on the second floor, the wooden planks creaking beneath each step. It’s been ages since Kyojuro has stayed at a wisteria house. The last time had been the one Akaza took him to when he was poisoned. He had missed it initially, but these days, he doesn’t mind whatever accommodations they find.

Kyojuro sets aside his little bag of leftover sweets for the next morning. The petal Akaza had given him is tucked in his uniform’s pocket; he wonders if he can find a book to press and preserve it like his mother once taught him to do with leaves.

He should rest. Kaname will be back with mission instructions for the next day, and it’s a rare opportunity that Kyojuro has more than half the night to sleep.

But Kyojuro doesn’t want this day to end either. It’s long past midnight so he knows it technically is no longer his birthday, but his skin smarts with the quick brushes of Akaza’s fingers over his and his memory is tugged back in tidal pulls to the short time they spent in the cherry blossom grove. Palm splayed open, expression earnest. Kyojuro has hoped against hope and surely, surely, something has come to fruition.

So instead of getting ready to sleep, he strikes a match and lights the lamp. Akaza follows his steps, a silent shadow, close but never touching. They’ve done this routine hundreds of times. Every subsequent time has been just a little different than the last, except today feels like an accumulation of all those small changes until the differences have finally grown too big to ignore.

“Happy birthday, Kyojuro,” Akaza says at last. There is something reserved about those words like he wants to say more but is stopping himself.

Kyojuro watches as the shadows of the lamp wane and flicker over Akaza’s face. Their shared breaths, this shared space. And more than that: this shared acknowledgement that there is something all-too-real growing between the two of them.

Kyojuro now realizes that he had spent so long in the beginning drawing careful lines around him and Akaza with logic and reason, and yet in the end, love doesn’t always make sense. It’s with logic and reason he tries to reorient himself now, but they both must have lost its effectiveness because Kyojuro feels unmoored and out of his depth no matter how he tries to frame it.

“Will you wish me that next year?” Kyojuro asks against all better judgment.

Akaza raises his eyes to meet Kyojuro’s. “Next year?” he echoes.

They’ve never really talked about the future. Out of uncertainty or impossibility or both—nothing was a guarantee, after all. Kyojuro’s life was always forfeit as a slayer, and Akaza…

“I assume you don’t have plans to kill me in the near future!” Kyojuro says. “So I can at least plan around that!”

“I don’t—” Akaza breaks off and lets out something between a huff and a laugh. “I’m not going to kill you, Kyojuro.”

It really can’t count for much because Kyojuro has known for quite some time, but he thinks that this is the first time Akaza has admitted it aloud. So it must mean something. It could mean everything.

“Why?” he presses.

“Why what, Kyojuro.” The inflection is flat. Kyojuro feels his soul thread stretched taut between his ribs, tense with anticipation and wanting and still, fear. He wonders if Akaza feels the same.

“If you’re not going to kill me, what do you want from me?” He lets the words sink in, sees Akaza’s eyes searching his face. “To become a demon?”

Time presses slow like molasses; a second becomes five. Akaza breathes softly; Kyojuro thinks his own breaths come out harsher, and this is no longer a middleground but rather the last step off a precipice. He will take it if Akaza will with him.

Under the lamplight, Akaza’s eyes are more gold than they are yellow. He is so close. Unbearably close. The desire to close the distance and touch him is a living thing that resides beneath Kyojuro’s skin, but he will not allow it free reign just yet.

“What do you want, Kyojuro?” Akaza throws the question back at him, standing his ground save for the faint hitch in his voice.

Some slayer he must be, with his once-unwavering resolve chiseled down to shards by the way Akaza says his name. To have it as the baseline of his heartbeat, to have this treacherous longing shape every thought like clay.

“Tell me, Kyojuro,” Akaza repeats, and this time, there’s an open plea in his voice. He swallows, the hollow of his throat bobbing. “Whatever you want, I’ll…”

The warm pads of Akaza’s fingertips ghost over Kyojuro’s cheekbone. There’s a barely visible scar there, he knows, left from their very first fight. Akaza had nearly killed him, but he had stopped at the last moment. Kyojuro had always taken his words at face value when he questioned why—that Akaza thought it would be a waste to kill Kyojuro, that he wanted to fight more—but could it have been the soul thread all along, stopping Akaza from a blow he’d come to regret?

The avenue for violence is just as open as before, except there’s only Akaza’s light touch on his face, delicate in a way that should be impossible for a demon. It isn’t the first time Akaza has been so close to him but it makes Kyojuro dizzy either way. He tries to stay afloat, only to find there is no ground for him to plant his feet.

Akaza’s palms are smooth, free of the same callouses that line Kyojuro’s own. It’s jarring, in a way, that Akaza’s body holds no record of any of his fights.

“Whatever I want,” Kyojuro repeats.

“I’ll do it,” Akaza says, his voice thin. “I’ll do it if you just ask, Kyojuro.”

Akaza’s words, with some degree of awe, strike him now. If you just ask, Kyojuro. Kyojuro has only known demons to take what they wanted: food, territory, lives. Yet Akaza waits in spite of himself, if only for Kyojuro to choose this. Choose him.

Too close. Not close enough. Kyojuro no longer knows where his breaths end and where Akaza’s begin.

And perhaps Akaza is more patient than Kyojuro is, perhaps he is the less selfish one between the two of them, because Kyojuro has waited and waited and he is tired of doing so. Then again, he can’t quite discern if he’d been the one to close the distance or if Akaza had done the same, but he finds himself here nonetheless: Akaza’s hand tangled in his hair, another at his waist, a tentative then more insistent press of his lips against Kyojuro’s. The warmth of Akaza’s tongue brushes across the seam of his mouth and Kyojuro parts his lips to let him in.

The lamp’s light is a faint gleam in Kyojuro’s periphery, insignificant and faraway. His skin burns at every square inch Akaza touches, each nerve ending sparking like fireworks. When Akaza shifts away Kyojuro is left breathless and lightheaded.

Akaza’s eyes flash briefly before he pulls Kyojuro close again. There is less reservation and more hunger in his movements this time: Kyojuro feels the sharp edge of Akaza’s fangs scrape against his bottom lip and it pulls a shaky gasp from his throat.

“What do you want, Kyojuro,” Akaza murmurs, dipping down to kiss the line of Kyojuro’s jaw. He walks Kyojuro back, deliberately slow. One step, two steps, three.

“I…” Kyojuro tries to gather his thoughts, but they slip through his fingertips like smoke. Twin pinpricks trace lines of heat down the column of his neck as Kyojuro tightens his grip on Akaza, a shiver running up his spine. Teeth made to tear and rip out his throat, yet Akaza bites down carefully enough that it sends a rush of pleasure and not pain. “Can you still not tell?”

Akaza laughs, low and velvet. He pushes Kyojuro down onto the futon, impatient but not demanding. The weight of his body settles on Kyojuro as Akaza straddles him, his knees bracketing Kyojuro’s hips. When Kyojuro leans forward again, Akaza shifts backwards just out of reach. “I want to hear you say it.”

Kyojuro can’t pretend, like all those times before, when it was easier to dance around the truth than to face it. That pretense no longer holds: not with Akaza’s touch inked onto his skin, sure to be bruised for days to come; not with today behind them, the petal in Kyojuro’s pocket, his lips kiss-swollen and his breaths stolen into Akaza’s lungs.

It feels like heresy to want this much, this deeply. It is treachery to say it, but Kyojuro does anyway, whispering Akaza’s name on the tail end of an exhale until Akaza cuts him off with another kiss.

It’s much easier to untie Akaza’s obi than it was to tie it. In the same beat, Kyojuro feels Akaza pull his belt through the loops of his pants with perhaps a little too much force, but that can be tomorrow’s problem.

Kyojuro’s haori is discarded haphazardly to the side. Akaza works on the buttons of his slayer uniform with clever fingers before he seems to give up on the details and instead tugs at the hem of Kyojuro’s inner shirt. “Take it off, Kyojuro.”

“You’re so—” The rest of his sentence is lost for a moment to the feeling of Akaza’s lips against his collarbone, the sudden pressure of his fangs. Kyojuro shudders and he knows Akaza makes note of it. “You’re so impatient.”

“I’ve been patient,” Akaza argues back because even now he’ll try to get in the last word. Whatever reply Kyojuro was trying to formulate scatters as Akaza rolls his hips down. When Akaza speaks again, there is a faint tremble in his voice. “I’ve waited, Kyojuro, you know I have.”

“I know,” Kyojuro says. He can’t promise anything else, but he can give Akaza this.

He wonders if Akaza knows that Kyojuro has waited, too. He’s waited all these years to meet Akaza and then he’s waited some more. All throughout, Kyojuro has catalogued each of Akaza’s seemingly casual touches like collecting pieces of a puzzle: a brush over the small of his back when they spar, the back of his hands ghosting over Kyojuro’s knuckles, the nimble way he had undone Kyojuro’s hair ribbon. And now—now, it is an accumulation of all of that and more.

“Kyojuro.” Akaza breathes his name out like a prayer. Reverent and soft, until Kyojuro thinks he may shatter from the ache of it all.

Kyojuro. A hand tangles in his hair again, pulling with just enough force to make Kyojuro bare his neck. Akaza maps his kisses down from Kyojuro’s lips, then lower, lower, lower.

Kyojuro. His world is small, confined within the four walls of this room, entangled with Kyojuro’s body in bedsheets made for one. His name whispered like a lifeline, like no one has ever done before and no one ever will again.

It should not be this easy to surrender, Kyojuro thinks. But as uneven ground becomes nothing but open air, he realizes that it is, it is, it is.

Chapter Text

“Are you tired, Kyojuro?”

Kyojuro shifts slightly to glance at Akaza. He considers the words for a moment and then shakes his head. His hair is messier than usual, wild curls framing his face. Akaza doesn’t know where his hair ribbon went. Probably somewhere in the sheets after he’d discarded it without much thought. “Not really!”

The futon is far too small for both of them. Akaza knows they could probably drag the other one over with ease, but he is a little too pleased with this arrangement to bring up anything else.

For a little while, they stay in comfortable silence. Akaza matches his breaths to the ins and outs of Kyojuro’s, now even.

Part of him finds it surreal. Even now, with Kyojuro by his side, his bare torso painted with a pretty assortment of bites and bruises, and Akaza has half the mind to think this is some elaborate dream even though he hasn’t slept in two centuries.

Because it means Kyojuro chose this—chose Akaza. No duty to underlie this decision, no other explanation but that Kyojuro wanted him, and it’s… something. Everything. To be wanted by someone like Kyojuro, to hear Akaza’s name said as if it means more than what he has lost. It’s an exhilarating thought, in a sense, to know that despite Kyojuro’s steadfast adherence to duty, he would set that aside for Akaza. Even if it was just for a night.

Beneath it all, though, is something softer, delicate. A deep warmth of contentment. Akaza’s mind feels quiet when it has been abuzz with restlessness all these years. He had never liked staying in one place, never liked keeping still. But right now, with Kyojuro, Akaza can loosen his fists and let himself rest.

There are questions too, but as much as Akaza wants the answers, he fears them more. How far are you willing to go with this? Is this what you wished for? What about your soulmate?

Kyojuro hasn’t spoken about that for a while, on second thought. Akaza isn’t particularly keen to bring it up while they’re still tangled together under the covers, and he’s even more adverse to go on and open the discussion to something that he’ll regret. Especially now.

So instead he asks, “Does this change anything, Kyojuro?”

Kyojuro traces the line of one of Akaza’s tattoos a bit absentmindedly, but he lifts his eyes to meet Akaza’s after a few seconds. “I suppose it depends on what you’re referring to!”

“What are you referring to, Kyojuro?”

Kyojuro’s finger meets the rise of Akaza’s wristbone, and he draws away.

“My duty remains the same,” Kyojuro says. The blankets rustle. This time, Akaza feels Kyojuro’s touch brush briefly over his hip. “That cannot change!”

“I know,” Akaza says.

“I won’t become a demon either!” Kyojuro adds, a touch of amusement in his voice. “In case you need more clarification!”

Akaza huffs. “I assumed that came with your duty remaining the same.”

Kyojuro picks up his arm, and Akaza shifts his gaze down. Kyojuro has somehow found his hair ribbon. With nimble fingers, Kyojuro ties it around Akaza’s wrist. The red paints a stark contrast against his pale skin and dark tattoos. The ends dangle over his palms.

Swallowing, Akaza continues staring at it. The gentle way Kyojuro had held his arm like he was being careful for the sake of doing so even though Kyojuro knows he can’t hurt Akaza in any way that would last. Some deeply-engraved habit inside of him still wants to scoff at the absurdity of it all. Akaza didn’t become Upper Moon Three through compromise, weakness or surrender. He’s all but torn out his vulnerabilities and left them behind in his worthless human past.

Yet Kyojuro seems to have dragged all of that up, leaving Akaza open and raw. He’d scorned, dreaded, feared to acknowledge just what it would become for all these months, but right now…

It doesn’t taste like weakness. Akaza reaches out to curl a strand of Kyojuro’s hair around his finger, marvelling at how right it feels to do this in full even after they’ve spent the last season and a half dancing around each other with fleeting touches.

“You didn’t answer my question fully, Kyojuro,” he says. “What will this be?” He traces lower, to the dip of Kyojuro’s clavicle, pressing down lightly on a purpling bruise that stands out against Kyojuro’s skin. Kyojuro shivers minutely. “Do we go back to before, after tonight? Pretend this never happened?”

Kyojuro blinks at him, and although he guards his expressions carefully, Akaza sees the slight twist of displeasure at the corner of his lips. “If that is what you want!” he says.

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Then I am happy to give what you are willing to take,” Kyojuro says. “And to change what you want to change.”

Akaza searches his face and finds nothing but open sincerity peering back at him. He knows Kyojuro means it, as impossible as it is to believe.

All of his nature, all of his blood, screams against this. And yet.

So instead, Akaza leans over to kiss Kyojuro again in response. He’s done so innumerous times tonight, except this is slower, unhurried, intoxicating. Kyojuro lifts a hand to cup the back of his neck, his fingers curling in Akaza’s short hair. It feels right; Kyojuro feels right. Like nothing, no one, ever has. It’s terrifying and addicting all at once.

A little while later, with the red ribbon still tied around his wrist and a fresh palette of marks painting the canvas of Kyojuro’s skin, Akaza pulls the covers over his body. The sun is still a few hours away, but the night is at least half gone.

“Sleep, Kyojuro,” he says. “You still have to travel tomorrow morning.”

“Okay!” Kyojuro says. He pauses; hesitation. Then, softer, “Will you stay?”

Akaza has a sudden and irrational fear that his chest cavity is gaping and open, and any passerby will be able to see into it. Past a tangle of veins and arteries with ink-black blood flowing through them is a rotten remnant of a human heart. Still, it beats, even if it must have forgotten how for two hundred years.

The soft cloth of Kyojuro’s ribbon burns a mark on his skin. The lamplight is low, so while Akaza can see the way Kyojuro looks at him, he doesn’t think Kyojuro can see him the same.

He reaches out between the already minimal space that separates their bodies to touch Kyojuro. It must be an answer enough, because Kyojuro shuts his eyes.

Long after Kyojuro has fallen asleep and the lamp dies out, the moon shines silver through the slivers in the window. And long after the moon has set, Akaza stays.

Things do and don’t change.

Nothing about Kyojuro’s missions are particularly novel: he travels around in his designated region, patrols on the days Kaname doesn’t turn up with mission instructions, and stays at inns instead of wisteria houses because of Akaza. Perhaps even more so than before, Kyojuro is aware that he cannot let any of this affect his duty. Where the lines blur, he must redefine them, if only for himself. Some things he simply cannot compromise on.

But in stolen moments in between, he finds space for just him and Akaza. They spar after patrol like usual, although this time Kyojuro can’t quite recall who proposed it first or if it had simply been an unspoken mutual agreement for someone to make the first swing. Either way, it ends with his sword strewn on the ground a good few paces away from them, Kyojuro’s back against the rough bark of a tree and Akaza’s lips at his throat, impatient hands undoing the buttons of his uniform.

“Just get a room for one, Kyojuro,” Akaza says one evening when they arrive at the inn. “There’s no point in paying extra.”

The innkeeper pretends not to look at them, but Kyojuro can see him sneaking glances.

“Okay!” he agrees, mostly because Akaza is right. They always end up on Kyojuro’s bed anyway.

Three days pass, then five, then a week. He can tell that much of Akaza’s initial hesitance has receded as well. He’s much more comfortable touching Kyojuro: an absentminded hand on his waist, cupping the bend of Kyojuro’s arm to steady him. They teeter between willful ignorance and acknowledgement: acknowledgement that this is something more and something real, but not addressing just what it’s supposed to mean and what they’re supposed to do with it.

Tonight, Kyojuro lies across from Akaza, early enough into the morning that he hears birdsong trickling in from outside the sliver in the window. He’ll have to get up in a few hours, but although exhaustion tugs in tidal pulls, he doesn’t want to fall asleep just yet. Akaza draws indiscernible patterns on his skin, his touch gentler now than a little while before.

These past few days, Kyojuro has found himself constantly returning to what he had learned from Tanjiro and his sister. He had wanted to bring it up to Akaza on the very first night, but there had never been the chance, and he was worried that Akaza would take it the wrong way. Now, a week later, the right moment still hasn’t made itself known.

Come to think of it, there are too many things he has hidden from Akaza—things that Akaza deserves to know. The longer Kyojuro goes without telling him, the harder the truth will be, and he knows that full well. He imagines Akaza’s reactions sometimes but finds that he can’t pinpoint just how Akaza will take it. It is always a spectrum of vast possibilities.

This was a dangerous line to tow, but Kyojuro is far past the point of weighing the consequences of to-be actions. Any and all consequences are now a matter of when.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says. Half a whisper, his voice lowered because they are so close. “What are you thinking of?”

Kyojuro blinks. “What!”

He receives an amused look. “You’re spacing out.”

“I suppose I am a bit tired!” Kyojuro says. It’s not exactly a lie, but apparently, it was the wrong thing to say because Akaza grins unapologetically at him.

“From the mission?” he asks, teasing.

“Yes!” Kyojuro agrees. “It was a particularly bothersome demon.”

Akaza laughs, shifting so he can prop himself up on his elbows. “Tell me more, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro smiles up at him, feeling warm, his previous musings pushed to the back of his mind. “He was very persistent!” he says. “And hard to kill!”

“Ah,” Akaza says. The ends of Kyojuro’s red ribbon, still tied around Akaza’s wrist, ghosts over Kyojuro’s skin when Akaza reaches across his body to brush Kyojuro’s hair out of his face. “But you finished your mission pretty quickly today, Kyojuro. You’ve been efficient these days. Is it because you have somewhere better to be afterwards?”

“Efficiency is always a good practice,” Kyojuro agrees. For a moment, Akaza leans closer, and Kyojuro wonders if he will kiss him again. Instead, he settles on his side, eyes still trained on Kyojuro.

“It’s almost morning,” Akaza says.

“I know!”

He feels Akaza’s now-familiar touch brush over his hipbone in lieu of a goodnight. Deep inside his chest, Kyojuro’s soul thread seems to sing in tune with it, a recognition of something that he has waited for and can finally have.

There is very little distance between them, but they nonetheless keep that small but meaningful space there. It’s easier when Akaza’s lips are on his, between short-of-breath whispers and desperate desire—to be closer, closer, closer. It’s harder afterwards when Kyojuro is struck with the unignorable fact that he’s still confining Akaza to stolen moments no matter how much he tries to change. He wonders if Akaza feels the same or if he is content with what they have now.

But despite that, Akaza is still close enough for Kyojuro to feel the warmth of his body and feel each soft breath fanning over his face. It’s a childish thought, but before Kyojuro drifts off, he thinks that it’s nice to not have to fall asleep alone.

It is daytime when Kaname arrives with directions to report directly to Oyakata-sama. Kyojuro usually sees him two to three times a year, so it’s surprising that they had met up so recently and are meeting again in less than a month.

Still, he’s close enough to Headquarters that it’s only an hour’s travel, so he heads there with Kaname munching on sunflower seeds on his shoulder. It’s noon when he arrives. Kuina and Hinaki are already at the door, and they greet Kyojuro in unison when they see him.

“Hello!” Kyojuro says. “I hope you are doing well!”

Kuina dips her head politely and begins to lead him through the halls.

Oyakata-sama seems to be feeling slightly better today, because he’s standing on his own in his gardens, just outside overlooking the koi pond. He turns his head in Kyojuro’s direction when he arrives, a small smile on his face.

Kyojuro kneels. “Oyakata-sama.”

“It’s alright, Kyojuro,” comes the response. “Come, join me.”

Kyojuro steps under the shade of the tree. The leaves are fully grown now, a deepening green that drapes over the pond like an umbrella. Inside, the bright reds and oranges of the koi shimmer underneath the water’s reflection. He counts the number of koi: four. There had been six the last time he was here, but that had been nearly a year and a half ago. Much has changed since then.

“I did not have the opportunity to ask the last we met,” Oyakata-sama says. “How have you been these days, Kyojuro?”

“I have been well!” Kyojuro watches as Oyakata-sama gently tosses feed into the water. “I am happy it is spring.”

“Indeed,” Oyakata-sama agrees. “It’s much warmer these days, isn’t it?”

The water ripples as one of the koi rises to the surface, red tail splashing before it dives under again.

“I mean to ask, Kyojuro, how is Upper Moon Three? Shinobu has reported to me the details you told her, but I would like to hear from you as well, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro tries and fails to cover his hesitation. It’s moments like these where it feels like the pretense festers under his skin like rot, poisoning everything inside him and everyone around him. He has carried this secret for the better part of the year now, and yet he continues to let it grow and grow and grow out of his control.

Still, there are some semblances of truth that he can give, so Kyojuro steels his spine and says, “He hasn’t eaten nor hurt any human for months!”

“Ah,” Oyakata-sama says softly. “You have done well, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro bites his tongue. His skin burns and his soul thread sings: Akaza’s presence branded in the deepest, most intimate parts of his being, and he lets the people around him boil it down to you have done well. He wonders if a better slayer would have cut Akaza’s neck by now. Like Hisae’s husband had tried to do.

“Do you think Upper Moon Three displays willingness to betray Kibutsuji?” Oyakata-sama asks. “Right now you are neutralizing a powerful enemy, Kyojuro. But he could be a powerful ally as well if we play these cards right. And we could cripple Kibutsuji significantly all at once.”

“I do not know!” Kyojuro admits. “I have been hesitant to discuss the topic in case it is too early and I risk upsetting Akaza. But I will try to find the right moment to ask. I believe…” Kyojuro thinks of Akaza’s open smile to him, so different from the very beginning. The dry protests Akaza will make, yet he follows along with Kyojuro’s requests regardless. “It is not impossible,” he ends up saying. “But as of now, I cannot give you a definitive answer!”

“Of course.” Oyakata-sama smiles at Kyojuro. “I appreciate your honesty, Kyojuro. And I trust that you have a grasp on your situation better than anybody else. But that is not the main reason I called you here today.”

Kyojuro bows his head, waiting. With slightly shaky hands, Oyakata-sama tosses another careful handful of feed into the koi pond.

“There is a train that runs from Nagoya to Osaka called the Mugen Train,” Oyakata-sama says. “There have been rumours about it being called a man-eating train. Passengers have periodically disappeared, and last month, when we sent two slayers to investigate, we lost contact with them. We sent a Kinoe three days ago, and her Kasugai crow has reported that she is missing. We believe it may be a Twelve Kizuki that is responsible for these deaths. I would like you to investigate, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro nods. “I will head to Nagoya right away!”

“Thank you, Kyojuro.” Oyakata-sama’s hand brushes over Kyojuro’s shoulder briefly. “I will pray for your safety and for us to meet again soon.”

Kuina and Hinaki lead him out of the estate, both of them silent but polite. The Corps’ headquarters are quieter than usual today. The kakushi are the ones who frequent these halls the most, so Kyojuro hopes that their absence means that Oyakata-sama’s health has been well these days.

Kaname is waiting outside on the low-hanging branches of one of the wisteria trees, where underneath, Kocho Shinobu holds her open palm and feeds him sunflower seeds.

Surprised to see her, Kyojuro stares at Kocho and Kaname for a few moments. Kocho is the first to speak. “Rengoku-san!” she greets, not turning to look at him. “It is good to see you.”

“Likewise!” Kyojuro says, crossing the distance. Kaname caws happily at Kyojuro but doesn’t leave his branch, apparently preferring to eat the sunflower seeds in Kocho’s hands.

“A mission?” she asks. “It must be an important one if Oyakata-sama wanted to discuss it with you.”

“It could be one of the Twelve Kizuki!” Kyojuro tells her.

Kocho doesn’t reply for a few moments. “But not Upper Moon Three, I surmise.”

“No!”

Her expression thoughtful, Kocho reaches out to stroke Kaname’s head before lowering her arm. She turns to face Kyojuro fully.

She’s always been pale, but today, there are dark smudges under Kocho’s eyes and he can almost see the mapping of veins underneath her skin. Kyojuro frowns, concerned. “Are you feeling unwell, Kocho?”

“Perhaps I may have missed a night too many of sleep!” Kocho says. “My, my, Rengoku-san, you do know that most people do not point these things out!”

“I am worried!” He pauses and adds, “But I apologize for any discourtesy!”

Kocho laughs, waving her hand. “I’m just teasing,” she says. “Besides, I think between the two of us, I should be doing the worrying for you and not the other way around.”

Kyojuro does not think she needs to be worrying about Akaza the way she seems to be. “I am alright,” he reassures her. “Perhaps we both can do a little less worrying!”

“Hm.” Kocho pretends to contemplate it. “I suppose you have a point. Wise as always, Rengoku-san.”

Kaname, probably having seen that there are no more sunflower seeds to be obtained from Kocho, hops off his branch to perch on Kyojuro’s shoulder again. Kocho tracks his movements with unreadable eyes.

At last, she straightens her shoulders into a stiff line, lifts her chin, and gives Kyojuro a small smile.

“Be careful, Rengoku-san,” she says. She holds out her other palm to him, a small wisteria sachet resting beneath her unfurled fingers. Kyojuro had given his last one to the woman he’d saved just before he met Akaza, which feels so long ago.

On the purple cloth, the character Protect is written with similar penmanship as the Destroy on the back of their uniforms.

“Neither of us are the superstitious sort, are we?” Kocho muses. “So I suppose this will mean little. There’s not even enough wisteria inside to deter any but the weakest demons, and we’re Hashira!” She laughs again. “We don’t want to deter any demons, that would be quite counterproductive.”

Kyojuro takes the sachet from her. The cloth is a fine silk, soft underneath his fingertips; the penmanship a neat print. Kocho is right. Both of them are long past relying on superstition or luck—no slayer has such luxury. Still, there’s a storm of concern between Kocho’s unmovable smile and Kyojuro thinks the sentiment is more touching than any superstition.

“Thank you, Kocho,” he says, pocketing the sachet. “I appreciate it!”

“It’s nothing, Rengoku-san,” Kocho says lightly. “I will see you in the next Hashira meeting since I would hope that you do not get yourself hospitalized again!”

“I hope so too!” Kyojuro says. Kocho spins on the balls of her feet and starts walking towards the building. She waves, and her small figure is soon swallowed up by the blooms of wisteria trees.

Kyojuro takes the wisteria sachet from his pocket to look at it. He can feel the brush of Kaname’s feathers on his face as he leans forward as well and caws questioningly at Kyojuro.

Protect. He recognizes it as Kocho’s writing.

Since his mother passed, it had always been about protecting others, not himself, so this is… novel.

Kyojuro blinks, suddenly feeling like the world is so big around him and he is so small. He doesn’t know why this is so jarring.

Still, he has places to be, and it’s best he can cover some ground during the day. Akaza will find him like he always does. So Kyojuro pockets the sachet once more, takes a final glance behind him, and makes his way out of the wisteria grove.

It takes a bit longer to find Kyojuro tonight, but Akaza catches up with him since he’s long memorized Kyojuro’s patrol routes by now.

“Where are you heading?” he asks, falling in easy step with Kyojuro.

“Nagoya!” Kyojuro replies. “There’s been sightings of a demon there, so I have been sent to investigate!”

“That’s pretty far.” Kyojuro’s steps don’t falter, but there’s a smidge of exhaustion to his fighting spirit. “Have you been travelling all day?”

“I have!”

“There’s a village up ahead,” Akaza says. “It’s small, but there’s an inn there.”

Kyojuro turns to look at him, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. His eyes glitter with amusement. “Are you worried about me?”

“There’s no point in exhausting yourself needlessly before a mission, Kyojuro,” Akaza replies, then mirrors Kyojuro’s smile in a way he knows brings out a streak of stubbornness and competitiveness from Kyojuro. “I’m sure we can also do more productive things than walking when we get there.”

“I’m covering distance, which is quite productive!” Kyojuro replies, but he does end up listening to Akaza when they arrive at the village half an hour later. The half-asleep innkeeper gives them the keys to a room, apparently too tired to count the money Kyojuro hands over, and they head up.

As Kyojuro unlocks the door, Akaza contemplates leaving him alone to rest. The night is halfway through, at any rate—knowing Kyojuro, he’ll be up with the sun to start travelling again. Nagoya isn’t too far but it isn’t close either, and if there’s a demon there terrorizing the city, Kyojuro will want to deal with it as soon as possible.

He’s just about to entertain the thought further when the room door closes behind Akaza and Kyojuro is tugging him close by the open ends of his haori, his lips fitting over Akaza’s with ease.

Well. Akaza can’t say he didn’t at least consider letting Kyojuro rest. This really isn’t his fault anymore.

Half a moon’s cycle and Akaza has developed an increased familiarity with the buttons of Kyojuro’s uniform—less fumbling and more efficiency. One, two, exposing the column of Kyojuro’s neck. Three, four, open down to his solar plexus. Five, six, seven, reaching his belt. Kyojuro had complained about Akaza being too rough with his belt, so Akaza begrudgingly does his best to be as careful as the occasion allows when he undoes it and tugs it through the loops. Kyojuro’s heel hits the edge of the bed, and Akaza presses him down.

As Akaza breaks away to let Kyojuro catch his breath, he realizes that there’s a sickly sweet scent of wisteria in the air. Faint, but he’s sensitive enough to any traces that he still picks it up.

“You smell like wisteria,” Akaza murmurs.

Kyojuro looks a little dazed. “I—ah, what?”

“Wisteria,” Akaza repeats, pulling away a little more so he can take in Kyojuro’s features fully. There’s always a deep curl of satisfaction seeing Kyojuro so undone and open. They hadn’t lit any lamps, so he knows that Kyojuro can’t see him with the same clarity Akaza can see him, and that thought is a strangely exhilarating one.

The fingers digging into his shoulder blades loosen and pull away. Cloth rustles before Kyojuro produces something from his right pocket, which he holds between them to show Akaza.

In his palms lie a small purple sachet, the wisteria scent now much sharper. The character Protect is written across the front in strong black ink.

“A good luck charm, I’m told,” Kyojuro says, still a bit short of breath. “Although Kocho said it’s not going to do much and won’t deter any demons except the weakest ones!”

“Kocho Shinobu?” Akaza asks, although it’s not like there’s another Kocho that they’ve ever talked about.

“Yes, I saw her this morning!”

“Is that so?” Akaza asks. He tugs at Kyojuro’s sleeves and Kyojuro obediently pulls his arms through them, one after the other. “Do you typically go around meeting other Hashira during the day, Kyojuro?”

“That would be an ill-usage of our time!” Kyojuro replies.

Akaza is pretty sure a few months ago Kyojuro would’ve called this an ill-usage of his time, yet here they are.

He looks at the wisteria sachet again. Protect. Protect from what? Akaza is familiar enough with the Demon Slayer Corps’ maxim: Destroy. Written across the back of every slayer’s uniform, Kyojuro’s included. Surely Shinobu doesn’t find it fit to remind Kyojuro, of all people, that he’s meant to protect people, so this must be a charm for him. Just like the talismans hung up in demon-haunted villages, a ward of superstition that is nothing more than a piece of paper when death finally does come knocking. Statues of stone before temples, as if they could truly guard against evil or shield against loss.

Akaza opens his mouth to say something, but it gets lost in his throat. He doesn’t know why the stupid sachet makes him feel so helpless. Pulling at the strings of something long gone, reminding him that once upon a time, he—couldn’t.

“Akaza?” Kyojuro’s peering at him, his eyes wide and slightly concerned. “Are you alright?”

All of a sudden, Akaza doesn’t want to linger on it any longer. He’d rather bury these feelings back where they came from, where they should be unreachable once more. So instead of replying, he tangles his fingers into Kyojuro’s hair and kisses him again, rougher than before. It’s easier to drown in this, in Kyojuro. A few breaths later, the previous turmoil is buried right where it belongs: far from reach.

Kyojuro makes a small noise in his throat when Akaza scrapes his fangs over the delicate skin of his neck. He wonders if Kyojuro feels the same thrill as he does: sharp teeth at his throat, such intimate vulnerability. To know what Akaza can but doesn’t do.

The rope around his waist is untied, the end of the tassels brushing against Akaza’s skin as Kyojuro tosses it aside. “It’s been a while since you last fed,” Kyojuro comments lightly, but not without a noticeable hitch in his voice.

Akaza exhales, lips against skin, and smiles at the way Kyojuro shivers. “You’re offering right now?”

“If you want!”

He finds Kyojuro’s hand with his and presses his fingers against the pulse point at Kyojuro’s wrist. Akaza has done his best to be careful with each bite, but there are still a few faded scars from the past times he’s fed. After all, his teeth were made for ripping and tearing. “Here?” he asks. He touches his other hand against Kyojuro’s carotid, feels the rush of blood in his veins. “Or here?”

“Whatever you’d like,” Kyojuro says, barely above a whisper.

And since Akaza has never been one for patience or restraint against temptation, he leans forward again, mapping over the new and faded marks on Kyojuro’s skin. Kyojuro remains still beneath him, waiting with tense anticipation. He has one hand curled around Akaza’s waist, and when Akaza opens his mouth and sinks his fangs in, Kyojuro’s fingers tighten too.

Skin breaks easily, even when Akaza tries to put a conscious effort into not tearing too deep. He’s taken countless lives this way—a ripped-out throat was the easiest and quickest way to kill someone he didn’t want to bother with a fight, after all. Anyone, slayer or not, should be terrified of this. But Kyojuro doesn’t flinch away: instead, the tenseness of his body slips away as he leans into Akaza, pliant and willing.

Kyojuro’s blood is sweet and metallic and warm, and it feels so good. There is an ever-present hunger that slumbers in his body these days, and while it’s relieving every time he gets to feed, it has never quite been like this: skin-to-skin, Kyojuro’s hands on him, a new sort of intimacy compared to all the instances before. Desire pools low in his stomach when Kyojuro says the syllables of his name around a shaky gasp.

The fog of pleasure lifts just enough for Akaza to register that he can’t take too much blood since Kyojuro clearly isn’t about to stop him. With some difficulty, he pulls back, head spinning. The hunger will feel abated later, but for now, the sudden withdrawal makes every cell in his body scream for more, more, more.

It takes Akaza a moment to realize the harsh breathing, deafening in the silence, is from him and not Kyojuro.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro says. He brushes the pad of his thumb over Akaza’s lips and Akaza feels blood smear over his jaw. Purposeful, he can tell, from the way Kyojuro’s eyes flicker down to follow the smudge. There is a line of crimson trailing down Kyojuro’s neck to chest from the open bite, still bleeding slowly. Akaza can’t help but marvel that he looks perfect like this—gold and red and adorned with nothing but marks Akaza has left. Kyojuro is Akaza’s alone to have, to keep, to…

Destroy, the back of Kyojuro’s uniform reads. Much smaller, the sachet Kocho Shinobu had given him: Protect.

What do you think love is, Akaza? Kyojuro had asked that wintry afternoon, and the answer—or perhaps the lack of one—lingers insistently at the back of Akaza’s mind.

Skin to skin, breath to breath. Akaza is used to Kyojuro’s loudness and straightforwardness, but at times he’ll hold Akaza close and say his name in nothing more than a whisper, and Akaza wants to think that it means something—something more, something important. Kyojuro carries himself brightly for the rest of the world to see as a slayer, but with Akaza, it is just for Akaza alone.

If Kyojuro asked him the same question again now, and if Akaza were to answer truthfully, he would say: I don’t know. I can’t remember. And then he’d ask: But can’t it be this?

Akaza is meant to catch up with Kyojuro at Nagoya the following night as dusk settles, but before he can leave the small cave he’d been sheltering in, his cells twist with a familiar command.

For a moment, he stumbles, shocked. He hasn’t seen Muzan-sama for the good part of two years, and that isn’t even lengthy—he’s gone much longer between meetings.

His mind runs through endless possibilities of what it could be about: the blue spider lily, the Kizuki, and… Kyojuro. Surely it couldn’t be about Kyojuro. Muzan-sama typically didn’t care what he did with his time, and Akaza has been obeying his commands. He’s always obeyed.

He thinks of the dwindling efforts he’s made to search for the blue spider lily, then decides it’s probably best not to think about that.

Nagoya will have to wait. This will have a worse outcome if he doesn’t heed Muzan-sama’s call.

So Akaza turns in the opposite direction, heading where the tug in his cells directs him to go. He’s pretty much never visited his master in the same location twice. He’s constantly changing throughout the years into suitable forms, but the one thing that never changes is the innate knowledge Akaza has of his presence when summoned. Like a compass drilled into his bones and marrow.

He arrives at a large house that borders the edge of a city. It’s fenced off with high walls that surround a garden even bigger than the one at the Rengoku Estate, and certainly much more well-kept. This must be a relatively wealthy family. Even the trees that grow in the yard look to be trimmed to the exact shape, and each flowerbed has an uncanny neatness to it. The ones in Kyojuro’s garden are overgrown and wild, but Akaza prefers it over this.

He shakes his head. It’ll do him no good if his thoughts keep gravitating to Kyojuro right now.

Quietly, Akaza crosses the garden to the house, where Muzan-sama’s presence is the strongest. He can hear a murmur of voices behind the doors before hinges creak and the voices fade.

Pulling himself over the balcony, Akaza steps into the room and sinks into a bow, knowing he’s not to meet Muzan-sama’s eyes until given permission.

For a moment, no one speaks. Silence defeans all around; even the whistle of the wind seems to have quieted down. The polished wooden floors click under the heels of Muzan-sama’s shoes as he crosses the room, one slow step after the other.

“Akaza,” Muzan-sama finally says, his tone conversational, almost leisurely.

He swallows. “I await your commands.”

“Hm.” The footsteps circle Akaza. Click, click, click. “How has your search for the blue spider lily been, Akaza?”

“I still have not found it.”

“I know.” Muzan-sama stops right in front of him. He’s taken the form of a child this time around, dressed impeccably in a high-collared white shirt and shoes that can only be brand new. “I would have known if you did. Tell me, Akaza, does the blue spider lily evade you, or do you simply evade the duty I’ve given you?”

Akaza bows his head lower. “I will continue searching.”

“Yes, you will,” Muzan-sama agrees. “But that is not the reason I summoned you today. There is something else that requires your more immediate attention.” He pauses. “I got rid of the lower ranks two moons ago.”

Akaza blinks, unable to mask his surprise. “All of them, Muzan-sama?”

“All but Lower Moon One,” comes the blase response. “I gave him blood and sent him to deal with a particularly troublesome slayer.” There’s a faint hint of a snarl in Muzan-sama’s voice. “A brat wearing a pair of Hanafuda earrings. Kamado Tanjiro. It should be an easy task, but the Lower Moons have proven once again to be useless, so I want you to make sure the slayer is dealt with if Lower Moon One fails to kill him. And bring me the Hanafuda earrings when you’re finished.”

A slayer with hanafuda earrings. Kyojuro has never mentioned him before—then again, Kyojuro barely mentions other slayers. Still, if Muzan-sama is personally asking Akaza to kill someone, then the slayer must be someone powerful.

“Am I understood, Akaza?” Muzan-sama asks lowly.

Akaza nods. “I will follow your orders.”

“Good.” There’s a hint of a smile in his voice. Ice-cold fingers wrapped around Akaza’s chin and lifts his face until he’s looking into ruby eyes, piercing and all-seeing. Despite Muzan-sama’s gentle grip and soft fingers, they carry a promise of violence nonetheless. Akaza thinks of Kyojuro’s calloused palms, pressed against his skin with careful intent. Gentle not because he’s afraid of breaking, but because Kyojuro chooses not to hurt him. “You have always been efficient, Akaza. Do not disappoint me and I will reward you.”

“Yes, Muzan-sama,” he says. It used to be an easy thing to say, but for some reason this time, the words catch in Akaza’s throat and he can’t help but feel as though he’s doing something so goddamn wrong.

Muzan-sama releases his grip on Akaza and takes a step back, nodding his dismissal. Akaza dips his head one more time before turning on his heel and departing.

He walks through the garden, making sure that he avoids the too-neat flower gardens and low-hanging branches from the trees. He climbs over the stone walls. His heartbeat is so loud that Akaza can hear it pounding in his ears.

This is just an order. Kyojuro has his orders too—hell, Akaza has been helping him kill demons for the better part of the year. Muzan-sama wants him to kill one slayer, and Akaza has no qualms about this death. Whoever the boy with Hanafuda earrings is means nothing to him.

No matter how he thinks about it, the discomfort won’t go away. He had promised Kyojuro he wouldn’t harm anybody, but what is the promise in the face of an order—especially one as absolute as a command from Muzan-sama? If he kills Tanjiro, what is Akaza supposed to do? Lie to Kyojuro? Pretend it never happened? If he tells Kyojuro…

Akaza imagines the feeling of Kyojuro’s fingers curled around the nape of his neck replaced by the sharp edge of his sword. Would Kyojuro finally turn his sword on Akaza this time around? What they have right now is a delicate thing: built on a teetering tower of desire and attraction, with everything beyond skin-deep left unsaid. Akaza knows that Kyojuro cares for him to some extent, since if there is one thing Kyojuro does not and cannot fake, it is his sincerity. But they’ve never established anything beyond the physical, because what demon can be trusted with a human’s heart? If Kyojuro won’t even bend from duty for his soulmate, why would he go so far for Akaza?

If Akaza refuses to follow this, Muzan-sama will surely look for a reason for Akaza’s disobedience, and when he pins the blame onto Kyojuro, then there is nothing Akaza can do to protect him.

Inevitable. That’s what their ending was, right from the very beginning. Even if Akaza stopped his killing blow during their very first meeting, it’s always been a matter of time. And time is running out. It always has been.

This is how it is, his mind whispers, but his heart, ever-treacherous, slams violently against the cage of his ribs in protest. It can’t end like this. I won’t let it. Not again.

Akaza walks until he’s far enough from Muzan-sama’s presence that it feels like his mind is his own again. Then he stands very still underneath the endless sky and its canvas of stars and moon. Always the moon, never the sun.

There is nothing Akaza can do about this, except hope that Lower Moon One wouldn’t be so incompetent as to be incapable of dealing with a single slayer. The thought of placing all his bets on Lower Moon One borderlines on insanity.

And if Kyojuro turns his sword against Akaza, then is Akaza supposed to finally follow through with his killing blow too? He pictures Kyojuro’s body, bloody and broken and empty. His features expressionless, his eyes unseeing. And Akaza will hold him in death, because that’s what he had asked of Kyojuro in the beginning. For his death to belong to Akaza.

“No,” he breathes, the words escaping before he can stop himself. “No.”

It had been easy to tell Kyojuro in the heat of the moment: I’m not going to kill you. But it’s now that the weight of the words settles over Akaza, and he realizes just how deeply he’d meant it, how much things have changed.

Akaza tips his head back against the trunk of a tree, seeing the lush canopy of leaves that cover the sky. His chest aches so much that he wants to reach inside and rip the pain out from the source, but that would hardly be possible. He feels so goddamn weak. All for one human.

The ends of Kyojuro’s hair ribbon, still tied to his wrist, flutters lightly in the breeze, tickling his skin. Akaza looks down at the bright red. At his ink-stained hands. They’re trembling.

Kyojuro had excitedly pointed out the budding trees and blooming flowers, but he’d never talked about the brutality of spring: of the sun stripping away layers and layers of ice and snow to reveal ugly, barren ground underneath. Akaza feels the same. Torn open and laid bare with the most vulnerable parts of himself exposed, because spring after a centuries-long winter has thrown him out of his depth and now he’s paying the consequences of it.

He breathes in, out, in, out—habits taken from time spent with Kyojuro. A demon shouldn’t need to catch their breath. The moon and stars shift across the sky, and still, Akaza stays where he is. If only to prolong something, anything, for a little while longer.

For the first time ever, Akaza finds himself afraid to return to Kyojuro.

Chapter Text

Nagoya displays all the typical signs of a demon-haunted district. Kyojuro is used to the obvious: shops closing early, talismans of protection stuck to doorways. The streets emptied after dark, although it’s not as if a locked door keeps out a hungry demon.

Akaza doesn’t join him like Kyojuro had anticipated, which is a little strange since he’s been finding Kyojuro almost immediately after sundown these last few weeks. Still, Kyojuro figures that maybe it’s for the best. If Oyakata-sama is right that he’ll be dealing with one of the Twelve Kizuki, it might be better that Akaza isn’t involved.

The night starts off as usual. Kyojuro tracks the demon’s activity through the city and finds an injured woman left on the street to die, covered head to toe with shallow but innumerous cuts. The kakushi are on the case immediately, and to Kyojuro’s relief, they reassure him that she’ll survive with little to no scarring.

Kyojuro tracks the demon to the train station, gets hit in the face with a red bean bun when he tries to ask the little girl and her grandmother for information, and finally, follows the demon to the trainyard. Then, ironically, ends up chasing the demon back to the station.

It’s where he is now, the head of the demon disintegrating at his feet, hateful yellow eyes fixed on Kyojuro.

Inhale. Exhale. Kyojuro slides his sword back into his sheath and turns to the little girl and her grandmother, both of them still holding each other on the ground, shaking.

He opens his mouth to ask them if they’re alright, but the old woman beats him to it by starting to cry. “You saved us, didn’t you?” she says shakily, her eyes wide. “Twice?”

Kyojuro blinks. He does not recall such a thing. He’s pretty sure this is the first time they’ve met.

“That haori…” she continues. “Your face. I’ll never forget it. Twenty years ago, Fuku’s mother and I… you saved our lives.”

“Grandma?” Fuku asks. “What are you talking about?”

Ah. Twenty years ago. This isn’t the first time he’s come across someone his father had met before, but it doesn’t make it feel less strange. Although Kyojuro knows that his father had been an exceptional slayer, these days it feels as though more people remind him of his father’s grief than his kindness.

“That must have been my father!” Kyojuro says. He walks closer to them and offers them a hand. “I am following in his footsteps as a demon slayer. I am glad to have protected you like he had.”

Fuku’s grandmother takes his hand, allowing Kyojuro to help her up. Fuku clings to her arm, staring up at Kyojuro with wide eyes. “I…” she starts, then adjusts her glasses and looks down. “I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you. And for throwing my bun at you.”

Kyojuro lets out a laugh. “That’s alright!” he says. “But that’s how it should be. Not having to know or encounter demons. You don’t need to apologize for it!”

She looks up at him, a hesitant smile on her face. In his periphery, the black and white uniforms of the kakushi round the corner and rush up to them.

“Rengoku-san!” one of them calls. “Is everybody alright?”

“Yes!” Kyojuro assures. “I—”

He breaks off, suddenly struck with an emotion so awful that Kyojuro nearly doubles over, vision tunneling. It’s all-encompassing and violent and terrifying all at once, shattering in his chest like glass.

Kyojuro knows Akaza’s anger and his sorrow from years of intimate experience. But it’s been months since he last felt anything like it, and this is…

Fear, Kyojuro realizes belatedly. It’s mixed with anger and helplessness and a messy jumble of other things, but at the core all of that is fear. He knows the emotion well: the feeling of being too small in a world that is indescribably large, grappling for a semblance of control and coming up empty-handed.

“Rengoku-san?” A hand settles on his shoulder, and Kyojuro barely stops himself from shrugging it off. “Are you alright? What were you going to say?”

The kakushi has moved from the end of the train station to standing right in front of him, peering up with worried grey eyes.

Exhale. Inhale. Some illogical part of him wants to drop all of this just to find Akaza. What could possibly be horrible enough to make Akaza afraid?

The emotion doesn’t exactly subside into nothing like all the times before. It recedes but not fully, lingering under Kyojuro’s skin in the form of paranoia and unease. He fights down a shiver and tries to reorient his thoughts. Kyojuro can’t turn away before this mission is complete, even if every fibre of his being wants to go the other way.

“I am alright!” he manages, and somehow, his voice doesn’t shake. “This demon was a distraction. Whatever has been haunting the Mugen Train must still be there! I will board the train to find out.”

The kakushi nods her agreement. If she notices something off with Kyojuro, she doesn’t push. “Is there anyone who needs treatment here?”

Kyojuro shakes his head, remembering to thank her before turning back to Fuku and her grandmother. He tries to push his thoughts away from Akaza and focus on the task at hand, but his mind circles back stubbornly like a fly to sugar. Is he hurt? Akaza is the fourth most powerful demon in existence, so it must either be Upper Moon One, Upper Moon Two, or Kibutsuji. Akaza had rarely mentioned any of them, but there’s no other logical explanation, is there?

“Rengoku-san,” the old lady says, picking up Kyojuro’s hands with her own. Kyojuro blinks a few times and remembers to smile at her. She pats his hands gently. “Thank you again. Sincerely. And your father… would you thank him for me and Fuku too?”

“Yes!” Kyojuro agrees. “When I see him again, I will be sure to mention you to him. I am sure he would be happy to hear!”

She nods before letting go of him. Fuku bows to him, holding onto her grandmother’s arm.

Kyojuro bids them farewell and exits the station. He stops as soon as he’s out of sight, leaning a shoulder against the wall and filled with the need to catch his breath even though he hasn’t exerted himself.

The connection between their soul threads is quiet again. No undercurrent of Akaza’s emotion travels through to him anymore, but something about the emptiness is equally horrible.

The worst part is that Kyojuro has no clue where Akaza might be. He knows that Akaza’s ability to see fighting spirits, perhaps combined with some aspect of the soul thread, has always aided him in finding Kyojuro, but Kyojuro doesn’t have the same luxury. Retracing his steps to where they last saw each other would be counterproductive even if he had energy and time to spare, and as it is, the urgency of this mission leaves little leeway. Kyojuro had planned to gather information about the demon’s behaviour before he boarded the train this evening, so he can’t go far from Nagoya.

It feels wrong to do nothing, but there is nothing more that Kyojuro can do but pray that Akaza will find him soon, so at least he can know what happened.

He takes a deep breath, tracing his fingers over the comforting grip of his sword’s hilt. The sun will rise soon. For Akaza, he can only wait.

Akaza does not come to find him before the sun rises. Kyojuro knows that exhaustion will catch up to him if he doesn’t rest, so he tries to sleep for a few hours before he has to head out again. It’s fitful and restless, and he wakes up feeling strangely cold. He’s become so accustomed to Akaza’s presence next to him that the sudden absence makes every second of solitude unbearably loud.

Still, Kyojuro tries to keep his mind clear for the mission. He gathers information, mapping out the number of disappearances. The Corps’ official record was forty, but given the stories the townspeople tell him, it could be pushing at least double that amount.

By evening, he returns to the train station, where the Mugen Train is loading passengers. Fuku and her grandmother are there again, selling beef bento, which fills the air with a pleasant, aromatic scent. Fuku offers him a free bento when she sees him, so Kyojuro decides that it’s only fair to buy twenty more. Which he does, much to her chagrin.

Still, there is no sign of Akaza even after the sun sets. He keeps an eye out in the crowd of people, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of yellow eyes and a sharp smile. Nothing.

Such distraction is far from conducive to finishing the mission, especially when he is dealing with what is potentially a Twelve Kizuki. Even if it isn’t, a demon who has killed upwards of eighty people would still be incredibly powerful. Kyojuro has never had a problem with organizing his priorities, but with Akaza, it’s as though his entire world has been thrown upside-down and all of a sudden, the chasm between heart and mind tears wider and wider.

Kyojuro ends up boarding the train with two large stacks of bento boxes. Passengers file on, one by one. There is something faintly demonic all around, but Kyojuro can’t pinpoint the demon’s exact location—he just knows that it’s here, but it hasn’t chosen to reveal itself just yet.

Half an hour later, boarding is complete and the train starts to move. The cityscape of Nagoya melts away into the countryside. Kyojuro starts on his stack of bentos. He figures that he might as well eat dinner while waiting for the demon to appear.

His soul thread is quiet now. Ever since the outburst of emotion last night, Kyojuro hasn’t felt anything else from it.

Worrying is pointless, he tells himself. Akaza will find him soon. He repeats the reassurance so many times that it loses its meaning.

A train attendant, who looks a little bit flustered, takes away three of Kyojuro’s empty bento boxes. He’s starting on his fourth bento when the door of the train cart bursts open behind him and a loud voice says, “Is that him? The Flame Hashira person?”

Someone whispers back, quieter, “Yeah, it’s him. I recognize him from the meeting.” Footsteps walk towards Kyojuro, and a few seconds later, no other than Kamado Tanjiro appears in his field of vision.

Kyojuro takes another bite of his bento. Tanjiro stares at the stack for a few seconds before he straightens. “Hello! Rengoku-san, it is nice to meet you! I’m Kamado Tanjiro, and these are my fellow demon slayers, Zenitsu Agatsuma and Inosuke Hashibira!”

His two other companions come over, jostling each other: a boy with bright yellow hair, another wearing a boar mask over his head. On Tanjiro’s back is strapped the box he carries his sister in. It looks as if it has been mended from the damage Shinazugawa inflicted on it.

Kyojuro nods. “I met you at the Hashira meeting!”

“Ah…” Tanjiro looks a little sheepish. “Yes!”

Kyojuro offers him a bento, which Tanjiro politely declines. He remains standing in front of Kyojuro, hands tucked politely behind his back, although both of his friends have moved on. Now Zenitsu appears to be attempting to pull Inosuke back from the window and is fighting a losing battle.

“Sit down!” Kyojuro suggests.

Tanjiro takes the box off his shoulders and sets it gingerly on the seat in front of them. Nezuko’s demonic presence is surprisingly faint despite the proximity. Kyojuro supposes it says a thing or two about how different she is from the others.

“My friends and I were sent here to assist you, Rengoku-san,” Tanjiro tells him. “Apparently the casualties at the Mugen Train have been increasing, so we are to help you investigate!”

“Yes!” Kyojuro agrees. “There have been at least eighty people that the demon has consumed! It has grown powerful because of it.”

“Eighty?” Tanjiro echoes, sounding concerned. “That seems like a lot.”

“It is!”

They sit in silence for a little while longer. On the seat across from theirs, Tanjiro’s two friends still appear to be fighting with each other about jumping off or staying on the train, which Kyojuro wonders whether it is cause for concern.

“Rengoku-san,” Tanjiro finally says after some time. “Um, can I ask you a question?”

“Yes! What is it?”

“About my father…”

Kyojuro had expected some sort of question about his sister or the other Hashira, so this seems out of the blue. “Okay!”

“He was, um, really frail,” Tanjiro says, and Kyojuro is even more confused. “He was pretty sick a lot of the time. But even when it was cold enough to freeze your lungs, he’d be able to perform a dance in the snow.”

“That is impressive!” Kyojuro offers.

Tanjiro looks a little flustered. “Hinokami Kagura!” he blurts. “That’s the dance my father would do in the snow! When I was fighting Lower Moon Five, I found myself suddenly following the moves of the dance and it worked. I was hoping that you would know something about it, Rengoku-san. Maybe it has some similarities to Flame Breathing?”

Kyojuro shakes his head. “I am sorry! I have never heard of Hinokami Kagura, and Flame Breathing has a long history that I have studied. It doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Ah…” Tanjiro slouches slightly into the back of his chair, letting out a sheepish laugh. “That’s alright. I thought it would’ve been worth asking. Thanks, Rengoku-san.”

Kyojuro offers him a smile, and then on second thought, offers him a bento box again. Tanjiro shakes his head. “I’ve already eaten,” he says. “But thank you!”

“Alright!” Kyojuro says. “If you don’t mind, Kamado-kun, I do have a few questions about your sister!”

Tanjiro’s gaze flickers over to the wooden box placed on the seat in front of them. “Okay,” he says, a hint of wariness entering his tone. “Just one more thing, Rengoku-san?”

“Yes!”

“You smell like a demon,” Tanjiro says. “A really strong one.” He hesitates. “Did you encounter one before this mission?”

Akaza. Kyojuro isn’t sure how Tanjiro can smell a demon’s presence and strength, but then again, he’s heard of stranger things, so he might as well take this one in stride. And encounter isn’t exactly the correct word, although Kyojuro isn’t about to correct him with the details.

“It was Upper Moon Three!” he says. “He has been travelling with me. I have made a deal with him that he does not eat any humans as long as he is with me.”

Tanjiro’s eyes widen. “Upper Moon Three?”

“Yes!”

“You travel with Upper Moon Three,” Tanjiro says, still sounding shell-shocked. “Is he here right now?”

Kyojuro had been trying not to think about Akaza’s whereabouts. “He is not!” he says. “But if he turns up, he will not harm you.”

“Oh,” Tanjiro says weakly. “That’s good to know. How did you meet Upper Moon Three, Rengoku-san?”

“He tried to kill me!” Kyojuro says. “It didn’t work, and we ended up making a deal. He wished to travel with me, so I told him he could do so if he didn’t harm any humans.”

“And he listened,” Tanjiro says, sounding incredibly skeptical. “Because…he wanted to travel with you.”

“He is very keen on keeping his word!”

“Ah…” Tanjiro is clearly not very convinced. Kyojuro can’t entirely blame him for that. Any slayer hearing of his general situation should rightfully be doubtful, and that’s already excluding the additional details of Akaza being his soulmate. “Well, he, um—he doesn’t sound awful!”

Kyojuro laughs. Awful is a word he’s long stopped associating with Akaza. “He is not!” he agrees. He thinks of the last time he’d seen Akaza, the brush of his clever fingers over Kyojuro’s waist as he had said, I’ll see you soon. “So you do not need to worry about him even if he does appear today!”

Tanjiro’s gaze seems a little less skeptical and more inquisitive, but if he had more questions, he doesn’t push Kyojuro. Instead, politely, he prompts, “What was it that you wanted to ask me?”

“It is about your sister!” Kyojuro says. “During the meeting with the Hashira and Oyakata-sama, you mentioned that she had broken Kibutsuji’s curse! Do you know how she had done so?”

Tanjiro shakes his head. “I didn’t know about it either,” he says. “Instead, I was told that it had already happened. Kibutsuji no longer controls her, nor is he aware of her whereabouts like he is with other demons, but that’s as much as I know. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Rengoku-san.”

Kyojuro shakes his head, offering Tanjiro a smile. “It’s okay!” he says. “Thank you for the information, Kamado-kun!”

It would have been better if Tanjiro had a concrete answer about just how his sister had broken Kibutsuji’s curse, but at least they know that it’s possible. That’s one place to start. Especially since Kyojuro hasn’t even breached the topic with Akaza yet.

“Is this about Upper Moon Three?” Tanjiro asks.

“It is!”

“You think he would?”

“I am not sure!” Kyojuro replies. “But if he is willing, then we could turn the tide in the Corps’ favour to gain such a powerful ally and cripple Kibutsuji all at once.”

It always makes sense when put like this to everyone he’s told: Oyakata-sama, Kocho, and now Tanjiro. And yet Kyojuro wonders if any of them have seen through the surface to realize that underneath, Kyojuro holds onto something a lot more selfish and sentimental.

“That makes sense!” Tanjiro says thoughtfully. “What is Upper Moon Three like?”

A little taken aback by the question, Kyojuro considers it for a few moments. He’s not exactly sure how he’s supposed to describe Akaza in a few words. They’ve spent so long together and he’s seen so much of Akaza, and yet so many of those moments Kyojuro wants to keep to himself. The smiles Akaza only gives him, his casual touches, each second and minute and hour.

Ah, he thinks with a touch of tired amusement. His mother had never told him how illogical love could be. Or perhaps Kyojuro has always been more of his father’s son than his mother’s.

“He likes to say one thing and mean another,” Kyojuro tells Tanjiro at last. “And it has made him rather predictable at times!”

Tanjiro looks a little confused. Just as he’s about to answer, the door of the train compartment swings open. The conductor steps inside and begins checking in with each passenger.

“Better get your tickets out!” Kyojuro tells Tanjiro.

The conductor arrives at their seat. He looks tired with smudges of grey underneath lifeless eyes. The Mugen Train must be exhausting to manage, man-eating demon and all. He wonders if he ought to offer a bento.

“Tickets please,” he says in a monotone.

Kyojuro and Tanjiro both hand him their tickets. He punches a clean hole through both before handing it back to them, then moves on to Inosuke and Zenitsu, who both by some miracle haven’t thrown their tickets out the window manage to produce them.

Soon, the conductor moves on from the cart. The presence of the demon is an ever-present thing, but still too faint for Kyojuro to pinpoint its exact location. Rather, it’s like the faint static in the air before a thunderstorm, keeping him on edge for when the lightning finally strikes.

The lights of the train flicker overhead, sending shadows skittering around the corners. The sound of the rails beneath them drones on.

“Rengoku-san,” Tanjiro says, leaning over. The lights flicker again. “The demon we are looking for is one of the Twelve Kizuki, right?”

“Yes, that is what I have been told!”

“I see!” Tanjiro says. “But I’m sure we have nothing to worry about with you here, Rengoku-san.”

Kyojuro smiles at him. Tanjiro is every bit the same boy he’d met at the Hashira meeting, full of optimism and cheerfulness despite every tragedy that has been inflicted on him. “Let us both do our best!” he says.

Flicker. Wane. Turning his gaze up, Kyojuro frowns at the lights overhead. They appear closer than they had a moment ago.

“Rengoku-san,” Tanjiro starts. “I don’t—”

Another flicker. This time, they don’t turn back on.

“—tell me then, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro blinks.

The nighttime sky is covered by a blanket of stars and the moon, but staggered across it are the long, overreaching branches of the cherry blossom trees.

Disoriented and confused, Kyojuro tries to gather his bearings. He had just… it had been dark. He was speaking to… someone. Who?

“Kyojuro?”

He turns his gaze away from the sky to meet Akaza’s yellow eyes, his head tilted expectantly, his palm splayed open to offer Kyojuro a single petal.

Oh, Kyojuro thinks. He remembers now. They had been talking about his parents; about how his father used to catch a cherry blossom for his mother so she could make a wish. He wonders if Akaza is doing this purposefully. If he knows how much it makes Kyojuro’s heart stumble to see his expression so earnest and open and honest. It feels as though this wanting will swallow him whole one day.

Kyojuro reaches out to accept the petal. His limbs feel inexplicably heavy. The petal is so delicate between the pads of his fingers that he fears one wrong movement will tear it in two.

Make a wish, Kyojuro. The wind sounds like his mother’s voice.

“Akaza,” he says.

He didn’t make a wish, not exactly. But his soul aches to the pulse of Akaza’s heart, and Kyojuro has waited for so long and doesn’t think he can wait more.

“Don’t tell me, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “Or else it won’t come true. You said it yourself.”

“It’s something else,” Kyojuro replies. “I won’t tell you my wish if you don’t want to hear it!”

“What else is there, Kyojuro?”

He’s considered this conversation a thousand upon a thousand times. Run through every reaction Akaza could give him, and still, Kyojuro surfaces emptyhanded. But Kyojuro needs him to know—whether it be a reason of fairness or selfishness, it doesn’t matter. He is still afraid: afraid that Akaza will hate him, afraid Akaza will despise the soul bond no less than before and scoff at Kyojuro’s weakness. Love is weakness, and I am not weak. But as a slayer, he has long learned not to let fear dictate every move, so it only seems right that he does the same when it comes to him and Akaza.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” he says.

Akaza searches his face. When he doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, he nods. “Okay.”

“You once asked me if I’d met my soulmate yet,” Kyojuro says. “Back then, I said I hadn’t! It wasn’t a lie at that time, but it turns out that wasn’t quite true either.”

Akaza’s eyebrows furrow. A characteristic storm begins brewing behind his expression, and despite the stony impassivity maintained at the surface, Kyojuro isn’t fooled by the short tone when he asks, “Who is it, Kyojuro?”

Kyojuro exhales. Even now, he feels the heat of Akaza’s anger through the soul thread. “You,” he says. “It’s been you. All this time.”

Like the tide, the anger subsides. Akaza stares at him, his face wiped slate-clean by surprise. He doesn’t say anything.

“I should have told you sooner,” Kyojuro says, suddenly feeling as though he needs to fill this silence with something. “I know you have every right to know as I do and I do not mean to justify what I’ve kept from you! But I admit that I was afraid. I didn’t…”

Akaza finally looks at him fully. Kyojuro still cannot decipher his expression, even as Akaza opens his mouth to speak. Kyojuro hears the familiar beginning of his name on Akaza’s lips, but he never hears the end.

Instead, the cherry blossom trees melt away like ink against water. A blur of pink, and then all of a sudden Kyojuro is no longer standing in the clearing but lying under two layers of blankets, flowery branches replaced by the four dark brown walls of an inn room. A hand holds his wrist carefully: Akaza’s grasp. (Kyojuro knows his touch by heart—why does he know so well?) Akaza’s hands are uncalloused and smooth like a child’s despite the brutality and violence his fists are capable of.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Water splashes in the basin before Akaza wipes a warm washcloth over Kyojuro’s numb fingers. He is so very cold. Right, Kyojuro had just been in the snowstorm. He probably would’ve frozen to death if it weren’t for Akaza.

Hisae’s words come back tenfold. Can you really choose to love him?

(What if I already do? Kyojuro asks back. What do I do then?)

“Hisae-san told me about her late husband,” Kyojuro says to Akaza. “He was also a slayer.”

Akaza doesn’t stop his methodological movements. Sensation trickles back to Kyojuro’s fingers in the form of pins and needles. “And she killed him when she was turned into a demon?”

Kyojuro swallows. He searches Akaza’s face, features he’s grown to know so well. He’s become familiar with Akaza’s tiny tells as well. The way he scrunches his nose when he’s confused. When he’s angry or frustrated, he bites his cheeks. Right now, he tries for nonchalance, but he isn’t quite successful in keeping the bite out of his voice. He doesn’t like this topic.

“He was her soulmate too,” Kyojuro adds. “When he came back to her, he realized that she had been turned into a demon, so he tried to kill her. Because that was his duty. So before he could, she killed him instead.”

“Ah,” Akaza says, soft and sharp all at once. He smiles but no genuine amusement touches his eyes. “Isn’t that how it always ends?”

Is that how we end?

“It doesn’t have to,” Kyojuro says. The words stick to his throat.

“Why, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks. “When the time comes, will you not hold your sword to my neck? Isn’t that how you want this to end?”

Wordlessly, Kyojuro shakes his head.

“What makes us any different?” Akaza asks. “Or any better? They were lovers. Soulmates. They still destroyed each other in the end. We aren’t either.”

“And if we are?” Kyojuro shoots back. “Would that change anything for you, Akaza?”

The washcloth stills. Akaza’s yellow eyes are piercing. “Are what, Kyojuro.”

“Soulmates,” he says. “If we are, what would that change?”

“Stop with the stupid what-ifs.” Akaza looks away, but his voice shakes a little.

“Then not a what-if,” Kyojuro says. He is lying on solid ground but he feels as though he is falling and falling with no end in sight. Maybe this longing will kill him, after all. Then his death really would belong to Akaza.

“What are you saying?” Akaza asks. His grip tightens on Kyojuro’s wrist. The soul thread comes to life between them, a dissonant cacophony of too many emotions to name. Kyojuro doesn’t know if those are his emotions or Akaza’s.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Kyojuro says. “I admit that I was afraid to even though I should have! But after hearing what Hisae told me… I don’t want to repeat the same mistakes. I don’t want us to end like that.”

Akaza blinks quickly once, twice. Kyojuro has grown to know him so well, and yet he still cannot imagine what Akaza is about to say to him. He never can.

Finally, Akaza looks at Kyojuro again. “Kyojuro,” he begins.

The rest of his sentence is stolen from Kyojuro by the shifting of time and space. Akaza’s grasp on his wrist changes; rather than the warm water being wiped on Kyojuro’s frozen hands, there are fingers laced around his, pressed against the bedsheets. The weight of Akaza’s body pins him down.

“Kyojuro,” he says, smooth as silk, sweet as honey.

Kyojuro looks up at him. Under the low burn of the lamp, Akaza’s eyes are molten gold, the colour interrupted by strokes of Kibutsuji’s damning curse. He unweaves one of their hands so he can brush the pad of his thumb over Kyojuro’s jaw. “What is it?”

“It’s…” Kyojuro shakes his head. His memories feel foggy like there was something important he had forgotten. “It’s nothing.”

Akaza raises his eyebrows, skeptical. Something so simple shouldn’t feel so endearing, but it does anyway.

Kyojuro laughs. He pulls Akaza closer with his free hand. “It’s fine,” he promises against Akaza’s lips.

“Alright,” Akaza says, and he kisses Kyojuro properly this time. Akaza’s fangs nick into flesh and the kiss turns metallic and messy and yet nothing has felt more right. Kyojuro doesn’t know what that says about him.

A little while later, when Kyojuro is lying on his side and Akaza trying his best to untangle the covers, the words slip out. His inhibitions feel frightfully low. Kyojuro wants to think that everything they’ve shared means that Akaza wouldn’t hate the truth as much as Kyojuro initially feared he would. That at the very least, he wouldn’t hate Kyojuro for it.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he says.

Akaza gives up on the covers and looks at Kyojuro instead. “What is it, Kyojuro?”

“I have felt my soulmate’s emotions through my soul thread for years,” Kyojuro says.

The curiosity in Akaza’s expression dissipates into an attempt at impassivity, but the burn of anger is all too clear behind it. “You really want to talk about your soulmate now, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks, the edge in his voice mocking.

Kyojuro soldiers on and ignores the sting of those words. “All I ever felt was anger and sorrow,” he says. “For years after I turned fifteen. I could never find them either, no matter how I tried or where I looked!”

“Congratulations,” Akaza says darkly. “Is that what you want me to say? Do I thank you, Kyojuro, for allowing me to be some kind of convenient placeholder for them?” He makes a move to get up, so Kyojuro catches his wrist.

“That day the demon poisoned me,” Kyojuro says. “It was raining. You brought me to a wisteria house.”

“What does—”

“You were so angry.” The words refuse to come out as anything other than a whisper. “It poisoned me, and you were furious. I know because I felt all of it.”

Slowly, Akaza sits back against the futon. His eyes are wide. “What do you mean you felt all of it, Kyojuro.”

“There is no placeholder,” Kyojuro says. “There is no one else. It’s always just been you.”

Akaza only stares at him. Shock is the only palpable emotion on his face that Kyojuro can read.

Finally, Akaza opens his mouth. Kyojuro can almost hear the words he will say. It begins with the shape of his name on Akaza’s lips, as familiar as the very first time Akaza had spoken it.

He doesn’t hear the rest. Instead, his surroundings are swept away like the tide. When Kyojuro gathers his bearings again, he is standing in the cherry blossom grove again.

(Again…?)

In front of him, Akaza offers his open palm, a single petal out of ten thousand resting between inked fingers. “Don’t tell me then, Kyojuro,” he says.

Kyojuro looks at him. His heart is a treacherous thing, impatient and greedy. Just as foolish in hope as it had been back when his mother had first told him about his soulmate. So he reaches out and takes the petal from Akaza’s hands, consequences be damned.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says.

When the day comes and goes, Akaza knows he can’t delay it any longer. He sets out as the sun dips beneath the horizon.

Is Kyojuro wondering where he is? Had he been waiting for Akaza to catch up to him in Nagoya? He has seen Kyojuro every night for the past two months—ever since winter turned into spring. Does he find this interruption from routine strange?

Akaza has an innate sense of where Lower Moon One is, so he follows the general direction. He’ll see the fighting spirits when he gets close enough. At some point, Akaza finds himself following a set of train tracks southwest. Lower Moon One must be on the train.

It’s only when he gets closer that he realizes that it’s not Lower Moon One’s presence that burns the strongest.

Shocked, Akaza slows his steps, his mind momentarily blank from anything except the surprise. What is Kyojuro doing here? They are a good twenty miles from Nagoya, and the train is heading out of Kyojuro’s patrol region.

Nagoya… which is northeast. And he had been following the tracks southwest. The train had come from Nagoya. Kyojuro’s mission—was the demon he had been sent to kill Lower Moon One this whole time?

Akaza lets out a laugh, incredulous. If he doesn’t, he feels as though he might really fall apart. He’d spent the past day overturning different scenarios in his head, trying to figure out how he was supposed to obey Muzan-sama without breaking the fragile promise he and Kyojuro had built their relationship on, only to find that this is far worse than the worst case scenario he had pictured.

He can’t disobey Muzan-sama. He doesn’t want this to end. It all comes down between obeying and wanting, which is funny because Akaza has always obeyed orders and never gotten to keep what he’s wanted. But this time—this time, Akaza doesn’t know if he can accept any compromise. Not when it comes to Kyojuro.

There’s only so long he can avoid facing it. Swallowing the lump lodged in his throat, Akaza catches up with the train.

The heavy lull of Lower Moon One’s Blood Art has settled over the entire train in a suffocating miasma. In the third compartment Akaza can sense Kyojuro’s fighting spirit, brilliant against the rest of the passengers. It’s more muted than usual: he must be asleep. So Enmu had gotten to Kyojuro as well.

The thought of Lower Moon One using his Blood Art on Kyojuro ignites a sharp burn of fury in his veins. It’s dishonest at best, but this sort of cheap trickery is weak and deceptive down to the root. Gritting his teeth, Akaza begins making his way through the train cars. The seats are filled with unconscious people. He spots an old man holding what is probably his granddaughter, leaning against the window. She can’t be more than five or six.

Had Enmu planned to eat all of these people?

It doesn’t matter, Akaza thinks. As long as Kyojuro is safe, then what happens to the rest of the passengers means little to him. Although Kyojuro would be upset if people were hurt.

Akaza is two compartments away from Kyojuro when he hears scuffling on the floor. He looks down to see a hand scuttling at his feet, a deformed mouth stretching across the back. On it’s fingers, the kanji for dream is written three times.

“Akaza-dono,” Lower Moon One greets in that sickly sweet tone. “I’m so delighted to have you visit me!”

Akaza doesn’t bother fighting down his disgust. “I’m not here for you,” he snaps. One more compartment away.

“I am honoured nonetheless,” comes the response. The mouth on the hand stretches in a too-wide smile. “Did He send you here to aid me? I have everything under control, you see. Everyone has received their sweet dream already. Isn’t it merciful? To die while living your deepest desire?”

“If Muzan-sama believed you had everything under control, He wouldn’t have sent me,” Akaza says. “I have no interest in your tricks either.” He tugs open the last door. He spots Kyojuro immediately a couple of seats away. There is a stack of wooden boxes to his right, and to his left…

Akaza freezes. A set of hanafuda earrings dangle from the ears of the boy sitting right next to Kyojuro.

Kamado Tanjiro.

Enmu is saying something. His words are nothing more than a nonsensical cadence as Akaza closes the distance so he can stand in front of Kyojuro and Tanjiro.

His fighting spirit is nothing special, nothing brilliant. Especially compared to Kyojuro’s, this boy can’t be anywhere near as strong. Typical of any slayer, really. So why—?

The world suddenly feels suffocating around Akaza. Killing Tanjiro… it would be so easy. He could reach over and snap his neck in less than a second’s time. It would be painless and quick. Merciful, even. The order sears in Akaza’s veins. It takes all his willpower to remain still.

Kyojuro would hate him for it. Wouldn’t he?

Akaza takes a shaky breath. He tears his eyes away from the hanafuda earrings and looks at Kyojuro instead. Enmu had called it a sweet dream, but there is a small furrow between Kyojuro’s brows as though he’s upset.

“This one is a Hashira, Akaza-dono,” Enmu says. The hand hops onto Kyojuro’s seat, inches away from him. “Turns out he was just as easy as the rest to put to sleep. I can shatter his core easily now.”

The surroundings shutter back into focus. “What?” Akaza asks.

“Ah,” Enmu giggles. “They’ll be here soon. All that needs to be done is for someone to enter his dream, find his spiritual core, and break it. Then he will be as good as dead.”

“No,” Akaza snaps.

“No?” Enmu echoes.

With some last-ditch attempt to grasp at his rapidly crumbling composure, Akaza manages, “Do what you want with the others. I will deal with the Hashira. You’re not going to kill him with your cheap tricks.”

The hand lowers into the mimicry of a bow. “Of course, Akaza-dono,” Enmu croons. “Do with him what you desire.” He hops off his bench and scuttles towards another compartment.

Akaza kneels down in front of Kyojuro. His lashes flutter as he dreams. Something in Akaza aches so horribly that he wants to reach inside his chest and claw it out. This forced vulnerability is so wrong; everything is wrong. Kyojuro is typically a light enough sleeper than he should’ve been awoken by all the commotion, yet he remains unmoving and seemingly shut out from his surroundings despite the danger that Enmu poses.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says, barely above a whisper. He half-expects Kyojuro to open his eyes, a little hazy with sleep, and smile at him. There is no response.

Carefully, Akaza reaches up to brush his thumb over Kyojuro’s cheekbone. A mistake, he realized belatedly—the moment he makes contact with Kyojuro’s skin, his surroundings melt from view, and Akaza is falling, falling, falling.

Space and reality seem to shift around him. The wood and metal exterior of the train cart is washed away to nothingness, spitting him out into a setting much more familiar.

The ground is covered by a carpet of cherry blossom petals, some fresh and others beginning to wither and turn brown. Akaza is sprawled unceremoniously on top. Slowly, he pushes himself into an upright position, brushing off the petals that cling to his arms and clothes.

The moon gleams down with only the stars for company. Branches of cherry blossom trees stretch, ever-reaching, to the sky.

“Don’t tell me then, Kyojuro.”

Akaza turns around at the sound of his own voice, surprised. Any rising panic at being dragged into Kyojuro’s dream is snuffed down as he finds the source.

A bit further off, he sees himself standing in front of Kyojuro, wearing a yukata with the obi Kyojuro had tied for him. The faintest of breeze sends flowers scattering from the branches, and he offers a single one out of a thousand to Kyojuro in an outstretched palm.

Akaza frowns. He remembers this. This is just a memory. Enmu had talked about giving everyone a sweet dream, so this must be Kyojuro’s dream, except Akaza doesn’t understand why he’s being pulled to a memory and not a desire. Any other time he probably would’ve been pleased by the implications of Kyojuro’s dream being about him when he could have dreamed of anything, anyone else—but right now, his surroundings are so overwhelming and wrong that Akaza can’t fully focus on any one thing.

Something feels off, and it takes him a moment to realize that he cannot see Kyojuro’s fighting spirit in his dreamscape. Akaza swallows his discomfort and steps forward quietly, never daring to look away. He is keenly aware that the intruder here, the wrong piece within Kyojuro’s dream. Neither Kyojuro nor the version of Akaza in his memory seems to have noticed him just yet.

It’s jarring to see this unfold from a bystander’s point of view. Akaza hadn’t realized how close he was standing to Kyojuro when it happened, but now, watching from a couple of paces off, he realizes that they are so, so close, just shy of touching. And when Kyojuro takes the petal from Akaza’s palms, his gaze is inconceivably soft, indescribably fond. It makes sense at the same time it feels like an impossibility. Akaza has known from the start that Kyojuro is burdened by all his sentiment and care, but to think that Akaza could be the reason for that…

He should scorn this weakness in Kyojuro. He would have, half a year ago. But now Akaza is greedy for more. He wants to take and keep all of Kyojuro that he can, even his weaknesses. To know that this weakness is for Akaza.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro says. “I…”

“Don’t tell me, Kyojuro,” he interrupts. “Or else it won’t come true. You said it yourself.”

Kyojuro hesitates. His fingers curl around the petal, lowering to his side, and then he says, “It’s about something else!”

Akaza blinks, surprised. This isn’t how it went. Kyojuro had agreed not to tell him, and they’d walked back to the town.

So if this isn’t a memory, then what is it?

“Okay, Kyojuro,” his dreamself says.

Kyojuro shifts his weight. There is an uncharacteristic nervousness to him. He usually gets straight to the point.

“The day I met you,” Kyojuro says, “During the fireworks, I felt my soulmate’s emotions through the soul thread. I have been, ever since I was fifteen. Just glimpses of someone’s anger and grief.”

Akaza barely stops himself from stepping forward. Kyojuro has never been incredibly keen to talk about soulmates with Akaza, and Akaza had assumed it was because Kyojuro wanted to keep his far away from Akaza as possible. So why now? And why in this dream—the one that Enmu had called his deepest desire?

There is a small but persistent whisper in the back of his mind, one that he has put off for months. An impossible doubt. Something Akaza has refused to think about, much less entertain. He’d rather be blindsided than made a fool of by hope.

“So what, Kyojuro?” Akaza replies. He’s dropped his hands to his side as well, a mocking edge to his tone that hides the underlying wariness. “Why are you bringing this up right now?”

Kyojuro shuts his eyes briefly; inhales. Exhales; opens his eyes. “I’ve always wondered who it was,” he says, the admission soft. “In the beginning, I didn’t question why you were there that night. I thought you’d come to the festival to feed because of the crowds. But you were there to watch the fireworks, weren’t you? You told me so.”

The world feels suffocating around Akaza. He cannot breathe. His vision tunnels around the determined set of Kyojuro’s features; his ears ring with each syllable of Kyojuro’s careful words.

Impossible. Because demons have ruined soul threads, because they were bound by blood to no one but Muzan, because, because, because. Because the one Rengoku Kyojuro waits for, the one he has waited for, is not Akaza.

This is a dream. This is a lie.

But Kyojuro is not a liar. Is he?

“What do you mean, Kyojuro,” his dreamself asks.

“It’s you, Akaza,” Kyojuro says, and Akaza aches so fiercely and so wretchedly at the way Kyojuro says his name. “All along, it’s been you.”

Something snaps inside his chest, an accumulation of everything that has happened. His body doesn’t feel like his own, his mind is fragmented and scrambled. All of a sudden, Akaza can’t keep allowing this conversation to continue.

“You’re lying, Kyojuro,” is the only thing he manages as he closes the distance between him and Kyojuro.

Kyojuro’s gaze travels over to Akaza. Confusion crosses his features. “Akaza?”

Akaza looks at the imposter, this fraud, standing in front of Kyojuro. He’s nothing more than some figment of Kyojuro’s dream, wearing the yukata Kyojuro gifted him and the obi that Kyojuro tied. This is the one who Kyojuro’s confession is meant for. Why—because Kyojuro would have never told the real Akaza the truth? Was Akaza kinder and better in Kyojuro’s dream—in his deepest desire? Was this Akaza easier to accept, easier to love?

Blood and bone splatter as he sinks his fist into the body of his dreamself. There is no resistance, no fighting back. Instead, the other version of Akaza crumbles into dust quickly, softly, until only he and Kyojuro are left in the clearing.

Kyojuro’s eyes are wide. “I don’t understand,” he says. “How are you…”

The cherry blossom trees rustle; the wind sings. The world feels like it’s falling apart around Akaza. Everything he has known was nothing but a thin layer of glass below his feet, and now it’s cracked under him and he doesn’t think he can place certainty in anything anymore.

It’s you, Akaza.

“This is a fucking dream, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. He reaches forward, hands still stained crimson with his own blood and grabs the collar of Kyojuro’s uniform. It leaves a stain over the white of his inner shirt. “None of this is real. None of this—” His voice is shaking. He tries to steady it. “You never told me. That wasn’t me.”

Clarity crosses Kyojuro’s face, his eyes clearing from the hazy confusion. They sharpen on Akaza’s face as if seeing him for the very first time, and Akaza hears Kyojuro draw a short breath.

“I was on the train,” Kyojuro says slowly, his gaze flickering around to the cherry blossom trees that still line their surroundings. “This is a Blood Art.”

Akaza releases his collar, suddenly afraid to touch Kyojuro. He feels vulnerable and exposed in a way he never has before. As though his skin and bones have been stripped bare and open, and all his soft, breakable insides are right there for anybody to see and ruin. “Lower Moon One,” he says. “Everyone on the train was put into a dream.”

Kyojuro frowns. “You—”

“I entered your dream,” Akaza interrupts. All of his previous concerns have been pushed away from the forefront of his mind. He can barely remember what he was sent here to do in the first place. Not with Kyojuro standing in front of him, the heavy weight of his confession suffocating the air in front of them. Akaza laughs. It feels like he will fall apart if he doesn’t. “Or as Enmu put it, your deepest desire.”

“You’re really here?” Kyojuro asks.

“Do you wish I wasn’t?” Akaza shoots back. The pressure in his chest keeps growing and growing. His hands shake, so he balls them into fists. “Did I overhear something I wasn’t supposed to know, Kyojuro?” When Kyojuro doesn’t reply immediately, he presses, “Tell me you’re lying.”

Kyojuro looks stricken. Akaza has never seen him so visibly upset. He takes a step forward. Akaza’s voice comes out more desperate this time. “Tell me you’re lying, Kyojuro.”

“I’m not,” Kyojuro says quietly. His throat bobs when he swallows. “None of what you heard was a lie.”

Something a little like a hysterical laugh escapes Akaza. This is all so insane. So impossible.

All those times they had talked about Kyojuro’s soulmate; all those times Akaza had disdained the thought of Kyojuro belonging to someone else; all those times he’d scorned that nameless somebody who made Kyojuro look so sad and whom Kyojuro spoke of with so much undeserved affection.

All this time—it was him all along? How was that even possible?

“Akaza,” Kyojuro says, and Akaza despises the soft way Kyojuro says his name, as if they aren’t enemies. It would be easier if Kyojuro went back to saying his name like a curse. He reaches towards Akaza, the tips of his fingers skimming Akaza’s arm. “I’m—”

Akaza steps away. “Don’t say it,” he snarls. Kyojuro’s hand drops to his side. “When did—when did you find out?”

There it is again, the hesitation. Kyojuro’s eyes flicker away for a second.

Guilt. Does Akaza know because it’s obvious in Kyojuro’s expression, or is it because he can feel that same emotion in his own chest, his own ruined soul thread stretched taut to imitate the same thing that Kyojuro is experiencing? Ah, he remembers now. Early on, Kyojuro had talked about how demons’ soul threads were broken and unwhole. He had been full of detestable pity, as if humans with their fleeting lives and worldly sorrows were any better than Akaza.

The irony is so goddamn funny. Because here they are.

“When I was poisoned,” Kyojuro says at last, “before you brought me back to the wisteria house. You were so furious when it happened and I felt the exact same thing through my soul thread. It just all suddenly made sense in that moment.”

That had been the beginning of winter, and now spring is pushing summer. “You’d known all this time,” Akaza says. The force of the realization is crippling.

Each bit of kindness Kyojuro has offered him between that time: every smile, every spar together, every conversation under the warm lamplight of a small inn room. Every touch and shared kiss and whispered, pretty promise. Akaza had clung onto each one because he had thought they meant that Kyojuro chose Akaza. That Kyojuro wanted him for who he was, despite the blood on his hands, despite the fact that they were never, never, meant to last.

And now, was any of that real? Kyojuro must have hated to find out who his soulmate really was after all those years of waiting and hoping.

Stay, Kyojuro had said to him, and Akaza had kept those words close, believing that it was Kyojuro’s choice to ask him in spite of every impossibility. In the end, the truth is that Kyojuro had no choice in the first place. He is another piece of Kyojuro’s life that Kyojuro must resign himself to accept even if it is the last thing Kyojuro wants. Like how Kyojuro gives and gives love to his shell of a father in spite of his callousness, did he do the same for Akaza? Burdened with this awful, monstrous task that only Kyojuro could carry without complaint.

“Is that why you kept me close?” Akaza demands. Each word burns his mouth like a branding of red-hot nichirin steel. He doesn’t know what is true or untrue anymore. “Is that why you offered your blood? Sparred with me? Why you let me fuck you?” He knows he’s being cruel, but for a split second, Akaza wants to know that he can hurt Kyojuro too, that at the very least, he still has that kind of power over Kyojuro. “God, Kyojuro, is this the only reason you asked me to stay?”

His words have the desired effect: a flash of hurt crosses Kyojuro’s face, followed by a sharp, reverberating ache in Akaza’s chest.

He wants to laugh. He wants to scream. How had he been so blind? It’s so obvious now, Akaza doesn’t understand how he hadn’t known.

“I don’t just care for you because you’re my soulmate!” Kyojuro says finally, but his voice lacks its usual steadfast quality. There is a plea in his tone, which is so unlike him. Kyojuro never begs. “Akaza, I know I should have told you sooner, but I was—”

“Did you hate it?” Akaza interrupts. He is afraid he will give in if he lets Kyojuro continue. “Did you resent me? All those fairytale stories your mother told you, and yet you ended up with me.” He laughs. “How fucking awful.”

Kyojuro stills. “Is that what you really think I feel?”

“Then what, Kyojuro?” he asks. “Would you have wanted me if it weren’t for this?”

“I don’t know what would have happened!” Kyojuro replies. “But I know that the soul bond doesn’t make what I feel any less real.”

When Akaza doesn’t respond, Kyojuro takes a small step closer, then another.

“Akaza,” he says carefully, gently, and despite the turmoil tearing apart Akaza’s chest, that tone of voice still makes his heart skip a beat. “I know you had the same right to know as I did and I am truly sorry for keeping it from you.”

Just the briefest touch of Kyojuro’s fingers bleeds warmth into Akaza’s skin. It is a poisonous temptation to waver and surrender to Kyojuro. To take his apology and believe him.

Love is weakness. Wasn’t it, really. Akaza is sick of being weak but he is so goddamn helpless against it. Kyojuro has always made him feel stripped down to the very core, and now, the only way he can even the odds is to hope to hurt Kyojuro in the same way.

“Did you tell the Corps who your soulmate was?” Akaza asks. “Your master? The other Hashira? Kamado Tanjiro? Did everyone know except me?”

Kyojuro frowns. “I didn’t—Kamado-kun? How do you know him?”

“I was sent to kill him, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, smiling in the way he knows Kyojuro hates. “I’m not here for you. I’m here to ensure that by the time the sun rises, Kamado Tanjiro is dead.”

Alarm seeps into Kyojuro’s expression. “Did you kill him?”

“Not yet.” He sneers. “But Enmu might have, after all this time we’ve already wasted in your dream.”

Kyojuro looks conflicted. “I need to wake up.”

“Of course.” Akaza meets Kyojuro’s gaze and tries to pretend he doesn’t feel his resolve crumbling. As if, even now, there isn’t some stupid, insane bloom of hope in his chest, one that is glad for all of this nevertheless—to know that Kyojuro belongs to him in a way that he belongs to no one else. “It’s always duty first for you, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro closes his eyes for a brief moment as if trying to reorient himself. “We can talk after the mission, Akaza,” he says. “I will tell you everything you wish to know. I promise.”

Akaza tips his head back and laughs again. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel anymore. “Isn’t it a little too late for that, Kyojuro?”

“Let me fix this,” Kyojuro replies, his voice no more than a whisper. Like the way he speaks when it is just the two of them, close enough to catch promises made in-between breaths. “Please.”

“Why?” Akaza asks. He needs Kyojuro to say it, but at the same time he is scared of hearing the thing he wants the most.

“I do not want us to be like Hisae and her husband,” Kyojuro says. “I want to do better.”

“What if he was right to kill her?”

“Then I will be wrong,” Kyojuro says.

The anger subsides, and there it is again: the low, burning embers of defeat. Akaza has always prided himself in winning his fights, in being strong, but it feels like he has already lost a war he didn’t even know he was fighting in the first place. Because Kyojuro has always made him weak, right from the moment he stopped his first killing blow.

And even now, Kyojuro is so good. Akaza doesn’t even think he can blame Kyojuro. Kyojuro is right—it’s clear that he does care for Akaza despite the fact that Akaza had never deserved it. Kyojuro had taken each harsh word, each scoff and mockery without a single complaint, while Akaza is still trying to hurt him further.

He will drown Kyojuro too, with these centuries of bloodshed and violence. Tear him apart until Kyojuro has nothing left to give.

Hisae’s husband had been lucky to die so quickly and easily. Hisae had been more merciful than Akaza ever was. Perhaps they both knew that it would never work, so they had sought to end it while it was still simple.

“You have to die in your dream, Kyojuro,” Akaza says at last. “In order to wake up.”

Kyojuro looks confused for a second before realization dawns on him. “Okay,” he says, voice still soft, eyes fixed on Akaza. An offer; purposeful vulnerability. Akaza knows what he’s waiting for.

They’re already standing close enough that Akaza can reach out his arm and close his fingers around Kyojuro’s throat. He does so. It is so easy to kill him like this: Akaza could crush his neck with just the tightening of his fist.

This is a coarse mimicry of two nights ago when Kyojuro had bared his exposed throat for Akaza to feed from. Now, Akaza feels the delicate mapping of arteries and veins under Kyojuro’s neck and his heartbeat pulsing at his carotid. It remains steady and unfrightened when Kyojuro should be scared. Terrified.

Akaza tightens his fingers around Kyojuro’s throat, digging into skin, and finds that he cannot do it.

Killing is as easy as breathing, and yet for some godforsaken reason Akaza can’t even kill Kyojuro in this dream. Not even when it has to be done.

His hands are shaking, vision tunnelled on Kyojuro. The breaking point is the look in his eyes, trained on Akaza and waiting without flinching.

“Fuck,” Akaza laughs, releasing Kyojuro’s neck and taking a stumbling step back. There are prints of red around his throat. “I can’t—why can’t I fucking do it.”

Kyojuro catches him around the bend of his elbows immediately. “Akaza,” he begins, sounding worried.

“Just go, Kyojuro,” Akaza snaps, pulling away. “Before it’s too late to save them.”

Kyojuro hesitates, and Akaza’s heart, always so treacherous in its desire, desperately hopes that it means something.

At last, Kyojuro draws his sword from the sheathe. “I’ll tell you everything afterwards,” he promises. “And I’m sorry, Akaza.”

When it comes to his own death, he does not hesitate. Instead, Kyojuro holds his sword to his neck and cuts his own throat with clean precision, leaving a thin line of scarlet that pools down.

He is gone faster than Akaza can blink.

The dreamscape changes around him. The cherry blossom trees are all barren, every petal having fallen to the ground and beginning to rot away. And then it is no longer flowers that carpet the ground but blood, viscous and inescapable.

Akaza fights for breath in a losing battle. How ironic, he thinks, that being around Kyojuro had always quieted his mind—and yet now it feels like his consciousness has been torn to pieces of fractured glass. Above it all, one thing rings clearer than the rest.

Soulmate.

He wishes he could hate it. Maybe that would be easier. But still, there is a terrible need to be wanted. Still, his heart clings onto the very thing he should scorn.

Akaza bends down, folding his body over his knees. The air smells metallic like Kyojuro’s blood. He shuts his eyes.

A horrible, revolting thing it is, to be weak. An abhorrent, helpless thing it is, to love.

Chapter Text

The world ends in red and restarts again in dark, washed brown.

Kyojuro starts forward, pulled violently from his dream, out of breath and his vision tunnelling. For a moment, nothing registers except the feeling of his blade cutting through his neck. It had felt unnervingly real.

But when he looks down, his sword is at his side, there is no blood on his neck, and he’s no longer face-to-face with Akaza’s stricken, angry expression as he says, Just go, Kyojuro. Instead, Akaza sits on his knees just next to Kyojuro, his upper body sprawled unceremoniously atop the wooden seat and Kyojuro’s thighs.

Kyojuro takes in his surroundings. Tanjiro is asleep right next to him, but there is a new addition to their row: a boy no older than fourteen or fifteen sits next to Tanjiro with a rope linking both their wrists. On the seats diagonally across from theirs, Tanjiro’s two friends are also unconscious—each with two respective children next to them, ropes connecting wrists. The rest of the interspersed passengers in the cart are all asleep.

The wood and metal walls of the train are slowly being replaced by another substance on the far end of the car—a fleshy, bubbly substance that spreads like a disease.

Kyojuro takes a deep breath in, only to find that Total Concentration Breathing does very little to calm his heart which jackrabbits violently in his ribcage. He has always been good at putting aside personal feelings in the face of his duty, but right now all he can think about is that Akaza knows, and Kyojuro is afraid that he’s ruined something past repair by keeping the truth from Akaza after all this time. It wasn’t as though he believed he could’ve kept the secret forever, but Kyojuro had foolishly assumed he’d have some semblance of control on just how he ended up telling Akaza.

That aside, he can’t shake off the memory of the deep hurt that had torn through their soul threads. Although Akaza had lashed out in anger, beneath that, Kyojuro had felt his hurt with more clarity than any other emotion.

And god, it felt so, so awful. Kyojuro has spent years of his life nursing Akaza’s anger and grief and hoping he could help him one day. Yet here he is, becoming the cause for more. He doesn’t even know where to begin to fix it. His mother has told him much about soulmates, but this is one thing she has never prepared him for.

Carefully, he reaches down to try to ease Akaza into a more comfortable position. This, too, is jarring. Kyojuro knows what Akaza looks like when he’s vulnerable and open, but demons don’t need to sleep, so he’s never seen Akaza unconscious. It hits him again just how young Akaza looks. Although he’s been alive for around two centuries, he couldn’t have been any older than Kyojuro is right now when Kibutsuji turned him.

He’s just about to move Akaza onto the seat across from them when Akaza opens his eyes. It’s like life is breathed back into him in an instant: the slackness of his limbs disappears immediately, the emotionless expression shifting into a mixture of panic and confusion. He all but shoves Kyojuro’s hand away from him and scrambles to his feet.

“Akaza!” Kyojuro says, trying to find something reassuring to say and not knowing if Akaza wants to hear anything at all from him. “It’s alright!”

Akaza looks at him with wide, wild eyes. His gaze flickers around before it settles on Kyojuro once more.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro starts again, his mouth feeling uncomfortably dry.

“Don’t you have a mission to complete, Kyojuro?” Akaza interrupts shortly. He looks towards Tanjiro’s unconscious form. “As do I.”

Kyojuro takes half a step in front of Tanjiro. “I can’t let you kill him!”

“Will you stop me?” Akaza asks, a snarl in his voice. Unfettered anger flashes across his face. “Will you kill me if I try?”

“No!” Kyojuro exclaims. “But—”

Before either of them can say anything else, the opening to Tanjiro’s wooden box swings open. Momentarily distracted, Kyojuro watches as Tanjiro’s little sister climbs out of the box and begins to grow to her full size in front of the two of them.

“What the fuck?” Akaza says, sounding as though he has forgotten he is supposed to be angry. “There was a demon in there?”

Nezuko blinks at him with large pink eyes. Then she apparently deems them not worth her attention and turns around to face her brother instead.

“You didn’t know?” Kyojuro asks. “But you should’ve been able to sense her fighting spirit!”

“I’m not…” Akaza looks lost. “I sensed her, but not as a demon. I can’t feel the connection.”

Nezuko prods at Tanjiro with a finger and makes a confused noise.

“That is Kamado Tanjiro’s sister!” Kyojuro decides to introduce. “Her name is Kamado Nezuko.”

“She’s a demon,” Akaza repeats. “Isn’t he supposed to be a slayer?”

“He is!”

“His sister is a demon.”

“She has never eaten anyone!” Kyojuro supplies, but it doesn’t make Akaza look less lost.

The momentary confusion dissipates as Akaza shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowed. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I have my orders, Kyojuro.”

Nezuko interrupts the conversation yet again by promptly setting her brother on fire.

This time properly alarmed, Kyojuro looks to see Tanjiro enveloped in pink flames. He doesn’t appear to be burning or in pain—rather, a second later, he snaps awake with a gasp. The rope that had connected him to the other boy has been burned to ash, who slumps the other way lifelessly.

Tanjiro nearly pitches into Nezuko. She catches her brother easily, eyes crinkling into an obvious smile despite the bamboo muzzle over her mouth.

“Nezuko!” Tanjiro says. “Did you wake me?”

Nezuko nods cheerfully.

Kyojuro can just about feel Akaza’s rekindled confusion through the soul thread.

“Rengoku-san,” Tanjiro says, looking at Kyojuro now. His eyes shift to behind him, sharpening with wariness. “That’s—that’s Upper Moon Three.”

“Correct!” Kyojuro confirms.

Tanjiro wraps a hand around Nezuko so he can shift his sister behind him. “Okay. Um, Akaza-san? Can I call you Akaza-san?”

Akaza lets out a noise that’s halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “So you really did tell him about me, Kyojuro?”

“Rengoku-san said you wouldn’t hurt us,” Tanjiro says carefully.

“Ah.” Akaza takes a small step closer so that he’s just behind Kyojuro. “Did your Rengoku-san also tell you I was sent here specifically to kill you?”

Tanjiro’s eyes widen. “You’re here to kill me?”

“Are you deaf? Or just stupid?”

“Okay!” Kyojuro interrupts loudly. “Let’s not discuss killing each other right now. Kamado-kun, would you be able to get your sister to wake up your friends? We must stop Lower Moon One before it is too late and he harms any of the passengers here.” He points at the flesh-like substance that’s still spreading over the train walls. “I will ensure all the passengers are safe within the carts. Once you have awoken your friends, please scout out where the demon’s main body is so it can be decapitated!”

Tanjiro is still staring at Akaza warily, but he nods. “Okay!”

“And me, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks. He’s standing in front of the exit of the seats and doesn’t budge when Tanjiro tries to make his way around them. He ends up climbing over a seat to bypass Akaza. “What will you have me do, since you’re assigning everyone jobs?”

Kyojuro looks at Akaza. He’s clearly trying to be difficult, but covered up behind the scathing tone is uncertainty. Kyojuro suddenly remembers the previous night when he had been paralyzed for a few terrifying seconds by Akaza’s fear. He had so optimistically thought that perhaps he’d be able to comfort him when they saw each other again, except now it seems like he’s actively made things worse.

“You don’t need to do anything!” he says.

“I can’t do anything,” Akaza says darkly. “Because you clearly won’t let me kill Kamado Tanjiro.”

Tanjiro turns at the sound of his name, looks once at Akaza, and decides to look away.

“I can’t,” Kyojuro agrees.

Akaza exhales and finally shifts his eyes away from Kyojuro’s. When he speaks again, there is exhaustion in his voice, a resignation that feels far worse than his anger. “I know, Kyojuro,” he says. “You were clear what you would choose since the beginning.”

Kyojuro opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, the train jolts violently around them. Out of the fleshy substance that coats the walls grows thick tentacles, which immediately snake towards the nearest passenger.

He’s put this mission off for far too long. Kyojuro can’t wait any longer in case anyone does get hurt or killed. Lives are not something he can compromise with, no matter who it is for.

“We’ll talk afterwards,” he tells Akaza. “I promise.”

Akaza doesn’t reply, only continues to evaluate Kyojuro with dark eyes. A thousand more words bubble to the tip of Kyojuro’s tongue, but he neither has time nor does he know the right thing to say.

Filling his lungs with air, he draws his sword out of its sheath and turns away from Akaza.

Lower Moon One proves to be a bothersome demon, but it still dies like the rest.

Tanjiro and his friends seem to have found the demon’s neckbone at some point. Kyojuro keeps the danger in the train carts at bay, destroying any tentacles that attempt to reach for the humans. It doesn’t take too long before he feels the train shake around him, the flesh around the walls bubbling and melting away.

The man closest to him wakes up, pitching forward and out of his seat from the tremor that wracks the entire train. All around him, passengers begin to rouse.

The timing is less than preferable, because it’s a second later that the cart veers to the side. Far off, there’s the faint sound of an explosion. A woman near him screams as she tumbles towards the glass window, although Kyojuro catches her around the arm before she can fall out of the train completely.

With another violent shake, the train tips off the track, still hurtling forward at a too-fast speed. Kyojuro prepares himself for a Flame Breathing form to lessen the impact.

Metal wood collides with the ground, sending a cloud of dust billowing all around them. People are screaming, glass shatters loudly, and Kyojuro hears more than he sees parts of the train breaking.

It takes a while for the dust to settle. Most of the lights inside the train have been broken from the collision, but a few flicker weakly, creating just enough illumination for Kyojuro to see. There’s rubble buried around the woman to his right, so Kyojuro pushes the wooden planks off her and helps her to her feet. She’s sobbing quietly, but seems to be able to stand on her own. He points her towards an opening, which she hobbles towards.

The trainwreck is extensive, there is a hint of blood in the air, but from what Kyojuro can tell around him, no one is too severely hurt.

One by one, he helps the passengers of the train cart get up, escorting them to the exit. When everyone has been evacuated from that cart, he steps out to survey the damage.

Much of the Mugen Train is ruined beyond compare, tipped to the side and entirely derailed from the track. Smoke spurts out weakly from the engine, where nearby, he spots the telltale green of Tanjiro’s haori. His friend with the boar mask is by him, shouting something unintelligible before he heads towards the trainwreck.

Kyojuro finds himself looking for Akaza among the wreckage, although he knows there is very little point—out of everyone, Akaza would have been the least harmed.

The kakushi will arrive soon. Kyojuro makes his way to Tanjiro, who is lying face-up on the ground. When Kyojuro gets closer, he sees that Tanjiro is heaving for breath. He spots the source a second later: something has pierced through his uniform, and blood darkens the side of his uniform.

“Concentrate on your breathing, Kamado-kun!” Kyojuro exclaims, leaning over the boy. It doesn’t seem life-threatening, but he does appear to be in a lot of pain.

“I—” Tanjiro gasps around the word, his face scrunching. “I don’t—”

“Focus on where you are wounded,” Kyojuro continues. “Concentrate your effort there! Stop the bleeding.”

Tanjiro continues to fight for breath for a few seconds more, but eventually, the blood stops spreading and his body relaxes.

“Good!” Kyojuro says. “Keep your movements to the minimum, Kamado-kun. The kakushi will arrive soon, and they will dress your wounds! You did well!”

“Or maybe he’ll bleed out,” Akaza says from behind him. “Which would be incredibly convenient.”

Kyojuro isn’t even sure why he feels relieved that Akaza’s there, but he does anyway. Standing just an arm’s reach away from Kyojuro, he regards Tanjiro with an expression of unmasked dislike on his face.

He’s become accustomed to Akaza’s casual touches these days when he speaks to Kyojuro. It could be as simple as the brush of his knuckles over Kyojuro’s arm to draw his attention, or a light hand on his waist to inform Kyojuro of his coming and going. Akaza doesn’t reach out now, even though he’s close enough to.

“I need to make sure all the passengers are removed from the train and those injured are treated!” Kyojuro tells Akaza. “We can talk after that!”

Akaza meets his gaze. His eyes are flat. “You have your orders, I have mine, Kyojuro,” he says. “I’m not going to wait around for you to wrap this up. I need to report to Him.”

Kibutsuji. Kyojuro stiffens. He had had his speculations last night—if Akaza came on orders to kill Tanjiro, then it was likely he had come directly from Kibutsuji. To return emptyhanded…

Oyakata-sama understands human limitations, and he trusts all his slayers to do everything in their power to carry out their duty. He wasn’t the sort to punish failure. But Kibutsuji was no merciful master, and Akaza hadn’t even tried to raise a hand against Tanjiro despite being commanded to kill him.

“Will you be alright?” Kyojuro asks, worried.

“Does it matter to you, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks, a sharp edge in his voice.

Kyojuro frowns. “Of course it does!”

“There is nothing you can do, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. His shoulders are set in a tense slope when he turns on his heel. “So don’t bother wasting your worry.”

“I will wait for you at Nagoya!” Kyojuro tells him.

Akaza doesn’t reply. His fingers are curled into fists at his side, and Kyojuro has a sinking feeling that the repercussions for this night will be far worse than he can imagine.

Soon, Akaza has been swallowed up by the dark of sky and stars. Kyojuro can’t shake off the memory of his eyes, dull with anger and hurt. Does it matter to you, Kyojuro?

He doesn’t know if he even has the right to feel upset that Akaza had asked him that question.

There are still people trapped inside the train; Kyojuro needs to work on extracting them before more compartments begin to collapse from the damage. Still, his thoughts circle back to Akaza persistently, too stubborn to let go even though it’ll do neither of them any good if Kyojuro keeps on focusing on what he can’t change and what has already happened.

Summer nights, winter mornings. Kyojuro has carried Akaza’s anger and sorrow with him for so long, wondered about its source, and wished he could help. But it’s a new sort of hurt that settles as a yawning ache in his chest now, and he is half-afraid that everything he does or says to Akaza will only make it burrow deeper.

Kyojuro takes a slow, deep breath, steeling his spine. There is never not a solution. Something can always be done, and he refuses to leave whatever fragile thing he has shattered broken on the ground. Besides, he has grown to understand Akaza well throughout these months. If Akaza truly wanted nothing to do with Kyojuro, if he hated Kyojuro, then he wouldn’t have stayed longer. He wouldn’t have spared Tanjiro. He’s angry and hurt, but he has left enough middleground for Kyojuro to reconcile.

For now, though, there are seven more train compartments of people he needs to help—so Kyojuro will take it one step at a time.

Akaza stands in front of the manor for the second time in two days, knowing he is doing nothing but delaying the inevitable.

Travelling here from the trainwreck had been a blur. Too many things have happened, and part of Akaza’s mind feels as though he can’t fully keep up with it, so he doesn’t. Everything swirls in a dissonant storm outside a glass wall: the consequences of disobeying Muzan, Kamado Tanjiro’s fucking demon sister, and Kyojuro, Kyojuro, Kyojuro. Or perhaps the thoughts of Kyojuro are the only ones that don’t feel distant like everything else.

How many times have they spoken about soulmates and soul threads? Akaza remembers the beginning weeks when Kyojuro had told him with so much conviction that demons had broken soul threads—that it was something to be pitied.

Kyojuro had rarely mentioned it again after the night he’d been poisoned. Now Akaza pieces together why.

Back in Enmu’s dream, Akaza hadn’t given him a chance to answer all the questions or accusations he’d thrown at Kyojuro. He needed to know the answers at the same time he was afraid to. They come back tenfold now: Who else knew? Was any of this real? Do you hate me?

He must be pathetic. There are so many worse things for him to consider, and yet his mind futilely tries to piece together how Kyojuro must have felt when he first found out. His years of hoping and of waiting were all to waste. Kyojuro isn’t one for resentment, but he must have resented Akaza then, and perhaps even now. For every cruel word Akaza had thrown at him, he wonders if that resentment had only grown.

It’s an easier alternative than the thought of Kyojuro accepting this—accepting Akaza—with his inexplicable steadfastness. As though he is another misfortune Kyojuro has to simply soldier through, like his father’s decline, his mother’s death, and the heavy weight of his duty. If Kyojuro hated him, at least that would be a choice he made on his own.

And yet the thought of it is glacial cold and so awful that Akaza can barely breathe. He wants Kyojuro to despise him at the same time he is so afraid of it being the truth.

One of the lights of the manor is snuffed out. The only window with light now is the room that Muzan-sama is in.

Any longer will be too long. Akaza makes another futile attempt to bar his thoughts from Kyojuro before he pulls himself over the wall, crosses the garden, and enters the room through the balcony. I will wait for you at Nagoya, Kyojuro said. Akaza idly wonders if he’ll even be alive before the sun rises, or if he has failed so horribly that Muzan-sama would rather tear him apart for good.

He feels Muzan-sama’s anger even without seeing him. Still, Akaza lowers himself into a kneel, eyes fixed on the wooden floor in front of him. They are perfectly waxed and polished. Pristine.

“Muzan-sama,” he greets.

The heels of Muzan’s shoes click cleanly against the floor as he crosses the room. A book hangs from his fingertips. This form is entirely unassuming: a child that is no more than eight or nine, barely coming up to Akaza’s shoulders.

“Lower Moon One is dead,” Muzan-sama says conversationally, “and you have come back empty-handed when I gave you clear and simple orders. Do you care to explain, Akaza?”

Akaza traces the patterns on the floorboard nearest to his hands. “I apologize,” he says tonelessly. “There was—” He can feel the tremor in his breath when it escapes and he tries to steady himself. “—a complication.”

“A complication,” Muzan-sama echoes. He stops in front of Akaza. “Of what sort?”

Muzan-sama saves him from giving a response he doesn’t have when the first wave of pain hits.

It feels like being unmade and stitched together at the same time—perhaps, in a way, that’s what it was: each cell in his body being ruptured and then forced back together, over and over and over again.

Drip. The polished wooden floors are no longer pristine. Blood wells past his lips and splatters to the ground.

Akaza’s entire body trembles with effort to hold himself upright. It hurts, more than anything has ever hurt, but pain is just pain.

His mind barely registers the claws digging into his face, piercing skin and flesh and even bone. “Kamado Tanjiro could barely handle Lower Moon Five,” Muzan-sama hisses. His anger is no longer hidden behind the mild pretense. Something snaps, and Akaza belatedly realizes that it might be his neck. “So what was so difficult for you, Akaza, to kill a single slayer? Surely you aren’t so out of practice?”

(Will you be alright? Kyojuro had asked him before they parted, and Akaza finds the question a little funny now.)

Ruby eyes meet his, narrowed into slits. A second later his vision bursts with red as sharp claws slash over his eyes. “Is it that Hashira?”

Any previous numbness melts away when Akaza feels Muzan-sama sifting through his memories. It makes the previous pain feel like nothing when his mind is the thing being torn apart, piece by piece and thought by thought. Nothing Akaza has is his own, not even his innermost thoughts. Every word he’s exchanged with Kyojuro, every moment between just the two of them—flayed bare for Muzan to dig his claws into. He swallows down a mouthful of panic and blood.

“You disobeyed my orders because a Hashira asked you to?” Muzan-sama presses. He releases Akaza and Akaza finds that his body can no longer hold him up. All he can sense and smell is blood. The floorboards are slick with it. “You stood idly by as Lower Moon One failed, and you just left?”

Muzan-sama had already killed all of the Lower Moons, so maybe he will do the same to Akaza. Destroy him so utterly that not even his blood remains stained on these wooden floors.

“Kill him,” Muzan-sama says darkly.

“Kill…” Each word brings a stabbing pain to his throat. He’s not healing properly. “Kamado Tanjiro?”

“You’ve already proven that you aren’t capable of that,” Muzan says mockingly. “Kill the Hashira.”

Kyojuro. Muzan-sama was telling him to kill Kyojuro? Akaza hears the words but they don’t quite register.

“Do you hear me, Akaza?” Muzan-sama asks. “Or have you gotten so good at disobeying orders that you’re going to ignore me as I’m speaking to you?”

The world comes back into focus as Akaza’s eyes heal. There is still red all around. He hadn’t realized just how much he had bled.

Kill the Hashira.

(Kyojuro’s sword sings towards his neck. Akaza’s fist meets his chest, and he hears bones crack underneath. So delicate and fragile. He knows how to kill Kyojuro. It would be easy.)

((He is eleven years old, helpless, bleeding and not healing just like right now. A body hangs from the weak beams that support the roof. He is eighteen and nothing has changed. Just more bodies to bury. Just more lives to take. He is nothing if not a fool, for repeating the same mistakes over and over again and never learning. Nothing ever changes.))

“I can’t,” he blurts around blood and terror.

The weight of Muzan-sama’s anger is suffocating. It’s neatly concealed again being a thin layer of faux-calmness, but it does nothing to hide his displeasure.

“You can’t,” Muzan-sama echoes. “Why?”

“He’s—” Muzan-sama must already know if he had sifted through Akaza’s memories, and Akaza is begging for mercy from someone who is a stranger to both grace and pity. Still, desperation clouds any reason or logic, panic blinding better judgment. “My soulmate. He’s my soulmate. I found out through Lower Moon One’s Blood Art.”

“Hm.” Muzan walks around Akaza, his gaze piercing. “Tell me, Akaza, why am I supposed to care?”

Akaza’s head spins. Of course it isn’t a sufficient excuse. Muzan-sama’s command binds deep into his bones, kill him, kill him, kill him—but if there’s one thing Akaza knows with certain clarity, it is that he can’t. He can’t and he won’t. Anything but that. He can accept Kyojuro’s hatred, Kyojuro can point his sword to his neck, just…

He’s found something he wants to keep above everything else, and Akaza doesn’t want to lose it. He doesn’t think he can.

Speaking feels like knives cutting into his throat, but Akaza manages to rasp out, “I’ll find the blue spider lily. I’ll kill Kamado Tanjiro. If you just—” He lowers his eyes. “If you won’t ask me to kill the Hashira, Muzan-sama.”

Silence spans on, each passing second feeling like half an eternity. Akaza almost expects Muzan-sama to kill him on the spot for speaking back.

Finally, in a low voice, he asks, “Is that a threat, Akaza?”

“No,” Akaza says, not daring to breathe. “I will not fail you again.”

“You won’t,” Muzan-sama agrees. “Stand up.”

Akaza isn’t sure how he manages. His entire body screams in protest, none of the previous damage having been healed properly. Still, he manages to pull himself to his feet, keeping his eyes lowered to the bloodied floorboards.

Slowly, leisurely, Muzan-sama sinks his claws into the left side of Akaza’s chest. The pain is strangely amplified—Akaza has been stabbed, cut, and sliced in half before, and nothing has ever quite hurt like this. He grits his teeth. Flesh and muscle tears wetly, blood pouring out of the open wound that doesn’t heal.

“You seem to be a little confused,” Muzan-sama says. Akaza can feel his fingers inside his chest cavity, probing around bones before meeting up against the beating of his heart. “There is no if I grant something, then you do something for me. That’s not how this works, Akaza.”

His entire body trembles from the effort of holding himself upright. Muzan’s fingers close around his heart. A decorative organ. A demon doesn’t need a heart to survive, but his beats all the same.

“I will spare him this one time,” Muzan-sama continues in the same low voice. “Not for anything you will or will not do, but because I am far more lenient than your disobedience deserves.”

Akaza shudders. “Thank you, Muzan-sama.”

“Know this.” The claws dig in deeper, squeeze tighter. “Fail me, disobey me one more time, and I will have your Hashira’s life.” The pressure seems to accelerate. The entire room is red, and every single part of Akaza is stretched taut like a bowstring waiting to snap. “I will carve out each organ, break each bone, and heal him enough to do it all over again. And when he’s finally begging to just die, I will have you kill him. Slowly, intimately, in all the ways you know he will hate.”

Something finally breaks. It takes Akaza a few seconds to realize that Muzan-sama has torn his heart out of his chest cavity, snapping his ribs along the way and severing veins and arteries. Blood wells up in his throat and fills his mouth.

Muzan-sama discards his still-beating heart onto the floor, leaving a gaping hole in his chest. He smiles, indulgent, as he wraps his bloody fingers around Akaza’s chin and turns his head back and forth as if to inspect his face.

“This isn’t a threat, Akaza,” he says softly, his voice gentle, “but a promise. You were always quite fond of those, weren’t you?”

Petrified, Akaza stands very still. He can barely feel the pain anymore. It is all a numb buzz in the background. He swears he hears his heartbeat in his ears, even though there is nothing but an empty patchwork of torn arteries and broken bones where his heart used to be.

There is a sharp sting to the back of his knees and he finds himself kneeling in his blood a second later, fingers splayed on the floor.

“You are dismissed,” Muzan-sama says. “Find the blue spider lily for me, Akaza. Don’t forget who you belong to. There won’t be a second chance.”

Akaza bows his head, trying to stave off the growing panic.

It takes all of his effort to stand up again. The ripped tissue around his chest isn’t healing, and there is blood all over Akaza. He is dizzy and weak and everything is balanced right on the edge of a precipice, ready to tumble over at any given second.

Akaza doesn’t remember leaving the manor, descending from the balcony, crossing the garden, or going over the walls. He finds himself a little ways away, and it’s then that his body finally gives out on him.

For some time, he kneels on the soft grass under a canopy of lush trees. The wind sings quietly, and it smells like the start of summer. Kyojuro must be excited about it. He’s always welcomed the seasons. Kyojuro…

Kyojuro is fine—for now. As long as Akaza obeys his orders, as long as he finds the blue spider lily, Kyojuro will be alright.

He feels sick, too exhausted to even laugh at the absurdity of it all. The damn flower has evaded them for two hundred years; Akaza isn’t even sure if it was real.

Akaza knows he shouldn’t return to Kyojuro, not like this. His body is a mess. He’s regenerating at a snail’s pace, almost as if Muzan-sama had done something to make sure the healing is as slow as possible. But some seed of fear has sprouted in his mind and he is so, so afraid that he’ll return to Nagoya minutes too late only to find Kyojuro gone. The irrational terror overrides anything else.

(Two cold bodies. A poisoned well. He is too late, again and again and fucking again.)

Painstakingly, Akaza pushes himself to his feet again. The grass beneath him is dark with his blood. It hurts to breathe, much less walk. Still, he does, with one step at a time, if only so he won’t be too late again.

Cleanup of the Mugen Train speeds up when the kakushi finally arrive at the scene, although by then, there are only two carts of people that Kyojuro is helping out of the wreckage. There have been no fatalities, even though multiple passengers have been injured in the collision.

Tanjiro is taken to the side to be treated. The boy with yellow hair seems to have fractured a bone in his arm, so he sits at the side wailing as a kakushi looks over him. Kyojuro sends Kaname to bring in another team.

It’s past midnight when all arrangements have been made and things are being wrapped up. No trace of Lower Moon One remains; even the spinal cord that had merged with the engine of the train has dissipated into nothing. Kyojuro discusses with the kakushi the rest of their plans before one of them suggests, “Leave it to us, Rengoku-san.”

Kyojuro glances around at the broken wood and metal, the smoking remnants of the train. “There is still cleanup to be done!”

“We are equipped to handle the rest,” she says. “You should rest. There’s a town not far from here with a wisteria house. It’s where my unit was stationed.”

“Thank you!” Kyojuro says, then hesitates. “But I must head back to Nagoya.”

She looks surprised. “It’s a good twenty miles from here.”

“That’s alright!” Kyojuro says. “Thank you for all your hard work!”

Tanjiro and his friends have already been carried off—to the Butterfly Estate, he overhears. The injured passengers have been taken away depending on the severity, and the rest are being led to the nearby village to recuperate. The kakushi is right that everything has been taken care of.

All there’s left to do is head back and wait for Akaza.

The journey back is silent; too silent. Kyojuro has long since become accustomed to travelling large distances on his own, except Akaza has been a constant by his side all these past months. Now, his mind returns obsessively to the conversation they had in Lower Moon One’s dream in light of the newfound silence.

Kyojuro should know better than to focus on all the things that aren’t helpful. He’s always been good at putting aside personal feelings for the bigger picture, except when it comes to Akaza, he can barely help the emotion that clouds any better judgment. Worry settles as a pervasive thrum inside his veins.

He reaches Nagoya a little while later, returning to the same inn he had stayed at the previous night. While he waits, he might as well write his debrief for Oyakata-sama.

Kyojuro has sat down, pen and paper ready, when he feels the dull tug of pain through his soul thread.

For a moment, it’s just that. A faint ache. And then it rises like the high tide: suffocating, directionless terror. Kyojuro has known all sorts of fear, but this is…

He can’t breathe. Can’t move. Kyojuro has long trained himself out of freezing during missions, but this is something different altogether.

Unlike the previous night, the connection between their soul threads doesn’t snap abruptly. Rather, after an eternity, it ebbs into something a little more manageable, but no less awful. The fear curdles in his gut until it saps all logic and reason from his mind.

Kyojuro hunches over his knees, his heart pounding against the confines of his ribcage. He draws in the deepest breaths he can manage and even then, it doesn’t feel like nearly enough.

He couldn’t have let Akaza kill Tanjiro, but now Kyojuro is afraid of what sort of punishment Kibutsuji would inflict on him for disobedience. He will be hurt, he probably has been hurt, and Kyojuro can’t do a single thing about it except wait here, praying that Akaza will return to him before the sun rises.

It’s familiar, this helplessness. This uselessness. It feels like childhood again, when Kyojuro had watched his mother grow sicker and sicker and no one could do a single thing to treat her. It feels like being fifteen years old, curled up on lonely summer nights wanting to help the person on the other side of the desolate anger, and not knowing who it is. Wondering, over and over, if he will ever know.

There is a large splotch of ink on the paper where Kyojuro had dropped his pen. He sets it aside and realizes that his hands are trembling.

The flame in the lamp dims and dies, so Kyojuro relights it carefully. He watches the light flicker. Matches his breath to it.

The shadows shrink and grow. The world sleeps on around him. Still, Kyojuro waits.

It is nearing dawn when he senses Akaza’s demonic presence, entirely unveiled, outside the inn.

He is so relieved that it almost hurts. Pushing himself to his feet, Kyojuro hurries out of the inn room and down the stairs, his throat feeling uncomfortably tight.

Akaza is standing a little ways from the main entrance, underneath the shadows of an overhanging sign so that he is all shadows. But Kyojuro has grown to know the smallest details about Akaza, and he sees an atypical tenseness in the way Akaza holds himself, as if he is in pain. Or—not as if.

“Akaza!” he calls, closing the distance between them.

Yellow eyes meet Kyojuro’s, his gaze uncharacteristically vacant. Akaza doesn’t seem angry anymore, except Kyojuro is no longer certain that is a good thing.

“Are you alright?” he asks, then breaks off mid-sentence.

Demon blood doesn’t smell the same as human blood, and Kyojuro is used to Akaza’s quick healing and how blood dissipates from cuts and wounds for him. Except there is an ugly opening on the left side of Akaza’s chest where dark red still oozes slowly, dripping from the wound, down the planes of his abdomen, and staining his white pants. Kyojuro can almost see the inner workings of bone and muscle. There is blood over Akaza’s hands as well, smeared over his chin and cheeks.

Horrified, Kyojuro reaches for his arm to pull him closer. “What happened to you, Akaza?” he asks.

Akaza blinks. He glances down as if seeing it all for the first time. “I’ve mostly healed,” he says at last, his voice scratchy.

He usually heals within seconds. The wound over his heart shows no sign of closing. “How long has it been?”

“I don’t know,” Akaza says. He looks exhausted, Kyojuro realizes. He has never seen Akaza remotely tired.

For a few, long seconds, Kyojuro doesn’t know what to do or say. All he knows is that Kibutsuji had hurt him and the only thing Kyojuro had been able to do was wait and wait and wait. He has always fought to protect others, but when it comes to Akaza, Kyojuro feels as if he has only made things worse.

Kyojuro grits his teeth. This sort of thinking is useless and not what Akaza needs right now. Wallowing in his own helplessness when he wasn’t even the one who was hurt is the sort of thing he promised himself he wouldn’t ever do.

“There’s an onsen close by and it should be empty at this time of night,” he says. “Let’s wash the blood off first! Wait here, I will get some new clothes for you.”

Akaza doesn’t reply, so Kyojuro hurries to retrieve a clean yukata for Akaza. When he comes back, Akaza is still waiting in the same spot, although it seems the wound has closed a bit more.

“It’s a three-minute walk,” Kyojuro tells him. He doesn’t say the rest, knowing Akaza probably wouldn’t like to hear it, but Akaza catches on anyway.

“I came all the way here, didn’t I, Kyojuro?” he says. “I can walk for another three minutes.”

“Okay!” Kyojuro says. “Then let’s go!”

They don’t talk on the way to the onsen. Akaza doesn’t seem keen to speak, and Kyojuro doesn’t want to rush him into a conversation he isn’t up to having at the moment.

One step at a time, he reminds himself. He needs to focus on what he can do and not what he couldn’t. Then he can tackle the larger problems afterwards.

Thankfully, the onsen is empty when they arrive—clearly, no one is up for taking a bath at this godforsaken hour. Akaza follows him silently inside.

It’s a natural onsen, the water slow but flowing. Kyojuro sets down the bundle of clothing and moves over to test the heat. It’s a comfortable temperature.

To his relief, the wound over Akaza’s heart has closed enough that what’s left is a gash over flesh, and it seems to have stopped bleeding as profusely as it did in the beginning. The blood hasn’t dissipated like it usually does, though, so they’ll have to wash it off.

Kyojuro turns him around so he can pull Akaza’s haori off of him, and Akaza lets him without complaint. The front of it is all darkened, sticky underneath his fingertips. Akaza’s entire body is wired tense. This is when he would typically make some sort of smart comment or tell Kyojuro he’s fine on his own. But he remains silent. Kyojuro doesn’t know if it’s because he trusts Kyojuro or if Akaza is simply too exhausted to do it himself. Either way, this sort of forced vulnerability is so unlike Akaza.

He sets Akaza’s haori aside. Demon blood will disintegrate under the sun, if nothing else will get the color out.

“Did everyone survive, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks him as Kyojuro works on undoing the rope around his hips.

“Yes!” Kyojuro says. “The cleanup took some time and multiple passengers have sustained injuries, but they all survived.”

Akaza doesn’t reply to that. He just stands still and lets Kyojuro undress him, his expression painfully vacant. Kyojuro tries not to be upset at it. The last thing he wants is for his own negative emotions to bleed through the soul thread and make Akaza feel worse.

He checks the temperature of the water again before directing Akaza to step inside the onsen. He follows Kyojuro’s instructions, sinking until he’s submerged up to his chest. The water around him turns a transparent pink before the current slowly carries the blood off.

Kyojuro rolls his sleeves up and kneels at the side of the onsen, right next to Akaza. The water ebbs and rises rhythmically from any splashes made, so soon enough, his pants are soaked at the knees. Akaza notices.

“You’re getting your clothes wet, Kyojuro,” he points out.

“That’s okay!” Kyojuro says. “I have a change of clothing back at the inn.”

He cleans the blood from Akaza’s face until the washcloth is streaked with red; from the side of his neck; from his chest, where finally, the wound has fully closed. Then they sit there quietly for a while longer.

Kyojuro wonders if the onsen feels as nice to Akaza as it does to humans. He enjoys long soaks to ease sore muscles after missions, but demons’ bodies differ from humans in more than just a few ways. If they don’t feel cold, do they enjoy the warmth?

Akaza traces the faint rise and fall of the water’s surface with a finger, his gaze absentminded. It’s only when he sees the sky brightening outside that Kyojuro suggests, “Let’s head back to the inn before the sun rises!”

Akaza nods. Kyojuro retrieves the clean yukata and helps Akaza slip his arms through the sleeves before picking up Akaza’s bloody haori and pants. Akaza has tied his obi messily—and wrongly, Kyojuro thinks with a touch of helpless affection.

They walk side by side back to the inn. Akaza looks a little better now that the injury has healed and blood has been washed clean from his features, but that deep, empty exhaustion hasn’t abated much. Kyojuro recalls that all-encompassing fear he’d felt, and his heart aches so awfully trying to picture what had happened to Akaza.

Sunrise is just around the corner when they return to the inn, so some guests are already waking. Kyojuro can hear low chatter threading through from behind some of the doors.

When they return to their room, Kyojuro sets Akaza’s bloodied clothing down and makes sure the curtains are properly covered so that no sun will sneak in. As it is, their window faces the west, so no direct sunlight should touch the room before late afternoon.

Akaza stands in the middle of the room, unmoving, his gaze lingering on Kyojuro.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro starts. There is too much he wants to say that he ends up not knowing what to say at all. At the very least, he owes Akaza an apology: for lying to him, for hurting him, for everything he should’ve done and didn’t do. But does Akaza even want to talk about that right now? After everything Kibutsuji had put him through, Kyojuro isn’t sure if bringing up their soulmate situation is any better than throwing salt in open wounds.

“Kyojuro.” It’s muted and quiet, but it’s something.

Careful, as not to irritate any unmapped injuries, Kyojuro reaches out and pulls Akaza into a hug.

Akaza doesn’t push him away or protest. He stands stiffly for a moment as if he hadn’t expected it before slowly, mercifully, relaxing against Kyojuro. A few seconds pass before he tentatively wraps his arms around Kyojuro as well, burying his face in Kyojuro’s shoulder.

The thought occurs to Kyojuro a little belatedly that he’s never actually hugged Akaza before. They’ve shared a bed countless times, and yet there has always been an invisible line drawn between affection and desire. One was easier to admit to than the other, except they’re far past that point now after everything that has happened.

“Did Kibutsuji do this to you?” Kyojuro finally asks.

He feels Akaza’s fingers tighten around the back of his haori which seems to be an answer enough.

“He’s displeased,” Akaza says at last, his voice muffled in the fabric of Kyojuro’s uniform. “But He let me off easy, considering how much I failed Him.”

Kyojuro grits his teeth, willing his anger far enough away that it won’t pollute onto Akaza. “So he tortured you because you didn’t kill Kamado Tanjiro.”

“It was nothing I couldn’t heal, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. He loosens his grasp around Kyojuro’s haori and takes a step back. “You haven’t slept all night.”

Kyojuro frowns. “I shouldn’t be the one you’re worried about right now! And besides, I promised you we would talk afterwards.”

“Ah.” Akaza sits down on the futon, so Kyojuro follows his movements and settles across from him so that their knees are just short of touching. “You did.”

“If you’re up to it right now, that is!” Kyojuro adds.

“There’s no point in pushing it back, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “Is there?”

Kyojuro wonders what Akaza thinks he will say. If Akaza truly believed that Kyojuro hated him, that all of this—everything he’s done with Akaza, all the time they’ve spent together—was a matter he didn’t have a choice in. As if he wasn’t making a choice right now, and had made his choices every step of the way in spite of the consequences that he was all-too-clear about.

“I didn’t tell the Corps about it,” Kyojuro says finally. “Not Oyakata-sama, or the other Hashira or Kamado-kun. Oyakata-sama and Kocho are aware that you are Upper Moon Three and I have always included you in my reports, but I never told anyone you were my soulmate.”

“Why?” Akaza asks, his voice still quiet. He’s lost the anger that was present in Kyojuro’s dreamscape. “It would’ve been useful information.”

“I didn’t want to treat it as useful information!” Kyojuro replies. “That’s not what it was, and it’s not what it is! I still will not tell the Corps if you do not want me to.”

Akaza makes a small noise, and it takes Kyojuro a second to realize he’d laughed. “So I guess you lied to everyone, then.”

Kyojuro swallows. “I truly am sorry, Akaza,” he says. “You had the right to know as much as I did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Akaza asks. There are no accusations this time, just a simple question.

“In the beginning, I thought it was the best course of action as a slayer, although I suppose I was deceiving myself back then too because I never ended up telling the Corps either!” Kyojuro says. “But… I think it just came down to me being afraid. You spoke about soulmates like it was something you always despised, and part of me was scared that you would hate me too if you found out the truth. I know I was wrong, I just…” Kyojuro takes a deep breath. “I’m not blaming you or excusing what I did. I know I am at fault.”

For the first time tonight, the tired impassivity on Akaza’s expression seems to lift a bit. His eyes rove over Kyojuro’s face as if searching for additional answers before he shakes his head. “It’s not your fault, Kyojuro,” he says at last. “It’s not like I made it easy for you. You wanted to meet your soulmate for so long only for you to find out it’s a demon. I don’t—I don’t blame you for not telling me. And when I finally found out, all I did was accuse you of all the things I already deserved.” He smiles at Kyojuro. “So I understand if you hated me. If you hate me.”

Why are you so determined to think the worst of yourself? Kyojuro wants to ask. He’d almost rather Akaza blame him than this resignation: I understand if you hate me.

He looks at Akaza and sees the unsaid words behind it all. But I don’t want you to hate me.

Kyojuro holds his open palm between the two of them. After a moment of hesitation, Akaza lays his hand against Kyojuro’s. His skin is soft like a child’s, free of the calluses that line Kyojuro’s. Kyojuro brushes his thumb over Akaza’s fingers, stained with dark blue ink. Hands he has grown to know so well in violence, but also intimacy and affection.

“I don’t hate you, Akaza,” he says. “I didn’t hate you when I found out you were my soulmate either.”

“You said you wouldn’t lie to me.”

He’s pressing for an answer rather than accusing. Kyojuro offers Akaza a smile and has a feeling that it doesn’t come out as reassuring as he wants it to. “I’m not! I suppose I hated you in the very beginning when we first fought and I found out you were Upper Moon Three. Because you’d hurt people, and you were the enemy I had sworn to kill.”

Akaza is silent, waiting. Kyojuro continues on. “I felt your emotions for the first time when I was fifteen,” Kyojuro says. The words your emotions feel strange on his tongue, to finally be able to admit it outwardly. “I was training. And all of a sudden I felt so angry! Like I really wanted to hurt someone.”

Lifting a wry eyebrow, Akaza says, “I’m sure that was quite a shock.”

“It was!” Kyojuro says. “But I was afraid too, and I wondered what could’ve happened to you to make you feel that way. The next time I felt your emotions, it was during a summer night. I remember because I had taken Senjuro to watch the fireworks just a few hours before. And it was just…”

Endless, blinding grief. Kyojuro can recall it perfectly, how he’d lay curled on his futon and feeling a sadness greater than he had ever known.

“I know you do not remember your human memories, Akaza,” Kyojuro says. “But I know that you grieve something from that time, whether or not you’d like to admit it. Because I have felt your sorrow and your anger for years.”

Akaza stares at him with wide eyes. “How do you grieve something you don’t remember?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Kyojuro says honestly. “But I know you did. And when I found out you were my soulmate, I also found out you were the one all of those emotions belonged to. It helped me understand you better.”

“That’s why you acted so strangely when you woke up from the poison,” Akaza says. “I thought it was because of the people the demon had kidnapped. But it was because of me, wasn’t it?”

“If you put it that way!” Kyojuro curls his fingers around Akaza’s hand, and Akaza lets Kyojuro pull his arm closer. “I do admit that I was upset and shocked in the beginning. It is quite a big revelation to handle!”

“You’re understating again, Kyojuro.”

With a touch of relief, Kyojuro thinks that he sounds a little more like his usual self now. He smiles at Akaza again, and this time, it’s a little easier. “All these years of feeling your emotions and I always imagined the day I finally found my soulmate,” Kyojuro tells him. “I wondered how I could help. To make them hurt less. To make it better. That’s why, after I found out, I agreed to spar with you more and asked you to stay with me longer. Not because I felt obligated to, but because I wanted to be able to do all the things I couldn’t do for you before, and this was the only way I could think of. I wanted to find room for compromise where I could, but it wasn’t easy.”

Akaza’s eyes slip shut. The soul thread is charged between them, thrumming with a constant undercurrent of emotion. There is relief, disbelief, and doubt, all mixed together into a messy cacophony.

“I have cared about my soulmate long before I knew who they were,” Kyojuro says. “But I also grew to care for you before I found out you were my soulmate.”

Opening his eyes, Akaza looks at Kyojuro. He appears almost stricken at that confession.

“And I am sorry, for what it is worth,” Kyojuro adds. “You have every right to be angry or upset. I don’t want to take that away from you, Akaza.”

“I’m not upset at you.” Akaza shifts from cross-legged to kneeling until he is so, so close to Kyojuro. After these past days of worrying and wondering, Kyojuro feels thankful for this moment nonetheless despite everything: to know Akaza is fine, to have him within reach, to know that they still have time. That they can work through this mess. “Not really. I just…” He hesitates. “I just wanted it to be your choice, Kyojuro. Wanting me. Not an obligation you have to fulfill because you have no other options.”

“I did make my choice!” Kyojuro says. “Just because I found out you were my soulmate doesn’t mean every decision I made afterwards was because I didn’t have any other option. I chose to spar with you. To allow you to travel with me. I chose you because I wanted to.”

Can you really choose to love him? Hisae had asked, and Kyojuro finds that the question he had once grappled to answer seems so simple now. He can’t imagine his soulmate being anyone other than Akaza. He feels right, like nothing ever has and nothing will ever again. Even the parts that didn’t in the beginning, and all the parts that still shouldn’t.

“Why are you so good to me, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll just hurt you. Over and over again. Don’t you know that by now?”

Kyojuro shifts his hands to Akaza’s shoulders so he can pull him closer again, and this time, Akaza doesn’t wait to relax against Kyojuro. “You really think too little of yourself, Akaza!”

“Or you think too highly of me,” Akaza murmurs into his skin, but he tucks his face into the crook of Kyojuro’s neck and doesn’t pull away.

They stay like that for a little while longer. Kyojuro feels the ins and outs of Akaza’s breaths, content just to let this moment linger. He’s not sure how long it is before Akaza lifts his head a little bit, his hair tickling Kyojuro’s cheek. “You should rest, Kyojuro. You haven’t slept the entire night. The sun’s almost up.”

“I did sleep on the train!” Kyojuro points out helpfully. He feels warmed by Akaza’s concern. “Thanks to Lower Moon One!”

He feels Akaza’s little huff of laughter against his neck. “That wasn’t sleeping.”

Kyojuro has a report to finish. He needs to head to his next destination where Kaname must be waiting to give him details of his next mission. There are so many things he needs to do, and yet…

Just for a little while longer, he can set it aside.

“I’ll stay,” Akaza adds softly.

“Alright,” Kyojuro says, something fond and warm settling in his chest, through his soul thread. “I’ll sleep for an hour or two, then!”

Akaza lets go of him so Kyojuro can lie down before he too slips under the covers. They’ve done this a dozen times over the past except today feels like the start of something new. No more of the careful, unspoken distance: instead, Akaza slips an arm around Kyojuro’s shoulders and does not move away.

“Kyojuro,” he says, all but a whisper.

“Yes?”

“Is Kamado Nezuko the reason you asked me if you could carry me around in a box?”

Kyojuro is so surprised by the question that he laughs. “Yes! Are you considering it now?”

“No,” Akaza says immediately. “I am not getting into a box.”

“Okay!” Kyojuro says. Akaza traces absentminded patterns over his back. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

Kyojuro counts the in and out of Akaza’s breathing. Hears each steady beat of his heart and feels the shared warmth of their bodies. He finds that Akaza is right: Kyojuro is tired, and it’s as though the exhaustion has all caught up to him at once. Rather funny, he thinks, how Akaza is so often right about things when it comes to Kyojuro, yet he gets everything all egregiously wrong at other times.

Like when he had said, I understand if you hate me with so much conviction, as if he truly believed it—and yet was silently asking for Kyojuro to prove differently. One of Akaza’s many contradictions, Kyojuro supposes: his unchanging tendency to believe the worst for himself while at the same time desperate to be proven wrong.

One of Akaza’s hands tangles absentmindedly into Kyojuro’s hair. He still wears Kyojuro’s hair ribbon around his wrist, so Kyojuro feels the ends of it tickle his face.

Outside, the sun rises, but inside, they’re safely cocooned in darkness. Kyojuro has waited for so long that he has never quite pictured what the end of waiting would be like. It is like this: quiet and easy. There is no complex puzzle to solve, just two pieces that fit together like they were made to be from the very start.

The last thing Kyojuro remembers before he drifts off is the faint hum of the soul thread between them. And he would endure it all again, this waiting, for right now.

Chapter Text

It is nearing midday, and Kyojuro is still asleep.

He must be tired. Unsurprising, given everything that has happened. Part of Akaza wants to think Kyojuro foolish for trusting Akaza so freely to let his guard down completely, but the other part of him no longer cares—he’s just relieved that Kyojuro trusts him. Even like this: curled up close, an arm wrapped snugly around Akaza’s waist, his breathing steadied and deep.

This is far from the first time they’ve shared a bed, but this is the first time they’ve been so close outside of sex. Akaza doesn’t know who established that distance first, him or Kyojuro, or if it was a product of both of their hesitation. It’s festered between them for the past few weeks, but today, everything feels different. It is different, in a way.

How terrifying, Akaza thinks idly, to hold something he wants so badly in his arms, all the while knowing he could have done nothing to earn this. Soulmate, his mind reminds him, over and over again as if repetition will breed familiarity. It doesn’t.

And because he has always been greedy and selfish for all the things he couldn’t have deserved, Akaza knows he won’t be able to let go of this. He has never gotten to keep what he’s wanted, but Kyojuro is Akaza’s in a way that he doesn’t belong to anyone else.

He threads his fingers absentmindedly through Kyojuro’s soft hair, spread messily on the pillow. Akaza has always accepted that he is good at fighting, at hurting, at killing. Yet Kyojuro is the first person who makes him think that perhaps he is made for something more.

The blankets rustle as Kyojuro shifts slightly, his fighting spirit brightening. The grasp around Akaza’s waist tightens slightly. “Akaza,” Kyojuro murmurs, his voice hoarse. He must have said Akaza’s name a thousand times by now, so Akaza doesn’t know why it still makes his heart stumble so violently.

“Yeah,” he whispers back.

Kyojuro moves away just enough so he can see Akaza’s face. His eyes are a bit hazy from sleep but they’re soft with affection.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks.

“Did you get enough sleep?” Akaza shoots back.

He feels Kyojuro’s body shake when he laughs. “I will make do!” he says. “Stop avoiding my question, Akaza!”

The effects of Muzan’s punishment seem to have worn off in the past few hours, given that Akaza’s body no longer feels like it’s on the verge of falling apart. The only problem is that the hunger he’d kept so carefully at bay is back like a prowling lion, barely restrained under his skin. Given the amount of damage he had to heal, it’s no wonder that he needs to feed.

There’s no point in bringing up extra things for Kyojuro to worry about, though. “I am,” Akaza says, and he means it. Mostly.

“That’s good!” Kyojuro says. He makes no move to get up or pull away. As if he wants to stay longer.

Not as if, Akaza corrects himself. Kyojuro does, if their conversation last night is any indication. He has to believe that—to trust that everything Kyojuro said to him was the truth. Doubt one thing and he will doubt the rest.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Kyojuro asks after a little while.

Akaza has to physically remind himself not to stiffen. He thinks Kyojuro notices, but he tries for nonchalance anyway. “About what, Kyojuro?”

“About Kibutsuji.” Kyojuro props himself up on his elbows so he’s peering down at Akaza from above. “I’ve never seen you heal so slow, Akaza.”

Akaza hadn’t quite allowed himself to focus on the consequences he’d set in motion from last night, but now that Kyojuro’s asking, he can no longer avoid it either.

He has never admitted weakness. He has never truly had weakness to admit. And yet everything Akaza has grown familiar with from the last two centuries is suddenly turned to dust by Kyojuro, who makes him weak in a way nothing, no one, has before.

Love is weakness, he had told Kyojuro, and perhaps he had been right all along. It is weakness, this is weakness, and still, Akaza doesn’t think he can live without it.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro prompts. He skims the tips of his fingers over Akaza’s cheeks. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to!”

“No, I…” He thinks of Kyojuro’s confession last night. His voice pressed low but still so sincere. I chose you because I wanted to. “It’s only fair.”

“That’s not what I’m concerned about!”

“I know, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. He swallows. “My master isn’t pleased with me after what happened with Kamado Tanjiro.”

Kyojuro nods. “You said he sent you to kill Kamado-kun?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Kyojuro asks. “I know that demons are supposed to kill the slayers they meet, but why target Kamado-kun? He has fine potential but he isn’t of high rank! Why would Kibutsuji specifically send you to do it?”

“It was Lower Moon One’s task and I was just a precaution in case Enmu failed. Which he did. And…” He remembers the surge of anger he had felt when he saw Tanjiro’s hanafuda earrings and Muzan-sama’s explicit command to bring him the earrings after he killed Tanjiro. “The earrings,” Akaza finally says. “He asked me to bring me the earrings after I killed the brat.”

“His name is Kamado Tanjiro!” Kyojuro tells him helpfully as if Akaza hadn’t mentioned it half a minute ago. “Don’t be rude!”

Akaza wrinkles his nose. “He’s nothing special,” he says. “I don’t understand why my master wanted him dead either. He didn’t tell me.”

Kyojuro considers that pensively before his eyes sharpen into focus again. “That is not important right now, we can figure it out later! What happened to you? Did Kibutsuji torture you?”

Torture hadn’t exactly been a word that came to mind when Akaza thought back. It had hurt, certainly, but he’d also endured similar things under Muzan-sama when his master’s mood was less than pleasant.

“I healed,” Akaza reassures Kyojuro, which does nothing to smooth the worry from between his brows. “Injuries aren’t the same for demons as it is for humans.”

“You still feel the same pain!” Kyojuro argues.

“It’s something you get used to,” Akaza replies. “It becomes a secondary thing over the centuries. I heard newborn demons still have the same pain tolerance as humans, but as time goes on, it becomes something you grow accustomed to. Why focus on the same pain when cutting off a limb of a demon is so different from cutting off a limb of a human?”

Kyojuro doesn’t argue with him. “Okay,” he relents softly. “Then let’s say that physical injuries weren’t the issue. You were still upset when you came back last night.”

Akaza hesitates. He isn’t particularly keen on giving Kyojuro a word-by-word recounting of what Muzan-sama threatened him with.

“He knows that we’re…” The word sticks to his mouth, too foreign, too novel, and still too incomprehensible to come out easy. It’s like dragging tender parts of skin over the sandpaper. “He knows we’re soulmates.”

“And he punished you for that?”

“Not exactly,” Akaza explains. “Yes, He was upset I disobeyed His orders for you, but He was lenient with me. It could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Did he threaten you?” Kyojuro asks, then adds, “With me?”

Claws around his still-beating heart, the cold smile on Muzan-sama’s face—so uncomfortably contrasting the child-like features of his newest disguise. He details Kyojuro’s death softly, intimately, as if it is something Akaza should bow down and thank him for.

“No,” Akaza says abruptly, shaking the unwelcome thoughts from his mind. He won’t fail. Not again. Not this time. “I just—I’ve been looking for something for my master for the past two centuries. A flower. If I can find it, I will have His favour, Kyojuro. I could protect you.”

Kyojuro blinks at him, eyes rounded. Then the corners of them crinkle as he smiles slightly at Akaza, the look so impossibly fond that Akaza can’t quite remember how he ever doubted Kyojuro. “I am happy you want to protect me, Akaza!” Kyojuro says. “But it is my duty to protect others as well. That is one thing I cannot compromise on.”

They have had a variation of this conversation a hundred times, and Akaza is accustomed to scoffing at it, accustomed to calling Kyojuro too idealistic and foolish. He used to tolerate Kyojuro’s unwavering conviction to his duty and his promises because he couldn’t do or say anything to change his mind. But since when has it become endearing? This is all a part of Kyojuro: his strength, his resilience, and the way he is so, so good that it makes Akaza ache.

“I know,” Akaza says. He reaches up to cup Kyojuro’s face. I could protect you. The words are a reminiscent echo of something else, something similar, something Akaza cannot quite remember.

Kyojuro turns his face slightly so he can brush his lips against the center of Akaza’s palm and press a soft kiss there. “I’m glad you found out,” he says quietly. “For what it’s worth now, I wanted to tell you. Many times.”

“I know,” Akaza repeats, and he finds that he truly believes Kyojuro. Enmu had called that dream his greatest desire, after all.

I’m glad I found out too, he almost says, but the words catch in the tangle of thorns in his throat. They’re still too vulnerable, too raw, to admit aloud. All of this is still novel to Akaza: he has scorned the idea of soulmates for so long that even now, he has to swallow down some age-old habit to scoff at it.

But here he is anyway, neck-deep in human sentiment that he has spent two centuries despising. Here he is, holding someone close and being held back as though he is something precious.

After a little while, a lot longer than how much Kyojuro spends in bed during their usual mornings, he finally sits up and pushes the covers off his body.

“I must go meet Kaname!” Kyojuro says, sounding a little regretful. “There’s a report I must finish regarding the mission with Lower Moon One as well.”

“It is pretty late,” Akaza says. “You should get going.”

“I will be in Inazawa in the evening!” Kyojuro says. “It’s just southwest—near the route of the Mugen Train.”

“Why?” Akaza asks, smiling at him. “Do you want me there, Kyojuro?”

“Perhaps!” Kyojuro replies, mirroring Akaza’s smile. “You’ll find out tonight!”

Akaza laughs. There are a thousand problems he should be thinking of right now, but for some reason, all he can focus on is how light he feels. How easy it is with Kyojuro. The world can burn for all Akaza cares—if he can just keep this.

“See you tonight, then,” Akaza says.

Kaname appears to be worried when Kyojuro sees him. Kyojuro assumes it’s for him until his crow caws, “WHERE AKAZA?”

Kyojuro does a double take. “Hello!” he greets. “Akaza is in Nagoya. He cannot travel until the sun goes down!”

“DEMON OKAY?” Kaname asks, tilting his head.

Surprised, Kyojuro nods. Akaza and Kaname aren’t nearly as antagonistic to each other as they were in the very beginning, but Akaza has taken to calling Kaname a pigeon in response to insults and Kaname has never had a single nice word to say about him. Kyojuro hadn’t expected his crow to actually be worried about Akaza.

“He is fine!” he reassures Kaname. “Don’t worry!”

Kaname puffs out his chest as if to say I wasn’t worried. He doesn’t say anything else, taking his usual perch on Kyojuro’s shoulder as Kyojuro fishes out a handful of sunflower seeds from his bag.

The rest of the day flies past. Kyojuro writes a detailed report to Oyakata-sama about just about everything that happened on the Mugen Train. He visits the injured passengers, all of whom had been transported to Inazawa the night prior. There are no life-threatening injuries, and those with smaller scrapes and bruises have already been discharged.

Kamado Tanjiro and his three friends are nowhere to be found. The kakushi in charge informs Kyojuro they’ve been sent to the Butterfly Estate.

Kaname leaves with Kyojuro’s report. He won’t have any missions until Kaname is back with more instructions, so Kyojuro starts his patrol around Inazawa after he finishes dinner and the sun begins to dip underneath the horizon.

It’s not long after he’s started down the route when Akaza catches up with him. He’s light and silent, so if it weren’t for his demonic aura, Kyojuro would’ve had trouble noticing his presence.

As it is, he falls in step easily with Kyojuro, a hand brushing casually over Kyojuro’s hip as if to announce his presence.

“Good evening, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, faintly teasing.

Kyojuro is happy Akaza sounds more like his usual self after what had happened the night prior. He looks over at Akaza, who is dressed in a yukata instead of his demon outfit. He has tied his obi even worse than normal, which is honestly quite a feat if Kyojuro thinks about it.

“Good evening, Akaza!” he echoes. “Did you know Kaname was worried about you?”

Akaza blinks, unbridled surprise flashing across his features. “Why?”

“I suppose he heard us talking!” Kyojuro says. “He asked about you when I gave him my mission report.”

Akaza’s eyes soften. “Stupid bird,” he says, halfway to affectionate.

Kyojuro doesn’t quite manage to bite back his laugh. They walk side by side in comfortable silence for a while longer.

Akaza is the one who speaks up first.

“You said Kamado Nezuko never ate anyone,” Akaza says. “How long has she been a demon?”

“Two years, from what I’ve heard!”

“Two years,” Akaza repeats, disbelief seeping into the corners of his voice. “Demons can’t go two years without eating, Kyojuro. Especially not newborn demons.”

Kyojuro figures that this is as good a time as any to have this conversation. He’s pushed it back each time he reported to Oyakata-sama, fearing that Akaza wouldn’t be open to even the suggestion of betraying Kibutsuji. But things are much more urgent now, and he also wants to hope that it’s not an impossible thing for Akaza to stand on the same side of this war with Kyojuro.

“Do you remember when you said you couldn’t feel the connection between you and Nezuko?” he asks.

“Yes. There was no blood tie, so I didn’t even know she was a demon until I saw her.” Akaza frowns. “Do you know why?”

“Kamado Nezuko broke the curse!” Kyojuro says. “Instead of eating to replenish her energy, she has been sleeping. The Corps granted her and Kamado-kun pardon because she has never eaten nor harmed another human being, and he vowed she would fight alongside him against Kibutsuji.”

Akaza’s eyes are wide. “She did what?”

“She fights alongside Kamado-kun against other demons!”

“Before that. She broke the curse?” Akaza says, the question flat and without intonation.

Kyojuro nods. “That is probably why you didn’t feel her through the blood connection.”

“That’s not possible,” Akaza says. “No one—no one’s broken the curse since that traitor, and she…” He shakes his head. “Nezuko wasn’t even a strong demon. How could she have broken the curse?”

“I am not sure!” Kyojuro replies. “But it is true! She even resisted a marechi’s blood when she was first introduced to the Hashira. I know it is difficult to believe, but we have evidence that it is the truth!”

Disbelief scribbled all over his face, Akaza scrutinizes Kyojuro wordlessly for a few moments longer. Kyojuro stops walking so he can turn and face Akaza fully.

“Akaza,” he says, “have you considered breaking the curse?”

Like life breathed back into him, wariness overtakes Akaza’s features. “Break the curse?” he echoes, a sharp edge slipping into his voice. “I can’t break the curse, Kyojuro.”

“Can’t, or won’t?” Kyojuro asks. “I know you said Kibutsuji threatened you, but if—”

“No,” Akaza interrupts. He lets out half a laugh, the sort where nothing is funny at all and both of them know it. “This is heresy to even think about, much less speak about, Kyojuro. I can’t just break the curse. I’m nothing like Kamado Nezuko and I have no interest in helping the Corps.”

Kyojuro suddenly feels very cold, and it takes him a second to realize that it’s because of the emotion diffusing through the soul thread: not his own, but Akaza’s. A quiet but oppressive undercurrent of fear despite Akaza’s attempt at nonchalance. He sees the tense, wired set of Akaza’s shoulders and the stiff way he holds himself. Perhaps it’s been a little too soon since Akaza’s meeting with Kibutsuji to breach this topic.

“Okay,” Kyojuro says as gently as possible. “That is alright! I just wanted to bring up the possibility to you.”

Akaza blinks at him before his shoulders slope forward. “I can’t, Kyojuro,” he says, this time softer. It sounds a little like I’m sorry.

Can’t, or won’t? Kyojuro had asked, and this feels like Akaza’s answer. But I can’t is much more hopeful than I won’t. It means he isn’t entirely unwilling.

Kyojuro takes a deep breath. “It’s alright!” he repeats. “Come on. Let’s finish the patrol!”

The next day Kaname returns with instructions for Kyojuro to report to Oyakata-sama about the mission and Akaza. It’s the first time Kaname has seen Akaza since they parted at Nagoya, so naturally, he lands on Akaza’s shoulder and pecks at him. Akaza bats at the crow and curses until Kaname flaps his wings in his face, making Akaza sputter around a stray feather.

“Fuck off,” he tells Kaname, although there’s a hint of amusement in his voice and the anger is only a halfhearted attempt.

“STUPID DEMON.” Kaname puffs his chest out proudly, and Kyojuro decides it’s funnier to watch this fight than mitigate it.

When they finally part a few minutes later, Akaza has made his apparent peace with Kaname because they’re no longer calling each other names. His eyes flicker to Kyojuro instead, head tilted inquisitively.

“You can meet me at the Rengoku Estate tonight if you wish!” Kyojuro says.

“Maybe if you ask me nicely, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, beginning to grin.

“I am asking you very nicely!” Kyojuro replies, and then he’s off after catching one extra glimpse of Akaza’s affronted expression.

He arrives at the Corps’ Headquarters in the early afternoon. Kocho is the one who greets him, perched on the railing of the gazebo right in front of the entrance.

“You sent me quite the rowdy group of patients!” she says, hopping lightly down to her feet. “And barely two months after their last hospitalization, no less!”

“I hope they are recovering alright!” Kyojuro exclaims. “And thank you for taking care of them!”

“They’re doing alright, indeed,” Kocho replies with a faint laugh. “A fractured rib for Hashibara-kun and Kamado-kun has a stab wound. Agatsuma-kun had a concussion, but otherwise, there aren’t any worse injuries.” She tilts her head at Kyojuro. “You look fine though, Rengoku-san!”

“I am!” Kyojuro confirms.

“There also seems to be quite a bit we need to talk about with Oyakata-sama,” Kocho adds, peering at Kyojuro with her politely scrutinizing expression.

“Indeed!”

“Ah, then let’s not dally out here any longer,” she says. “Let’s go inside.”

Nichika is the one waiting for them at the door. She bows at Kocho and Kyojuro. “This way, please,” she says.

Unlike the last time when they met in the koi pond outside, Oyakata-sama’s health seems to have taken a more fragile turn these few days, because Nichika leads them to his bedroom within the estate. Amane-sama is there tending to him, supporting her husband’s weight on one side as she holds a cup of water for him to drink. He turns his head towards the door when Kyojuro and Kocho enter.

“Oyakata-sama,” Kyojuro greets, kneeling on the tatami.

“Please, sit,” Oyakata-sama says. “Kyojuro, my child, I am beyond pleased to know that the mission was a success and not a single life was lost on the train.”

“Kamado-kun and his friends were incredibly helpful!” Kyojuro responds. “It would be wrong for me to take all the credit for the mission when they contributed much as well.”

“So you mentioned,” Oyakata-sama says, a smile pulling at his lips. “Shinobu tells me that the three of them are quite fond of you too. But as you may have guessed, that is not the reason I called you to meet in person. I wanted to discuss some of the details in your letter regarding Upper Moon Three.”

Kyojuro nods. “Of course.”

“Amane,” Oyakata-sama says, turning to his wife. “Will you please bring me the book on my bedside and give it to Shinobu? She knows what we are looking for.”

She nods, rising to her feet to retrieve the book. Oyakata-sama continues. “You said that Upper Moon Three was at the Mugen Train to kill Kamado Tanjiro, yes? But he did not because you requested it of him?”

“Yes!” Kyojuro confirms. “He was under direct orders from Kibutsuji. When I asked him afterwards, he said he did not know the reason why Kibutsuji wanted Kamado-kun dead either.”

“Kibutsuji is afraid,” Oyakata-sama says. “I do not know why or of what, exactly, but he has long preferred to work in the shadows and kept his moves concealed. For him to order Upper Moon Three to kill a single slayer is out of character for him. Because of this, I believe that Kamado-kun has an important role to play in this fight.” He fixes unseeing eyes on Kyojuro, expression warmed with a small smile. “So you did well in mediating this outcome, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro dips his head. “Thank you, Oyakata-sama. But I just did what anyone should have done.”

Amane-sama returns with a leatherbound book with worn edges and frayed string around the corners. She hands it to Kocho, who flips to a bookmarked page. She offers it to Kyojuro.

“You said in your report that Upper Moon Three was looking for a flower,” Oyakata-sama says.

“The red spider lily,” Kyojuro reads from the page. He frowns. It’s not a flower that’s grown in his mother’s garden, but he’s seen it around in the wild. “Akaza has spoken to me about flowers before. He seems to know a lot about them! But the red spider lily is not hard to find, is it?”

“Not the red spider lily,” Oyakata-sama explains. “Something similar. My father had told me the stories and myths that have been passed on about it. A blue spider lily that is said to have miraculous abilities to cure illnesses and grant unimaginable powers to the one who finds it. When you mentioned Kibutsuji has Upper Moon Three looking for a flower, I realized that it is likely what he is after.”

Kyojuro looks at the rather unassuming flower on the page. “A blue spider lily,” he echoes.

“All myths, from what we know!” Kocho chimes in. “But we cannot ignore the possibility that it is real. Perhaps it came from a mutation of the red spider lily or another species entirely. Either way, we cannot let Upper Moon Three find it and bring it to his master.”

“Kibutsuji has one weakness left,” Oyakata-sama adds. “The sun.”

The puzzle slots together. “You think he means to use the blue spider lily to conquer the sun?”

“I believe so,” Oyakata-sama says. “We don’t know if this flower truly exists or not. But as long as Upper Moon Three is searching for it and Kibutsuji desires it, then it is an important piece we must keep in consideration. We must prevent Kibutsuji from obtaining it at all costs.”

Kyojuro nods. “I understand!”

“I am working on a poison,” Kocho adds. “I need a couple more weeks to perfect it, but the idea is for it to degrade all surrounding flora in the area it is administered to. If you ever find the blue spider lily, we need you to destroy it entirely and immediately, Rengoku-san.”

Kyojuro is reminded of their discussion the previous morning when Akaza had told him that finding the blue spider lily would gain him Kibutsuji’s favour. I could protect you. Although he’d been quick to dismiss how Kibutsuji had threatened him, he hadn’t been quite as able to hide his fear through the soul thread.

Kyojuro is used to weighing each decision in terms of its consequences for the Corps and for the humans he is meant to protect. Somewhere along the way in the last few months, Akaza has taken more and more precedence in the equation, until these days, the logical decision always seems to be the hardest one to make.

“I will continue to try to convince Akaza!” Kyojuro says. “I believe that he is not unwilling to betray Kibutsuji. Rather, he is afraid to step out of line and does not know how to break the curse.”

Kocho looks at him, her purple eyes solemn. “We must still destroy the blue spider lily if it comes to that, Rengoku-san,” she says. “We cannot place any bets or faith in a demon. Do you understand?”

Not killing Tanjiro is one thing, but Akaza has been searching for the blue spider lily for centuries. If Kibutsuji were to implicate Akaza’s role in the flower being destroyed…

It won’t come to that, Kyojuro tells himself. If Akaza hasn’t found the flower in the past two hundred years, then it’s highly unlikely he’ll discover it soon. He has time to convince Akaza, and they have time to figure out how to break the curse.

“I will do as asked!” he promises Kocho and Oyakata-sama. “Although I am hoping it will not have to come to that.”

“I wish for the same,” Oyakata-sama says. “We will continue to hope for the best, my child, but also prepare for the worst.”

They discuss the specifics for a while longer until Oyakata-sama begins to cough. Amane-sama steadies her husband and wipes the blood from his lips.

Kyojuro knows he has only been getting sicker as time passes. He’s seen Oyakata-sama’s health deteriorate throughout the years, but this seems much worse than all the times before. After all, they had fed the koi together a month ago.

“Do not worry for me, Kyojuro,” Oyakata-sama says as though sensing Kyojuro’s next words. “I am in good hands here.”

Kyojuro bows his head. “I hope to bring you good news when we see each other again, Oyakata-sama. Please take care of yourself!”

Oyakata-sama brushes a hand over Kyojuro’s shoulder, light and delicate. His fingers tremble ever so slightly.

“You as well, Kyojuro,” he says softly. “Shinobu, will you walk him out? I hope to speak to you again this evening.”

“Of course,” Kocho says, bowing as well. “I’ll bring more of my notes in the poison to discuss with you then.”

Oyakata-sama smiles at the both of them. Kocho rises to her feet first, pulling open the shoji doors and waiting for Kyojuro to follow.

They walk in silence down the hall for a little while. The Corps’ Headquarters are busier than last time; multiple kakushi are in the rooms and corridors, bowing low when the two of them pass by.

It’s only when they reach the open sky that Kocho speaks up.

“You’ve grown fond of the demon,” she says.

Kyojuro blinks. It isn’t really something he can lie about at this point. There is already so much he has withheld from the Corps that he feels as though he should at least offer this much of the truth.

“I have,” he admits.

Kocho shifts her weight, expression unreadable. Kyojuro doesn’t know if it’s disapproval behind the impassive smile set on her features, or something else entirely. What he does know is that she has every right to it.

“My sister was optimistic once,” Kocho says finally. “She pitied demons for what they had become and for what they’d lost. She thought there was humanity left in them to be saved.”

Kyojuro has no clue what the best way to reply to Kocho. He knows, through years and years of intimate experience; through conversations and actions time and time again—that despite Kibutsuji’s blood in Akaza’s veins, underneath it all is an all-too-human heart that bleeds the very same way.

“I don’t think Nee-san was wrong,” Kocho says. “Not entirely. Maybe there’s something in some demons that can still be saved.” She shrugs. “But you see, Rengoku-san, that doesn’t matter to me. Someone who can be saved is very different from someone who deserves to be saved.”

“I know, Kocho!” Kyojuro says. “But if I have the chance, shouldn’t I take it?”

“At what cost?” she asks, an echo of Hisae’s words.

Kyojuro swallows. “If there is a price, I will make sure I am the one who pays it,” he says. “And not anyone else.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, Rengoku-san.” Kocho touches her hilt. “If this all goes as we hope it will, then Upper Moon Three defects from Kibutsuji. He breaks the curse. He provides the Corps with more information than we have gathered in the past few centuries. But if it doesn’t happen that way, what then?”

“Then I will destroy the blue spider lily if it is found!” Kyojuro says. “I won’t allow Kibutsuji to obtain it.”

“Say you do that,” Kocho agrees. “And what then? You pay your price?”

“If I must,” Kyojuro says.

“I will kill him if you cannot,” Kocho says. She smiles in that shallow way of hers, but beneath the polite expression, Kyojuro feels like she’s disassembling him piece by piece with sharp eyes. “I will make it a quicker death than someone like Upper Moon Three deserves. My sister was too kind, even in death. I should have been more cruel for her. You are too kind as well. So now, I will be cruel for you, Rengoku-san.”

A quick poison. How ironic, since Akaza hates poison.

“I will make sure it won’t come to that,” Kyojuro promises.

Kocho looks away. “I’m sure,” she says softly. After a few seconds, she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “I will send for you when I have finished the poison, Rengoku-san!”

“Okay!” Kyojuro says. “And thank you, Kocho.”

She dips her head. “We are all doing what we must,” she says. “There is no need to thank me!”

“I am doing so nevertheless!”

For the first time today, Kocho lets out a real laugh. “Alright,” she says. “Goodbye, Rengoku-san!”

Kyojuro waves at her. Kocho leaves first, spinning on her heels and heading back towards the building. She doesn’t look back.

There are clouds beginning to gather overhead a once-blue sky and the air is charged with static, so Kyojuro begins his walk home.

It’s raining and Akaza is having trouble focusing on anything apart from how hungry he is.

He spends much of the day in the inn room to hide from the sun. At some point, heavy clouds blot out the sky and it begins to pour in earnest.

Akaza has never gone on so long without feeding. Kyojuro’s blood has kept the hunger at bay, but it was hardly a permanent solution. The periods of reprieve in between bouts of hunger became shorter. Ignoring the urge to eat became more difficult. Now, after all the injuries his body had been forced to heal from Muzan-sama’s punishment, the empty feeling in the pit of Akaza’s stomach only grows more monstrous. Akaza is half afraid that he’ll lose his already thin leash of control if he so much as draws a single cut of Kyojuro’s blood.

He spends much of the day trying to put his thoughts in order. The rain continues its steady pitter-patter against the roof, like a small army marching endlessly.

He’ll search for the blue spider lily tonight. After he goes to see Kyojuro at the Rengoku Estate. Akaza knows he’s already pushing Muzan-sama’s orders, but Kyojuro had asked him to come, so that feels like a necessary enough reason to.

Since the sun is not visible through the rain clouds, Akaza is able to set out before it is fully dark. He arrives at the Rengoku Estate a little while later, already familiar with the layout of the building and the rooms within.

A couple of the rooms are lit. The kitchen is one of them, from where he can pick up voices of cheerful chatter threading through the summer storm. Kyojuro and his brother—they must be eating dinner. The room Kyojuro’s father lives in is still bright but his fighting spirit is muted. He is asleep already.

Akaza makes his way across the garden and into Kyojuro’s room. He’s entirely soaked from travelling in the rain: water runs down his skin in rivulets, and each step leaves a puddle on the tatami floors. After a moment of consideration, he sits down by the entrance so that he doesn’t get Kyojuro’s entire room wet.

As he waits, he thinks about the first few times he had visited Kyojuro in his family’s estate. Kyojuro had been on edge then, clearly afraid that Akaza would hurt his father or brother. Akaza had scoffed at the little pieces of Kyojuro’s memories that were still present in his room: the letters his mother had written him, the leaves they collected, his first ever bokken, although splintered, still preserved on the shelf.

And then all those talks about soul threads and soulmates—about Kyojuro’s parents, about Kyojuro’s soulmate. It feels a little unbelievable to recall those conversations now, armed with the knowledge of what the truth would turn out to be.

It’s not too long after that he hears Kyojuro’s footsteps padding down the hallway. A goodbye is called from Kyojuro’s brother before the shoji doors slide open and Kyojuro slips inside the room holding a lamp. His hair is untied, curls wild and messy around his face, and he’s no longer wearing his uniform. He must have been home for quite a while before Akaza arrived if he’s already dressed down.

“Hello!” Kyojuro greets in a half-whisper. “Why were you sitting in the dark!”

“I can see in the dark, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, smiling. He’s past pretending he’s not stupidly glad to see Kyojuro again. He likes these moments no matter how many of them they already have had. It’s nice focusing on the right now, when he doesn’t have to think about finding the blue spider lily and when even the aching hunger subsides in Kyojuro’s presence.

Metal clanks against wood as Kyojuro sets the lamp down, crossing his room to where Akaza is sitting. He pauses a few steps away to inspect the surrounding floorboards. “You’re all wet!”

“It’s raining,” Akaza says, even more amused. “It has been for a few hours. Demons unfortunately get soaked in the rain too.”

“Are you trying to convince me or dissuade me!” Kyojuro replies, beginning to smile as well. “You should change into something dry, Akaza. It can’t be comfortable sitting there in wet clothing.”

“I didn’t bring a change of clothes,” Akaza says.

Kyojuro points at his closet. Akaza raises his eyebrows, wanting to draw this out for as long as he can.

Unfortunately for him, Kyojuro gets straight to the point. “You can wear one of my yukatas until your clothes are dry!” he says cheerfully. “Here. Come choose which one you want.”

“I’ll get water on your floor, Kyojuro,” Akaza says.

“You already got water on my floor!” Kyojuro says, sliding open the door of his closet. Akaza picks his way over, trying to leave as little puddles as he can manage. He gives up halfway and lets himself leave a dark trail of water on the floorboards.

He peers at the piles and piles of neatly folded cloth. Akaza very rarely sees Kyojuro wear something outside his uniform when he’s travelling on missions, but he remembers some of these outfits from when Kyojuro returned to the Rengoku Estate after Akaza first injured him. Akaza tugs out a cream-coloured yukata from near the top of the folded pile. Kyojuro had worn it before.

Really, all things considered, he shouldn’t be dragging out the time by doing things like this. Akaza had planned to see Kyojuro and leave to search for the blue spider lily, so he’ll be back in the rain in less than half an hour.

But for all that he likes to tell Kyojuro how demons don’t get cold or sick, this is indescribably nicer: under the lamplight and wrapped in the four corners of Kyojuro’s cozy room. Outside, the rain drums with increasing heaviness and the wind has grown more forceful. Inside, it’s warm and dry and the last thing Akaza wants to do is leave.

Kyojuro heads out of his room, telling Akaza he’s going to get a towel, so instead of leaving, Akaza strips from his wet outfit and puts on Kyojuro’s yukata. It smells faintly of soap and the sleeves are slightly too long. He likes it, mainly because it belongs to Kyojuro.

Kyojuro returns a minute later holding a towel. He appraises Akaza for a few seconds before pulling him over to his futon and sitting Akaza down. Akaza feels Kyojuro settle right behind him, knees bumping against his lower back.

“What are you doing, Kyojuro?” he asks, twisting to look at Kyojuro.

“Drying your hair!” Kyojuro replies as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He gives Akaza’s shoulder a light push so he can turn back. “Sit still!”

The words you don’t need to, I’m going out in the rain again withers at the tip of Akaza’s tongue when Kyojuro runs his fingers through Akaza’s dripping hair and starts to dry it with the towel.

A comfortable quiet settles over them. For once, Akaza doesn’t feel as though he must fill in the silence with words. He lets himself breathe this in: the rain, the wind, the lamp light, Kyojuro’s steady presence and comforting touch.

For centuries, Akaza has hated keeping still. He hadn’t been running from anything, not really, but between silences and stillness, he always found himself plagued by an unease he couldn’t give name to. As though something would catch up to him—something he couldn’t win against, no matter how strong he was and no matter how much blood Muzan-sama granted him.

And maybe it had caught up to him anyway, or it had been with him all along. That pit of hollowness that Akaza had spent centuries trying and failing to fill with fighting and bloodshed, only for Kyojuro to take up the empty space so easily.

Because the silence no longer sounds like loneliness, the stillness no longer feels like death. In Kyojuro’s presence, under his touch, Akaza feels what he’s never felt before: that his flesh and sinew are gold and silver, that he’s something sacred, someone worthy.

Akaza closes his eyes, leaning back into Kyojuro. Kyojuro doesn’t speak but continues to alternate between towelling Akaza’s hair and running his fingers through once in a while. He keeps it up until Akaza’s hair has gone from soaked to just slightly damp.

“Alright,” Kyojuro says softly, right by Akaza’s ear. “I’m done.”

Akaza turns around to finally look at him, and this time, Kyojuro doesn’t make a move to stop him. He only meets Akaza’s gaze, steadfast and unwavering.

The rain and wind are all but white noise. Akaza tracks each one of Kyojuro’s minute movements. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, each blink, the way his eyes flicker over Akaza’s features.

“There will be summer festivals soon,” Kyojuro says. He’s moved a little closer. “We can go see the fireworks together if you’d like, Akaza!”

“Just us,” Akaza replies. “No Kaname this time.”

Kyojuro lets out a little laugh, and the sound of it makes Akaza feel stupidly soft. He leans in to finally, finally kiss Kyojuro.

“He won’t be happy about being left behind,” Kyojuro says when Akaza pulls away so he can settle into a more comfortable position on top of Kyojuro’s lap, thighs bracketing Kyojuro’s hips.

“We’ll bring him back sunflower seeds,” Akaza says. “And then there’ll be nothing he can complain about.”

“How generous of you, Akaza,” Kyojuro murmurs, and then he goes back to kissing Akaza, deep and unhurried. Akaza has gotten used to quick trysts after patrols, the impatient fumbling of clothes and buttons and belts, but Kyojuro kisses him right now like they have all the time in the world. Akaza tangles his fingers into Kyojuro’s hair and finds that it’s a little damp as well. He must have washed it before he ate dinner. Kyojuro’s hair usually takes hours to dry.

He could stay like this forever and be content with it. Sparks trailing under where Kyojuro’s fingertips ghost over his skin, feeling the way Kyojuro’s once-steady breathing hitches—there is something so intoxicating about taking this slow and being able to savour each beat.

Akaza has just about lost track of time when he accidentally nicks Kyojuro’s bottom lip with a fang. For a moment, the sharp metallic tang doesn’t register as anything but sweet and satisfying in his mouth.

And then the hunger kicks in with twice the ferocity and three times the intensity. Akaza all but recoils, his skin smarting and thoughts spiralling dangerously out of control. He can still taste Kyojuro’s blood inside his mouth. It physically hurts to restrain himself from chasing for more. His heart is pounding in his ears so loudly that it drowns out the rain.

“Akaza?” Kyojuro asks, concern scribbled across his face. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Akaza says. “I just—you’re bleeding.”

Kyojuro blinks, his confusion turning into realization. He brushes his fingers over his lip and looks down at the smudge of red. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m fine,” he manages out, and it’s mostly true. The initial hunger has abated into something much more manageable, no worse than it had been in the morning.

“Do you want blood?” Kyojuro asks.

Akaza shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he repeats. “Sorry, I…” The rest of the sentence dies on the tip of his tongue. He wants to brush this all aside and continue kissing Kyojuro, except there’s still blood on his lips and Akaza is afraid that he’ll lose his control once more.

“It’s okay,” Kyojuro says. His hands settle on each side of Akaza’s waist. It’s a grounding feeling; the world settles back into focus and the sound of the rain seems to resume again. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to!”

Half a laugh escapes Akaza. Kyojuro has the strangest ability to twist awful situations into something much more hopeful but also manages to miss the mark at the same time.

“I want to,” he says. “Just… I’ll be alright after a minute.”

Kyojuro nods. Akaza folds himself against Kyojuro’s chest and tucks his face into the crook of Kyojuro’s neck, where he can still smell the lingering scent of soap clinging to his skin. Kyojuro’s hands come to rest around Akaza’s back, his grip tight but not uncomfortable.

He feels weak and exposed and vulnerable and so far out of his depth. Akaza knows he should say something or explain, but he really doesn’t want to—and besides, Kyojuro is always telling him how Akaza should be able to do the things he wants.

A minute passes, then two, then three. Still, Akaza doesn’t move. If only to let time pass them by while he and Kyojuro stay in this safe cocoon, where Kyojuro allows him to turn a minute into twenty.

At last, when the residual bits of hunger have faded, Akaza pulls back so he can look at Kyojuro again. His cheeks are no longer as flushed as before, sharp-eyed instead of hazy.

“Better?” Kyojuro asks.

Akaza finally kisses him again. There is the faintest hint of copper left on Kyojuro’s lips, but thankfully, the hunger doesn’t rear its head again. Kyojuro makes a small noise in the back of his throat, and it rekindles the desire low in Akaza’s stomach.

“Better,” he replies between a kiss, and Kyojuro’s responding laugh sounds like alchemy.

Chapter Text

The rest of the house is asleep when Kyojuro begins to heat the water for the bath. He had washed just a few hours prior, but Akaza had insisted they bathe before Kyojuro slept, so he had very reluctantly pulled himself out of the comfortable tangle of Akaza’s arms and headed to the bathroom.

The ofuro is always smaller than Kyojuro remembers it being. He used to bathe here with Senjuro and it had fit the two of them easily with room to spare, except he’s no longer a child and Senjuro is no longer a toddler. Still, the ofuro fits him and Akaza fine, even if it ends up a little cramped.

When the water is warm enough, Kyojuro pours it all in, watching the steam rise towards the ceiling. Akaza lingers behind him, an arm’s length away. The tips of his fingers ghost over Kyojuro’s back as Kyojuro leans over to test the temperature.

Akaza gets inside the water first after shrugging off his borrowed yukata and Kyojuro follows after. Water sloshes against the edge of the tub but doesn’t splash over.

The heat is a soothing balm against his sore muscles. Kyojuro closes his eyes and sinks in up to his neck, feeling Akaza’s amused gaze on him. They sit across from each other, knees bumping in the middle of the small space.

“I told you you should take a bath before sleeping,” Akaza says, entirely predictable and sounding a hint smug. “Now will you admit that I was right, Kyojuro?”

“It would have also been nice to just sleep!” Kyojuro says.

“Tired?” Akaza asks, teasing.

“Yes, I spent much of today travelling!”

Akaza flicks a few droplets of water at him. Opening his eyes, Kyojuro laughs at his affronted expression. “This is nice,” he admits, tucking his knees to his chest so he can move closer to Akaza.

Akaza makes a faint noise of agreement. He reaches out to trace his fingers over Kyojuro’s clavicle, ghosting over a red-purple bruise. “I told you,” he says, but the words are softer, fonder this time.

Steam blurs the air between them. Kyojuro catches Akaza’s hand before he can pull away.

“There’s a summer festival in a week’s time at one of the towns along my patrol route,” Kyojuro says. “We can go to that one if you’d like, Akaza! There will be fireworks!”

Akaza blinks slowly. His eyes flicker to where Kyojuro has tangled their fingers, then back up to Kyojuro’s face. “So are we leaving Kaname behind?”

“Perhaps Kaname would be a less picky companion to go to the festival with!” Kyojuro says.

Akaza kicks lightly at Kyojuro, the movement making a bit of water spill over the edge of the ofuro. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Kyojuro laughs. “If that’s your ultimatum, then I suppose I can find a way to have Kaname sit this one out!”

Grinning at his victory, Akaza settles back down into the water, resting his back against the side of the bathtub.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while longer. Kyojuro is tired, but it isn’t the same sort of fatigue that results after particularly hard missions. This is an agreeable, satiated haze, an almost pleasant soreness like the faint aches from the bruises that Akaza leaves decorated on Kyojuro’s skin. At some point, Akaza takes a washcloth so he can wipe it over Kyojuro’s face. He does so carefully and methodologically, fingers gripping both sides of Kyojuro’s jaw to keep him steady.

When Akaza speaks up again, the bathwater has cooled from steaming to merely warm. “I can’t stay today, Kyojuro. I have to go search for the…thing my master wants me to find.”

“The flower?”

“The flower,” Akaza relents. “I’ve already been pushing it these few days. He wanted me to devote all of my time towards finding it.”

The blue spider lily. Kyojuro considers bringing it up to Akaza, but he knows Oyakata-sama and Kocho had told him in confidence, and he’s not sure it would bode well for Akaza if Kibutsuji found out he let so much information slip to the Corps.

“Let me come with you,” he says instead.

Akaza looks surprised. “For what, Kyojuro?”

“When you’re searching for it!” Kyojuro replies. “You’ve travelled with me all these months, haven’t you?”

Akaza’s brows furrow. “That’s different.”

“I will still have my missions, so it won’t be always,” he tells Akaza. “But we could divide the time!”

Eyes searching, Akaza looks at Kyojuro for a few moments, the conflict clear on his face. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then finally asks, “Do I get to make a request from you if I agree? That was your condition when I asked you, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro recalls that with clarity. He had agreed that Akaza could travel with him as long as he harmed no humans as long as their bargain lasted. His initial assumption was that it would end with his sword at Akaza’s neck, either him or Akaza dead. They’re pushing a year now. Akaza has kept faithfully to his word and Kyojuro is long past thinking he’ll die by Akaza’s hand.

“Alright!” he says. “What is it that you want to request of me?”

The surface of the water ripples as Akaza moves a little closer to Kyojuro. “You can’t interfere,” he says. “I need to find this. My master has made it clear that there’s no room for failure this time. Or else—” He stops abruptly and shakes his head. “Can you promise me that, Kyojuro?”

Kocho and Oyakata-sama’s words burn in the back of Kyojuro’s mind. Even now, Kocho’s working on her poison so that Kyojuro can use it to destroy the blue spider lily if it’s ever found.

But there has to be another way. Kyojuro refuses to wait idly until the flower is found—if ever, really—until it’s too late for both him and Akaza. There has to be a solution before they reach that point. A way to break the curse so that Akaza’s hands are no longer tied by Kibutsuji’s obvious threat. If Kamado Nezuko can do it, then it means it isn’t impossible. That’s all they need—for there to be a possibility.

“Okay!” he agrees. “I promise.”

Akaza’s shoulders slope forward, out of the tense line. “Okay,” he echoes softly. His gaze flickers to the ceiling. “I was meant to go search tonight.”

“It’s raining still!” Kyojuro points out.

“That’s hardly an issue, Kyojuro.”

“We should wait until the weather clears up,” Kyojuro adds for extra clarification. “Since I already dried your hair for you, Akaza! It would be a shame if you got it wet again immediately. After all my hard work!”

The corners of Akaza’s lips curl into a smile. “I never knew you were so good at making up excuses,” he says. “You didn’t strike me as the type, Kyojuro.”

“I am just pointing out the facts,” Kyojuro says, but given that Akaza doesn’t argue more for leaving tonight, he thinks that he can count it as his victory.

“Tomorrow night,” Akaza finally concedes. “I can’t keep delaying it any longer.”

“Tomorrow night!” Kyojuro agrees. Then the thought dawns on him, something he should’ve connected the dots to when Akaza first brought it up. “Is this why you’re so knowledgeable about flowers, Akaza?”

Akaza stares at him for a few seconds, and then a flash of chagrin crosses his face. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Don’t avoid my question!”

Akaza avoids the question by shifting to his knees so he can lean over and kiss Kyojuro. He drags his thumb over Kyojuro’s jaw once, twice before pulling away. “Let’s go to bed,” he repeats, and Kyojuro decides to give him this one.

Searching for the blue spider lily is a surprisingly mundane task. The first time Kyojuro tags along, all Akaza does is question townspeople about whether or not they’ve seen a certain flower, and he’s surprisingly not half as bad at it. In fact, he’s being rather polite, all things considered, and especially given his track record.

“What, Kyojuro?” Akaza had asked when he caught Kyojuro staring at him.

“Do you do this often!”

“Two hundred years,” Akaza says drily. “I’ve picked up a few things here and there.”

“So when you were being rude to people when we were travelling together, it wasn’t because you didn’t know better!” Kyojuro says. “You were just being rude!”

Akaza doesn’t look even the least bit repentant. “I don’t see why I have to go to unnecessary lengths to be kind to anyone I meet,” he says. “I’m not looking for anything from them nor do I owe them anything.” He tilts his head at Kyojuro. “You’re patient enough to make up for the both of us, Kyojuro.”

“Patience is a virtue!” Kyojuro says. “One that would benefit you, Akaza!”

Akaza makes a bored noise. “Patience is for people who are too cowardly to just take what they want,” he says. But he’s very patient when he kisses Kyojuro later.

A week comes and passes until the day of the summer festival arrives. Kyojuro makes sure all his patrolling is done the night prior and that there are no pressing missions that concern him.

It’s a little strange, but Kyojuro finds himself rather fond of the thought of setting aside time, even if it’s just one night, for just him and Akaza. Perhaps it’s dangerous or selfish indulgence, but Kyojuro is past the point in reasoning between his mind and heart.

Besides, he’s spent half a decade fostering Akaza’s sorrow on nights like these. Underneath the pretty light of the fireworks, or curled on his futon in his too-large room, or catching his breath between missions. He wants to be able to spend this time with Akaza, so if he is to grieve, then at least he doesn’t have to do it alone.

Kyojuro has dinner before returning to the inn where Akaza is waiting for the sun to go down. The festivities have already started. Vendors are selling a variety of items: charms, talismans, masks, food. The streets are full of people, the breeze carrying along the sound of cheerful chatter.

Akaza is sitting cross-legged on Kyojuro’s futon when he opens the door to their inn room. He looks up at Kyojuro, then raises his eyebrows. “You’re not wearing your uniform?”

“There is no mission or patrol tonight!” Kyojuro says. “So I don’t have to!”

Pushing himself to his feet nimbly, Akaza nods. “The sun’s down. Let’s go, Kyojuro.”

“Let me fix your obi!” Kyojuro says. “I am becoming more and more convinced that you never tie it properly just so I can do it for you!”

“So what?” Akaza asks, but he turns around dutifully so that Kyojuro can tie it for him. “It’s quicker for you to untie this way, you know.”

“That is not a good reason!”

“Seems good enough to me,” Akaza drawls.

They head out not long after. Glancing at Akaza in front of him, threading through crowds of strangers and nameless faces, Kyojuro is once again reminded of their first meeting.

Akaza had been disguised as a human back then too: dark hair, brown eyes, winter-pale skin. He had been a little strange, but kind nonetheless as he returned Kyojuro’s wisteria sachet to him and they exchanged pleasantries. Now, Kocho has given him a brand new wisteria sachet, and while Akaza wears the same disguise over his demonic features, the full truth is laid bare between them. Kyojuro also knows where to look to see the cracks in between Akaza’s human visage. From certain angles, his eyes will still shine gold despite supposedly being brown. His fangs are visible when he smiles, and sometimes, there is a blink-and-miss-it trace of his demonic markings.

Still, if he takes this moment as it is, Kyojuro can almost pretend that everything is simple. He doesn’t have to pit Akaza against his duty, and Akaza doesn’t have to answer to a master that has shown him nothing but cruelty. Rather, he is Kyojuro’s as much as Kyojuro is his. They have time—not unlimited, but enough. Enough that neither of them have to think about the end before it has come.

Akaza stops walking to turn around and look at Kyojuro. He tilts his head, inquisitive. “What do you want to do first, Kyojuro?” he asks, raising his voice above the chatter of the crowd.

Kyojuro scans the rows and rows of vendors. He wants to visit all of them, but he finally spots one nearby that catches his immediate attention. “Let’s get masks!” he exclaims. Quite a few people are also wearing them.

“Masks?” Akaza echoes. Seeing his skeptical expression, Kyojuro wraps a hand around his wrist and begins tugging him toward the mask vendor.

Akaza puts up a little resistance at first before allowing Kyojuro to pull him over. A small line has formed in front of the stall, giving them time to look at the options before their turn to purchase comes.

“There’s an oni mask!” Kyojuro says.

“For me?” Akaza asks, and although he tries to look exasperated, the corners of his lips still twitch into a smile. “Not incredibly subtle of you, Kyojuro.”

“It’s fitting, don’t you think!”

“I do not look like that.” Akaza sounds a hint offended, so Kyojuro decides it’s the one he’ll buy for Akaza.

“You can choose one for me!” he says just to be fair, an offer that Akaza apparently takes very seriously, because he spends the next minute or so looking with intense concentration at all the choices.

Kyojuro ends up with a kitsune mask and Akaza the oni one. He holds it in his palms to inspect, a frown on his face.

“You don’t look like that!” Kyojuro reassures Akaza.

Akaza looks even more offended. “Was that ever a question, Kyojuro?”

“Of course not!”

Although Akaza doesn’t seem very convinced by Kyojuro, he lets Kyojuro tie the ends of the mask for him. Kyojuro tries to fight a laugh seeing the theatrical red features over Akaza’s face and fails.

They decide to head for the food stalls next. There’s too much to choose from, so naturally, Kyojuro attempts to get everything he can hold. Akaza ends up carrying some of Kyojuro’s food, walking in stride with Kyojuro as Kyojuro eats what he can currently hold.

Around them, the crowd shifts and flows like water. Kyojuro catches threads of other conversations, but for once, he doesn’t busy himself with the people surrounding him. Just Akaza, who is a constant presence at his side even when they don’t speak.

“Do you come to festivals on your own when you see the fireworks?” Kyojuro asks at some point.

“No,” Akaza replies. He hands Kyojuro the dango he’s holding. “There’s too many people and too many fighting spirits. I’d rather just watch from the side.”

“Is this okay?”

Akaza’s expression softens. “Yeah,” he says. “I don’t mind this.”

One of the vendors kindly informs them that the fireworks will be starting soon. Kyojuro watches Akaza’s reaction from his periphery, but his features are carefully expressionless. He only nods and, surprisingly, thanks the vendor.

“There’s a bridge not far from here!” Kyojuro tells Akaza. “Maybe we can avoid the crowd there when we watch the fireworks!”

“I thought you liked the crowds, Kyojuro.”

“I’d rather it be quieter!” Kyojuro explains. “This way.”

The bridge is thankfully emptier than the main street, just five minutes away from the festival road. By then, Kyojuro has finished all of the food he’s bought, even all of the items Akaza had held for him. He pushes his mask to the side to free up his entire field of vision.

A small stream flows beneath them, the running of the water mixed with the whistle of the wind and the unintelligible bursts of conversation steeping from the village. It’s darker here as well, without street lanterns lighting up their surroundings. The light of the moon spills down and washes the world silver.

“Have you come to this village before?” Akaza asks. “You know it quite well.”

“I was here for two missions!” Kyojuro explains. “I was injured the second time, so I spent a few days at the wisteria house recovering. That’s why I got to explore it a bit more during my stay. It was actually a month before I first met you!”

Akaza raises his brows. “A year ago?”

“Yes!”

“So that’s why some of the townspeople recognized you,” Akaza says.

Kyojuro nods. He hadn’t realized that Akaza noticed all those details.

Akaza stems a hand on the bridge, leaning against it as he turns to face Kyojuro fully. He pushes his mask to his side so Kyojuro can see his eyes, shifted to gold once more. “Is that why the woman at the takoyaki stand gave you double the amount you paid for?” he asks.

“I thought that was the standard amount!”

Akaza’s eyes narrow. “The boy selling dango was also batting his eyelashes at you.”

“I think he was trying to sell me more dango!”

“That’s bullshit, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “You would’ve bought more dango on your own anyway.”

“He doesn’t know that!” Kyojuro pauses as he comes to a realization of his own. “Is that why you were so rude to him!”

“And if it was?” Akaza asks, half teasing and half challenging. His voice is pressed low, honey and silk. “What are you going to do about it, Kyojuro?”

“Tell you that you should be more polite,” Kyojuro says. “And how do you know he wasn’t trying to get your attention, Akaza?”

“Why would he do that?”

“You do have a very pretty face,” Kyojuro tells him before he can think better of the words.

Akaza’s expression goes from surprised to confused to smug. “Is that what you think?”

Kyojuro’s gone this far, so he might as well dig his heels into the hole he’s dug. “Yes, so maybe the boy selling the dango thought the same—” He breaks off. “We were both wearing masks, Akaza! He couldn’t even see either of us!”

Silence settles for a few seconds as Akaza takes that in. Then a muffled laugh escapes him, a punched-out little oh.

Kyojuro takes in the smile gracing Akaza’s features, the way his eyes crescent into half-moons, the curve of his lips, and the way Kyojuro’s chest swells with something too vast for his ribcage to hold. He feels breathless, but unlike how these days have played out in the past five years, the air in his lungs isn’t stolen by grief or anger. Rather, everything is light and cottony-warm, like what his mother has always told him about: feeling someone’s joy as if it were his own, and knowing the person most precious to him was happy.

Perhaps it means a little more than that. To finally, finally, have this after years of waiting and to know that Akaza feels the same because he sees and feels it.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says. He’s stopped laughing, but there’s still the lingering remnants of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “What are you—”

The air whistles behind them, followed by a loud crackle and an explosion of colours. Whatever it was that Akaza had been about to ask is lost as he lifts his face to the skies.

The darkness turns resplendent for a few ephemeral moments before the firework fizzles out. It’s followed in quick succession by another one, then another one, then another one.

When Kyojuro was younger, he used to watch the fireworks with his mother—and his father, if time allowed. As the years passed, his mother would bring along Senjuro before she became too ill to go at all. Then as he grew even older, Kyojuro would take Senjuro, just the two of them because his mother was no longer there to join them and his father had no desire to do so without her.

At fifteen and all the years after, he would also spend these days holding Akaza’s grief in his chest, wondering why his nameless soulmate felt such sorrow at what should’ve been a time of celebration. And then the festivals would always feel a little grey to Kyojuro as well because Akaza’s sorrow would swallow up all of his thoughts.

Akaza’s expression is neutral as he looks at the fireworks. The colours spill over his face as well.

“Why do you watch the fireworks, Akaza?” Kyojuro asks. “Do you remember?”

Akaza turns to face Kyojuro. Snap. Crackle. He blinks at Kyojuro as if processing the question.

Unlike so many times before, he doesn’t scoff at the mention of his past or memories. Instead, he admits, “Not really.”

It doesn’t appear like Akaza wants to linger on the topic. “That’s okay!” Kyojuro reassures.

Before he can turn his attention back to the sky, Akaza adds, “You said you felt my sadness?”

Pleasantly surprised that Akaza is offering an avenue to speak about it, Kyojuro nods. “During the summer festivals. And I also did, the day I met you.”

Akaza presses his palms flat against the bridge's railing, leaning over the side so he can peer at the stream’s water running underneath. It catches a wavering reflection of the fireworks above, retaining the incandescent colours but not the shapes.

“There was somebody,” Akaza says at last. “Someone I used to watch the fireworks with. But I don’t know who. I don’t know what they were to me. I guess…” His fingers curl against the wood. “I guess it became a habit to watch them every year even after I was turned into a demon.”

“They must have been important to you!” Kyojuro says. “Or else why would you make it a habit?”

“You say that as if it is a good thing, Kyojuro.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Kyojuro asks. “It means that you had people you cared for, and people who cared for you as a human! Is that not good?”

“No,” Akaza replies. “They’re still gone now. I don’t want to remember what I’ve lost and what I can’t have back. Whether or not they were important to me, it doesn’t change anything for me anymore. I’ve forgotten them anyway.”

“Do you think it’s easier to forget what you’ve lost?”

“Isn’t it, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks back, but he doesn’t sound entirely convinced either.

“I don’t think so!” Kyojuro replies. “There are things about my mother that I have forgotten as well. I wish I could remember them, because my love for her is still there even if I can’t remember some of those details. I believe it is the same for everyone. Even you, Akaza. You still care and grieve even if you don’t remember who it is for.”

Akaza smiles at Kyojuro. “You can accept it, Kyojuro,” he says, his voice low. “Loss. But I can’t. I won’t. I’ll make sure that this time, I don’t have to lose anyone again. Then I don’t have to worry about remembering or forgetting.”

It’s an overwhelming thing, to be the object of Akaza’s blunt sincerity and unwavering devotion, and it always leaves Kyojuro feeling a little out of his depth. The reasonable response would be to tell Akaza that loss is simply a part of being human, but that seems like a cruel thing to say. And it would be crueller still to tell Akaza that he won’t lose Kyojuro, because if there is one thing being a slayer has taught Kyojuro, it is that his life is never guaranteed. It could be a week, a month, a year, ten, fifty when death finds him. Either way, there is coming a day when he will inevitably die, no matter how hard Akaza fights for things to be different.

“You don’t have to go looking for the end when it hasn’t yet come!” Kyojuro tells Akaza. “We’re here now, aren’t we?”

Surprise flickers across Akaza’s expression. “What do you mean?”

“I know demons can live forever,” Kyojuro explains. “But humans don’t! That’s why it’s important to cherish every moment!”

“Because it could be your last?” Akaza guesses, a touch of wryness in his voice.

“Because there is always something unique to experience and remember!” Kyojuro corrects. “And I suppose that too, in a way. You don’t know what will happen in a day or a month or a year. But that is something I have made peace with.”

“Yeah, well, you’re good at making peace with things, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “I’m not as well-versed in that area.”

“I can teach you!”

Akaza lets out a mix between a huff and a laugh. “I’ll pass, Kyojuro,” he says, but his tone is affectionate.

Behind him, the sky brightens with another splattering of colourful sparks. Akaza’s gaze shifts back to the fireworks.

Crackle.

“The fireworks are pretty!” Kyojuro says.

Snap.

“They are,” Akaza agrees.

Kyojuro knows he had just told Akaza to live in the here-and-nows, but just for a few moments, Kyojuro prays that they can do this again next year. And again and again, for a long time counting.

By the time the fireworks show seems to finally come to a close, they begin to make their way back to the town.

It’s not that long of a walk if Kyojuro travelled at his usual pace, but he’s dropped the brisk walking speed, stopping occasionally to look at a flower or listen to the faint calls of night birds.

“Asagao!” Kyojuro says at one point. “We saw these in my family’s garden! You told me they would bloom in the summer.”

Impressed that Kyojuro had remembered the details, Akaza nods. “And that one?” he asks, gesturing at a bloom of sasanqua.

Kyojuro ponders it for a few moments. “Sasanqua!”

“So you do listen to what I say,” Akaza teases, bumping his arm against Kyojuro’s.

“I always do!”

Akaza laughs, the inside of his chest flushed with warmth. Tonight still feels a little unreal, but in a good sort of way. Just spending time with Kyojuro—no missions, no patrols, no rushing for their next destination. It’s as though the rest of the world is irrelevant between the two of them. As though Akaza is the most important thing to Kyojuro, and everything, everyone else is secondary.

For the last two centuries, Akaza has watched the fireworks diligently every year, although he had never remembered why he did so. There was always a small, irrational fear that he would miss something important, even if that something never came. Next year, perhaps, he would tell himself—and then he would do it all over again: alone, at the edge of a crowd, atop a hill, in the branches of the tree, watching and waiting and never receiving an answer.

Kyojuro isn’t the one for whom he looks in long-forgotten memories, but he fills that space nonetheless. Watching the fireworks tonight didn’t feel like he was clawing at a faceless past, but rather, as though he was growing something new from old soil. He’s watched the fireworks two hundred times give or take, and yet today, Akaza is finally ready to start at the beginning again.

In some ways, it’s a terrifying feeling. He is far out of his depth and the shore is nowhere in sight. So many important things are out of Akaza’s control for the first time ever and he has never been more terrified. And yet…

The back of Kyojuro’s hand brushes against Akaza’s. They’re shoulder to shoulder even though there is more than enough room on the dirt path for them to walk a comfortable distance apart.

When Kyojuro’s hand bumps against Akaza’s again, Akaza hooks his pinkie around Kyojuro’s. It’s trivial because they’ve done so much more than this, but he finds himself stupidly fond of it nonetheless.

At some point, Kyojuro shifts to grasp Akaza’s hand properly, palm against palm, his fingers curled securely around. He only smiles brightly when Akaza glances at him.

Soon, the path slopes up into the main street of the town, where the summer festival is the loudest. Quite a substantial crowd remains, but it’s since thinned out from before the fireworks show and most of the vendors are beginning to close down their stalls.

“Let’s walk around a bit more!” Kyojuro suggests.

“Don’t tell me you’re still hungry?”

Kyojuro contemplates that very seriously. “I could still eat something!” he says, then looks at Akaza. “Are you?”

The hunger in his veins is a constant companion these days, worse than it’s ever been before. Akaza’s learned ways to tune it out, and when one method stops working, he changes to another. All he has to do is leash his control tighter each time and not allow it any leeway.

“I’m alright,” he tells Kyojuro. It’s not exactly a lie, but it’s not the full truth either, so Akaza would rather they not focus on it. At least not tonight. “What do you still want to eat, Kyojuro?”

“Maybe the taiyaki stand is still open?” Kyojuro proposes hopefully.

A small laugh escapes Akaza. He gives Kyojuro’s hand, still clutching his, a tug. “It’s this way. I remember.”

They make it to the taiyaki stand just in time to buy the last four pieces before the seller packs up for the day. Regretfully, Kyojuro lets go of Akaza’s hand in favour of holding his taiyaki, but he does suggest that they walk around a bit longer, so Akaza figures that’s still a good enough compromise.

The peak of the festivities has receded like the tide; the street begins to empty at a growing rate as everyone retires home. Kyojuro shows no sign of tiring and he seems content just walking along the road with Akaza. As it is, Akaza would much rather this night not end. He knows that by tomorrow, they’ll be back to what they’re most familiar with: missions, travelling, searching for the blue spider lily. But just for today, he can pretend all of that doesn’t exist between him and Kyojuro, and they just have… this. Akaza doesn’t have to watch the fireworks alone, and Kyojuro doesn’t have to spend his night hours holding nameless grief.

It just makes sense, with Kyojuro. He makes everything feel so right, even though Akaza hasn’t realized until now how wrong and empty the past two centuries were. As if he’d been underwater this whole time, never knowing what it was like to truly breathe.

They circle back to the main street of the festival again. By now, all the vendors have packed their stalls up and few people remain. Akaza likes it better like this: the crowd's buzz finally dispersing so that he doesn’t have to pick out Kyojuro’s voice above it all.

“Young man,” someone calls from behind them. “Would you like to purchase some sparklers?”

Akaza would have brushed off the speaker to be addressing someone else and continue on his way, but Kyojuro stops and spins around on his heels, already searching for the source of his voice. Akaza spots her before Kyojuro does: an old woman with a stall much smaller than the rest, a box of unsold fireworks lined up at the front.

“Hello!” Kyojuro greets, giving Akaza no choice but to follow. He peers over at the sparklers with round eyes.

“My grandson and I handmade them,” the old woman says, picking up a sparkler to show Kyojuro. “I know they don’t look as pretty as the other ones that have been sold, but they last even longer. I can show you if you’d like.”

“That’s okay!” Kyojuro says. “I will buy all of them!”

“All of them?” she asks, eyes widening.

“Kyojuro, there’s too much here,” Akaza adds, not sure if Kyojuro’s gone insane or if he’s having trouble counting just how many sparklers are left in the wooden box. “How are we going to use them all?”

“That’s okay!” Kyojuro replies confidently. “How much would it cost!”

“I…” The woman looks speechless. Kyojuro digs out the coins from his bag and hands her a generous handful.

“I hope this is enough,” he says.

“It’s more than enough,” she stammers. “Are you certain?”

“Yes!” Kyojuro reaches over and picks up the wooden box. “Thank you so much! I’m sure we’ll enjoy these! And please thank your grandson for us!”

He’s off clutching far too many sparklers that neither of them knows what to do with. Akaza chases after him while wondering if he’s supposed to be confused, amused, incredulous, or maybe all three at once.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza repeats when they’ve made it far enough down the street. He catches Kyojuro’s arm. “Why did you buy so much?”

“She hadn’t sold out by the end of the day,” Kyojuro explains patiently. “Her stand wasn’t doing very well, and I wanted to help her!”

“I could tell,” Akaza replies. “But we can’t possibly use all of these.”

Kyojuro looks down at the sparklers, then at Akaza. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. “We can try!”

“We’ll be burning through them until daylight,” he says drily.

“Maybe we can also use a few tomorrow night,” Kyojuro says cheerfully.

“I don’t think tomorrow night will be enough either,” Akaza says. “You could’ve just bought a few, Kyojuro. It still would have helped her.”

“I could have!” Kyojuro agrees. “But then who would have bought the rest?”

“Someone else. Or maybe no one. That wouldn’t be your concern or your fault, Kyojuro.”

“I know!” Kyojuro says. “But I was in the position to help, so I wanted to. Besides, it’s been years since I’ve used these! It’ll be nice.”

So Akaza follows Kyojuro down the cobbled path, knowing that nothing is going to change his mind even if Akaza thinks this is rather absurd, in an entirely Kyojuro sort of way. Kyojuro has always been too kind for his own good. There was no benefit to him buying the entire box of sparklers from a stranger—really, seeing that now he’d have to carry it around when he travelled the next day, he’d only procured more pointless work for himself.

But Kyojuro looks very satisfied with his purchase, and given that they’re now walking with direction instead of just strolling aimlessly, Akaza surmises that he must truly be intending to burn through half of the sparklers tonight. And since Akaza has long realized that he’s terribly bad at denying Kyojuro, he swallows down any additional criticisms and simply lets him lead.

He does get a little impatient at some point and can’t help but ask, “Where are we going?”

“There’s a nice spot just on the outskirts of the town,” Kyojuro explains. “It’s a bit further off, so we can see the stars more clearly! And we can also light the sparklers there.”

Kyojuro’s destination is a little hill that overlooks part of the town. It’s indeed dark without the illumination of street lamps, so Akaza knows that Kyojuro can’t see his surroundings as well as Akaza can. Still, his steps are sure as he heads up the hill until they’ve arrived at the top.

The grass is soft when Akaza sits down in it, bracing his weight on the heel of his palms. Kyojuro settles down as well, his knees bumping against Akaza’s.

“You can see the stars better from outside the town,” Kyojuro says, lifting his face to the sky. “Look!”

Akaza peers at the sky and the splattering of stars and the pearl-white moon, where the fireworks had been painted less than an hour ago.

“Here!” Kyojuro says. He holds two sparklers out to Akaza. “I have matches, I’ll light them up!”

Akaza takes one from Kyojuro’s hand. The match is struck; Kyojuro holds out the flame to the top of their sparklers.

A second later, gold sparks erupt all around them. Kyojuro shakes his match out and raises his sparkler to the sky, tracing a circle around them.

Akaza hits Kyojuro’s sparkler with his own lightly. “How are we going to ever finish using all of these, Kyojuro?” he asks. “They burn so slow.”

“That means it’s good quality!” Kyojuro whacks him back, and Akaza can’t not do the same.

Kyojuro’s much more nimble with the sparkler—probably because he wields it like a sword, and Akaza is far less versed with it. At some point, Kyojuro accidentally breaks his sparkler in two and has to light Akaza a new one. Akaza watches the way he laughs, bright and infectious, feeling the same burst of warmth flood his chest.

He feels happy. He feels whole. Knee-against-knee, Kyojuro’s features illuminated by gold, nothing but the two of them existing in the right now.

Even when Kyojuro quiets down, lighting sparkler after sparkler, Akaza finds peace in the quiet. Kyojuro leans his shoulder against Akaza wordlessly, affectionately.

“Are you tired?” Akaza asks at some point, nudging Kyojuro’s arm. He knows Kyojuro is because his fighting spirit is dimmer than early on in the evening, but he also knows that Kyojuro will deny it.

“Not very!” Kyojuro says predictably. “I want to stay here for longer! We’re not halfway through yet!”

“Let’s light five at once,” Akaza suggests.

“That’s a good idea!”

It is not a good idea. It creates far too many sparks, but it makes Kyojuro laugh again, so Akaza thinks that it’s worth it.

By some miracle, they do manage to burn through half the box of sparklers, except Kyojuro makes no move to get up from his spot on the grass, and Akaza doesn’t want to leave, so he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he watches as Kyojuro lights yet another, the golden colour as bright as the first one. He draws a pattern in the air in front of him.

“My mother told me a story when I was little,” Kyojuro says suddenly.

Akaza blinks. “What story?”

“It is about past lives!” Kyojuro says. “She told me that every human has four lives. A life of planting—” A line of gold through the air between them, “—a life of watering, a life of reaping—” The sparkler has burned down to the ends, but Kyojuro keeps holding on, “—and a life of cherishing.”

Children’s stories. Akaza has heard his fair share and scoffed at them all. But today, he replaces the burned-out sparkler from Kyojuro’s hands with a new one. “And which life are you living right now, Kyojuro?”

“I don’t know!” Kyojuro replies. “But I hope it’s my first.”

Why? Akaza almost asks, but he knows the answer without having to hear Kyojuro say it.

Because of course: Kyojuro looks at the sky every night with novel awe. He loves the spring flowers and summer rain and autumn leaves and winter snow. He is kind in all the ways Akaza is too selfish to be, because he loves this world despite all of its ugliness and flaws, while Akaza would gladly burn every beautiful and lovely thing in the world if it means Kyojuro will be safe.

“Did she say what it’s like for demons?” Akaza asks.

“No,” Kyojuro says. “She didn’t. But I would assume it’s the same! Even if you have been alive for two hundred years, Akaza! Maybe it’s your first life too!”

“Maybe,” Akaza says, just to humour Kyojuro. “Why, did you want to meet me in your next?”

“Yes,” Kyojuro replies without even a hint of hesitation. He looks over to Akaza, something impossibly fond written in his smile. “Maybe we won’t be a demon and a slayer the next time around.”

“Or maybe you’ll agree to become a demon, Kyojuro.” Akaza tilts his head. “Anything could happen.”

“Anything but that!”

He laughs. “You’ll probably be just as stubborn.”

“You’ll probably be just as unconvincing,” Kyojuro shoots back.

Akaza gives him a look, flashing his fangs in a smile. “I can be convincing.”

“Occasionally!” Kyojuro says, teasingly placating. He hands Akaza another sparkler, but Akaza has rather had enough of the sparklers, so he takes a handful of Kyojuro’s yukata and kisses him instead.

It’s soft and unhurried and all the things that Akaza hadn’t ever imagined them being in the very beginning. Kyojuro sets his sparkler down beside him, the golden sparks snubbed out against the grass.

Kyojuro pulls away just long enough to laugh, breathless and amused. “Is this what you mean by convincing?”

“No more sparklers, Kyojuro,” Akaza replies. “We’ve burned through half of the box already.”

“Fine!” Kyojuro agrees. “Tomorrow night, then.”

Tomorrow night. It feels a little foolish to feel so happy over that, but Akaza is anyway. To think that this isn’t a one-time thing and to hear the doubtless sincerity in Kyojuro’s words.

Sometime later, instead of returning to the inn, they end up lying on the grass and facing the night sky. The air is still now, the festival having long passed. It feels as though no one is awake but the two of them.

Kyojuro begins to tell him about the constellations, one after another, tracing them out in the canvas of stars. Myths and legends he had once heard from his mother. Akaza follows each movement and word carefully.

He’s lived under the never-changing sky for centuries, but Kyojuro always looks at it as though it is made anew every night. Maybe it’s the soul thread affecting Akaza, because today, the light of the moon is a little less lonely, and the dark between stars a little less vacant.

Chapter Text

The next night is a rainy one, so setting off the remaining sparklers outside isn’t exactly possible.

Kyojuro sits cross-legged on his futon in the inn room, the box of sparklers laid in front of him. He inspects it with a pensive expression on his face.

“Maybe we should just light them up inside,” he says after some consideration.

Akaza tries to figure out if Kyojuro is joking or if he’s serious and finds that he doesn’t know.

When he doesn’t respond for a good few seconds, Kyojuro nudges him. “Akaza! Did you hear me?”

“Do you want to burn down the inn?” Akaza asks.

“No!” Kyojuro exclaims. “But I do not think lighting the sparklers will burn down the inn if we keep it away from everything flammable!”

“I’m pretty sure everything in here is flammable,” Akaza says drily. “But by all means, Kyojuro, I’m not stopping you. As long as you do all the explaining to the innkeeper.”

Kyojuro sets down his sparkler with a regretful expression. Akaza can’t figure out how he still wants to burn through them, given the amount of time they’d spent on it the previous night. Wasn’t Kyojuro sick of it by now?

“Tomorrow night,” Akaza tells him. “Or maybe the rain will stop soon, Kyojuro.”

“Maybe!” Kyojuro says. “Alright, tomorrow then!”

Akaza smiles at him. He wants to keep this and never let go—the promise of one tomorrow, then another, then another. Tonight, though, he tugs Kyojuro over by the collar. “I have better ways of burning time, Kyojuro,” Akaza laughs.

A palm is pressed over Akaza’s mouth before he can kiss Kyojuro. Surprised, Akaza stares blankly at him for a good few seconds, not quite processing what happened. “I still have to patrol!” Kyojuro reminds him in a teasing tone. “We can’t set off the sparklers in the rain, but I can still patrol in it!”

He untangles himself promptly from Akaza’s grasp and goes to put on his haori. Akaza sits still at the edge of Kyojuro’s futon, not sure if he’s supposed to protest or laugh.

He ends up pushing himself to his feet as Kyojuro waits for him at the propped open door, his head tilted expectantly. “Cheater,” Akaza tells him as he steps through the door. “I thought that you of all people would play fair, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro’s eyes crinkle in amusement. “The first rule of demon slaying is not to expect fair fights from demons!” he says.

Akaza bumps his shoulder lightly, and they head out into the rain.

As patrols go, this one remains relatively uneventful until they encounter a demon in the forest. Its body is covered in patches of leaves, a summer-green tint to its skin and hair made of tangling vines. When Kyojuro swings his sword at it, it tries to burrow into the dirt. Still, it’s nothing strong, because a couple of seconds later it has disintegrated to dust and nothing but a frayed golden thread is left behind.

Akaza remembers the earliest days when he accompanied Kyojuro on missions. Kyojuro had always looked so sombre when he looked at demons’ soul threads, and that look of pity—misplaced compassion, perhaps—had filled Akaza with so much derision. Back then, he thought that if Kyojuro ever grew strong enough to kill Akaza one day, then he should have been proud. Not sad. He most certainly didn’t want an ounce of Kyojuro’s pity.

Now… Akaza stares at the demon’s fading soul thread and wonders what his own looks like. Kyojuro said demons had broken soul threads and that much was true from what they’d seen, but he’d been able to feel Kyojuro’s emotions. His concern, his worry, his frustration, his happiness. Surely that means something.

“Akaza?” Kyojuro brushes wet hair from his face. It clings to his cheeks, rusted gold and deep red from the water. “Let’s finish patrol!”

The demon’s soul thread is gone now. Akaza turns away from where the ashes have also disappeared and nods at Kyojuro. “Let’s go.”

They’re silent for a few minutes with nothing but the heavy pitter-patter of rain drumming on the forest canopy. Kyojuro has sheathed his sword again. Finally, when the silence between them is starting to feel too full of unsaid words, he turns to look at Akaza again. “Have you felt my emotions?”

Akaza blinks, not expecting such an outright question. “I have,” he admits after a few moments. “Why, Kyojuro?”

“Did you before we met?”

“No,” Akaza replies.

“I see!”

“Why, Kyojuro?” Akaza repeats.

“Yesterday, when we were watching the fireworks, you were happy!” Kyojuro replies. “I felt it. But before, I could only feel all of your negative emotions, so I wonder… well, I thought that perhaps your soul thread was healing!”

“Healing?” Akaza echoes. He thinks of the frayed edges of burned gold on every demon he’s seen. Then he ponders the possibility of his own being any different. Any better. “Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know!” Kyojuro replies. “But it seems like a logical explanation!”

It sounds so… human. To have to heal in such a slow, uncertain way, in all the places a demon’s regeneration can’t hope to reach.

But Akaza also finds that he doesn’t hate the thought like he thought he would. If being a little more human means feeling more of Kyojuro’s smiles, then he doesn’t mind it.

They return from patrol a few hours later, with Kaname joining them as they re-enter the town’s premises. He caws rather rudely at Akaza (Akaza does his very best not to say something impolite back) and then pecks Kyojuro lightly on the shoulder. “KOCHO-SAMA REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE.”

“I see!” Kyojuro says. “At the Butterfly Estate?”

Kaname caws his confirmation.

“I will set out at first light!” Kyojuro tells Kaname. “Let’s go inside and dry off! We’re all soaked!”

Kaname decides to dry off by shaking all the water clinging to his feathers onto Akaza. Kyojuro doesn’t even scold him, only laughs. Akaza thinks that he’s being way to lenient on Kaname, but he’s determined to the bigger person so he wrestles down the urge to do anything in retaliation.

As Akaza strips off his wet clothing to put on a dry yukata, he says, “You always smell like wisteria when you meet Shinobu.”

“Well, she does use a lot of wisteria when she fights, so I suppose it makes sense that she smells strongly of wisteria!” Kyojuro replies. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“Hardly uncomfortable,” Akaza replies, wrinkling his nose. “I just don’t like it when you smell like other people, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro lets out a little laugh. “I’ll be sure to take a bath before we meet up tomorrow night!” he says good-naturedly. He brushes his hair out of his face. “I should sleep now.”

Akaza knows an invitation when he hears one, and he’s not about to deny it. Kyojuro holds open one end of the blanket, waiting for Akaza to join him on the bed, which is exactly what Akaza does.

At the opposite end of the room, Kaname has tucked himself into a comfortable perch, a handful of sunflower seeds scattered before him. Akaza turns back to look at Kyojuro, who has the blanket pulled up over his chin, curled into the mattress.

Akaza leans over to steal the kiss Kyojuro robbed him of hours ago. It’s languid and unhurried and deep, and before he pulls away he feels Kyojuro’s smile against his lips. No matter how many nights they spend like this, Akaza can never get sick of it. Sharing breaths, close enough that they don’t have to speak louder than murmurs, entwined around the steady comfort of Kyojuro’s presence.

“Your hair is still wet,” Akaza says softly, tangling his fingers through it.

“That’s okay,” Kyojuro replies, his voice a little sleep-slurred. “It’ll take too long to dry anyway!”

“I thought you were the one always telling me to be patient,” Akaza says, and Kyojuro only lets out a small laugh.

“I’ll go see Kocho tomorrow,” Kyojuro says, half to himself. “Do you want to meet back here? Or at the Rengoku Estate?”

“The Rengoku Estate is closer, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” Kyojuro says. “But the sparklers are here!”

“I’ll bring them, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “Now go to sleep before it’s morning.”

“Alright,” Kyojuro agrees. He closes his eyes. “Goodnight, then!”

“Goodnight, Kyojuro.”

Outside, the rain continues to pour down in a never-changing march. Inside, the half-full box of sparklers lay a few feet away from them, waiting with the promise of tomorrow night.

Kyojuro departs the next morning. He tells Akaza that he promised to take Senjuro out for dinner so they should meet later in the evening. Given that the rain continues to persist, hiding the sun behind a layer of dark, angry clouds, Akaza ventures out for his own search a few hours after Kyojuro leaves the inn.

He sticks to shaded areas, travelling through forests and avoiding open fields just in case the sun peeks out. As it is, the sky does not clear.

Halfway through his walk to the next town, Akaza realizes that he had forgotten the sparklers back at the inn. No matter, he thinks. He’ll make a detour to grab them before heading to the Rengoku Estate in the evening. If he carried it along with him, they’d end up soaked and unusable anyway.

A little after noon, he arrives at a small town that is built at the foot of a mountain range. By now, the downpour has settled into a light drizzle, and Akaza has the creeping itch in the back of his throat that warns him of the sun. He ducks into the latest inn for shelter.

The old woman at the front is cheerful when she sees Akaza, and good-naturedly asks him if he needs an inn room and a change of clothing. Akaza is used to carrying out brief and apparently polite conversations (according to Kyojuro) when asking people about the whereabouts of the blue spider lily, but the inn owner strikes up a much longer conversation that has him floundering a bit. Kyojuro usually does all of the talking, and Akaza is not accustomed to talking so much to someone that… well, isn’t Kyojuro.

Still, when she asks him what he’s doing in the area, Akaza can at least inquire about the blue spider lily.

“A blue spider lily,” the woman echoes. “I’m afraid that it doesn’t grow around this area that I know of, but my mother used to go far into the valley between mountains to pick herbs and flowers that didn’t grow down here.” She pats Akaza’s hand. “I heard the old trail isn’t very traveller-friendly anymore, but perhaps you’d have better luck searching there. I know all sorts of things that grow in the wild that we don’t usually plant or farm.”

She gives Akaza a key to his room and tells him to change out of his wet clothing. Happy to escape the conversation, Akaza leaves.

The rain does eventually come to a stop and the sun splits out from behind the clouds. Akaza sits in the room, thinking absentmindedly that the clear weather means that they can continue lighting the remaining sparklers again.

He waits, a little bit impatiently, for the afternoon to end. It’s these moments alone that always stirs the hunger in Akaza’s stomach. With no other distractions, all his attention turns inward, until he is frightfully aware of how much his teeth ache to sink into flesh and just… tear.

Kyojuro’s blood won’t be enough, a fact that has become all too clear. Akaza is almost certain that he’d lose control if he even tried.

He should tell Kyojuro, that Akaza knows. But things have been so good recently. Even with the urgency of Muzan’s threat looming over their heads, he’s felt—right. Like everything that has been askew has finally slotted into place, and Akaza is afraid that one wrong step will topple the pieces back to the disarray where they started. He doesn’t want to bring up the obvious cracks that have been forming when it’s not something that Kyojuro should have to worry about.

Akaza sucks in a deep breath. He’s done harder than fighting off a little hunger. If he can’t even do this much, then how is he meant to protect Kyojuro?

For the rest of the afternoon, he paces restlessly around the inn room, trying to keep his mind from spiralling back into hunger. Akaza is relieved when the sun’s rays finally retreat from outside the window and he’s able to leave the confinement of the inn room.

Despite the sun having come out in the afternoon, the streets are still wet with puddles that have gathered from the storm, the cobbled paths damp. That, paired with the fact that another thunderstorm has begun to spark in the air, seems to have made the streets emptier than they usually are in the early evening.

Akaza is making his way through the outskirts of the town when he hears a low commotion coming from one of the alleyways near him. He would have kept moving if it weren’t for the muffled shout that cut off abruptly.

He can still easily ignore it. Akaza isn’t exactly in the business of meddling with human affairs if it doesn’t concern him, and given that he had promised Kyojuro he wouldn’t be eating any humans, this hardly concerned him if he wasn’t going to get a meal out of it.

But Kyojuro wouldn’t leave it alone. Just like Kyojuro had bought so many sparklers that it inconvenienced himself just so he could help a stranger out, Kyojuro wouldn’t have turned away if he were here. And it’s not like it matters because Kyojuro isn’t here and he won’t know if Akaza helped or turned away, but…

Akaza follows the buzz of voices into the alleyway. Four people, he can tell by the fighting spirits. All unremarkable, one half-conscious and another flickering with fear.

He isn’t too surprised when he comes across the scene: a young woman kneeling over the slouched form of her companion, repeatedly telling two men that they don’t have money through her tears. Her companion is bleeding from a cut to his head and his eyes are unfocused. Probably an acute head injury, but it’s not severe to be dangerous if the situation doesn’t escalate.

Both of the men are dressed in dark clothing and one of them carries a small knife. Likely no more than common street thugs who had decided to rob the first people they came across. They don’t seem particularly skilled or organized like Akaza has seen from more experienced bandits.

One of them raises his hand to hit the woman. At that moment she spots Akaza, eyes meeting his and widening with desperate relief. “Help us!” she shrieks just as the man swings his palm down at her.

Akaza intercepts the blow before it reaches her. He shoves the man back, who stumbles into his partner with a look of surprise that quickly morphs into a sneer when he processes what just happened.

Up close, the two men are even less impressive than their fighting spirits suggested. Sure, they’re taller than Akaza, but the one holding the knife barely has a proper grip on it, and Akaza thinks idly that if the swing from the other one had even connected, it would’ve hardly done any damage. Maybe he’ll break a bone. Or two.

The woman hiccups behind him as though trying to stifle her sobs. “Go,” Akaza tells her shortly.

She scrambles to her feet, hauling her companion up with her. They stumble towards the mouth of the alleyway.

The man with a knife scowls at Akaza. “Should’ve minded your own damn business,” he spits, and then takes a very ill-aimed swing.

Akaza steps back, his patience boiling over. This is rapidly becoming a waste of time, now that the woman and her companion are gone far enough to be safe. Now he’s left with two robbers who are almost hilariously awful. He wonders if they have ever successfully robbed anyone.

The next time the man swings at him with his dull blade, Akaza breaks his arm. With a howl, he drops his knife and doubles over.

His friend isn’t smart enough to back away, because he tries to attack Akaza too by throwing a punch. Akaza catches him by the wrist and slams him into the stone wall surrounding the alleyway.

Akaza must have underestimated his strength because the blow is enough to knock the man unconscious the moment his body meets the wall. He collapses like a ragdoll to the ground, sprawled next to his terrified companion who is peering up at Akaza with hateful eyes. At least for a moment—in the next, Akaza finds his vision blurring, sharpening, blurring again, gaze automatically drawn away from the man’s face to something else.

The air has taken on a distinctly metallic scent, the change terrifyingly fast. A second ago it had smelled fresh of rain, and now, blood eats thickly at every of Akaza’s senses.

Bright, brilliant crimson pools from underneath the unconscious man. Some last scraps of logic make out what happened. He must have landed on the knife when he fell, which had cut him. Which had…

The blood pools further. Or does it? Akaza can’t tell. He just knows it’s right there, filling the air with sweetness and making his teeth itch with the ecstatic possibility of finally being able to sink into something. To tear flesh like they were made to do.

Akaza knows he needs to leave before the hunger wrestles away all of his remaining control. But his feet remain rooted to the ground and his mind feels as though it is sinking deeper and deeper down into a haze.

Vaguely, Akaza notices the man with the broken arm haul himself to his feet. He runs down the alleyway until he’s out of sight. Not that Akaza particularly cares about focusing on him.

He’s so hungry. He’s been hungry for months, despite the blood that Kyojuro has given him, and now, it’s laid right in front of him. A solution to the hunger. An easy one.

And why shouldn’t he? He is a demon and this is a human, and not even a particularly good one. A pile of flesh and bone and fresh blood—what was even holding him back? He wants this, and what Akaza has wanted, he’s only ever taken.

Except Kyojuro. With Kyojuro, he’d waited. He’d held back, he’d been patient, he restrained himself over and over again. He had promised Kyojuro that he wouldn’t kill anyone.

He had… what had he done?

Instead of moving away, Akaza takes a step nearer, then another. He bends down next to the unconscious form of the man, closer and closer to the smell of iron. It curls into Akaza senses and presses fractures into his waning control. As though beckoning to him, sharp and sweet.

(He had—)

The silence of the evening shatters with a wet snap. Akaza is murkily aware that he had torn an arm clean off, and now the trickle of blood that had enticed him is a pooling lake of crimson, staining the pavement and pouring into all of his senses.

He doesn’t remember much after that. He knows that he had eaten half the body, at least. The man must have died at some point; Akaza doesn’t even know if he had ever come back to consciousness, or if his life had bled away silently. He could have screamed and Akaza wouldn’t have heard through the delightful haze of satiating his hunger.

(—promised, hadn’t he?)

When Akaza comes to, it’s to indiscernible voices of terrified shouting. He blinks once, twice, taking in the scene in front of him.

He wonders if this is what it feels like to wake up after a long sleep: the world coming into focus around him from nothing. There’s a body at his feet. Or at least what remains of it.

By all means, Akaza has seen much worse and hadn’t batted an eye. He didn’t think of himself a particularly messy eater—certainly not compared to someone like Douma—but it wasn’t as though mutilating a human body brought him any disgust or revulsion.

So he isn’t sure why distinct nausea rises to his throat, making his stomach churn. The bloody bones of a ribcage are visible from the man’s torso, chunks of flesh torn off from around it. Arteries and veins tangle directionlessly, the heart having been ripped out. One of the man’s arms is missing; the other is half-stripped to bone.

Akaza is covered with blood. On the front of his kimono, on his hands, around his lips and in his mouth.

Numbly, Akaza continues staring at the body, frozen in his place. His mind struggles to keep up with the sight. He hadn’t meant for this. He had interfered because it was something Kyojuro would have wanted him to do—help people who were weaker than him—except he’d ended up here.

Here: a body mangled past recognition by Akaza’s hands, blood all over his clothes and skin, porcelain-fragile promises once again shattered at his feet.

But it’s rather funny too. Those were always the things Akaza was good at. Breaking everything he touched.

Akaza breathes in. The blood in the air no longer clouds his mind. It’s only a testament to how much he’s eaten if the hunger has abated enough to no longer distract him.

Someone at the mouth of the alleyway shouts at Akaza. He hears a second voice give a horrified exclamation.

Akaza doesn’t turn around to look at who. Instead, he runs in the other direction.

He flees past the wood and stone of the town; a field of summer flowers; the lush green canopy of a forest. Akaza doesn’t stop until he arrives at the fast-flowing banks of a river. He steps into the cold water immediately and begins to scrub the blood from his skin. Over and over until the crimson washes away and he sees his pale, corpse-like skin underneath. Then he scrubs harder as if doing so will purge the sin from his veins.

He’d promised Kyojuro he wouldn’t kill anyone, and he had broken that promise. (Just like he’d promised her he would protect her, and she had died because of him all the same.)

Akaza crouches down in the water, his thoughts stretched taut with building panic and guilt. He wants to scream but his throat feels full of blood.

Why hadn’t he expected this? He should have known that things had been too perfect and he had grown too complacent, even with Muzan’s threat hanging over him. He’d let himself pretend that he could control his hunger by barring it behind each of Kyojuro’s smiles as if satisfying that wanting was enough.

Akaza doesn’t know how long he stays there, cleaning the blood off himself obsessively. It’s not as though it’ll change any outcome, or undo what he has already done.

He has no idea what he’s supposed to do now. Go back to Kyojuro and pretend nothing happened? Tell him—and then what? Will Kyojuro turn his sword on Akaza when he finds out? He could simply not return to Kyojuro, except the thought of never seeing Kyojuro again is so awful that Akaza would much rather Kyojuro cut his neck.

Would Kyojuro cut his neck? Like Hisae’s slayer husband who had turned his sword on her, will Kyojuro finally follow through with his duty now that Akaza has broken the one thing that bound their middleground?

He knows, though, that it’s more than a temporary truce. The promise had been a concession, the first step of many. It was built into the cornerstone of their entire relationship—a demon agreeing not to harm humans, and a demon slayer purposefully not cutting a demon’s neck.

Akaza’s breath comes out shallowly. Slowly, he stops scrubbing his skin and stands very, very still.

The water tears at him, the rapids frothing white. The sky is once again overcast.

He had thought summer was still in full bloom, but it’s only now that Akaza realizes the yellowing of some of the leaves hanging on the trees. The first noticeable signs of autumn.

He breathes in, out, matching each breath to the pattern in which Akaza knows Kyojuro breathes. Foolish. As if doing so will absolve him.

In, out.

The wind and water are deafening, but the hunger is finally silent.

Kocho seems to be in a good mood when Kyojuro arrives at the Butterfly Estate. When he asks her why, she only smiles brightly at him and tells him that she’s very proud of the poison she brewed.

“I see!” Kyojuro says, noting to himself to never get on Kocho’s bad side.

“It was refreshing, I’ll admit!” Kocho says as she leads Kyojuro through the estate, down winding hallways until they arrive at her laboratories. “I spend most of my time making formulas for my wisteria poison, so creating a poison for such a different purpose was a rather nice break!”

“I am happy to know you enjoyed it!” Kyojuro says.

They enter Kocho’s lab, where Kyojuro is immediately surrounded by the all-encompassing, sweet scent of wisteria. He remembers Akaza’s comment about how he smells like wisteria when he meets Kocho, and Kyojuro now sees why that’s the case.

“Not here,” Kocho murmurs half to herself, brushing aside a stack of paper with barely legible scribbles. “Ah… I stored it in one of these drawers.”

Kyojuro waits patiently at the side, not wanting to step too far into the lab so that he knocks a vial of poison over or accidentally misplaces one of Kocho’s formula sheets. She returns a few seconds later holding two small vials of clear liquid.

“Here!” Kocho says. She lifts one vial in front of Kyojuro to show him before wrapping both up in a handkerchief and handing them over to Kyojuro. “One should be enough, of course, but the second one is for precaution in case you lose or break the first one, or the area is larger than I anticipated.” She tilts her head at Kyojuro. “All you need to do is pour this into the dirt where the flower grows, and it should entirely destroy all surrounding flora in ten minutes or less. Do you understand, Rengoku-san?”

Kyojuro pockets them. The poison appears so unassuming. Unlike Kocho’s wisteria concoctions, it’s not even coloured that deep purple; if he didn’t know better, he could have mistaken it for water.

He swallows the ball in his throat. “I understand!” he says.

Kocho’s sharp gaze does not leave Kyojuro even though she is silent for a good couple of seconds. When she speaks again, there is an intensity to her voice that wasn’t there before.

“You must destroy the blue spider lily, Rengoku-san,” she repeats.

His mind winds back to the quiet conversation they had a week ago, sitting in the bath with Akaza across from him. The quiet desperation in Akaza’s voice when he had asked Kyojuro, Promise me you won’t interfere.

“I want to find another way,” Kyojuro says honestly. “I think—well, I believe that it won’t have to come down to this!”

Kocho’s smile doesn’t break, but it seems to tighten at the edges. “What do you mean by that, Rengoku-san?”

“Like I told Oyakata-sama, I believe Akaza is willing to work with the Corps!” Kyojuro explains. “He simply fears the repercussions from Kibutsuji when he is still unable to break the curse.”

“That is not why you’re here today, Rengoku-san,” Kocho replies. “I want to know if you are still able to make the correct judgment, or if your…” Her mouth twists. “Or if this has clouded you.”

Kyojuro touches the outline of the vials in his pocket. “I will do as you and Oyakata-sama have planned if it comes to that!” he promises Kocho. “But I will remain hopeful for another option.”

For a few seconds, Kocho doesn’t speak. Kyojuro wonders if she is angry at him. The sachet Kocho had gifted him still lies in his other pocket. If she is angry, she has every right to be.

But he also knows that there are some stakes he is willing to make for Akaza. Some outcomes are worth placing his hopes in, and he won’t pretend otherwise.

“Why are you so desperate to save him, Rengoku-san?” Kocho finally asks. It is not the question Kyojuro had been expecting.

“I thought about what you told me!” Kyojuro replies. “About those who can be saved and those who deserve to be saved! I understand that we may not see eye-to-eye on this, Kocho, but I believe that someone who can be saved is also someone who deserves to be saved.”

“Do you speak of everyone when you make that claim, Rengoku-san?” Kocho presses. “Or just Akaza?”

Before Kyojuro can decide on a response, Kocho turns away from him. “I don’t need an answer, Rengoku-san! Now, is there anything else we must discuss before I let you go?”

Kyojuro blinks, a little taken aback by Kocho’s quick dismissal. But he gathers his bearings, straightening and offering her a smile. “There is one thing!” Kyojuro suddenly remembers. He had been thinking about it during the entire walk to the Butterfly Estate. “Akaza hasn’t eaten properly in a long time, and I think control has been harder for him so he’s afraid to ask me for blood. I was wondering if you had a safe way to drain some of my blood!” As an afterthought, he adds, “And then maybe I will bring it to him in a flask!”

Now it’s Kocho’s turn to look surprised, which Kyojuro thinks is quite an accomplishment. There’s usually nothing much he can say to shock her.

Finally, she repeats in a flat tone, “You want me to help you bring blood to Upper Moon Three in a flask, Rengoku-san?”

“Yes, if that is possible!”

“How much blood?”

“However much is safe!”

She scrutinizes him for a few moments and Kyojuro is hit by the urge to explain himself. Kocho holds up her hand the moment he opens his mouth and gives him another one of her smiles. “No need to give me the details, Rengoku-san,” she says. “Let’s go to the hospital wing and I will take some of your blood!”

Kyojuro smiles at her. “Thank you, Kocho!”

Kocho lets out a small sigh. “No need, Rengoku-san,” she repeats, fainting teasing, but her eyes are somber again when she looks briefly over her shoulder. “Just do not forget what you need to do.”

The rain clouds clear up in the afternoon when Kyojuro returns to the Rengoku Estate. He can feel the minuscule, almost dismissable weight of Kocho’s poison in his pocket. For some reason it seems heavier than it should have been.

A precaution, the last one Kyojuro will take. There are a hundred other solutions that don’t involve him breaking his promise to Akaza.

In his other hand, he holds the flask Kocho had given him a few minutes prior. Kocho had refused to drain anymore blood when Kyojuro asked about it, telling him it would affect his body too much for him to fight properly.

It’s better than nothing, and hopefully, it’ll at least be a little help for Akaza. Kyojuro decides that he will write to Kamado Tanjiro when he returns home to ask what his sister does to control her hunger. He remembers Tanjiro mentioning that she slept for many hours of the day—perhaps that had something to do with it.

Senjuro greets him readily when he arrives home, and then curiously inquires what is inside the flask.

“Water!” Kyojuro ends up telling him, since there would be far too many things to explain if he said blood.

Senjuro launches into a description of the new restaurant that just opened in the town which he thought Kyojuro would enjoy. They specialize in all sorts of udon.

“It looks like it might rain again tonight,” Senjuro explains, “and you used to tell me it’s best to eat udon when it’s raining, Aniue!”

“That’s correct!” Kyojuro replies. His father used to tell him that when he was little, although he doesn’t actually remember if they ever had udon together on rainy days. “Well, let’s go there for dinner!”

They play shogi for a big chunk of the afternoon. Senjuro has gotten better since the last time they played together because he wins three times and Kyojuro only manages to take one game. Then, before they go out to eat dinner, Kyojuro heads down the hallways that lead to his father’s room to extend the invitation that has been turned down a dozen times before.

Shinjuro is still awake. A couple of scattered sake jars lie on the floor, but the ones closest to his father are entirely unopened.

Kyojuro slides the door open a little wider. His father’s back is turned to him. He sits cross-legged on the futon, his head lifted slightly to look at the windchimes that still hang from the doors leading to the engawa. They don’t ring anymore, since his father rarely opens the doors to let the breeze in.

“Senjuro and I are going to eat dinner at the new udon restaurant,” Kyojuro says. “You should come with us, Father!”

His father doesn’t reply for a couple of seconds. Then, his voice hoarse, he makes a noise of dismissal. “Go with your brother, Kyojuro,” he says.

“We will bring you back something from there, then!”

“There’s no need.”

Kyojuro hesitates. These conversations always pan out similarly—or worse, if he decides to bring up demon slaying. He used to linger at the door with a thousand questions he wanted to ask his father. About how he could be more efficient with his third form, or how to maintain Total Concentration Breathing when he was out of breath. Or he would come back from a mission, exhausted and trying his best not to feel discouraged and want to ask: How did you do it? Still, those were the sorts of questions that his father hated most, so Kyojuro kept them to himself.

Now, there are different questions he wants to ask, although he’s pretty sure his father would loathe to talk about it all the same. About his mother, how they met, how Shinjuro had felt about her and her loss. He wants to tell his father about Akaza.

His mother has always told him about the beauty of having a soulmate; the way the universe came together for two people. How right it felt to love someone you had spent your whole life waiting for.

What his father has shown him is the devastation of loss and the severity of love. It strikes Kyojuro now that maybe there is something that he needs to learn from both of his parents and not just his mother. There is no love without loss just like there is no loss without love.

“Is there anything else, Kyojuro?” his father asks shortly.

The ball of words in Kyojuro’s throat don’t make it out. Even if he had the courage to ask, he isn’t sure just what he would ask.

“You used to tell me that it was best to eat udon on rainy days, Father!” he says instead. “What sort of udon would you like?”

Another few moments of silence. Kyojuro stands under the doorframe, feeling a little like he is twelve years old again as he waits and waits and waits for an answer that hasn’t come in years.

Finally, his father lets out a sigh. “I do not care, Kyojuro,” he says. Then a pause. “Just choose whichever one.”

Kyojuro blinks. “Okay!” he says through his surprise. This feels like—well, he doesn’t know if it is a step forward, but he’ll treat it as one nonetheless. “We will be back later!”

The new udon shop is indeed very good. Kyojuro is hungry, so he ends up trying all four of the flavours he’s interested in on the menu, while Senjuro just chooses one. He peers at Kyojuro, feet swinging from the booth’s chair. “You’ve come home more these few months, Aniue,” he says.

“I have!” Kyojuro agrees. “I have been working on something with Kocho, so I had to visit the Butterfly Estate a few times. And it is quite close to home!”

“You should continue coming back more often if you can,” Senjuro adds hopefully.

Kyojuro laughs, fondness seeping in warmly. “I will do my best!” he promises. “I miss being home when I am on my missions.”

“I have been practicing,” Senjuro tells him, “with my sword. I know Father doesn’t want to teach me, but I started reading the books you left behind and I started working on my forms again. Maybe I…” Senjuro’s expression is a little unconvinced, but he puts on a smile anyway. “Maybe I will try demon slaying again.”

Kyojuro offers him a smile. “I am happy you want to try again!” he says. “But if you find that swordsmanship is still not what you desire to do, that is also alright! I will support you with whatever you decide.”

“I don’t really know what I want to do, Aniue.” The admission is soft. “But… I hope I’ll figure it out soon.”

Kyojuro pats Senjuro on the back. “If you want, we can go through some of your forms when we get home!” he says. “I can help you!”

Senjuro lights up. “That would be good!”

The rumble of thunder trembles above them, and Senjuro lets out a sheepish laugh. “Maybe tomorrow when the rain clears up.”

“Yes,” Kyojuro agrees. “I think—”

He trails off, feeling the faintest tug in his soul thread. It’s nothing like those bursts of demanding anger or the heavy haze of overwhelming grief, or even the warm flood of Akaza’s happiness. This is much more quiet. A dread that curls in the back of Kyojuro’s mind, like a fleeting shadow in his periphery that disappears when he turns his head around to fully see it.

His next inhale catches a little in Kyojuro’s throat as he tries to orient himself. Senjuro’s voice repeats, crescendoing in worry. What’s wrong, Aniue? Do you not feel well?

Akaza. Something must have happened. Was he hurt? Was it Kibutsuji? Kyojuro can’t place a finger on exactly what it is that he feels, only that a chasm has opened and all of a sudden the drop is all he knows.

“Aniue,” Senjuro repeats, his hand gripping Kyojuro’s arm.

Kyojuro blinks, his surroundings settling back into proper focus. The pitter-patter of rain, the smell of the udon broth, his brother’s grasp on his arm and his wide, worried eyes.

“I…” Kyojuro takes a deep breath. The emotion curls deep inside his chest like a snake coiling around its prey. “I am fine! I just felt a little dizzy for a few seconds!”

Senjuro relaxes a bit but the worry remains on his face. “You haven’t been injured lately on missions, have you?” he asks.

“No!” Kyojuro reassures. “Ah, when I visited Kocho today, she took some of my blood. Maybe that is why I was lightheaded!”

“That must be why.” Senjuro doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push the topic, which Kyojuro is thankful for. He’s having a hard time focusing on anything except that awful feeling that has settled in him, and he’s pretty sure that any excuse he tries to make now won’t be believable. “Let’s go home so you can rest early, Aniue.”

Kyojuro nods. “We should get a bowl for Father,” he recalls.

“Okay,” Senjuro says. He pats Kyojuro’s hands, and Kyojuro has a sudden pang thinking about all the ways his brother takes care of him now, when it used to be the other way around. “I’ll go talk to the shopowner.”

He slips out of his seat to head to the front counter, leaving Kyojuro sitting alone at the booth.

Pressing his palms against his knees, Kyojuro tries to compose himself. He used to be adept at pushing away worries, knowing that obsessing over things he had no control over was hardly ever productive. Even those bouts of anger and grief had gradually become something he tucked away to the back of his mind when they passed.

But he has Akaza now. He knows where the other side of his soul thread ends, he knows who it is hurting when his soul thread weeps, and he recognizes the sound of laughter from where his soul thread sings. Something is wrong and even now, Kyojuro still can’t do anything about it.

At the very least, the persisting feeling means that Akaza is still on the other end. And just like before, all Kyojuro can do is wait for Akaza to return to him.

Senjuro returns a few minutes later with the udon for their father. He scans Kyojuro, still clearly worried. “Are you feeling better, Aniue?”

“I am!” Kyojuro reassures, even as the dread spreads until he isn’t sure if it’s his own fear or Akaza’s. “Let’s go home!”

Senjuro tells him to rest when they get back. Kyojuro feels a bit guilty for lying when he promises he’ll go to bed soon, but he also isn’t certain he can fall asleep without seeing Akaza first.

He opens the door to the engawa despite the rain and wind. As the house quiets, Kyojuro lights a lamp and begins his vigil waiting for Akaza.

The feeling that seeps through his soul thread hasn’t retreated. It persists stubbornly, a swirling, unsettling mass that eats at Kyojuro’s lungs. It’s not entirely foreign, although Kyojuro isn’t able to give it a name just yet.

An hour or so passes when Kyojuro feels the muted demonic aura nearby, one he recognizes as Akaza’s. Unlike usual, Akaza doesn’t come inside immediately. Instead, he lingers just outside the estate for an uncharacteristically long time before Kyojuro sees his silhouette appear behind the engawa doors.

Akaza is wearing his demon clothing again when he steps inside, drenched from the downpour. His eyes find Kyojuro immediately, and Akaza flashes a sharp smile at Kyojuro. “Waiting for me, Kyojuro?” he asks, voice pressed into silk and honey.

Kyojuro scrutinizes him. There is no trace of injury on Akaza, but of course, that means little given the speed at which Akaza heals. Unlike the last time Kibutsuji punished him, he’s acting… well, like he usually does.

Except his smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He crosses the room to Kyojuro’s side until they are close, but Akaza doesn’t reach out to touch Kyojuro. The feeling pouring through the soul thread has not abated, only grown. A gnawing, bone-deep discomfort.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro says carefully. Akaza tilts his head, a small smile playing on his lips that he clearly doesn’t mean. Kyojuro wonders if Akaza thinks he’s truly fooling Kyojuro, or if he’s putting on this facade because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “Did you get dinner with your brother?”

Perhaps it’s better to let Akaza talk about it on his own terms instead of pushing him about it. Kyojuro nods and offers Akaza a smile. “We got udon!” he says, then he remembers the flask that is still sitting on his bookshelf. He goes to retrieve it. “When I was with Kocho today, I asked her to help me drain some blood into a flask. I know you’ve been worried about hurting me, so I thought this would be a temporary solution!”

Akaza is strangely silent. Kyojuro sits back down in front of him, their knees bumping. Instead of meeting Kyojuro’s eyes, Akaza’s gaze is trained on the flask.

“I felt you through the soul thread this evening.” Kyojuro finally decides to breach the topic. “I know you’re upset, Akaza.”

That elicits a reaction. Akaza tears his eyes away from the flask to meet Kyojuro’s. “Do you, Kyojuro?” he asks. There’s a mocking edge in his tone, yet the frustration is aimed all at himself. “I suppose you already know why too?”

“I do not!” Kyojuro sets the flask down on the table. “What happened?”

“I forgot the sparklers,” Akaza says. He lets out a little laugh, all hollow. “I knew there was something important I’d forgotten.”

“It is raining anyway, so we wouldn’t be able to light them up anyway!” Kyojuro reassures. “Akaza—”

“I killed someone.” There is no intonation in Akaza’s voice. His eyes never leave Kyojuro’s and it finally occurs to Kyojuro just what that monstrous emotion eating him alive is. Guilt. “Then I ate half the body. So I don’t need your blood, Kyojuro.” He laughs again, shaky. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

Oh. Kyojuro feels a cold all of a sudden. All the words he could or should stay evade him for a long and helpless moment. The logical part of his mind knows he should feel horrified not just for the life taken, but for what this means for the Akaza and the Corps. They’re already balanced on a tightrope with no leeway on either end. Akaza’s presence is tolerated because Kyojuro had affirmed to Oyakata-sama time and time again that he believed in Akaza’s eventual willingness to betray Kibutsuji. Now, not only has Kyojuro brought back no tangible results, but Akaza has killed a human. A death that now lies on Kyojuro.

Except there is no satisfaction or triumph in Akaza’s expression. Rather, the guilt continues to pulse through the soul thread like a second heartbeat.

“What happened?” Kyojuro asks again.

“I told you,” Akaza says blandly. “I killed a human and ate him.”

“Because you wanted to?” Kyojuro presses. In the grand scheme of things, he knows this doesn’t matter to the Corps, which means it shouldn’t matter to him either. But it still does to him, more than anything. “Because you’re a demon, and humans are just food to you?”

The impassivity dissipates from Akaza’s face. “No,” he says. “No, that’s not what happened. I couldn’t control myself. The man was bleeding and I just—” He shakes his head. Now that Akaza has started talking, the words tumble out in a rush. “He started bleeding and all of a sudden I couldn’t think of anything else except how hungry I was. And when I finally realized what I had done, he was already dead. Half-eaten. I know I broke my promise, Kyojuro. I know I…”

The rest of his sentence is lost when Kyojuro pulls him into a hug. Akaza buries his face into Kyojuro’s shoulder, a small shudder running up his spine before he allows his body to go lax.

Kyojuro curls his fingers around the nape of Akaza’s neck; the neck he should have cut a hundred times over, yet each passing day only makes it more and more impossible.

How can he blame Akaza for this? He had known all of this time that Akaza was essentially starving himself. It’s been far too long since he’s even drank Kyojuro’s blood, which hadn’t been a sufficient source of food in the first place. And it isn’t as though Akaza hadn’t warned him about how demons lost control when pushed to starvation. Kyojuro had been so focused on mitigating the immediate outcome that he never considered how bad things had gotten for Akaza.

This wasn’t Akaza’s fault, but it was very well Kyojuro’s. He’d pushed Akaza to restrain himself for longer and longer and took all of his reassurances that he was fine at face value, as if Kyojuro didn’t know how adept Akaza was at downplaying his own discomfort and pain.

It isn’t Akaza’s fault, but at the same time…

Kyojuro knows he can’t turn a blind eye. Not anymore. The cloth-wrapped vials of poison in his pocket burn like a branding iron, the tiny weight incredibly, impossibly heavy.

“I tried,” Akaza says miserably, and there’s a hint of desperation in his voice. “I really—I swear that I wanted to, Kyojuro. But I couldn’t.”

“I know,” Kyojuro replies. “I believe you! It wasn’t your fault, Akaza.”

Akaza’s body shakes slightly, and although he’s laughing, Kyojuro can’t help but think it sounds much more like crying. “I wanted to do it right this time,” he says, more to himself than to Kyojuro. “But I still broke my promise. Just like before.”

Before. Before he was a demon? Was the promise made to the nameless person Akaza used to watch the fireworks with, the loss of whom had engraved itself beyond memory and recognition? It must be a terrifying thing to love someone so completely and entirely, and not know them at all.

“I don’t blame you,” Kyojuro says. He pulls back, and a bit hesitantly, Akaza lets go of him too. “I should have realized sooner how hungry you were. I thought…”

All this time, Kyojuro had told Oyakata-sama and Kocho that he had hope for the best. Now, he wonders if it was all misplaced, desperate optimism. Because Kyojuro had been too afraid to imagine what would happen if anything but the most ideal scenario played out—yet here they are.

“It’s my fault, Akaza,” Kyojuro says at last. Yellow eyes meet his, a furrow appearing between Akaza’s brows. “I asked so much of you and didn’t offer an alternative solution. I shouldn’t have pushed you to this point.”

“No.” Akaza’s hands ball into fists. “Don’t. This has nothing to do with you and blaming yourself for it isn’t going to change anything. I did it. I killed someone. That’s it. I didn’t make that promise to you because I had no choice but to.”

But you broke it because you had no choice, Kyojuro wants to say, but he doesn’t think Akaza would want to hear that.

“Tell me what exactly happened,” Kyojuro says instead.

“Does it matter?”

“I want to know!”

Akaza doesn’t protest or put up a struggle or tell Kyojuro it’s all pointless. He sits back on his haunches, a sort of exhaustion infused into every movement that makes him appear smaller than usual. He tells Kyojuro about how he’d travelled to the village to search for the blue spider lily, how he’d stumbled across the couple in the alleyway, and how he’d initially meant to scare the two robbers before leaving. And how everything had gone wrong after that.

It’s almost ironic that this entire thing was born out of Akaza’s desire to genuinely help. Kyojuro remembers the earliest days when Akaza had rescued the three poisoned victims because he didn’t want Kyojuro to feel guilty over their deaths otherwise. He’s changed so much since then and it feels so unfair to punish him for trying to do something good.

“So now what, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks. He’s fixed his tone back to that careful lightness, but his eyes are searching and his shoulders are tense. “I don’t suppose we’re going to bury this and go back to lighting the rest of the sparklers when it stops raining.”

The joke falls flat. Both of them know it. Kyojuro swallows the ball in his throat. “Break the curse, Akaza,” he says. “We could find another option. If Kibutsuji—”

“Don’t,” Akaza snaps so sharply that Kyojuro falters. The edge in his voice blunts a little when he speaks again, but it doesn’t retreat entirely. “Don’t—don’t mention His name around me, Kyojuro.”

There it is again, the fear. It seeps in with the guilt until the only thing Kyojuro feels through the soul thread is that discordant cacophony of both.

Akaza exhales shakily. “I’ve been thinking, Kyojuro,” he starts slowly. “About why demons have broken soul threads. We’re already connected to Him by blood. He knows where every one of us is at any time and if He wants to, He can access every single one of our memories and thoughts. With a bond that strong already present, there isn’t even room for a soul thread. How do I break something like that?”

“Kamado Nezuko did it!” Kyojuro points out. “So it is possible!”

“Kamado Nezuko never killed or ate anybody,” Akaza shoots back. “I’ve killed hundreds. Thousands. Because that’s all I knew under Him and because that is what He asked of me.”

“Because Ki—he stole your memories,” Kyojuro says.

“I was weak,” Akaza says, more to himself than to Kyojuro. “I won’t be weak anymore.”

Akaza sounds resolute in his answer. I won’t break the curse. The soul thread bleeds and Kyojuro knows that fear can be the most stubborn motivator. As long as Akaza remains afraid of what Kibutsuji could do to him—to Kyojuro—Kyojuro doesn’t know if he has a chance in convincing Akaza to betray him.

He can’t keep relying on best-case hopes and what-ifs of Akaza turning on Kibutsuji, nor can Kyojuro pretend that time is something they have an abundance of. He has to know what to do in the possibility he cannot convince Akaza. Destroy the blue spider lily if it is ever found, like Kocho asked of him.

It’s an awful thought. Akaza had broken his promise because Kyojuro had backed him into a situation that was entirely out of his control. Now Kyojuro is planning to break his own. An active choice. A premeditated one.

“Will you tell the Corps?” Akaza asks.

Kyojuro blinks. He knows that is the course of action he should take. All of his training, every bit of logic and reason in his mind knows that it is the right thing to do. “No,” he says. “I won’t.”

“You’ll hide it from them.” Akaza sounds disbelieving.

“There are already things I have not told the Corps!” Kyojuro says. “Like you being my soulmate. I didn’t want it to be something leveraged against you. Regarding what happened today, the Corps does not care what your motivation was or what your circumstances are and it is highly likely they will try to have you executed.”

Akaza lets out a mirthless laugh. “Are you sure you want to withhold something so important from the Corps, Kyojuro?”

“Yes,” Kyojuro says. “I have made my choice, Akaza!”

In the far distance, thunder rumbles. The storm has passed on from overhead, and Kyojuro thinks that the droplets of rain outside sound a little softer.

He holds out his open hand, and after a second of hesitation Akaza lays his hand carefully on Kyojuro’s. He shuts his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro thinks that he has far more to apologize for than Akaza does, but he can’t give those apologies now. So he settles for curling his fingers around Akaza’s, holding them tight enough that Kyojuro can trick his mind into momentarily setting aside the weight of what he needs to do.

“We’ll figure it out!” he tells Akaza. “Are you feeling better, at least?”

“Yes.” After a pause, he adds wryly, “If I didn’t feel better, then all of this would have been entirely pointless.”

“You are sounding much more optimistic!” Kyojuro exclaims. “I am glad you’re feeling better.”

“And you seem tired, Kyojuro,” Akaza says. “It’s late.”

“It is!” Kyojuro agrees.

They go through the motions of a familiar routine, even though the weight hanging over them makes it feel like a shadow of what it usually is. Kyojuro puts Kocho’s vials of poison into his traveling bag. The cloth burns his fingertips and he is no longer certain whether the guilt that eats at him is Akaza’s or his own.

By the time they’re in bed, the rain has ceased entirely, leaving a strange silence as the aftermath. Akaza’s breaths mingle with Kyojuro. Tucked underneath the blankets with Akaza a hairbreadth away, Kyojuro is once again reminded of the night Akaza had brought him back from the snowstorm and stayed in Kyojuro’s bed to keep him warm.

Things feel so different now. Kyojuro is so different now, as is Akaza. It’s as though the world had been black and white back then, and now there are colors that bloomed under Akaza’s touch.

But his duty hasn’t changed. His promise hasn’t either. Not to his mother, at least. If it ever comes down between the two, there will be one Kyojuro has to break.

He will conceal this one death from the Corps, but if Kibutsuji obtains the blue spider lily, Kyojuro will be condemning the entire world. He can’t let that happen. Not even for Akaza.

Ah, Kyojuro realizes with a jolt. Since when did he start justifying human lives and prioritizing Akaza over them? Was it after that night under the cherry blossoms? Or earlier, when Ikeda had fixed him with her grief-stricken glare and said, “love is hypocrisy”? He knows it’s wrong, but he can’t help himself. Selfishness is a hunger in its own right, and once it has gained a foothold on Kyojuro, he doesn’t know how to shake it off.

“Hisae knew before you did,” Kyojuro says. He knows he is supposed to sleep but the silence without the rain has become unbearable. He wants to hear Akaza’s voice. “When we were in the snowstorm, she told me she knew you were my soulmate. I was quite surprised!”

“Really,” Akaza says. “How did she even know?”

“I am not sure!” Kyojuro replies. “She saw through me so easily that it left me feeling rather out of my depth! Although I suppose the snowstorm may have contributed to that too.”

Akaza lets out a faint laugh, sounding more like himself now. “You were pretty much delirious when I found you.”

“Yes, I was rather relieved when you did!”.

For a while, Akaza doesn’t reply, even though he does curl an arm around Kyojuro’s waist in the meantime.

“Do you think she was right, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks at last. “That we were… that this was never meant to work? That it was doomed right from the start?”

Kyojuro swallows. It’s a question he’s asked himself far too many times to count.

“I don’t think so!” he says. “She was right about many things, but she was also wrong about many more.”

“I hope so,” Akaza murmurs. His grip tightens, just a little. “What are we doing tomorrow, Kyojuro?”

“I promised I’d help Senjuro with some of his forms.” Kyojuro thinks about the rest of his list. “When it’s night, we can search for your flower, Akaza.”

“What about the sparklers?”

“We can light up the remaining ones too if you want!”

“I want to,” Akaza says. “We’ll have time, Kyojuro.”

Does he know the magnitude of that white lie? Kyojuro can’t see Akaza’s expression through the dark, so he lifts a hand so he can ghost his fingertips over Akaza’s features as though to map it out.

“Kyojuro, I…” Akaza trails off. Kyojuro waits for a few moments until Akaza lets out a small, quick exhale.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Close your eyes, Kyojuro, you’ll never fall asleep if you keep them open.”

“Okay!” Kyojuro says, and he does as Akaza asks.

Someway or another, despite the silence and the war of guilt in Kyojuro’s chest, he still feels exhaustion fall over him as he lies there slotted in Akaza’s embrace like puzzle pieces.

Part of him wishes he could stay here forever, or at least until it felt like enough.

Except that was the final irony of time. No matter how little or how much they had, it was never quite enough. Kyojuro has always been so adept at turning whatever he was given into being sufficient—except Akaza. With Akaza…

But if he can’t have more time, then maybe they can just stay in this moment for a while longer.

Chapter Text

The inn is dark when Kyojuro heads inside.

He can sense the faint demonic aura from their room; Akaza must have already arrived.

The innkeeper does not sit vigil at the front, but then again, it’s quite late so it makes sense that the entrance is empty. Kyojuro heads up the stairs, hearing the wooden planks creak under the weight of his steps. His fingers skim over the handrail briefly and come away sticky and wet.

Surprised, Kyojuro brings his hand up to his face, only to see a dark red liquid coating them. He looks back at the railing. Something viscous drips slowly down and splatters on the floorboards. Blood.

Panic rising, Kyojuro takes the remaining steps two at a time. He bursts into the hallway only to find every single inn room has had their door flung open. The moonlight that streams from each window seems to gleam crimson. Or, perhaps, it's reflecting the color that paints the interior of each room in broad, messy strokes across the floors and walls. Kyojuro doesn’t know how he hadn’t smelled the metallic scent back in the staircase because now, it overwhelms his senses so heavily that he can no longer breathe.

Akaza’s presence remains steady in their room at the very end of the hallway. Kyojuro swallows the ball in his throat and makes his way towards it. Each step is harder than the last, as though some invisible weight pulls him down.

The door to their inn room is closed, unlike the others. Kyojuro tries the handle to find that it isn’t locked. Slowly, he pushes it open, afraid of what he will see.

Akaza sits cross-legged on a single-person futon. He turns to look at Kyojuro when Kyojuro enters, eyes unnaturally bright in the dark. The kanji marrs his irises starkly: Upper Moon Three.

There is blood everywhere in here too. Streaked across his face in a splash pattern, smeared on his hands and around his mouth. Akaza’s palms lay open on his knees, and he lifts his head to look at Kyojuro with wide-eyed panic.

Akaza appears wrong in the most subtle of ways. The kanji in his eyes are too dark, standing out much more obviously than they usually do. His skin is even paler and more pallid than how Kyojuro recalls it being. And the way he looks at Kyojuro…

“Akaza,” he manages. Kyojuro’s mouth is dry and each syllable passes through his throat like sandpaper. It has never hurt so much to simply say Akaza’s name.

“I didn’t mean to, Kyojuro,” Akaza says, desperation in each word. Still, he doesn’t move from where he sits. “Kyojuro, I swear I didn’t…”

He follows Kyojuro’s gaze to the back of the room. Corpse upon corpse upon corpse; bodies piled in a hideous, unceremonious heap, all of which sport injuries of different kinds. Some miss an entire limb. Others have their chest cavities torn open. One of them wears a uniform just like the one Kyojuro wears, but the destroy on the back has been rumpled and is barely readable. Whoever they were, their features are too covered by blood for Kyojuro to see.

“I was just hungry,” Akaza breathes. “I couldn’t control myself for any longer. You have to understand, Kyojuro.”

(“What price are you willing to pay?” Hisae asks, and Kyojuro hears the underlying question once more, not for the first time. What price is too much for you to pay?)

“I…” Kyojuro fights for words that don’t come to him. I understand? It’s not your fault? He can’t say that. If Akaza lost control of his hunger and ate a single human, Kyojuro could understand even if he couldn’t excuse it. But this—an innful of people, bodies piled into a small hill. Where could he even begin to justify this?

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says, but his mouth isn’t moving. Then who is saying Kyojuro’s name?

Kyojuro. He feels a hand on his shoulder.

Kyojuro inhales a lungful of blood. And all of a sudden he is falling through dark and ash, the world turning into ribbons around him.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza repeats, and Kyojuro opens his eyes to see a worried frown peering back at him.

For a few moments, he lies on the futon, trying to catch his breath. Akaza is kneeling over him, his brows furrowed. No blood stains his features like it did a moment ago, which Kyojuro is rapidly realizing had been a dream. Or—more of a nightmare than a dream, he supposes.

“Are you alright?” Akaza asks, the worry not subsiding. “You were—well, I felt…” He scrunches his nose as though trying to figure out the right words. “You felt afraid.”

“I am fine!” Kyojuro reassures, perhaps a little too loudly. “I had an unpleasant dream, that’s all!”

Akaza makes a noise of reaffirmation. Kyojuro glances at his hands. Pale, lined with blue ink. No blood. “Do you want to talk about it, Kyojuro?”

Kyojuro doesn’t particularly want to exacerbate any lingering guilt Akaza might harbour towards the entire situation by telling him he had a nightmare about it. After a few seconds of debating the best way to go around the topic, he settles with shaking his head. “I would prefer not to linger on it!” he says, which is probably as close to the truth as he can go.

To Akaza’s credit, he doesn’t push Kyojuro. Instead, he nods. “It’s barely been an hour since you went to bed,” he says. “You should go back to sleep, Kyojuro.”

Going back to sleep with the nightmare still singeing the corners of Kyojuro’s thoughts doesn’t seem to be a very easy thing, but Akaza is right. It’s still pitch-black outside. He’ll just feel exhausted the next day if he doesn’t try to rest until daybreak.

“That is a good idea!” he replies. Even in the waking world, he still feels as though the blood that had filled his lungs in the dream hasn’t quite cleared, because his words catch on something in his throat.

Wordlessly, Akaza nods, crawling back under the covers next to Kyojuro. One of his hands slips under the folds of Kyojuro’s yukata so that they can be skin-to-skin, Akaza’s fingers drawing out absentminded patterns on Kyojuro’s back.

Kyojuro knows he should trust Akaza. The nightmare was just that—a nightmare. It’s been six days since Akaza had killed and eaten that man, and he had promised Kyojuro again and again that it had dealt with his hunger for at least a few months. He hadn’t even meant to do it. Kyojuro had made his decision to hide this from the Corps, and now there were more pressing concerns to worry about. It was all in the past. Unchangeable, holding lessons but not second chances. Kyojuro knew better than to let himself be ensnared by it.

But that nightmare image of Akaza circles back to him, persistent in its obsession: features sharper than usual, fangs longer, the colour of his skin like that of a days-old corpse. Kibutsuji’s curse marks Akaza’s eyes in broad, unforgivable strokes.

The Corps had taught Kyojuro that demons were monsters. It was a fact he never had trouble accepting ever since he was little, and even now, Akaza is the exception rather than the rule.

Except what made Akaza an exception? His grief, his anger,or the fact that he was Kyojuro’s? Because he had the capacity for care? Because he deserved to be saved, and even if no one else thought so, Kyojuro would be willing to give his life up for that gamble?

Did any of that actually change what Akaza was? Kibutsuji’s blood still ran through his veins. Just like he had told Kyojuro, the soul thread wasn’t the only bond that tied him to somebody. Kibutsuji’s influence ran thick and thicker than blood and Akaza was not able to break it, nor willing to risk trying.

It’s all a tangled mess. Kyojuro opens his eyes again, peering through the dark so he can see Akaza’s familiar features, all angles and panes in the minimal illumination of the moon.

He doesn’t look like a monster. He doesn’t feel like a monster. Kyojuro doesn’t know if that says more about Akaza or more about himself.

“Kyojuro?” Akaza’s voice is soft. He’s been careful around Kyojuro these past few days. Less of his playful disagreements and incessant teasing are present in their conversations. He is somber more often than he is not.

“Mm.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

“Yes,” Kyojuro says. “I just thought of something.”

“What is it?”

Can you really choose to love him?

Too little, too late. If Hisae had warned him sooner, would the outcome have been any different? Maybe Kyojuro would end up here all the same, helpless to the ocean tide because love follows no logic or reason. Had the universe arranged this—each piece falling into place until he ended up here, no matter what steps Kyojuro took? Or had Kyojuro chosen it despite everything—chosen Akaza despite everything?

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” he decides.

Akaza smiles slightly. It’s the sort of look that softens his features entirely. “Fine,” he says. Even after everything, the way he looks at Kyojuro hasn’t changed. Kyojuro holds onto that expression, wanting to banish his nightmare with it.

When Kyojuro falls asleep again, his sleep is thankfully dreamless.

“I want to go search in the mountains,” Akaza tells him.

They are eating dinner at the restaurant attached to the inn. The sun has almost set outside.

“The mountains?” Kyojuro echoes. He doesn’t usually patrol around there. The villages are much more sparse and it approaches Kanroji’s assigned region. “Do you think the flower grows there?”

“I’m not sure,” Akaza says. “But I thought it would be worth a try. A week ago, an innkeeper told me her mother used to go into the mountains to pick herbs that didn’t grow around villages, so I might as well go search.”

No concrete information is always good news. Kyojuro hopes this will be another dead end.

“Alright!” he agrees. “I will accompany you. We can set out after dinner! It might be a bit of a walk, though!”

It is indeed a bit of a walk. By the time they close in on the mountain range, the path sloping ever-upward, the night is halfway past. They stop briefly for Kyojuro to refill his flask at a stream, sitting on a flat rock to take a small break, before continuing.

Akaza is strangely quiet, his eyes constantly moving around, as if cataloguing every single part of their surroundings. Kyojuro can’t help but think of their earlier days of patrols. It would more often than not devolve into sparring, and then sometimes he’d end up with his sword strewn much too far from him, Akaza’s lips at his neck and his fingers undoing Kyojuro’s uniform buttons.

When was the last time he sparred with Akaza? A fortnight ago? Longer? It seems like forever ago. Akaza no longer asks him to, and Kyojuro wonders if he should pose the question. Even if it’s just to bring back a semblance of normalcy that this quiet tension has begun to rob them of.

The path that winds up the mountain is not well-kept. Roots from nearby trees peek out of the dirt. Rocks scatter along the width of the path and Kyojuro nearly stumbles over one or two.

He’s patrolled through forests before, but they’re usually not large, and always the ones that are scattered between villages or cities. After all, demons preferred to lurk near where humans were. There was nothing to eat otherwise.

In the mountains, though, their surroundings hold a quality of stillness that Kyojuro hasn’t felt in a while. Everything is so quiet. Even birdsong is absent at night, with nothing but the faint rustling of wind on leaves and an occasional trickle of a stream.

“Do you know the conditions where your flower grows, Akaza?” Kyojuro asks.

“No,” Akaza says a bit drily. “I wouldn’t be searching everywhere if I had a way of narrowing it down.”

“I see!” Kyojuro says. “Then, do you know if it exists?”

Akaza considers that for a moment. “My master believes it does.”

“What about you!”

“I don’t think it really matters what I think if He has His mind set on something,” Akaza says.

Kyojuro glances at Akaza’s face, wondering if he imagined the hint of resentment in his voice.

Break the curse. The words are on the tip of his tongue but Kyojuro knows Akaza doesn’t want to hear them, and it’s been too soon from the last time he asked. He wonders if he should go around convincing Akaza some other way. See, you wouldn’t have to spend another two centuries searching for a potentially nonexistent flower! would perhaps be a more incentivizing motive than, Maybe Kibutsuji Muzan won’t be able to threaten you with me anymore!

Either way, the conversation drifts off again as the mountain slopes even steeper. The overgrown foliage covers the dirt until it’s hard to tell where the path is leading.

“Am I slowing you down?” Kyojuro asks at some point, well aware that Akaza travels much faster without him.

A hint of Akaza’s usual smile crosses his face. “You noticed, Kyojuro?” he teases.

“This is usually when you used to ask me to become a demon!”

“Yes, well, that has proven to be rather useless,” Akaza says. He offers Kyojuro a hand to pull him up a small ledge. “Will you become a demon, Kyojuro?”

“No!”

Akaza scoffs lightly, but he doesn’t let go of Kyojuro’s hand.

Gradually, the path takes them from up the mountain slopes towards valleys in between. Kyojuro spots flowers and plants on the side of the road he has never seen before. He points them out to Akaza, who names them with ease with barely a second glance. He must have really studied up on all sorts of flowers.

They take a look around the outskirts of the valley briefly, but by then, dawn is on the horizon and Akaza goes looking for a cave in favour of the blue spider lily. With no time to search the valley thoroughly, Kyojuro follows him inside after one last glance towards the fields and streams that surround them.

He brought a bedroll with some other belongings. The cave isn’t a large one, just big enough to block out the sun’s rays with a flat area for Kyojuro, on where puts his bedroll down. He feels Akaza’s gaze lingering on him as he arranges everything.

“Are you going to sleep during the day?” Akaza asks.

“Yes! There are no demons to hunt and no distance to cover!” Kyojuro says. “Besides, we travelled all night.”

Akaza makes a noise of affirmation. Kyojuro glances over at him. He’s perched on a rock ledge, one leg pulled up to his chest, eyes never leaving Kyojuro.

“What is it, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks when Kyojuro keeps on looking at him for a few more moments.

“It is nice being alone with you!” Kyojuro finally says. “Away from everyone else. Even if the accommodations are a little lacking!”

“I think it’s more than sufficient here,” Akaza says, beginning to smile slightly at Kyojuro’s words. Kyojuro finds himself relaxing a bit as well. Akaza has searched mountain ranges before and come back with nothing. The possibility that today will reap any different results is improbable. Kocho’s poison can remain just a precaution, not an action Kyojuro needs to take.

He’s been telling himself that for the past few days, and yet all the attempts at self-reassurance still fail to take the edge off of Kyojuro.

“Is this the sort of place you used to shelter during the daytime?”

“More or less,” Akaza replies. “Some caves are more comfortable than others.”

Kyojuro abandons his post by his bedroll so he can situate himself in front of Akaza, still perched on the rock. His eyes flicker down to Kyojuro, a small smile playing on his lips. “What would this count as?”

“You’re here, aren’t you, Kyojuro?” Akaza laughs. “So I’m sure we can make it quite comfortable.”

He tugs Kyojuro closer by a handful of Kyojuro’s uniform and kisses him, slow and deep with just a touch of impatience. The rocks juts out against Kyojuro’s hip and the wall he finds his back pressed against is full of uneven edges, but he promptly forgets all about it. In a way, he supposes Akaza is right. Any sort of discomfort is quickly discarded to focus on more immediate things.

It’s easy to lose track of himself, of everything, with Akaza. For some time, Kyojuro lets himself sink into the distraction of familiar, second-by-second sensation: Akaza’s fingers tangled in his hair, the faintest pressure of his fangs, the way he breathes Kyojuro’s name between their shared breaths.

Afterwards, the words rise unbidden like they have many times before—locked behind kiss-swollen lips as Kyojuro turns them over in his fickle mind and wonders if he should confess it.

I love you. It should be easy not only because they are such simple words, but because they’re true. Kyojuro has long given up fighting it. He knows better than to deny. Sometimes he’ll try to trace back to the origins of when he started feeling this way, yet finds that he cannot pinpoint the first instance it started. If he’s been carrying it for such an indeterminate amount of time, isn’t it only fair that he tells Akaza?

And then Akaza gives him one of those fondly exasperated looks when Kyojuro says he will stay awake a little longer, and Kyojuro feels his heart ache so miserably that he’s afraid Akaza will feel it through the soul thread. He swallows the words one by one like he has many times before. He wants to tell Akaza, but not now. Not like this. Not yet. The dread that he has carried with him for days now returns full force, a creeping premonition that tells Kyojuro that something is wrong. That something will go wrong, even if he is not yet certain of what.

“I’m not sharing the bedroll with you, Kyojuro,” Akaza says lightly when Kyojuro opens his mouth to offer out of habit. “It’s even smaller than the inn futons and I don’t sleep.”

“So you will sit on a rock all day and watch me sleep!”

“Yes. It’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it’ll make you if we both try to squeeze onto the bedroll. Now stop talking, Kyojuro, or you’ll never fall asleep.”

Despite Akaza’s warning, they talk a little longer before Kyojuro drifts off. His sleep is dreamless once again, but that cold dread seeps into his mind even when he leaves the waking world. Kyojuro wishes he could attribute how fitful sleep was to the rocks he can feel poking him underneath the bedroll, but when he wakes fully again, he knows the uneven ground is hardly the reason.

The sun’s rays outside have taken on a deeper shade; it must be late afternoon now. Kyojuro sits up, adjusting his rumpled collar and blinking around the darkness of the cave. He can spot Akaza’s silhouette still perched on the ledge, although he’s adjusted his position to settle cross-legged and leaning against the wall.

“The sun will set in an hour or so, Kyojuro,” Akaza says.

“Okay!” Kyojuro pushes the rest of the blankets off his body. “I am going to refill my flask and wash up at a stream before it gets too dark!”

Akaza nods. Kyojuro sneaks one last glance at him before he heads out into the sun’s fading rays.

The valley isn’t a small one, surrounded on each side by looming peaks. Trees and foliage grow in abundance, with some patches of empty meadow.

With a bit of surprise, Kyojuro realizes that some of the leaves have begun to take on a yellow tint. The first signs of autumn.

It’s strange to think about. He remembers travelling with Akaza during autumn as well, during the first missions they’d undertaken together. Akaza had been all contempt and disdainful sneers. Kyojuro wonders if he would’ve had an upperhand back then if he was aware of just how much Akaza knew about flowers. He couldn’t scoff at Kyojuro admiring autumn leaves if he were the one who could name every single flower type they came across.

Kyojuro arrives at the stream a few minutes later. It’s fast flowing and cool; he refills his flask and washes his face. The cold water doesn’t clear his mind as well as he hoped it would.

The dread persists. It had started as an uncomfortable feeling in the back of his throat, but now it settles as a mass in the pit of his stomach even though Kyojuro can’t give a reason as to why.

He decides to take a look around the valley before the sun is fully hidden.

A lot of the flora that grows in these parts are novel, but none of them seem very blue spider lily-shaped or… blue. The only blue flowers are the ones Kyojuro recognizes. Bluebells, Akaza had once told him. They grow taller in the mountain ranges than they do scattered around paths between villages.

Kyojuro breaks through the treeline to stop at the mouth of one of the small meadows. Wildflowers dot the tall grass, an array of different colors. No spider lilies, blue or otherwise.

He heads deeper towards the center of the valley, where the streams rush and converge into a small lake. Kyojuro passes by another patch of trees before he’s wading through knee-length tall grass, trying to do his best to avoid crushing the flowers with each step he takes.

A few minutes later, he reaches the shores of the lake. The waters are clear, reflecting the cerulean of the sky and the patches of clouds.

Everything is so peaceful here. So quiet. They are far from other people, removed from the wandering eyes of strangers and concerned judgment of others. This almost-autumn view is lovely, even if he and Akaza can’t marvel at it together under the sun.

Speaking of the sun, the rays slant down, having been temporarily hidden under a patch of cloud. Kyojuro watches as the light gleams resplendently over the glassy lake. He should go back to Akaza.

Something blue catches Kyojuro’s attention in his periphery.

For a moment, he’s sure it had been a trick of his mind. But when Kyojuro turns around, he realizes that he hadn’t imagined it.

A small flower a few paces back from where he’s standing is slowly beginning to unfurl from the closed bud as the sun’s light reaches it. Kyojuro watches as long, thin petals stretch out before his eyes as though opening to bask in the sun’s light. All around it, another flower unfolds, then another, then another, then another.

Swept under by a mix of awe and mounting dread, Kyojuro sees that a small patch of flowers has appeared around him under the touch of the sun’s fading light. The telltale petals of the spider lily are all too clear. The blue of the petals is so pure that it seems almost unnatural. It’s smaller than the red spider lily, the flowers he had seen so often around his mother’s grave, but there is no mistaking what it is. The longer he looks at the flower, the brighter, more brilliant the colors seem to be, almost as though they were taken straight out of the pages of a storybook.

Kyojuro doesn’t know how long it is that he stands completely still, his thoughts rushing over each other in a flood of overwhelming panic. He is half-aware that the more emotion he feels, the greater the likelihood that Akaza will also feel it through the soul thread, but even then, he can’t bring himself to reign in the growing fear.

The flower itself is so—small. Delicate, even if the colour is incredibly remarkable. A quick look around the field tells Kyojuro that this is the only patch that grows as far as the eye can see.

He thinks of Kocho’s gaze pinned on him, her eyes somber. You must destroy the blue spider lily, Rengoku-san.

Akaza’s fingers ghost over the ridges of Kyojuro’s knuckles. His voice is soft in the way that is only reserved for Kyojuro. Promise me you won’t interfere.

Kyojuro knows that Akaza believes that finding the blue spider lily is his only way out; his biggest and last gamble for Kibutsuji’s favor in order to keep Kyojuro safe. He had admitted the truth to Kyojuro because he trusted Kyojuro with it, and yet Kyojuro has taken that information and used it to betray the only chance Akaza thought they had.

Perhaps six months ago, Kyojuro could have destroyed the blue spider lily, never told Akaza about it, and left him none the wiser. It’s not anywhere near possible now—not with the soul thread’s connection so much more complete. Akaza has probably already felt through the soul thread that something is wrong by now. He simply can’t leave the cave until the sun sets over the valley.

…Which won’t be much longer, judging from the trajectory of the sun.

Ah. Kyojuro is suddenly cold all over. He’s turned this scenario over in his head a thousand times. He’s mapped out each of Akaza’s reactions he can imagine, every single consequence, and he has told himself that whatever the price is, he has to pay it. Kibutsuji cannot obtain the blue spider lily no matter what, and certainly not because Kyojuro prioritized a demon over everyone he was meant to protect.

Kyojuro had already turned a blind eye to one life. He can’t do the same for a thousand—ten thousand—more. Not even for Akaza.

Kyojuro shrugs off his bag from his shoulders, reaching in for the vials of poison he knows rest at the bottom. Belatedly, he realizes that his hands are trembling. The last time he’s felt so terrified was before his mother died.

He will break something irreparable like this, Kyojuro knows. He had always known being a slayer meant making sacrifices, and while Kyojuro has made peace with sacrificing himself, he never truly prepared for it to be Akaza.

But isn’t that what true sacrifice is? Letting go of what was most important to him—paying the cost, even if it cost him everything? Perhaps it is already the universe’s grace for even giving them the time they have had.

Kyojuro uncaps the vial. Kocho had filled it to the brim, so a few droplets trickle from the side and land on the pads of his fingertips. Kyojuro bites down a hiss of pain as the acid immediately corrodes his skin, a blistering patch of redness spreading from the center wound.

He swallows down the tightness in his throat and pours the rest of the poison into the soil near the patch of blue spider lilies.

The effect is slow at first, unnoticeable for the first few minutes.

And then like a plague, the decay begins to spread all at once. First the stems of the flowers wilt, shrinking in on itself: green to brown, blue to black. The grass in the surrounding area withers as though a wildfire has swept through the clearing. Kocho’s poisons have always been effective, after all. Even the ones that weren’t made for demons.

Kyojuro does not move away even as the decay reaches under his feet, devouring every bit of life in its path. Instead, he stands unmoving as summer turns to ash around him, and waits for the sun to set.

Something is wrong.

Kyojuro has been unusually reserved for a while now. It hadn’t been obvious enough for Akaza to bring up, but that undercurrent of unease had followed them up the mountain slopes and deep into last night. Akaza hadn’t brought it up, wondering if it perhaps had to do with the human he had killed. Did Kyojuro still feel guilty about hiding it from the Corps? Did he regret his decision?

When Kyojuro hadn’t returned from refilling his flask for a good part of the hour, Akaza begins to pace around the mouth of the cave, impatient for the sun’s light to retreat. He can feel Kyojuro’s fighting spirit somewhere in the valley, steady like it usually is, but the soul thread informs him of what his other senses miss.

Something happened. Something must have happened. The soul thread feels as though it has been pulled taut in his chest, and any tighter, Akaza is afraid it’ll snap. A roiling wave of trepidation, of fear, of…

Stopping his pacing, Akaza closes his eyes and tries to orient himself. A few more minutes before the sun disappears behind the peaks. He just needs to wait.

The slow crawl of time has never felt more torturous. The moment the sun’s threat has retreated, Akaza runs from the mouth of the cave and into the valley where Kyojuro’s fighting spirit blazes.

He senses the poison before he sees it.

The air is thick with it. There’s not exactly a scent to the poison, but Akaza can feel it sinking into his skin nonetheless, and he recognizes what it is deep in his blood and bones. He knows, because this horrible feeling is one he is intimately familiar with. Like the oppressive silence before the devastation of a storm. The knowledge that something—everything—is wrong. Poison in the well, blood on her lips.

The center of the valley is a withered wasteland, and Kyojuro stands silent and unmoving in the middle of it. He turns his gaze towards Akaza when Akaza approaches, blackened grass crumbling under each footfall. It’s as if a sickness of rot and ruin has infested everything and drained away every last bit of life.

No. Akaza knows what this means but he doesn’t want to allow the thought to cross his mind, where Muzan will be able to tear it out of his brain. No.

“What did you do, Kyojuro.” His voice comes out distant, like he’s trapped inside a glass wall and listening to muffled conversation on the other side.

Amidst the poison, there is a sharp tinge of blood in the air. His senses narrow it down to Kyojuro’s fingertips, curled at his side and red with blood.

Kyojuro exhales, a quiet thing. His breathing is shallow, no longer sustaining Total Concentration. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re—” The words catch. An approximation of a laugh rips itself out of Akaza’s throat. “You’re sorry, Kyojuro? How did you even fucking know?”

“The Corps has their records too,” Kyojuro replies. “Oyakata-sama had information about the blue spider lily, he just didn’t know that Kibut—”

“Do not say His name,” Akaza snarls.

Kyojuro thins his lips. “Oyakata-sama didn’t know that he was searching for it until I informed him that you were looking for a flower.”

“You told the Corps.” Akaza feels sick. The ruined meadow smells like death. He doesn’t even know what had been the blue spider lily since every withered plant looks the exact same. “You promised me you wouldn’t interfere, but…” The realization hits him hard. “Is this why you were meeting with that fucking poisoner, Kyojuro? Because she and you were planning to do this?”

Some desperate part of him remains stubborn for a reason. Any excuse. Maybe Kyojuro will tell him he had no choice. That somebody forced his hand. Maybe this is all some cruel joke.

Instead, Kyojuro regards him with somber eyes. He has lit the match and the wildfire has already devoured everything. No more sparklers, no more tomorrow nights. Drip. Drip. Drip. Blood gathers at the tip of Kyojuro’s fingers and splatters onto the desecrated ground as though feeding the decay.

“I couldn’t let you bring it to him, Akaza,” Kyojuro says at last. “I can’t just turn away.”

A half incredulous scoff makes it past Akaza’s lips even if what he really wants to do is to scream. He stalks forward until he is inches away from Kyojuro. All of those quiet conversations that were shared between just the two of them—how many whispered words had been shared with the Corps? How much had Akaza told Kyojuro in confidence, only for it to be passed on as nothing but intel? He had bared himself open—allowed himself to be vulnerable, allowed himself to show weakness, and now all of it is being turned on Akaza like a blade. With thoughtless cruelty.

“I had one chance,” Akaza hisses. The panic builds in his throat, forcing every subsequent word out louder and louder. “If I found it for Him, He would have granted me anything I asked. He would have given me the power to protect you. I could have fixed everything. Don’t you fucking understand, Kyojuro?”

“I know,” Kyojuro replies. “But I don’t want to be the only one you protect, Akaza, I can’t be. Not if protecting me means hurting countless others. I promised my mother that I would use my strength to protect others and I can’t allow that to change. If Kib—if that man were to obtain the blue spider lily, the consequences would be unimaginable. Even if it means I’ll be safe, I can’t possibly condemn everyone else.”

The resolve in Kyojuro’s voice is more exhausted than anything. Akaza can feel his emotions bleeding through the soul thread like blood from a ripped artery. Guilt. But not enough guilt to waver Kyojuro’s determination. Not nearly enough to stop him from destroying every precarious chance they had.

Akaza laughs again. If he doesn’t, he thinks he might really fall apart. “I don’t fucking care if anyone else lives or dies,” he spits out. “All I wanted was to protect you. No one else. The world has never given anything to me, so why should I owe it any protection or kindness?”

“Because even if you believe that, I don’t!” Akaza wishes he could unhear the catch in Kyojuro’s breath; unfeel the way his soul twists so awfully in response to his own words. He wishes he didn’t know exactly how this is tearing Kyojuro apart, because it seems somehow worse that Kyojuro can maintain his solemn mask in spite of the turmoil traveling like a current through the soul thread. “There are so many things worth protecting and saving, and I can never give that up, Akaza. Not even for you.”

Kyojuro looks so goddamn sad, and Akaza loathes that expression more than he can express. How dare he ruin everything and then mourn for what he has broken.

“Not even for me,” he echoes, and the words are their own kind of poison on his tongue. “What is that even supposed to mean, Kyojuro?”

There is a moment of silence. Even despite Akaza’s best attempts to fence his thoughts from panic, the reality of the situation sets in like sediment in water, slowly gathering at the bottom.

If He found out—if He knew what Kyojuro had done…

But Kyojuro isn’t stupid. He knows what actions reap what consequences, so he simply must believe that this is a consequence he can endure. Even if Akaza doesn’t feel the same.

“How long have you been planning this?” Akaza demands.

“Kocho gave me the poison the last time I met her.”

The last time they’d met was the night Akaza had killed someone. Kyojuro told him it was alright. That it wasn’t his fault. So why was he punishing Akaza for it now?

Oh, it was funny when he really thought about it. Because hadn’t Akaza broken his promise first? He’d killed a human despite telling Kyojuro he wouldn’t, so it was only fair that Kyojuro were to break his promise now.

But that sort of reciprocity was the type of exchange between strangers. Acquaintances. Their relationship wasn’t supposed to be about fairness, it was supposed to be about—

(What do you think love is, Akaza?)

Destroy, Kyojuro’s uniform reads. Kocho Shinobu’s wisteria sachet, instead, says: protect.

Akaza had tried, he really had, to protect Kyojuro. He’d wanted to more than anything. Except Kyojuro had destroyed the one chance Akaza had. If love was sacrifice, what did it say that Kyojuro would much rather sacrifice everything they built for his duty, rather than sacrifice his duty for Akaza?

“You’ve always pitied demons, haven’t you, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks. His voice comes out rough and mocking, like that of a stranger’s. “Because a demon’s soul thread is broken. Did you think I was incapable of loving you because my soul thread was broken too?”

Pain flashes across Kyojuro’s expression. “Akaza, that’s—”

“Shut up,” Akaza snarls. “You’re human, aren’t you, Kyojuro? So your soul thread isn’t even fucking broken, but you still never loved me.”

Kyojuro takes a step forward before he restrains himself, just short of touching Akaza. Of course. Always the paradigm of self-control. Even now. “That’s not true,” he says. “If that man were to obtain the blue spider lily, he’d be unstoppable, Akaza! Just because I couldn’t let that happen doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

Akaza stares at him. He feels Kyojuro’s emotions pour through the soul thread like an open, festering wound, and he wonders if Kyojuro also feels the way his words gouge deep into Akaza.

“Don’t lie to me,” Akaza says lowly.

“I’m not lying to you!”

Akaza does not know how he’s meant to believe that. If he really thought about it, Kyojuro had constantly dealt in deceit for almost as long as they’d known each other, and he had managed to hide things for months. Just like he had about being soulmates. How was Akaza meant to discern what was the truth now?

“Do you know what will happen now, Kyojuro?” Akaza asks.

Surprise crosses Kyojuro’s face. “What do you mean?”

Akaza feels the tug in the back of his throat before he can speak. A faint thrumming of the biwa strings, calling to him. Alongside it is a monstrous fury that grows and grows until it overwhelms even the pulsing of the soul thread.

He knows.

The anger and hurt drain abruptly into terror. Akaza takes a step back from Kyojuro, who only follows his movements. “Akaza?” he asks, sounding properly alarmed this time. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t look for me,” Akaza manages out through gritted teeth, trying not to heed the call of the biwa just yet. His thoughts are racing too fast for him to catch up to a single one. He knows with a dreadful certainty that he has finally crossed the line of Muzan’s tolerance. The destruction of the blue spider lily is the final nail in the coffin, but there will be no grave. “Get out of here and don’t go anywhere I can find you.”

Kyojuro’s expression is stricken. It’s an unfitting look on his features—features that Akaza has grown to know better than his own. He shouldn’t look so upset. He’d planned this, so surely he had predicted this outcome too.

As Akaza takes another step back, the ground beneath his feet changes from the blackened grass into the shifting boards of the Infinity Fortress. He catches one last glimpse of Kyojuro, wide-eyed and afraid, the shape of Akaza’s name on his lips.

God. Even after everything, Akaza can’t help but feel the wretched pull of the soul thread between them.

Had he loved Kyojuro, or was his soul thread so broken that he only managed an approximation of love? Perhaps all he had given was a twisted imitation of what Kyojuro dreamed of—warped and ugly and ultimately destroying them like Hisae said it would.

And Kyojuro…

He reaches out as though to pull Akaza back, silhouetted against the fading blue of the sky. His fingers grasp at empty air.

The sky disappears entirely, replaced by the boards of the Infinity Fortress. Akaza falls and falls until he has no way of discerning up from down and truth from lie, and then he falls a little while longer.

Chapter Text

Kyojuro’s hands are black with ash.

He kneels on the ground where Akaza had been just a second ago before that dimension of shifting rooms and endless wooden boards had swallowed him whole.

Kibutsuji must have caught on, which means…

No. He couldn’t allow himself to entertain that possibility. Akaza told Kyojuro that Kibutsuji had threatened him with Kyojuro, which meant he would punish Akaza with Kyojuro too. As long as Kyojuro remained alive, Kibutsuji wouldn’t kill Akaza yet. Akaza said it himself—he was too useful to Kibutsuji to be killed.

And hadn’t he counted that on his list of sacrifices? He knew that destroying the blue spider lily would have terrible repercussions for Akaza, yet Kyojuro had chosen to do it anyway. The past few days were spent turning over all the possible outcomes in his head, except some desperately optimistic part of Kyojuro had expected them never to find the blue spider lily at all. And certainly not so soon.

His mind rewinds to Akaza’s furious eyes, glassy and narrowed, as he had said: Your soul thread isn’t even fucking broken, but you still never loved me.

Kyojuro knows he has no right to even feel upset that Akaza would doubt him. He certainly hadn’t made it easy. How many times had he nearly confessed before Kyojuro let his fear get the better of him? He didn’t want to say, I love you, but I’m scared of what it means, or I love you, and I’m afraid of how much I love you, or I love you and I’m afraid that I shouldn’t. He wanted to tell Akaza simply, truthfully, without any other strings attached.

But maybe he should have given Akaza something rather than nothing. Either way, he’d been wrong. After all, Kyojuro has never let his fear prevent him from doing his duty. Not when slaying demons, and not even today, when he had poisoned the meadow.

So why was it with Akaza that fear always got the better of Kyojuro?

Slowly, Kyojuro picks himself up. The spread of Kocho’s poison has stopped finally, the withered ground just short of reaching the treeline. Even then, the flowers and grass untouched by the poison seem to have been drained of the vibrancy of their colour.

There is no time to sit here and drown himself in the what-ifs and all the consequences that will soon catch up. Kyojuro knows he needs to move.

No time for worry, no time for regret, no time to just—

What if this is the last time Kyojuro will see Akaza? Full of useless apologies and cruel justifications. And does Kyojuro really have the right to grieve what he destroyed? Especially now, as Akaza suffers the repercussions for trusting Kyojuro.

Kaname’s caw splits the deathly silence. Kyojuro looks up to see his crow circling closer.

He blinks a few times and finds that his face is wet. His hands are blackened from crumbled leaves, stems, and petals, so Kyojuro wipes his sleeve over his face, wincing as the fabric chaffs against his eyes. Kaname lands on Kyojuro’s shoulder and does not inquire about Akaza like he usually does when Akaza is absent.

“Go to Oyakata-sama as fast as you can,” Kyojuro says. “Tell him to summon all the Hashira that he can and call for a meeting. I will be there as soon as I can. Hopefully around midnight.”

Kaname pecks him in affirmation. In a flurry of black wings, he is off again.

Kyojuro breathes in deep. His chest aches and he wonders if it is a lingering pain from Akaza’s soul thread.

Stepping through the darkened earth, he turns to leave as well.

It is an hour or so after midnight that Kyojuro arrives at the Corps’ headquarters.

He makes his way past the wisteria groves. The scent of the flower is overwhelmingly strong, and his mind wanders to the fact that it would have burned for Akaza to walk through these. But Akaza did it anyway back at the Butterfly Estate, dutifully visiting Kyojuro every night despite the poison he had to pass through.

Ah. Kyojuro had told himself to keep his thoughts focused on the immediate things, but it’s shaping up to be an impossible task. He just keeps flitting back to Akaza over the smallest reminders. The soul thread is quiet save for the oppressive undercurrent of fear that continues to trickle through.

Worry eats at him relentlessly. As Kyojuro gets closer and closer to the building, he can’t help but feel so… lost. He wishes someone would tell him the answers to all of his questions, but there isn’t anyone to turn to except his own discernment. Even now, when Kyojuro is no longer certain what the right choice is.

As he nears the walkway leading into Headquarters, he spots Kocho’s lone figure sitting on a bench, waiting.

She looks up when Kyojuro approaches, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“You received Oyakata-sama’s message!” Kyojuro exclaims.

Kocho does not smile in greeting like she usually does. “Shinazugawa-san, Tomioka-san, Kanroji-san and Himejima-san are here as well,” she says. “Unfortunately, the rest of the Hashira were not able to make it on such short notice.”

“I understand!”

“Do you, Rengoku-san?” Kocho asks. She stands up. “Did you use both vials?”

“Only one was enough.”

“Is that why you summoned a Hashira meeting?” Kocho asks, her eyes piercing. “To inform everyone you have destroyed the blue spider lily?”

“Yes!” Kyojuro replies. “That is partially the reason.”

“And the other?”

“I will tell you with the rest of the Hashira!”

“Rengoku-san,” Kocho says, and there’s none of her usual sugared politeness. She is all glassy shards, sharp and unyielding. “Think carefully about what will happen.”

Kyojuro swallows. “I thought of what we talked about, Kocho,” he says. “And I am prepared to pay my price. But it is good I met you here first! There is something I wanted to give you.”

He takes out the folded piece of cloth from his pocket and hands it to Kocho. She holds it in her palms, a faint frown settling on her face, although she doesn’t open it to see what’s inside just yet.

“You know what to do with it!” Kyojuro says.

For a couple of moments, Kocho does not reply. Her fingertips curl carefully over the cloth, the corners of her mouth twisting.

“Your fingers,” she says at last. “You got the poison on your skin. Come to the Butterfly Estate tomorrow and I’ll give you a balm to speed up the healing process.”

Kyojuro had just about forgotten about how the acid had corroded his hands and left burn marks. He nods. “Thank you, Kocho!”

“Where is he?”

Kyojuro wishes that question was easier to answer. Or at the very least, for the answer to not feel like knives in his chest. “Kibutsuji summoned Akaza shortly after I destroyed the blue spider lily.”

Kocho makes no reply to that. She only turns on her heel and begins to head down the walkway. “Let us not make Oyakata-sama wait longer,” she says, but her voice is a touch softer. Almost a little sad.

She is right. Kyojuro follows Kocho down the halls, towards the back garden where the Hashira always gather for meetings.

He’s been to Headquarters so many times and yet today feels inexplicably different. The wooden boards are maintained well enough that they barely creak, but the ones that do seem exceptionally loud. The distance between walls feels much closer than it used to be.

Then there’s the fact that they usually meet during the day, so the moon-silver garden is a strange sight in its own right.

Shinazugawa, Himejima and Kanroji are talking together, while Tomioka stands a little to the side. They all look over when Kyojuro steps onto the engawa with Kocho.

“Rengoku!” Shinazugawa says, stepping towards Kyojuro. There’s a faint frown on his face. Skepticism, but not yet accusation. “What is this about?”

“Rengoku-san!” Kanroji exclaims too, her eyes wide. “It’s so late! Did something happen to you?”

Before Kyojuro can reply, the door behind them swings open. Supported by Amane-sama, Oyakata-sama slowly walks out, his unseeing gaze sweeping over the clearing.

“Oyakata-sama,” he hears Himejima murmur as the Hashira drop into bows.

Kyojuro lowers himself to his knees too, seeing Kocho do the same in his periphery. Oyakata-sama smiles at them all.

“Stand up, my children,” he says softly. “There is no need. Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Of course, Oyakata-sama.” Shinazugawa looks up. “In your letter, you said Rengoku called the meeting?”

“Yes,” Oyakata-sama says. “Kyojuro, I will let you speak. I don’t believe anyone but Shinobu and I have been informed of recent happenings.”

Everyone turns towards him, expectant. Kocho’s eyes are dark with a warning: Think carefully about what well happen.

Except Kyojuro has already played out the worst-case scenario of tonight’s meeting, and it doesn’t even come close to what he has already done to Akaza.

“I have been travelling with Upper Moon Three!” he says. “A year ago, I fought him after a mission. He injured me and left me alive because he took an interest in me, so we decided that I would use him to gain intel for the Corps while striking a deal with him not to eat humans.”

The skepticism in Shinazugawa’s voice has definitely turned to anger by now when he hisses, “You tried to reason a deal with an Upper Moon, Rengoku?”

“He honoured his agreement with me!” Kyojuro says. “He kept to his word.”

Shinazugawa barks out a laugh. “How the fuck would you know that?” he demands. “Did it tell you that and you believed it? Who’s to say it didn’t kill humans behind your back? Don’t tell me you’re stupid enough to have gone soft for a demon.”

“Sanemi,” Oyakata-sama says gently. “Let Kyojuro finish before making your judgments.”

Shinazugawa works his jaw, but he doesn’t say anything else. The glare he fixes on Kyojuro does not subside.

“I was made aware that Akaza was searching for a specific flower for Kibutsuji,” Kyojuro continues. “When I told Oyakata-sama, he recognized what it was—a blue spider lily. It is a flower with properties that Kibutsuji believes will grant him immunity from the sun.”

Desperate eyes, furious words. Had Akaza known he had been crying as he snarled out those words at Kyojuro? All I wanted was to protect you. No one else.

“I found the blue spider lily tonight,” Kyojuro finally says. “Kocho had made a poison to destroy it, so I did before Akaza could take it back to Kibutsuji.”

There is silence after his words for a few moments. Shinazugawa still looks angry, but the furrow between his brows begins to smooth out.

“What about the demon?” Himejima asks.

“That is what I wanted to talk about!” Kyojuro says. Kocho’s eyes are stormy in the corner of his vision, so he turns to face Oyakata-sama instead. “I am afraid I have not been entirely honest in my reports about Akaza when I wrote to you, Oyakata-sama,” he says.

“How so, Kyojuro?”

“I encountered a demon last autumn who dealt with a special type of paralyzing poison,” Kyojuro explains. “When I was fighting it, I was poisoned. Akaza finished the mission for me by killing the demon and freeing the hostages. During that time, I…”

(Did you think I was incapable of loving you because my soul thread was broken too?)

Kyojuro had doubted, with every fibre of his soul, in the beginning. He mourned it, even—that his soulmate was someone who could never love him back. Akaza had proven that wrong again and again, but Kyojuro had never told him so.

“I found out he was my soulmate,” Kyojuro finishes. His voice comes out steady and Kyojuro has no idea how.

The entire clearing bursts into noise. Furious exclamations and confused questions and demands for an explanation, too many shouts for Kyojuro to answer.

All except Kocho, who stares at Kyojuro silently, solemnly. Did she have her suspicions all along? Kyojuro wouldn’t be surprised. She was easily the most perceptive person he knew.

Oyakata-sama raises his hand. Kyojuro should be more aware of the horrified, betrayed looks pinned on him, but for some reason, this all feels so insubstantial now.

The wooden boards are rough against his knees as he kneels down. Kyojuro presses his hands flat against the floor and ignores the way the burned nerve endings send pain spiking up his spine.

“I have one request, Oyakata-sama,” Kyojuro says, bowing his head. “If Akaza is able to break the curse and betray Kibutsuji, I ask that the Corps does not order his execution.”

Shinazugawa lets out a sharp laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me, Rengoku?” he snarls. “You should be begging for forgiveness right now, and instead you’re begging for the life of a fucking demon? Have you lost your mind?”

“Um…” Kanroji’s voice is much smaller. “But Rengoku-san has no control over the situation! It wasn’t as though he chose for things to be this way. No one decides who their soulmate is.”

“He chose to withhold the truth,” Himejima adds. “And perhaps he has been entertaining much more selfish notions for not trying to kill the demon with the arrangements they made.”

“You are right!” Kyojuro says. “I did have selfish reasons for not killing Akaza and for deceiving everyone. For that, I am truly sorry. I know my apologies mean little right now, but I—”

“Get up, Rengoku,” Shinazugawa spits. “You have no right to ask this of Oyakata-sama. Or of any of us.”

“Oyakata-sama, please,” Kyojuro says. He had never liked to beg. It made him feel like a child, pleading for things to be different when he had always trained himself to accept them as they were. But Akaza is different. He loves Akaza in a way that is so paradoxical to what he has always been taught and yet Kyojuro cannot let it go. “On the condition that Akaza breaks the curse and deflects from Kibutsuji, I ask that you grant him a pardon. He will be able to provide valuable insight to the Corps about Kibutsuji and be a useful ally.”

“Forget the demon. How can we trust you?” Shinazugawa demands. “You say your demon has provided us important intel on Kibutsuji, but how much of the Corps’ secrets have you spilled to it?” He sneers. “Of all people, I’d expect you to keep a clear mind, Rengoku, but it seems like while the rest of the Corps shed blood and gave our lives to eradicate demons, you were sharing your bed with one.”

“Shinazugawa-san,” Kocho says sharply. “Rengoku-san may have hidden the truth, but he has worked for the good of the Corps. Or have you forgotten that he destroyed the blue spider lily?”

“Don’t tell me you’re defending a traitor, Kocho.” Shinazugawa’s hand hovers over his blade. “After what that Upper Moon did to your si—”

“Consider your next words well, Shinazugawa-san,” Kocho says, and this time, the cold fury in her voice cuts like a knife.

There is a moment of tense silence. Oyakata-sama is the one who breaks it. Softly, carefully, like handling delicate porcelain.

“You have always followed your orders and kept faithful to the Corps, Kyojuro,” he says. “So I will grant your request if you can ensure that the terms are met and on the condition that Akaza does not harm another. If he does, then any protection I can offer him is forfeit. Do you understand?”

Kyojuro nods, his shoulders almost sagging with relief. “I understand, Oyakata-sama! Thank you.”

“Oyakata-sama,” Shinazugawa protests. “I cannot stand by your decision. That isn’t just any demon, it’s Upper Moon Three. We can’t exactly look past it like we can with that Kamado kid’s sister. Upper Moon Three has killed countless people.” He throws a glare at Kyojuro. “A fact that I’m sure even Rengoku can’t deny.”

“I know your concerns, Sanemi,” Oyakata-sama says. “However, though Upper Moon Three is not as innocent as Nezuko, he still proves incredibly valuable. Information he could provide us about Kibutsuji Muzan would be better than any we’ve gathered ourselves through the years. Had it not been for Kyojuro’s interference, we would not have ever found out that Muzan was after the blue spider lily. The consequences would have been devastating if he’d been able to obtain it.”

There’s a few moments of silence. Shinazugawa doesn’t look any more abated, but he doesn’t say anything else apart from throwing Kyojuro another furious look.

Oyakata-sama smiles gently at them. “Is that all you wanted to talk to us about, Kyojuro?” he asks.

“It is!”

“Then we shall end our meeting,” he says. “Please, rest. I am sure you are all exhausted from travel.”

One by one, the rest of the Hashira file out in somber silence. Kyojuro catches Kanroji’s concerned expression from his periphery as she leaves, but they’re too far away to exchange words. Kyojuro remains kneeling in the same spot until even Kocho has gone and the only three people that remain in the gardens are him, Oyakata-sama and Amane-sama.

The wooden boards, pressed against the wounds on his fingers, burn harshly. Or perhaps the acid wounds aren’t the real reason why everything hurts so, so, awfully. Kyojuro should probably feel more guilt about the outcome of this meeting and how he had betrayed his friends’ trust, but all he can do is wrench his mind back from spiralling into worry over Akaza.

“Are you disappointed in me, Oyakata-sama?” Kyojuro asks. If Oyakata-sama says yes, then it is an answer he deserved. If he says no, then that is a forgiveness Kyojuro did not earn.

“For what, Kyojuro?”

“For…” Kyojuro shakes his head. “For the secrets I kept, I suppose!”

Oyakata-sama fixes his unseeing gaze on Kyojuro, surprisingly sad.

“You are an exceptional slayer, Kyojuro,” he says at last. “But you are still human. I understand why you acted the way you did. You made the right decisions along the way even when they were hard, and that is what matters. I am not disappointed.”

Kyojuro gnaws on the inside of his cheek, suddenly feeling very out of his depth. Like he is six years old again, the world so massive around him while his mother gives him the answers to all of his childish questions.

Taking a deep breath, he bows his head. “Thank you for granting Akaza a pardon, Oyakata-sama,” he says. “I will accept any punishment you or the Hashira deem fit.”

“Are you certain that is an option you want to give Sanemi?” Oyakata-sama asks, faintly amused. “Stand up, Kyojuro. Go home and get some rest.”

Kyojuro gets to his feet. “Then I will take my leave, Oyakata-sama!”

Oyakata-sama nods. “I will send for you soon to discuss more,” he says. “Take care of yourself until then.”

Amane-sama supports him as he disappears back into the doors. For a little longer, Kyojuro stands in front of the now-empty clearing, now quiet. The moon ripples over the koi pond.

Oyakata-sama is correct. He should go home and rest—when was the last time Kyojuro had slept? Then he recalls that it had been just before the sun had set, in the cave Akaza found for the two of them.

Oh. It hadn’t even been that long ago, except so many things have happened since then. The days when he simply travelled with Akaza during his missions seem to be a distant, pleasant memory. A small reprieve afloat and lost in this newly formed yet ancient ocean of wrongness.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Kyojuro makes his way out of the clearing and towards the walkway that leads out of the headquarters. He’s met by Shinazugawa and Kanroji, both wearing very different expressions on their faces.

Kanroji springs forward as soon as she spots Kyojuro. “Are you alright, Rengoku-san?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Shinazugawa snaps. “He tells us he’s been fraternizing with a fucking demon, and you ask him if he’s alright? Do you really think that’s the prime concern right now?”

“Not just a demon,” Kanroji corrects rather firmly. “It was his soulmate!”

“Yeah, not just a demon.” Shinazugawa turns towards Kyojuro with a sneer. “It was Upper Moon Three. What do you have to say for yourself now, Rengoku?”

There is nothing but burning hatred behind Shinazugawa’s narrowed eyes. Kyojuro remembers the missions they’d undertaken together and the meals shared afterwards. He liked to think he and Shinazugawa had become friends, except it doesn’t seem like that holds true anymore.

He’d told Kocho he would pay his price, hadn’t he?

“Everything I told Oyakata-sama and the rest of the Hashira is all I have to say!” Kyojuro replies. “But for what it is worth, I am sorry for what I kept from—”

“Bullshit,” Shinazugawa snarls. He seizes a fistful of Kyojuro’s uniform and yanks him forward so that they’re face to face. “Don’t give me that, Rengoku. You’re sorry, but not fucking sorry enough to kill the demon, huh? So why does it matter?”

“Shinazugawa-san!” Kanroji says, much more forceful than she usually is. She tugs at Shinazugawa’s arm until he releases Kyojuro. “Please stop it! It’s no good if we keep on fighting and accusing each other. Rengoku-san already explained his situation.”

“We are supposed to be Hashira,” Shinazugawa says darkly. “You speak of not wanting to go down your father’s path, but do you really think this is any better, Rengoku? How fucking shameful is it to get to your knees and beg for the life of an Upper Moon?”

Before Kyojuro can respond, Shinazugawa has turned on his heels and stormed off. He disappears around a corner, followed by the loud slam of a door a few seconds later.

Kanroji rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet. “I’m sorry, Rengoku-san,” she says. “This must not be easy for you either.”

Kyojuro tears his eyes away from where Shinazugawa had disappeared and offers Kanroji a smile. “It is alright!” he tells her. “Shinazugawa has every right to be upset at me. I know I have betrayed the trust people have in me.”

Kanroji shakes her head. “That’s not true! I understand why you made the decisions you did. It isn’t as though you betrayed the Demon Slayer Corps, either!”

Kyojuro tries to smile, but he feels so… tired. He’s not sure it comes out right. “Thank you,” he says. “I am going to head back to the Rengoku estate now! Perhaps if you are still here tomorrow, we can share a meal together.”

Eyes lighting up, Kanroji nods. “We should!” she exclaims excitedly. “Ah, maybe Senjuro-kun can come too!”

Kyojuro agrees, and they part. Kanroji has always been understanding by nature, but he isn’t sure if he deserved such immediate and unquestioning forgiveness from her.

He meets no one else on the way out except for a few kakushi, who bow their heads to Kyojuro with a quiet greeting of Rengoku-sama. Soon, he is out of the building and walking through the wisteria grove again.

The road back home is about an hour’s walk if Kyojuro keeps up a brisk pace. Although Oyakata-sama told him to go back and rest, now that Kyojuro is alone, he doesn’t know if he can even sleep if he tried, exhaustion notwithstanding. Too many things have happened, and he wishes time could just stand still so he can let it all sink in without having to concern himself over anything else.

To be a slayer is to be a soldier, and to be a soldier is to shoulder on no matter the circumstances. There is no such thing as stopping to grieve, because time does not stop for anybody. Not even now, when the foundation of the world feels as though it has crumbled and Kyojuro is picking his way through the dust.

It stings, of course—Shinazugawa’s anger, as justified as it was. But even the fury or hatred of his friends is something Kyojuro can bring himself to accept. The thought of losing Akaza tastes bitter in a way nothing ever has.

Shinazugawa said Kyojuro betrayed the Corps. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but it’s almost… laughable compared to what he did to Akaza.

Making a decision for the greater good hadn’t absolved any of the guilt, only made it worse. Kyojuro idly recalls one of their earlier conversations about soulmates. Akaza had asked Kyojuro what he would do when he met his, and Kyojuro gave him the answer he used to never have trouble believing in: I will uphold my duty and keep my promise, above everything else.

Back when duty took the highest importance in Kyojuro’s life, it was easy for it to be placed above all else because there was nothing else. The decisions Kyojuro must make haven’t changed, but they have become so much harder to follow through with.

The faint ache that has settled through his soul thread has not subsided ever since Kibutsuji had whisked Akaza away. It’s an old, familiar feeling, like pressing down on a just-formed bruise. He tries to reach through the soul thread to feel Akaza and meets nothing but a jumbled cacophony of too emotions to place.

That dread that has been building in Kyojuro for the past few days hasn’t retreated either. As he walks down the path that leads home, Kyojuro feels it constrict tighter and tighter in his chest until he wants to reach inside and claw it out.

Is the dread from himself, or is he no longer able to distinguish between his own emotions and Akaza’s? And even if he can, does it really matter who it belongs to?

Beyond the path, an owl’s call cuts through the silence of the night. Kyojuro looks up at the impartial face of the moon.

He really should stop dragging his feet and head on home. Don’t go anywhere I can find you, Akaza had warned. Which was rather funny, given how Akaza would always manage to find Kyojuro in the beginning despite Kyojuro hoping to evade him. From the Butterfly Estate to his own home; there was never a place he could go to hide from Akaza. Even if they parted briefly during travels, Akaza would always come back to him without fail.

When—if—they met again, what would Kibutsuji have done to him? Ordered him to kill Kyojuro? Stolen his memories yet again, just like he did all those centuries ago?

Kyojuro is pulled from his thoughts by Kaname’s familiar caw. He looks up into the sky to see Kaname’s form gliding towards him, although his wingspan is slightly off and the speed at which he’s flying towards Kyojuro is much faster than usual.

Kaname completely misses his landing on Kyojuro’s arm and instead tumbles to the dirt path in a flurry of flapping wings and feathers, a cloud of dust rising around him. Kyojuro rushes forward, concerned. His crow’s left wing is slightly crooked.

“Kaname!” he exclaims. “What happened to you? Where are you hurt?”

With Kyojuro’s help, Kaname pushes himself into an upright position. He likes keeping himself well-groomed (he had been earlier tonight, Kyojuro recalls), but now all of his feathers are in disarray, and the next caw he gives sounds distressed.

“ATTACK,” he tells Kyojuro. “ATTACK ON THE RENGOKU ESTATE.”

The world stumbles into a screeching halt. For a terrifying moment, Kyojuro is helplessly frozen. It must only be a second of petrified time before he returns to his senses, but the dread that had lain dormant in his chest has finally blossomed into an awful bloom.

His father. Senjuro. They’re both at home.

“Was it Akaza?” Kyojuro asks.

“NO.” Kaname attempts to stretch out his injured wing before folding it back. “ANOTHER DEMON. STRONGER.”

Another demon, stronger than Akaza—it must be another Upper Moon, which only left the first and second of the Kizuki.

“Go to Oyakata-sama,” Kyojuro commands Kaname. His voice comes out uneven and he doesn’t bother to steady himself. “Tell him to send backup as—as soon as possible.”

Kaname looks as though he wants to say something else, but he only pecks Kyojuro’s hand once, gently, cawing an affirmative before he takes off into shaky flight.

If there is a price, I will make sure I am the one who pays it, he’d told Kocho.

Heart pounding in his throat, Kyojuro turns towards the direction of home and runs.

The boards of the Infinity Fortress shift rapidly around Akaza as he plummets through a seemingly fathomless pit.

He can almost hear the strum of the biwa around him as Nakime manipulates the rooms and wood. Still, Akaza would have practically been content to fall forever and ever, if only to stave off any worse punishment.

Muzan knows. He knows the blue spider lily has been found, and he knows that it has been destroyed.

Months ago, after Akaza failed to kill Kamado Tanjiro, Muzan warned him of the consequences if Akaza continued to neglect his search for the blue spider lily. Disobey me one more time, and I will have your Hashira’s life.

Except this is so much worse. This isn’t just disobedience—this is heresy, a blatant act of betrayal. Not only had Akaza failed to bring the flower to Muzan, but he’d let the information slip to Kyojuro, who in turn destroyed it. Will Muzan have him kill Kyojuro? That now seems far too light a punishment for the magnitude of what had happened.

The image rises greedily to the forefront of Akaza’s mind even though it makes him sick: Kyojuro’s lifeless body, unseeing eyes, slack expression. Maybe Muzan will have him poisoned and have Akaza watch his life eaten away breath by breath and cell by cell, just like—

With a jolt of pain, Akaza feels his body slam against wooden boards, breaking his fall harshly. Broken bones mend themselves in an instant, but the stuttering pace of his pulse doesn’t become any more even.

Akaza’s head is spinning. He feels Muzan close by, but he’s still disoriented by the fall, haunted by that somber look in Kyojuro’s eyes the last time they saw each other, and terrified by the endless, horrible possibilities.

“Akaza.”

Muzan’s voice feels louder than it should be. Someway or another, Akaza pulls his aching body up from the pristine wooden boards and kneels, staring down at his hands as the tips of Muzan’s perfectly polished shoes appear on the edges of his periphery.

The air around him sparks with barely constrained fury. Akaza is at a complete loss as to what to do or what to think. He used to clear his mind in preparation for Muzan’s punishments, knowing that panic was useless and only gave Muzan more fuel to torture him. Better to approach it with impassivity so it could end sooner.

But what use was that? Muzan already knew of the full scope of Akaza’s failure and who had been the root cause. Even if Akaza successfully managed to bar all thoughts of Kyojuro from his mind, it didn’t make a difference.

Begging Muzan for Kyojuro’s life is an even more lost cause than simply doing nothing. Muzan had never taken kindly to disobedience, and pleading with him would only serve to further his anger.

So what was Akaza supposed to do? Kneel with his head down at Muzan’s feet like a fucking dog, and wait for his master’s next command—even if that command was to kill Kyojuro?

“Muzan-sama,” Akaza replies.

A hand grasps his chin, and Akaza feels his face being lifted. His body locks in automatic response, preparing itself for the pain of his cells being ruptured. Pain is familiar. His pain can buy Kyojuro time.

None of it comes. Instead, he meets blood-red eyes, dark with monstrous fury.

“Upper Moon Three,” Muzan muses, almost like he’s talking to himself. “How undeserving you are of that title, Akaza. How is it that after all I have given you, you are still so utterly worthless?”

Nails sink deep into Akaza’s right eye with a wet sound. Red bursts across his vision before Muzan digs the eyeball out and crushes it within his palm.

A horrible pain shoots through the back of his head, but it’s nothing new. For a moment, Akaza thinks he can just take this pain and swallow each bite he’s fed, as long as it keeps Muzan’s punishment focused on him and away from Kyojuro.

And then he feels Muzan’s presence worming into his mind, invading his thoughts like the slow seeping of poison. It’s not entirely new because Muzan has always been privy to the mind of any demon he wished—except this time he digs deeper and burrows further than he ever had. Some half-formed gasp rises and sticks in Akaza’s throat. He wants to protest, but Muzan’s presence in his mind is so overwhelming that he can no longer summon the ability to say any words.

Just when Akaza is certain his entire mind will fracture from the digging, the intrusion stops. Reprise only lasts for a few moments before he feels something tear wide open.

He thinks he does scream this time, except sound and sight no longer register in his mind. There is only that awful feeling of something pouring through his mind—something that’s only ever escaped in tiny shreds through cracks is now an unstoppable tide, crowding each thought and sensation and…

Akaza knows Muzan’s nails are digging into his jaw, but he doesn’t quite feel it. He might be sobbing or screaming or laughing or simply silent. The patterned wooden boards of the Infinity Fortress are spirals, fracturing piece by piece until everything in his visual field is nonsensical.

Memories, he manages to gather, memory after memory being forced back into recollection after they’d been locked away for centuries. They pass by too fast for Akaza to fully process the details of each, but he catches onto fleeting glimpses.

His back sings with brutal pain as a whip lashes down. A body hangs from the ceiling beam.

Breathe in.

A blow strikes Akaza across the cheek, snapping his head to the side. He is too human to get back up from the hit.

Breathe out.

Two bodies lay neatly on the wooden flooring of the building that used to be his home. She is cold in death when she has always burned too warm in life, and that is how he knows that it is the end.

(I find a mere human, Muzan says, smiling despite his words. How disappointing.)

Akaza is snapped back into the present with a gasp.

The pattern of the boards seems to come together again. The ringing in his ears subsides. Muzan is still holding his face up, although Akaza realizes that the warm liquid that now drips down his cheeks isn’t blood but tears.

Then, as quickly as they had come, the memories begin to subside. Akaza tries to grasp onto them: the way the girl had smiled underneath the fireworks, the way the man adjusted the height of his arm, the name he was called, Haku—

What was it again?

He doesn’t remember. The face that smiles at him is blank. The hand that holds his arm is cold. The doesn’t know who it is he bore the lashes for, because the grave is nameless.

“Give them back,” Akaza hears himself yell, wild with mindless desperation. “Those are—those are my memories, give them back!”

Muzan yanks his jaw up and Akaza chokes on a mouthful of blood. “Cease your foolish begging and know your place.”

Heaving for breath, Akaza tries to reorient himself and fight down his urge to lash out. He wants to chase after the last fading pieces of those memories, but they are just that—a memory. People he has already lost and cannot bring back. But Kyojuro is still here. Kyojuro, he can’t lose too.

“You have failed me, Akaza,” Muzan says lowly when Akaza stills, “again and again. Do you even comprehend what you have done? You could not kill Kamado Tanjiro and you dared ask me to tolerate that Hashira. Now you go and share with him your plans, and then let him destroy the blue spider lily? What do you have to say for yourself, Akaza?”

Akaza swallows the blood suffocating his throat. His entire body is wired taut, cells singing in anticipation of pain. “There…” His voice comes out raw and shaky. “There must be other blue spider lilies,” he finally manages. “Kyojuro only destroyed one patch of the flowers, but now that I know where it grows, I can focus my efforts on searching for it in—”

His body is struck to the side by some invisible force. Muzan’s power finally begins to tear at his cells, pulling them apart excruciatingly as it ruptures underneath his skin.

“You spent two hundred years searching for the blue spider lily, Akaza,” Muzan says, his voice rising to a snarl. “And to no avail, in case you have forgotten. Am I to wait idly by for another two hundred years for you to find another one, only for you to betray me and let one of your human toys ruin it all over again?”

Akaza opens his mouth to protest only to find that he can no longer speak. His limbs don’t obey him. Not a single cell in his body belongs to himself.

“I have let that Hashira live for far too long,” Muzan says slowly, purposefully, as if letting those words sink in one by one. “You will kill him before the sun rises, Akaza.”

Akaza’s head snaps up. He’s spent so many of these punishments with his eyes fixed on the floor, head bowed, because that was all he ever knew: Muzan’s wrath and the uncaring eyes of the world. There was nothing he truly needed to concern himself with, and even after Kyojuro, obedience to Muzan was far too ingrained a habit for Akaza to be able to change anything.

His nails gouge deep lines into the wooden boards as Akaza pulls himself up to his hands and knees, the only amount of movement he can manage against the pressure. “No,” he manages, half a snarl. “I won’t kill him.”

Muzan’s eyes gleam dangerously. “I am not asking you to do me a favour, Akaza. Did you think this is a negotiation?”

Break the curse. Kyojuro’s voice echoes in the back of his mind again. Akaza spent so many days denying that possibility simply because he feared the consequences of failure. Now, things are so much worse than they were back then and Kyojuro is still right in what he needs to do.

Or perhaps it wasn’t as much fear of consequence but his inability to let it go—this power that Muzan had granted him. Being Upper Moon Three had made Akaza strong. Muzan had made him strong. If Akaza broke the curse, if he let go of everything he had known for the past two centuries, then he would be weak again.

But that was the irony, wasn’t it? Being Upper Moon Three was exactly what had doomed Kyojuro. Akaza’s strength certainly didn’t matter, not when it was Muzan’s to give and take freely.

If he broke the curse, then at least Muzan wouldn’t be able to command him as he pleased. Even if it killed Akaza, that was a much better alternative than being forced to kill Kyojuro.

Muzan’s eyes narrow. The next couple of silent seconds seem to stretch for an eternity.

The pain strikes again, this time much more brutal than the last. Akaza’s arms give out underneath him. Through the buzzing in his ears, he hears Muzan’s clipped voice say: “Nakime, bring me Kokushibo.”

It couple be moments of minutes or hours before Upper Moon One arrives. Akaza can barely sense his presence through the pain. He only knows of his arrival when he hears his low voice greet Muzan.

Slowly, slowly, his surroundings trickle back into focus. Kokushibo stands a sword’s length away from Akaza, his six eyes impassive as he waits silently for Muzan’s next command.

“It seems as though Akaza is incapable of doing the most simple of tasks,” Muzan says. “I send him to kill a low-ranking slayer and he instead stands down like a dog when a Hashira asks him to. I ask him to find me a flower, and he allows the same Hashira to destroy what belongs to me. How Upper Moon Three has fallen.”

Kokushibo’s expression does not change. “What will you have me do?”

“Kill Akaza’s Hashira.” His eyes narrow contemptuously at Akaza. “I don’t care how, as long as he is dead before the sun rises.”

Akaza someone manages to spring forward. He doesn’t know what he’d been planning to accomplish by attacking Muzan, but he draws his arm back in a swing nonetheless.

Kokushibo’s sword cuts him down before he reaches Muzan, pinning Akaza to the wooden boards and rendering him incapable of moving.

“How… disappointing,” he says, as though Akaza is nothing more than a child who needs to be disciplined. “You would dare attack Muzan-sama?”

Because—because what? Because they measured Akaza based on his usefulness, on his obedience, and any deviation from that was simply disappointing? Was each moment he spent with Kyojuro instead of searching for the blue spider lily a waste of time; was Akaza a defective weapon for daring to love someone? He hadn’t asked to be one in the first place.

“I’ll kill you,” he spits at Kokushibo, who twists the sword deeper into Akaza’s chest.

“Leave him be, Kokushibo,” Muzan says. “Let Akaza throw his little fit now if it makes him feel better about what’s going to happen. It’s the only thing he’s able to do anyway.”

“As you wish, Muzan-sama.” Kokushibo takes a step back. “The Hashira… where should I find him?”

“I’m sure Akaza knows.” Akaza feels his head being yanked up again. “He has wasted much of his time visiting the Hashira, after all.”

The Rengoku Estate. Akaza suddenly feels cold all over. He had warned Kyojuro not to go anywhere Akaza could find him, except it wasn’t as though Kyojuro would always listen to what he said. And even if Kyojuro wasn’t at the Rengoku Estate, his father and brother were. If Kokushibo were to kill them, it would destroy Kyojuro.

He feels Muzan’s presence probing in his mind a second later. With rekindled desperation, Akaza tries to file the thoughts away, far from reach. He crowds his memories with other locations—inns they have visited, places he has searched, the wisteria house where Kyojuro had been poisoned—but it’s all to no avail.

No matter how he curses and tries to struggle back, he feels the information being pulled from his mind, extracted like the slow withdrawal of a knife. The struggle leaves Akaza breathless and weak and it’s all for fucking nothing because Muzan comes away with what he needs anyway.

Kokushibo accepts the information dispassionately as if this is just another task he needs to carry out. Without sparing another glance at Akaza, he turns to leave silently, a biwa strum taking him away.

He is going to kill Kyojuro, all while Akaza sits here uselessly, just as weak as he has always been.

The thought brings a touch of newfound strength into his body. Someway or another, Akaza manages to free himself from Kokushibo’s blade. He casts it aside, ignoring the way his body bleeds and does not heal, and tries to attack Muzan again.

It’s still as futile as the first time. Akaza doesn’t even reach him before an invisible pressure slams him onto the ground. Splinters tear into his skin.

“I’ve never seen you quite so spirited, Akaza,” Muzan comments. “It’s a shame that you’re just as weak as when I first found you.”

As though allowing Akaza an indulgence, the memory shutters through his mind. A stone bridge above rushing water; Muzan approaches him with a pleasant but empty smile. Akaza is covered with blood. He is hollow; surely, if someone cut him open, they would see nothing inside. Something inside his ribcage has broken and he is certain there is nothing that will ever fix it.

He is glad when Muzan plunges his hand into his head, believing it’ll finally kill him.

“I won’t serve you,” Akaza snarls. “I’ll fucking destroy the blue spider lily myself if you—” Akaza breaks off abruptly as his mouth fills with blood again. It takes him a second to realize Muzan tore out his tongue.

“I’m sure you will.” Muzan bends down and smiles. It is the same expression he wore that night on the bridge when he had turned Akaza into a demon. His eyes are sharp as knives as though he is dissecting Akaza piece by piece, keeping the useful parts and discarding everything that he deems worthless. Even if those are the parts Akaza wants to keep. He is sick of being a weapon but what choice is he given? “This entire situation has made you rather… difficult to work with, Akaza. I try to be lenient with you but you simply keep on failing, over and over again. So you don’t need to worry about what you’ll do when your Hashira is killed, because you won’t even be able to remember him. Or perhaps I’ll leave just enough for you to remember that what happened to him was your fault, and you’ll always be left wondering what it is.”

No. No. He can’t forget Kyojuro. Akaza won’t. He had promised himself so many times, inscribing each smile and laugh from Kyojuro, where surely, it was carved too deep for Akaza to forget like he did before. He wouldn’t allow Kyojuro to be another ephemeral memory. It’s only now that Akaza realizes how much he loathed those years he’d spent alone. The leaves had always been a little less green and the night sky so much more lonely. He doesn’t want to be alone, and he doesn’t want to forget the feeling of finally not having to be.

“How foolish,” Muzan says, the sneer audible in his voice. “I never expected this childish obsession of yours to go so far, Akaza. Do you think it makes any difference that he is supposed to be your soulmate?”

“He is,” Akaza manages out through gritted teeth.

“You are not a human, Upper Moon Three,” Muzan says. His voice has dropped to a soft tone, poison steeped into the mocking gentleness. “You exist to serve me and to carry out my orders. That is what I created you for. So why would you think yourself capable of loving him? That is not your purpose, Akaza.”

Muzan was wrong. This wasn’t obsession, Akaza was certain. He had certainly taken interest in plenty of Hashira before, drawn to their fighting spirit and their skills. But Kyojuro was so much more than that. Obsession didn’t explain a fraction of what Akaza felt—how being with Kyojuro felt like relearning how to breathe, how to see, how to live. As though he had spent centuries under water, and the ocean has finally spit him out.

Muzan was wrong, so Akaza isn’t sure why the words burrow into his chest so wretchedly.

Then again, that’s a dishonest way of looking at things. Akaza knows why. He just doesn’t want to dwell on the possibility that Muzan is correct, that he is too broken and too much of a monster to love at all. He is afraid that despite all of this time spent with Kyojuro, he has only caused more harm than good, and Kyojuro bore it silently like he always did with things that hurt him.

Akaza blinks. His eyes are wet.

“I have wasted enough time with you,” Muzan says at last, “and I am tired of your constant failure and disobedience, Akaza. This will end now.”

Faster than Akaza can react, he feels nails dig into his skull. For a blinding, blessed moment, pain is all that Akaza knows.

Then he feels it, the way a memory is torn from the archives of his mind. A second ago, it was there; in the blink of an eye later, it’s just—gone. Something hollow and empty takes its place. Kyojuro… he and Kyojuro had been… doing what?

It hurts like nothing Akaza has felt before. The loss of each memory burns as though something is physically being ripped out from inside Akaza. In the periphery of his senses, he vaguely registers that Muzan’s footsteps are retreating away, but it certainly doesn’t matter because the memories continue to be stolen away, one by one.

Some awful, inhuman sob rises past his throat. Akaza tries to grasp onto each memory before they slip from his fingertips like water, but the tide only ebbs past him. He clings onto the ones that seem hardest to forget: watching the fireworks with Kyojuro, finding Kyojuro in the snowstorm, giving him the cherry blossom petal. He repeats Kyojuro’s name over and over until the syllables become mixed up in his mouth and Akaza is terrified he is already saying the wrong name.

When Kokushibo returns with his mission successful and his sword bloody, will Akaza even remember whose blood it is that drips from his blade?

Akaza’s lungs scream with each breath he takes but he’s afraid that if he stops, he’ll forget this familiar pattern of breathing.

He’d watched the fireworks with—with who?

Something warm splashes down onto his hands. Akaza looks down at his ink-stained fingers. He pictures them tangled in gold—(gold?) hair, kiss-reddened lips pressed against his palm, and the cadence of familiar, fond laughter.

His eyes land on the red ribbon tied around his wrist.

The faintest recollection of a memory fights against the current. A lover’s nimble fingers find the ribbon from a tangle of bedsheets just so he can tie it around Akaza’s wrist. It’s a promise of sorts. Fragile, but real nonetheless.

Break the curse.

Akaza shudders. He doesn’t know why he’s crying. He doesn’t know who the ribbon on his wrist belongs to.

Break the curse.

Phantom fingers cup his cheeks, gentle as snow. He can hear the faintest whisper of a soft, girlish voice, and even though Akaza can’t make out what she says, he knows what she’s telling him to do.

So he reaches out to grasp the one thing he can still know in the midst of all of this unknowing. A thread wound taut in his ribcage, something that should be delicate yet doesn’t break when Akaza clutches it like a lifeline. The current sweeps past him but this he won’t let go of, even if it kills him.

(Stay, someone asks him against all odds, and Akaza had—against all odds.)

Something snaps in his chest.

All at once, Akaza’s surroundings shutter back into focus. He pitches forward to his hands and knees with a gasp, the red tinting the corner of his vision finally beginning to fade away. His whole body is shaking. It feels as though something has remade him stitch by stitch, overturned every cell in his body and replaced it with something new.

Oh, Akaza thinks hazily. He’d watched the fireworks with Kyojuro. They’d promised to finish lighting the sparklers together.

Kyojuro. Kyojuro, with his brighter-than-life smile, his steadfast swordsmanship, more brilliant than anyone Akaza has ever known.

He hasn’t forgotten. Everything memory that had been slipping through Akaza’s fingertips is back where he can reach them, even the seemingly insignificant moments of daily routines. All filed away carefully because Kyojuro is too important to forget.

Akaza’s mind is strangely quiet. Tentatively, he reaches out to the web that binds him to all demons only to come away empty-handed. There is nothing there. Not the faint hum of the biwa strings nor Muzan’s binding curse. The curse is gone.

For a few seconds, Akaza stands frozen in disbelief, afraid that his mind is playing some cruel trick. It seems impossible for the curse to be broken. After so long, could it really be gone just like that?

Then the situation settles back in and Akaza forces himself to refocus. He has no time to stand here wondering about what-ifs and could-bes. Curse or no curse he needs to get to Kyojuro before Kokushibo does, which means he needs to leave the Infinity Fortress.

He looks up at where Nakime sits, her biwa clutched in her hands. He can’t see her eye behind her hair, but her lips are faintly twisted: a touch of uncertainty.

Because she can’t see his thoughts, Akaza realizes with a jolt. If the curse no longer binds him to Muzan and the other demons, then Nakime can no longer predict his movements like she could before.

There is a second of time when neither of them speaks nor moves. Then, simultaneously, Akaza lunges for her as Nakime tries to draw back.

She’s always been incredibly fast with her biwa, but desperation’s hand pushes Akaza to be quicker. Before she can avoid him, Akaza’s fingers catch briefly on the strings of the biwa.

It’s enough. The air sings with one, lone note.

Then Akaza is falling again, tumbling through that endless maze of wooden boards and mismatched rooms. The air whistles by in a high-pitched shriek. He clutches tight to the soul thread’s pulse and each memory Akaza had wrestled back from Muzan’s curse.

He isn’t sure how long it is before the Infinity Fortress finally spits him back into the world. Abruptly, the boards disappear and Akaza’s fall is broken by soft earth and a bed of lush grass. The fall might have broken a bone or two or ten, Akaza isn’t certain.

Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Akaza lifts his head, wincing at the way his entire body aching from residual pain—something uncharacteristic for demons. His mind feels like a mess, shuttering between long-forgotten memories. His heart is pounding.

He is back in the valley, just a few ways off from the patch of blackened earth where the poison had eaten away at all life. Mountain peaks silhouette against the vast night sky. The last time Akaza had seen Kyojuro had been minutes after sunset; now, the moon is beginning its descent and the taste of the sun is beginning to creep into his throat.

How long has it been since Muzan sent Kokushibo off to the Rengoku Estate? Hours have passed since Akaza last saw Kyojuro, that much he knows. But the time spent in the Infinity Fortress is much more difficult to categorize.

It doesn’t matter. He needs to get there before it’s too late.

Maybe it’s a good thing every step Akaza takes hurts. An apt reminder that he cannot be too late. Not this time. Not again.

He turns away from the poisoned field and runs.

Chapter Text

The air smells like blood.

Kyojuro knows the scent of his home from years of growing up here. It’s changed over the years: once, the summer air carried the smell of his mother’s flower garden before they grew unattended. Nowadays, there’s always that faint undercurrent of sake, oftentimes overpowered by whatever Senjuro’s cooking.

The blood is thick enough that it covers any other scent. Flowers, alcohol, a meal prepared with care.

The front door is mockingly intact as if maintaining an illusion of normalcy. Kyojuro bursts through, seeing his brother’s shoes lined up neatly against the wall. He draws his sword. The way the metal screeches unbearably loud in the silence makes him wince.

Kyojuro breathes in deeply, trying to assess the situation. He can faintly sense the demon Kaname had been talking about, but it has yet to show itself. The blood in the air is all human.

Who else could it belong to but the only two people that live here? Kyojuro wants to believe otherwise. He wishes more than anything that the most logical conclusion isn’t the correct one, but he’s having trouble convincing himself.

Underneath each step, the floorboards creak quietly. The entire house feels as though it is holding its breath, waiting for Kyojuro to unveil what lies underneath.

The Rengoku Estate has always felt lonelier and quieter after his mother died, but this is something else entirely. Kyojuro feels as though he is walking through some poorly mimicked nightmare of his childhood home, where all the grief that has accumulated in the corners and cracks throughout the years has finally seeped through.

“Senjuro!” His voice shatters the silence in the worst way possible because there is no response. “Father?”

Kyojuro’s steps lead him into the kitchen, where he stops short.

It feels like his senses are on overdrive. His heartbeat: a thundering, too-loud cacophony. The stillness: death and blood. So much blood.

Nearby the kitchen table, the form of his brother is sprawled, a large pool of dark crimson already having gathered beneath him. The front of his yukata has been torn open by a giant slash that would have cut through flesh and organs.

Kyojuro cannot breathe. If he holds his breath long enough he wonders if he will wake up.

He doesn’t register moving forward, but he finds himself kneeling next to Senjuro nonetheless. Like a puppet’s guided movements, Kyojuro touches his fingers to his brother’s carotid pulse. The first thing he’s trained to do.

His body is still warm, but no life thrums beneath his skin.

Hands shaking, Kyojuro stands up, unable to register what he sees. This doesn’t make any sense. He’d seen Senjuro just a few days ago, practicing sword forms with his brother in the backyard and helping him adjust the direction of his swing. They’d gotten dinner together, they were supposed to do that again the next time Kyojuro got back, and…

This isn’t right.

Kyojuro finds himself walking down the hall towards his father’s room. Here, there are more signs of a struggle. Part of the wall is ruined. It looks as though someone had sliced it clean through with a blade.

It’s not his father’s room, floor lined with jars of sake, that he finds Shinjuro—it’s in Senjuro’s. Everything has either been overturned or destroyed when his brother loved keeping his belongings neat. Kyojuro spots his father near the engawa doors, lying on his front as blood slowly pools out underneath him. In his left hand, he grips his sword. Kyojuro hasn’t seen his father hold his sword in years. That is perhaps what is the most jarring about the sight even though it shouldn’t be.

Unlike Senjuro, dim eyes flicker up to Kyojuro, recognition flashing across his father’s face. He’s still alive.

“Father,” Kyojuro manages, rushing forward. “Don’t move, where are you hurt?”

“Kyojuro.” There is clarity in Shinjuro’s voice that hasn’t been there in a long time. “Run.”

Kyojuro shakes his head. He needs to stop the bleeding, but from the looks of it, his father’s wounds are all on his front, and Kyojuro doesn’t dare to flip him over in case it causes him to bleed out faster. Has Kaname arrived at the Corps’ Headquarters yet? Had he relayed the message that they needed help? Kocho would know what to do in this situation better than Kyojuro, except Kyojuro can’t rely on her coming in time. Is it a risk he should take? What options does he have left?

“I need to stop the bleeding,” he repeats numbly, the only thing he can think of.

“No, Kyojuro.” He speaks to Kyojuro as if Kyojuro is a child again who doesn’t know better. “You can’t defeat this demon. You need to—” He breaks off to cough violently, each hacking breath causing his body to tremble. “—you need to—run.”

I will pay my price, Kyojuro had told Kocho.

How can Kyojuro run and leave his family here to die, especially when they were killed because of his actions? All he could think about was what consequences he’d caused for Akaza all the while his father and brother were being slaughtered.

“I’ve sent Kaname to the Corps,” Kyojuro manages. “They’ll send someone here soon. You have to fix your breathing to slow the blood flow, Father!”

“It’s use…” Shinjuro blinks slowly as if such a small action is draining his energy. “You can’t save us, Kyojuro. Just go.”

No. How was it that he’d spent his entire life trying to save people and Kyojuro couldn’t even protect his own family?

“Father,” Kyojuro says. He sounds like a child. He is helpless like one, anyway.

His father does not say anything more. His breathing is so shallow that Kyojuro can barely hear it over the heavy drumming of his own heart.

He had tried his utmost to pick up all the pieces after his mother died. He’d trained hard enough that his hands were too calloused to be cut by the glassy shards, and so Kyojuro had learned to live with the fragments.

He does not know how he is to live with this.

A floorboard behind Kyojuro creaks loudly, purposefully. Kyojuro turns around, away from his father’s glassy, unseeing eyes that are fixed forever on him. It is a little fitting, in the worst way possible, that the last thing Shinjuro asks Kyojuro to do is yet another command of his that Kyojuro disobeys.

The demon that stands at the door is incredibly tall, wearing an old-fashioned swordsman outfit that looks like it was from a few centuries ago. In his right hand, he holds a blade, but upon closer inspection, Kyojuro can see that it is lined with an uncanny pattern of eyes. No nichirin sword looks like that.

Six eyes fix impassively on Kyojuro. Across the pair in the middle reads: Upper Moon One.

“Rengoku… Kyojuro,” the demon says slowly as if testing out the syllables. “I have been waiting for you. My name is Kokushibo.”

“Why are you here?” Kyojuro asks. His voice sounds faraway, like a stranger’s. He understands on some level—this demon must be here to kill him because of what he did to the blue spider lily. But everything else is like a broken recorder. His mind circles back repeatedly to his brother’s corpse and his father’s last words. Kyojuro had sworn he’d accounted for everything. He’d measured the cause and effect of his own death. He had been grieved at the thought of his family mourning him and foolishly never considered that it could be the other way around.

This demon killed his family.

“I am here because of Akaza’s… failure,” Upper Moon One says. “And for your punishment… for taking what belonged to my master.”

“Punishment?” Kyojuro echoes, incredulous. He doesn’t know why he’s even pursuing this. Receiving a reason won’t bring his father or brother back. Still, he supposes it is something human emotions are always helpless against: the insatiable need for any goddamn reason in the face of tragedy—even for things that don’t follow rules or logic. “If you’re here to punish Akaza and me, what does my family have to do with it?”

“They were… here,” Kokushibo says. “Why should I keep them alive? And… if this is meant to be a punishment for you, Rengoku, do you not find it fitting… that you would lose something important that belonged to you… just like you destroyed something precious that was my master’s?”

“They are my family, not things that belong to me, ” Kyojuro spits. “And Kibutsuji must be mistaken if he believes the blue spider lily belongs to him. He has no claim over it before or now.”

Kokushibo’s eyes narrow at Kyojuro. His aura is heavy and oppressive. Had this been any other situation, Kyojuro would have been alarmed by the sheer amount of power he could feel from this demon. It crowds his senses, spiking the urge to run.

But right now, none of that matters. Kyojuro can hardly find it in himself to care how strong this demon is or fear for his own life. All he knows is that it killed his family, and he wants more than anything to make it pay for what it did.

“I knew… the Rengoku line,” Kokushibo says instead of replying to Kyojuro. He shifts, the faintest movement, but one that makes Kyojuro’s body lock in anticipation of an attack nonetheless. “Generations ago… there was a Rengoku amongst my peers. He was… an incredible swordsman… despite his inability to perform sunbreathing. He is the one… who invented all of the forms you still imitate to this day.” Kokushibo’s gaze shifts to around Kyojuro, where his father lay. His lips pull down into a frown. “It would rather… pain him to know that his legacy has been reduced to… that.”

With that, all the fury that has been slowly building beneath Kyojuro’s skin erupts like wildfire. He tightens his grip on his hilt. “Do not speak ill of my father in such a way.”

“I am simply… speaking the truth,” Upper Moon One replies. He is so nonchalant about it all that Kyojuro feels sick. “He wields a sword and yet… there is nothing remarkable about it. It has been… a while since I encountered Flame Breathing, but I am certain what is left of it… is nothing more than a tarnished imitation of what it used to be.”

Kyojuro grits his teeth. He can’t remember the last time he wanted to swing his blade out of anger instead of duty. “Akaza told me about you before,” Kyojuro says. “He said you were a swordsman. If you knew my ancestor, then you must have once been part of the Demon Slayer Corps when you were human.”

“Indeed,” Kokushibo says, his impassive expression never changing. “I have watched empires rise and fall… yet I have never seen such a long-lasting, futile struggle as the Corps has insisted on upholding. It is such… folly.”

“It’s not folly.” Kyojuro breathes in slowly, just like his father had once taught him. Now, the air is thick with his father’s blood. “And you’re no swordsman when you have not the honour of one. You’re a coward for choosing to turn to Kibutsuji and serve him just because you thought your fight was too difficult to continue.”

For the first time tonight, Kokushibo’s expressionless features twist ever so slightly, the faintest tug of displeasure to the corner of his lips. “Cowardice?” he echoes. “Do you think it is bravery… for continuing a useless cause? Is it bravery… to condemn your family because of your… duty?”

Kyojuro blinks, and he realizes that the anger inside him has iced into a vicious cold. It still stirs in his chest, but slowly, the situation settles back into clearer focus, and Kyojuro knows he must face the truth.

There is nowhere for him to go if Upper Moon One is here to kill him. He can’t run, and given how injured Kaname had been, there is little cause to believe anybody from the Corps will arrive on time to help. Which was probably for the better—if Kokushibo had killed his brother and father without so much as blinking, then why would he spare anyone else who stood in his way?

The knowledge that he won’t be alive when the sun rises is a strange one, but Kyojuro finds that it doesn’t terrify him as much as it should. His family is all gone. The blue spider lily is destroyed, and he has confessed to the Corps and Oyakata-sama had promised Akaza’s safety if he ever deflected from Muzan. Kyojuro has ensured that there is an end or a resolution to everything—everything except Akaza.

Eyes glassy, standing knee-deep in withered grass and flowers. Your soul thread isn’t even fucking broken, but you still never loved me.

Kyojuro never got the chance to tell Akaza that he had—he did. That if it were only his own life on the line, he would have gladly done anything Akaza asked of him. But it wasn’t, and he couldn’t possibly decide the fate of the world simply because he loved one person.

He wouldn’t blame Akaza for hating him for what he’s done. At least Akaza was always honest with Kyojuro about the things he couldn’t tell Kyojuro. Kyojuro had lied over and over, deceived him and made him let down his guard. He’d promised he wouldn’t cut Akaza’s neck, then drove the blade into his back and twisted it for good measure.

“What will happen to Akaza?” Kyojuro asks. “What did Kibutsuji do to him?”

Kokushibo’s eyes survey Kyojuro. He is silent for a moment.

“My master believes Akaza… still has his uses,” he says at last. “It is not difficult to remove his memories of you… and afterwards, he will be fit to carry out his assigned duty again.” Kokushibo’s mouth twists. “Emotion… has always been Akaza’s weakness. He is too easily attached and too sentimental… he failed Muzan-sama because of it.”

“Kibutsuji stole his memories?” Kyojuro echoes.

“Theft implies taking what does not belong to someone… Muzan-sama is the creator of all demons. Akaza… belongs to Him, and He is free to do as He pleases with Akaza.”

“You’re wrong,” Kyojuro says. “Maybe you’ve lived like this for so long you’ve forgotten what it is to be human, but what you and your master count as weakness is what makes life worth living. An existence like yours is pitiable and I would not wish it upon anyone.”

“Fleeting… mortality,” Kokushibo muses. “Humans must speak so highly of it… simply because they cannot comprehend the full scope of eternity.”

Kyojuro thinks of Akaza’s endless fury and grief. Lonely eyes, always searching for what he has lost and never able to find it.

If Kibutsuji takes his memories, is that the only way he will remember Kyojuro as well? Only knowing that he has lost something but never able to recall what he did have? Grieving and furious and alone for another two centuries and then some more?

He doesn’t want to condemn Akaza to a fate like that again, not when he knows firsthand how lonely it had been. But what choice does Kyojuro have to fix anything now? He’d signed his death the moment he destroyed the blue spider lily, and he’d known.

“Are you afraid, Rengoku Kyojuro?” Kokushibo asks, his voice toneless. “Of death?”

Kyojuro straightens, raising his sword in front of him. What a funny question. In a house full of long-passed memories and two still-warm corpses‚ was he afraid of death?

Kokushibo strikes with his sword, having grown tired of waiting for Kyojuro’s answer.

At the first swing, Kyojuro can already tell that Kokushibo is much stronger than any he has ever faced, even Akaza. He recalls feeling far out of his depth the first time he and Akaza fought, but at least he’d been able to match Akaza’s blows and keep up with his speed, even if it pushed the peripheries of Kyojuro’s limits.

With Kokushibo, he barely has time to think. All he knows is to parry and block, and even that is quickly pushing Kyojuro to the brink.

Kokushibo is unarguably the best swordsman Kyojuro has ever encountered. Each strike is calculated with perfect precision and deadly force. Unlike Akaza who often leaves nonvitals unguarded, Kokushibo is too skilled for Kyojuro to even land a scratch on him. He turns defense into offense with the flick of his wrist.

There is a loud, resounding screen as Kyojuro blocks Kokushibo’s blade. The force sends him stumbling back, a sharp jolt of pain running up both of his arms.

Gritting his teeth, Kyojuro pushes forward again. He refuses to die without having given his best attempt at killing the demon. It’s early morning; how long will it be before the sun rises? An hour?

The next time Kokushibo swings his blade, large, silver crescents materialize from the edge and slice towards Kyojuro at alarming speeds.

By a mix of luck and reflex, Kyojuro manages to avoid all except one. It slices a cut through his arm. The rest of the crescents embed into the boards of the walls, making wood splinter and gouging deep cuts into the house. One destroys the door of Senjuro’s room. He used to always leave it open a sliver at night.

First Form: Unknowing Fire.

Kokushibo parries easily before sweeping his sword harshly into Kyojuro’s.

This time, Kyojuro isn’t quick enough to follow through with the swing. The force sends him backwards. He half-registers pain as his back collides with a wall, hard enough to break the boards. His head knocks painfully into the wood as well.

Blinking away the spotting in his vision, Kyojuro tries to push himself to his feet again so he can be prepared for the next blow. He’s been sent into the living room. There is a shogi board still set up on the tea table, which has somehow survived all of the fighting.

“You are… a much more talented swordsman than your father,” Kokushibo comments. He walks slowly, but each step he takes sounds disarmingly loud. The boards creak underneath his feet more than Kyojuro is accustomed to. “I suppose it is a given… if you had caught Akaza’s interest.”

“Do not speak of my father,” Kyojuro says through clenched teeth. Ignoring the ache that has settled into all of his limbs, he pushes himself to his feet, using his sword as a crutch to steady himself. “You don’t deserve it.”

“Very well,” Kokushibo replies. “He is not worth more words anyway.”

With a shout, Kyojuro attacks him again. His first form, second, fourth—between the familiar patterns of Flame Breathing, Kyojuro has a passing thought that he can perform all of his forms with much more efficiency and brutality than he did before. Spars with Akaza had paid off, it seems, given the improvements he hasn’t properly noticed until now.

Still, Kokushibo is clearly stronger than Kyojuro. At some point, he seems to grow weary of levelling his force. Kyojuro finds himself sustaining more and more injuries with each passing minute. A slash across the side. One dangerously close to the back of his knees. One of his mother’s favourite vases is broken in the chaos, the porcelain shattering to pieces.

He catches a glimpse of his brother’s lifeless body in the kitchen and pushes on forward, ignoring the sting of growing wounds.

At some point, Kyojuro stumbles into his own room. It is the only one that has remained relatively unscathed until now, which is promptly ruined by a single, brutal stroke of Kokushibo’s sword.

The shelf of books is struck. Papers flutter to the ground. Kyojuro’s writing desk, where he keeps all of his unread letters to his mother, splits in half. The doors leading to the engawa are torn down, letting silvery moonlight spill over the darkness.

He spots the thick book he used to flatten and dry out leaves, strewn open. The leaves Kyojuro has collected over the years have spilled out from the pages and lie on the ground.

All his carefully preserved pieces of childhood, a token of remembrance where memory failed, spilling through his fingers like grains of sand.

Kyojuro blinks, his eyes stinging. When his mother first died, Senjuro used to come to his room when he couldn’t sleep. His eyes would be red and Kyojuro knew he’d been crying but he wouldn’t mention it. They’d squeeze onto the futon for one person and his brother would fall asleep eventually while Kyojuro stared at the moon’s pattern cast across the walls.

He recalls his father’s hands, long before they’d become violent, adjusting Kyojuro’s arm and his grip. Hold your blade this, Kyojuro, he’d used to say. Higher. Don’t leave your chest undefended.

Ninth Form: Purgatory.

Kokushibo’s blade sings through the air towards Kyojuro. He pulls himself low, avoiding one of the silver crescents that slice into the wall, and feels his blade connect with flesh for the very first time.

Simultaneously, as Kyojuro brings his sword back to parry, he feels the edge of the blade catch him across the abdomen.

Pain explodes through every nerve in his body. He stumbles back, trying to reorient himself, but the cut made by Kokushibo’s blade hurts much more than it should, sapping precious strength from his limbs.

“Impressive…” Kokushibo muses. Kyojuro can see where he slashed Upper Moon One’s kimono, although any blood he’d been able to draw has already dissipated. “I did not expect you… to be able to cut me. But it remains futile.”

Kyojuro grits his teeth. The cut across his stomach isn’t too deep, but if he keeps pushing himself, the blood loss could turn fatal far too fast. He tries to control his breathing.

In. Out.

He doesn’t want to die without knowing what happened to Akaza, but what choice does he have? He wants more than anything to kill this demon that slaughtered his family except the difference in their strength is laughable. Upper Moon One has made it clear that he is here to kill Kyojuro, and Kyojuro isn’t stupid about victory and defeat.

Kokushibo swings at him without another word. The first blow Kyojuro parries, the second is so forceful that it makes him lose his footing.

In the split second when he attempts to regain balance, the tip of Kokushibo’s sword slices straight for Kyojuro’s face. He’s not nearly quick enough to block it.

His vision explodes into crimson agony. A hiss of pain escapes through his teeth as he stumbles backwards.

For a moment, all Kyojuro can focus on is panic. He can’t see—not even the red that had taken up his vision for the first few seconds, nor is it darkness. Just… nothing. As if sight simply doesn’t exist.

But there is no time to come to terms with the fact that Kokushibo had effectively blinded him. Through the sharp pain pounding in his head, Kyojuro hears the whistle of the wind as the sword sweeps towards him once more.

He barely manages to dodge. There is debris all over the ground but Kyojuro can’t see anything. He lifts his sword in a sorry attempt to guard his vitals only for Kokushibo’s blade to clash against his with enough force to knock it right out of his hands.

Kyojuro fights to keep his breathing steady, but his entire body hurts from innumerous wounds and he can barely keep up a coherent thought process. His sword. He needs his sword. He heard the general direction it had landed, but he has no idea how close or how far it is, and he doesn’t know how to get there faster than the demon. And even if he did, how is he supposed to fight Upper Moon One like this—blind and weakening faster than he can afford? He has already lost so much blood. Kyojuro struggles with his breath and all he can think of is his father’s last strained exhale.

Gods. He never thought it would end like this or that the price asked would be this steep. He wonders what his mother thinks of him now, and Kyojuro doesn’t know if the burning in what’s left of his eyes is blood or tears.

“A pity…” he hears the demon murmur. Another surge of anger floods through Kyojuro. He doesn’t want an ounce of pity from the demon that slaughtered his family and is here to kill Kyojuro just to torment Akaza. “Your talent is wasted on this useless fight, Rengoku Kyojuro.”

“It’s not useless,” Kyojuro spits out. His mouth is full of iron. “Your master will never obtain the blue spider lily, I’ve made sure of it. Killing me is useless because I’ve already destroyed what he wanted.”

“There will be more,” Kokushibo responds. “You have only… set him back momentarily.”

“Then the Corps will continue destroying the flower.” Something sticky and hot drips down Kyojuro’s cheeks. Blood, tears; both. Kokushibo will kill him any moment now, Kyojuro knows, but something furious and vindictive stirs in his chest. Even if he has no sword to swing and no strength left to fight, Kyojuro has the sudden desire to tear down Upper Moon One’s stoic countenance. “If it were so simple as finding another, Kibutsuji Muzan wouldn’t be so angry, would he? The Corps’ so-called useless fight has set him back over and over again, and we’ll keep doing it until—”

Kyojuro breaks off, startled by the sudden coldness that blooms in his side.

For a few seconds, pain doesn’t register as pain. The force with which Kokushibo had plunged the sword into his flesh was enough to send him stumbling back a few shaky steps. Unbalanced and untethered to anything, Kyojuro stands very, very still.

Slowly, agony flares up like wildfire from the wound. He reaches down, feeling blindly for the blade that protrudes from his body. Kyojuro cuts his hands on the sharp edge before his fingers skim over the engraving near the hilt. He knows what the characters say by heart: Destroyer of demons.

It almost feels like a compulsion to reach further to touch the rest of the sword, even when Kyojuro has already recognized it as his own. He feels the flame-shaped guard and the hilt he knows by touch alone.

Oh, Kyojuro thinks hazily, his thoughts muddled past coherency. It’s my sword.

“You have… minutes left,” Kokushibo says. Kyojuro’s ears are ringing too much for him to pinpoint which direction his voice comes from. “But you can also try to remove the blade… if you wish for a quicker death.”

Kyojuro almost wants to do so. To take out the sword from his body and make his last stand to kill the demon even though even a fool would know it is futile like this: barely able to stand, blinded, bleeding out.

How long before the sun rises? He can’t see the light and he can’t feel its warmth over the pain that has crawled under every square inch of skin.

Where is Akaza now?

Kyojuro still hasn’t told Akaza that he loves him. Akaza would probably hate to hear that from him now, after all the ways Kyojuro hurt him. He will call Kyojuro a liar and he would be right, even though Kyojuro has never lied about loving him. He hasn’t said the truth, either.

So if he sees Akaza again, he should apologize. Maybe Akaza would hate that less. Maybe it would hurt him less.

“Akaza is not coming,” Kokushibo tells him, his voice toneless, as though he is reading Kyojuro’s thoughts. “He no longer… remembers you.”

“He won’t forget so easily,” Kyojuro says. His voice comes out hoarse. His throat is raw with blood. Each breath makes his lungs weep.

Instead of replying, he hears the wooden boards creak underneath silent footfalls, the sound becoming fainter and fainter. Upper Moon One is leaving.

How infuriating. He is leaving just like that—after he destroyed Kyojuro’s childhood home; after he murdered his father and brother. After he plunged Kyojuro’s own blade into his body and left him to die, departing with words more bitter than any curse: he no longer remembers you.

How infuriating, and yet Kyojuro is too weak to do anything to stop it.

Pay your price, he hears the memory of Hisae’s voice say. Was it worth it, Hashira?

Shakily, Kyojuro lowers himself to his knees, too exhausted to keep himself upright. It’s easier to focus his breathing without having to support his weight. The ground is covered with debris and splinters of broken wood.

Kyojuro’s fingers grope blindly along the floorboards, searching for something, anything.

He meets something fragile and paper-thin. A dried leaf, Kyojuro realizes after a few seconds of unknowing. It must have drifted over from the book he usually keeps his leaves bookmarked in.

He tries to pick it up from the ground, only for the leaf to crumble to pieces underneath his clumsy fingers.

Despite his best efforts to keep his breathing steady and staunching blood flow, Kyojuro’s next exhale shudders as it passes through his lips. His entire world feels as though it has been knocked off the axis in a matter of minutes. With Kokushibo gone and the adrenaline ebbing away with the blood of his wounds, the facts begin to sink in, each with heavier clarity than the last.

How, exactly, had it come to this?

Kokushibo told him Akaza would not come to find him. That Akaza wouldn’t even remember Kyojuro. It seems like a fitting punishment that Kibutsuij would devise in response to such failure. So Kyojuro really doesn’t know why he continues to cling to the foolish hope that somehow, by some undeserved miracle, he’ll be able to see Akaza again before his time bleeds out.

It’s all so clear now. The price Kyojuro had to pay and the sacrifices he had to make—all of which were because he chose to love Akaza. Because he had decided to step past those careful lines he tried to draw despite knowing the consequences. Hisae was right that it had been a choice Kyojuro made, and she was also right that there would be repercussions for that choice.

Kyojuro shouldn’t be selfish for more, not when it comes to Akaza. His father and brother are dead because of him and yet here he is, praying that he will be able to see Akaza one more time. Even after betraying him and being the root cause of his pain. Again, despite wanting to save him from it.

As time continues its slow march forward, Kyojuro’s thoughts begin to entwine with each other. His memories, too, begin to break apart; past and present seem to mix until Kyojuro can no longer distinguish real from unreal. No matter how hard he tries to control his breathing and keep his mind clear, Kyojuro can feel himself slipping further and further from clarity.

It is futile to wait for Akaza. As futile as it would be for Kyojuro to live to see the sun again from his blinded, sightless eyes.

And yet Kyojuro waits anyway. When his breaths start to fail him, all of his training useless in the face of death, Kyojuro reaches deeper and wraps his fingers around his soul thread.

It pulses in his chest, still faintly warm. He clutches on as tight as possible, not wanting to let go just yet.

He feels as though he is fifteen again, sleepless nights spent waiting for someone who may not even come. The world is made of darkness and blood and agony instead of the warm blankets of his futon, but the loneliness hasn’t changed a single bit.

Kyojuro is fifteen again, nursing anger and grief and waiting, waiting, always waiting—

(My name is Rengoku Kyojuro. What’s yours?

Crescent moon smile, a familiarity that cuts deeper than blood and time: Akaza.)

It is futile to wait for Akaza to come for him.

Kyojuro will wait anyway. Until the very end.

The streets are silent and empty.

In the small town where the Rengoku Estate is located, Akaza can feel the flicker of fighting spirits, all negligible, barely noticeable glows in slumber.

In the direction of the Rengoku Estate, there’s only one left, and this one is even dimmer than the rest.

Akaza runs down streets and over rooftops to make his way there, his heart pounding in his chest. It feels like he’s being pulled over by an invisible force tied to his chest, as though his soul thread is tugging him along, matching the urgency building up in each footstep.

He can’t be too late. Not again. Although Kyojuro is clearly injured, his fighting spirit is still visible, which means he’s alive. Surely, that gives Akaza a chance. Surely. Surely.

But if he can’t sense Kokushibo, that means Upper Moon One has left. And the only reason he’d leave Kyojuro alive is if he has already injured Kyojuro fatally.

Akaza shakes the thought from his head, too afraid to dwell on it. It’s not an option he can entertain, not again. Not after everything.

Then there’s also the fact that the only one he can sense is Kyojuro in the estate and not his father and brother. It is far too optimistic a hope to think the absence of their fighting spirits is because they got away. Had Kyojuro watched them die? Had he tried to save them? Kyojuro must have been devestated, however it played out.

It seems like an eternity before Akaza finally arrives at the gates of the Rengoku Estate. From the outside nothing looks out of place, save for the scent of blood that permeates every breath Akaza takes. It makes his stomach turn. Some of the blood smells like Kyojuro’s. The rest must belong to his father and brother.

Without wasting another second, he pushes open the gate and heads to where Kyojuro’s fighting spirit flickers and wanes.

Blood curdles the air like a heavy miasma now. The door that leads from the engawa to Kyojuro’s room has been torn entirely, and inside…

Kyojuro doesn’t return often, so his room is always kept neat. Senjuro would dust and tidy it for him, he explained.

The shelf has been cut clean through by a blade, and the books lay scattered on the floor. Kyojuro’s desk is broken, the walls are splintered, blood paints the wall in a colourful array, and—

“Kyojuro.” The name tumbles out of Akaza’s lips. He barely recognizes the sound of his voice and how it trembles like a child’s.

Near the wall, Kyojuro kneels on the ground, silent and still. His chest still rises and falls but the rhythm of his breathing is irregular; Akaza can immediately tell that he’s no longer sustaining Total Concentration Breathing. His haori is stained crimson, even the parts that should be white.

The last time he had seen Kyojuro had been in that field of wilted flowers, eyes full of remorse and fear.

Now, there is a gruesome slash across Kyojuro’s eyes, blood dripping down his cheeks.

If Akaza had been a little further away, he could’ve tricked himself into thinking Kyojuro’s sword was sheathed at his hip. But up close, at this angle, he can see that it pierces right through the left side of his body, likely cutting through organs, with only the hilt and a small portion of the blade still visible at the front.

Nothing has fully settled in. Not the destroyed room, nor the fact that Kyojuro is dying, Kyojuro is dying, Kyojuro is dying, Akaza will lose him just like he lost everyone else—

“Kyojuro,” he repeats numbly.

This time, Kyojuro seems to hear him. He turns his head ever so slightly in Akaza’s direction, eyes blinded, blood on his cheeks, covered in too many wounds for Akaza’s fraying mind to count.

“Akaza?” It’s tentative. A question. As if he doesn’t believe Akaza is actually there.

That cold feeling of disbelief dissipates at the sound of Kyojuro’s voice and Akaza crosses the room in a few large strides. There are deep gouges in the floorboard which creak loudly under each step he takes, which throws Akaza off. He used to know which parts of the floor did and didn’t creak in Kyojuro’s room.

“Akaza,” Kyojuro repeats, this time louder. His voice trembles. It sounds like he’s crying, but Akaza isn’t sure if he is or if he is simply so injured that even speaking is becoming too much effort for him. He’s never seen Kyojuro cry before. “I… I was afraid you wouldn’t come. I’m glad you could.”

“Stay still,” Akaza says, kneeling next to him as he tries to catalogue all of the injuries on Kyojuro’s body. Blood loss, that he’s certain of—there are cuts all over his body from Kokushibo’s blade, not to mention where Kyojuro had been pierced with his sword. “I can’t—I can’t take your sword out right now, Kyojuro. You’ve lost too much blood. I don’t know how to stop the bleeding.”

But even if Akaza doesn’t know, there must still be a way. Someone must be able to save Kyojuro. Kocho Shinobu? She’s a doctor. She would know what to do.

“I’m sorry,” Kyojuro says instead of replying. He reaches out blindly for Akaza, hands searching before they bump against Akaza’s knees. Crimson smears over the white of his pants. “I’m so sorry, Akaza.”

“You can apologize later,” Akaza tells him. Kyojuro’s closet looks intact. There are clothes in there. Akaza can use those to stop the blood flow since he can’t move Kyojuro before he ensures the bleeding is stopped. What about cauterizing the wound? But then there was still the concern of the damage he’d sustained to internal organs even if Akaza could stop external bleeding. He shakes his head, wanting to banish all the useless thoughts. “I need to get you to a doctor.”

He tries to stand up but Kyojuro’s fingers wrap around his hands, and his grasp is so uncharacteristically fragile that Akaza finds himself unable to pull away. Kyojuro is always steadfast, not delicate.

This is wrong. All wrong. This is some sick, twisted joke.

“What did Kibutsuji do to you?” Kyojuro asks.

Akaza almost laughs at the incredulity of the question. “Have you seen yourself? What did Kibutsuji do to me? Let go of me, Kyojuro, I need to get something to stop the bleeding.”

“No.” Kyojuro’s fingers tighten. “Upper Moon One knew what he was doing. Even if you stop the bleeding, I—”

“Don’t say it,” Akaza snaps, sharper than he intended. “I won’t forgive you if you leave me. Fix your breathing, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro tries to. He must be insane for actually heeding Akaza's panicked directions, but for a moment, the in-and-out of his breath goes back into the rightful pattern of Total Concentration before it turns irregular again.

What else can Akaza do? Kyojuro is right; even if the bleeding has been stopped, his injuries are simply too severe. Each second that passes where Akaza sits here helplessly is another second wasted, and they have very little time left.

“Upper Moon One said Kibutsuji was going to take your memories again.”

“He didn’t,” Akaza promises. “He didn’t, I broke the curse. But that’s not important right now. I need to stop the bleeding, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro’s body shudders. “That’s good,” he whispers, more to himself than to Akaza. “I was so scared that he succeeded.”

Akaza shakes his head, incredulous. It doesn’t matter—it doesn’t matter that he broke the curse, that he got to keep his memories. What use are his memories of Kyojuro if he’s just going to lose Kyojuro like this? Akaza can’t accept that, but at the same time, Kyojuro’s wounds are far too severe. Too perfectly fatal.

A human can’t heal these injuries. A human can’t, but a demon could.

“You’re not going to die,” Akaza says. “I’ll just—I’ll just turn you into a demon.”

He sees Kyojuro’s grimace even behind all the blood on his face. “I don’t want to be a demon, Akaza,” he says slowly, carefully, as if the words hurt more than all of his wounds.

“Since when did you care about what you wanted for yourself, Kyojuro?”

“You always cared about what I wanted.”

“Maybe I don’t anymore,” Akaza shoots back. His eyes sting but it’s nothing compared to the pain in his chest. “Maybe I hate you enough that I’m going to do everything I know you don’t want.”

“Upper Moon One killed my father and my brother,” Kyojuro says. “If I become a demon, will their bodies be the first things I eat?”

“It doesn’t have to be. I can stop you.”

“I don’t want to be a demon, Akaza,” Kyojuro says. “I… I’m sorry. The sun is rising.”

Akaza isn’t sure what that has to do with anything. The sun will not save Kyojuro. He could not save Kyojuro. He knows what Kyojuro is implying even if he doesn’t say it. A demon killed my father and my brother. Are you really going to let me become one too?

“You’re not allowed to apologize now, Kyojuro,” he replies instead. It would be so easy to open a cut on his arm and forcefully give Kyojuro his blood. But between Kyojuro’s barely audible words and the tight pull of the soul thread in his chest, something stops Akaza.

It would be fair, wouldn’t it? Kyojuro had destroyed the blue spider lily even though he knew he was betraying all of the trust they had built. Akaza had promised never to turn him into a demon, but why did it matter now what Kyojuro wanted, after all he’d done to Akaza? An eye for an eye; fairness and reciprocity.

Except that was never what they were supposed to be. Hurting Kyojuro just because Kyojuro had hurt Akaza—there was no good ending to that. Besides, hadn’t he hurt Kyojuro plenty as well? If they were to count their debts, who was even the debtor and the indebted?

Kyojuro’s fingers squeeze his hand again, forcing Akaza to look up at him.

“I don’t want you to…have to grieve, but I’m afraid you will anyway,” he says. The words are a little quieter than before, a little more strained. Akaza wishes he could see Kyojuro’s eyes. They were always so much easier to read, except what is left of them is just a ghastly mess of red. “I wanted to be the person who helped you stop hurting, but I guess I just—I just kept on hurting you more. Maybe that’ll make you miss me less.”

Kyojuro is crying, Akaza knows, even though the silent tears are indistinguishable from the blood on his face.

“Then stay,” Akaza says. His memories shutter, past and present. If begging was enough to save the ones he loved, then he’d never have to be in this position, again and again and again. “I’ll forgive you if you just stay, Kyojuro.”

“I’m sorry,” Kyojuro repeats, and his voice is even fainter. He sounds half gone as if he doesn’t even comprehend what he’s saying anymore. His shoulders tremble. His hand tightens around Akaza’s fingers, an ugly mimicry of how he usually grips them.

Apology after apology after apology. Akaza doesn’t want another apology. Is that what Kyojuro felt—sorry for him? After everything? Guilt, because he owed Akaza some debt?

The glow of Kyojuro’s fighting spirit is so weak that Akaza can barely see it anymore. His chest rises, falls, the intervals between each breath longer than the last.

I don’t want you to have to grieve. What an impossible ask. He’d broken the curse because he was afraid of losing his memories of Kyojuro, and now Akaza will have them to grieve him by. How absurd.

“Kyojuro,” he repeats. Kyojuro’s bloody fingers are still wrapped around his hand in that too-light grip, but he doesn’t reply. With his free arm, Akaza goes to steady Kyojuro’s shoulder. “Kyojuro, stay with me.”

In.

“I broke the curse,” Akaza says, louder. “Just like you wanted me to. I finally did it.”

Out.

“You still owe me, Kyojuro.” The words tumble out and Akaza doesn’t even know what he’s saying. All he can hear is that awful, delirious way Kyojuro repeats: I’m sorry. “Apologizing isn’t going to make it up.”

Even as he says it, Akaza knows it’s a lie. Kyojuro isn’t the one who owes him anything. If they truly were to compare, Akaza is the one with blood on his hands: from innumerous faceless innocents, the ones he loved, and now, Kyojuro. Kyojuro owes him no debt, but perhaps all of the violence he’s committed throughout these long centuries has finally come to collect its due, and Kyojuro was the sacrifice it demanded.

“Kyojuro,” Akaza says. No other word or name has ever ached in his bones like so, some deep pain that goes beyond existence itself.

Stay, Kyojuro had asked him, over and over, and wasn’t it comical. Akaza had stayed only for Kyojuro to leave him.

He doesn’t know when it is that Kyojuro’s fighting spirit disappears or when he breathes in and doesn’t breathe out again. Instead, Akaza clings onto the tether between the soul thread, the only thing he has left to hold onto.

The worst part of it all is how insignificant it feels when the connection goes dark. It would be much more fitting if it had hurt. It would’ve been better if it had hurt. Instead, in one moment Akaza feels the faint thrum of Kyojuro’s emotions; in another, everything is simply empty.

Just like it was for two centuries.

Akaza does not move, entirely unable to comprehend the absence in his chest.

Perhaps Akaza had known from the very first time Kyojuro had asked what love was. Loss, he’d said, and maybe deep down he was aware that it was a matter of sooner or later that he would lose Kyojuro, even if he had foolishly assumed it would be later.

“Kyojuro.” A broken lifeline, just one useless half of something that used to be whole.

Akaza doesn’t know how he can live with this. Kyojuro is no longer telling him what he does and doesn’t want, so Akaza eases his body into his arms. He can feel the lifelessness in Kyojuro’s limbs. He can taste the blood permeating the air and the brush of Kyojuro’s matted hair. He can feel the sting as the other end of Kyojuro’s sword digs into the flesh of Akaza’s thigh, in his position. But he can’t feel Kyojuro.

Sinking his fangs into his wrist, he tears open a wound and wills his regeneration not to heal it. Carefully, Akaza positions his bleeding arm over Kyojuro’s mouth.

What does a kept promise mean if the one he made it to is gone? All Akaza knows is the yawning emptiness at the other side of the soul thread, and how he so desperately needs it to go back to how it was before.

Some blood trickles into Kyojuro’s mouth, the rest mixing with the crimson on his face and dripping down his jaw. Akaza lets his blood run until it’s more than enough, and then he waits.

Akaza doesn’t know how much time passes. The sun is rising but it means nothing, even if the broken engawa doors will let in the light.

Even then, Kyojuro does not move. No wounds heal themselves, no breath is breathed back into his lungs. Akaza waits and waits, hoping against hope, knowing that he’d rather have Kyojuro back hating him for the rest of his life than lose him.

It’s the utter stillness, the unchanging finality, that finally brings a choking sob to Akaza’s throat. Kyojuro was always moving; smiling, laughing, gesturing with his hands when he spoke. A slight touch over Akaza’s shoulder, the curl of his fingers in his hair. Even in his sleep, he would toss and turn, always keeping up that steady pattern of breathing. Never has Akaza seen Kyojuro so very still. No matter how much blood he gives, he cannot return life to someone already dead.

So Akaza sits there in the ruins of Kyojuro’s childhood room, where all he loved has been destroyed by violence that Kyojuro bore in penance for Akaza. He holds the still-warm corpse of his beloved, chest empty and bones aching, and weeps—because everyone Akaza has loved, he has lost.

It feels like an eternity before Akaza hears the sound of shouting. A woman’s voice, vaguely familiar. Akaza ignores it. Nothing registers but the body he cradles.

Kocho Shinobu, he sees at the edge of his periphery, with multiple strangers behind her. She’s saying something, telling him to let go. Let go of what—of Kyojuro? Kyojuro was supposed to be his; who were they to tell Akaza to let go? He was the only thing Akaza had ever had in this goddamn world, and it was taken away from him too.

(He looks up to see the face of the fighting spirit he’d spotted, so brilliant that it washed colour back into Akaza’s colourless world. My name is Rengoku Kyojuro. What’s yours?

He stops to breathe in a slightly unsteady inhale before replying, awestruck by the human in front of him. Akaza.)

A sharp, stinging pain blooms from the side of Akaza’s neck. Poison, he registers hazily. It spreads rapidly, wisteria burning up with a vengeance. Akaza doesn’t care. Between his fading vision, he sees brightness seep in from what remains of the engawa doors. Still, Akaza does not let go of Kyojuro.

This is how the world ends: in blood and tears.

This is how the world ends: in gold and dust.

This is how the world ends, as the day begins.

Chapter Text

The world exists in fragments that fade in and out.

Poison, Akaza thinks, but this time, he is the target. Not that it particularly matters. Everyone he loves is already fucking dead, so it means nothing that he has been poisoned or that this kills him. Maybe that would be for the better.

All he knows is to clutch tightly to the body in his arms, not wanting to let go until the sun finally reaches him. Akaza had yelled at Kyojuro that he didn’t care about the world because all it ever did was take from him, but he hadn’t meant for it to end like this. If he could turn back time he’d take those words back.

Time is indistinguishable. His senses contain nothing but the sting of poison, the dull pain of where Kyojuro’s sword pierces both their flesh, the deadweight of Kyojuro’s body so indescribably heavy.

At some point, Kocho Shinobu’s colourful haori flit in the corners of Akaza’s periphery. Her voice is no longer sugar-sweet but sharp and cold. “Let go of him, Upper Moon Three.”

“No,” Akaza replies to no one in particular. Is that a threat? He almost laughs. He has no more weaknesses. Nothing else to fear. “Just fucking kill me.”

The tip of her sword sinks into his skin again, with a renewed dose of poison. This time, Akaza’s senses shut down entirely. When he slips back into consciousness again, someone has taken away Kyojuro’s body from his grasp and they’re no longer in the ruins of the Rengoku Estate. His body is too weak to move, but he spots Shinobu standing a few paces off through blurry vision.

The air around her is empty. He remembers what her fighting spirit had looked like—cold and furious, like the bite of the deepest winter. It’s gone entirely, but she clearly isn’t dead.

It hits his sluggish mind that he can see none of the fighting spirits of the people outside. That makes no sense.

Not that it matters at all. The room he’s in jolts slightly, and Akaza realizes they’re moving forward.

He doesn’t know where he’s being taken. He doesn’t care.

Kyojuro won’t be there anyway.

Something sharp pierces into his neck, his body once again filling with wisteria. Akaza coughs out blood from his torn-raw throat.

Thought and memory fracture, Akaza’s mind shutting down from the pain. If he closes his eyes, will the world stop looking so empty?

He does so, but it doesn’t help the chasm in his chest. It doesn’t change anything.

He hopes he doesn’t wake up again.

When Akaza comes to, the first thing he properly registers is the burning feeling eating up his lungs.

His senses trickle back bit by bit, vision clearing enough for him to make out his surroundings: he’s in a small room, where around him, sprigs of both fresh and dry wisteria hang off the walls. When he tries to move, there’s a sharp pain around his wrists and the rattle of metal.

Akaza looks down. Someone has shackled both of his wrists and ankles. He was left against a wall, pressed against those pieces of wisteria. They make his skin itch to the point of pain.

Wincing a bit, he shifts away from the wall and almost collapses. There is no strength in his limbs. Usually, he should be able to tear off the chain easily, yet Akaza can barely move, much less free himself from the restraints.

Except it doesn’t really matter, does it? Because Kyojuro is gone. Whether the Corps decides to kill him, or if Muzan decides to take him back and lock away his memories—why would any of it make a difference?

The reality hasn’t quite settled in a way it should. As though it isn’t actually true, even if the evidence is abundant and irrefutable. From watching Kyojuro die to feeling the soul thread break, Akaza doesn’t understand what more he needs to make sense of this.

Kyojuro is dead.

Underneath fireworks that don’t measure up to the brilliance of Kyojuro’s smile, feeling as though Akaza is finally seeing the world he’s lived in for the past two centuries. He’s spent his entire life as a demon searching: for Muzan, for himself, for something he could never put into words, and yet Kyojuro suddenly seems to be the answer to everything he’s waited so long for.

Kyojuro is dead.

A field of withered flowers, Kyojuro’s sombre eyes meeting his. The sun is covered by the mountain peaks but stray light still blooms from behind Kyojuro, and Akaza remembers thinking: hadn’t the sun always meant death for demons? So why had he made Kyojuro into his salvation? Why was he so surprised when Kyojuro inevitably betrayed him? Except this time the sun didn’t kill Akaza; he had killed the sun. Drowned it in blood, and now his world is dark.

Kyojuro is dead.

Maybe that’ll make you miss me less, Kyojuro had said after all of his unwanted apologies. Akaza almost scoffs at the absurdity. How is he supposed to not miss Kyojuro? He is certain that he will miss Kyojuro forever, and then for all the forevers after that.

Lifting his head, Akaza surveys his surroundings one more time. The Corps had taken him back, that much was obvious—it was just a question of where. Since he hasn’t been killed yet, they must have something they want from him. Maybe they thought he was the one who killed Kyojuro and the rest of his family and was devising a suitable execution.

Then again, it might as well have been him. Muzan had sent Kokushibo to kill Kyojuro as a way of punishing Akaza, and he’d taken the location of the Rengoku Estate right out of Akaza’s mind. Even if he’s broken the curse now, it was too little too late. Akaza hadn’t been quick enough to stop Kokushibo or quick enough to save Kyojuro. How ridiculous that Kyojuro had asked him so many times to break the curse, and he’d refused out of fear, only for things to turn out the same way Akaza had been so desperate to avoid.

As Akaza sits there, his thoughts circle back to all of the things Kyojuro had said to him between his apologies. I don’t want you to grieve. Did Kyojuro ever believe Akaza had loved him? If he did, how could he say such a thing? He should know, better than anybody, that grief was just love—he had been the one to tell Akaza that. And if he didn’t want Akaza to grieve him, then…

Had Akaza been the one to die and Kyojuro had lived, would he not have wanted to grieve Akaza? This would have been so much easier for Kyojuro, Akaza is certain. Out of the two of them, Kyojuro was always the one who was better at living with loss.

Akaza almost wants to feel angry at Kyojuro. So many of their past conversations come back to mind now, the irony of them unbearable. He had once asked Kyojuro if he would quit being a Hashira if he ever found his soulmate, and Kyojuro had been firm in his rebuttal. I hope, whoever they are, that they will understand when the time comes. I will uphold my duty above all else.

What sort of person had Kyojuro imagined his soulmate to be when he told Akaza those words? Some passive bystander who would wait for him without protest as he risked his life day after day, never knowing if each goodbye would be the last? But Akaza was far more than that—far worse. He’d been the active enemy, and in the end, not only had Kyojuro refused to compromise his duty for Akaza but his duty had been what led them to this outcome.

For all his selflessness, Kyojuro is so goddamn cruel. How dare he abandon Akaza with nothing but apologies. What was the point of extending kindness if he was just going to leave in the end?

Akaza presses his forehead to his knees. He breathes in deep, revelling in the poison that perfumes the air like sacrificial incense. The more it hurts, the better.

With his next exhale, the fury ebbs, the tide leaving behind a shoreline seeped with guilt. He’d been so upset over Kyojuro’s apologies, but Akaza was the one who spent their last real conversation accusing Kyojuro of never loving him. He had felt through his soul thread how deep those words had cut Kyojuro. And even if Kyojuro hadn’t truly loved him, didn’t Akaza deserve it anyway? He was a murderer with thousands of lives on his hands. He had hurt Kyojuro too many times to count. Kyojuro would have to be so fucking foolish to love him.

None of these rationalizations and blame change the outcome, or the fact that this emptiness won’t go away, or the fact that Akaza will miss Kyojuro all the same, until the earth turns to ash and the moon falls from the sky.

It is then that the iron door on the other side of the room clicks before swinging open. Akaza lifts his head wearily to see Kocho Shinobu standing there, her stinger sword in hand and her eyes fixed sharply on him. She doesn’t smile like she did the first time they met; instead, she looks strangely tired.

Something else looks wrong about her. It takes Akaza a few moments to realize he cannot see her fighting spirit.

Momentarily shocked, Akaza continues staring at Shinobu as though her fighting spirit will reappear if he looks hard enough. It doesn’t, but her lips do pull into a slight frown under his scrutiny.

“Are you just going to stare at me, Upper Moon Three?” she asks.

“You have no fighting spirit,” Akaza says. His voice scrapes his throat rawly, as though his vocal cords are made of sandpaper. As though he’d been crying, for a very long time. “How can you have no fighting spirit.”

“You’re not making any sense!”

Akaza shakes his head, bewildered and slightly amused. He had initially thought it was because he broke the curse, but no—he’d seen Kyojuro’s fighting spirit before he died, so it had nothing to do with the curse.

It was rather fitting if he thought about it. Akaza had always used fighting spirits to gauge his opponents’ strength and predict their moves, but it was also a telltale sign of life and death. He has no reason to discern between these things anymore. Life or death, strong or weak; none of it had anything to do with him.

“Are you just going to sit there?” Kocho Shinobu asks.

Akaza lifts his head to meet her eyes again. He had hated her eyes the first time he’d met her. Unlike Kyojuro, who was always so expressive, Shinobu’s eyes are flat and dead. Even when she smiles, the look in her eyes remains the same.

Her expression is flat today, but her eyes are flinty.

“What am I supposed to do but sit here?”

She takes a small step forward. “Are you not angry, Upper Moon Three?” she presses. “I would have expected to see you mourning.”

Those words should mean something; Akaza should lash out at the mockery. He looks at her and finds that he feels nothing at all.

“Neither of those things will bring Kyojuro back,” he replies. “He’s dead.”

How awful those words are to say. If Akaza repeats them enough he wonders if he’ll drill the reality into his mind just like it has been branded into his soul.

“And the entire Corps is grieving him too. Many of us have been friends with Rengoku-san longer than you have even known him.”

Akaza laughs until he’s not sure if he’s laughing or crying. “So what, Shinobu?” he demands. “You all have each other, but Kyojuro was the only one I had.”

“So you are angry.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” Akaza snarls. “None of this does. Don’t you understand?”

Faster than he can blink, Shinobu’s stinger sword is levelled inches from his throat. Her eyes are dark and furious. “No, you are the one who doesn’t understand,” she says. “You don’t understand how often and how highly Rengoku-san spoke about you, and yet I find you a picture of apathy after he and his family were brutally killed. Tell me, Upper Moon Three, did you love him? Or is it true that you demons are not capable of doing so, even when all the pieces are laid out in front of you?”

“Why do you want to know, Shinobu?” Akaza asks. “Why does it matter to you or the Corps whether or not I loved him?”

For a few seconds, she does not reply. The tip of her sword wavers ever so slightly before she pulls it back and slowly slides it back into the sheath.

Akaza watches warily, not sure of what to expect.

Finally, Shinobu sets her shoulders and lifts her chin. “It matters because Rengoku-san loved you,” she says. “Because he told us over and over that you were deserving of salvation and he would’ve given his life to make sure of it, and there’s nothing I would hate more than to know that after everything, he was still wrong.”

Because Rengoku-san loved you.

Did he? If Kyojuro loved him, why did he destroy the blue spider lily? If Kyojuro loved him, why did he part with nothing but apologies, why did he tell Akaza not to grieve him, why had he lied so many times to Akaza? If Kyojuro loved him, why didn’t he just tell Akaza?

“How do you know?”

Shinobu reaches into her pocket. She takes out a piece of white cloth and unfolds it for Akaza to see.

In the center is a small flower with long, spindly petals and a blue more brilliant than anything Akaza has ever seen.

So that is what the blue spider lily had looked like. The colours are certainly lovely, but there is nothing otherwise otherworldly about it. The thought that Muzan had searched so desperately his entire existence for something so small would’ve been comical if it weren’t for the fact that Kyojuro had been killed because of that damn flower. Akaza suddenly finds that he hates it more than words can describe.

“Why do you have one?” Akaza asks. Maybe he should feel more surprised that Shinobu has it, but looking at the blue spider lily now only stirs hatred and empty defeat.

“Technically, it should belong to you!” Shinobu says. “Rengoku-san brought it back and gave it to me so I could make a cure.”

Akaza looks up at her. “What?”

“Rengoku-san brought it back,” Shinobu repeats, speaking slowly as though explaining complicated instructions to a child. “He wanted me to make a medicine with it that would grant you immunity to the sun.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you, Upper Moon Three?” Shinobu asks. Her lips twist. “Let me tell you something else. Rengoku-san is the only reason the Corps hasn’t beheaded you or let you burn in the sun. You see, he called for a meeting with Oyakata-sama and the Hashira before Upper Moon One killed him. He told us that you were his soulmate, and then he begged Oyakata-sama to spare you, knowing that it would turn many of his friends against him.”

Staring at the blue spider lily in Shinobu’s hands, Akaza struggles to wrap his mind around those words. He tries to imagine Kyojuro begging his master and the rest of the Hashira for something so opposite to his duty and finds that he can’t. Kyojuro is always so certain about right and wrong that he would never ask for something so…wrong.

Would he? He had once told Akaza that he didn’t want them to be like Hisae and her husband. That even if he had been right to try to kill her, Kyojuro would not make the same choice.

What if he was right to try to kill her?

Then I will be wrong.

Akaza supposes they didn’t end up so differently after all.

“Rengoku-san once told me that he thinks you deserve to be saved,” Shinobu says. “I thought he was being foolish. Now I see that he has done far more foolish things for you.” She thins her lips. “Ah, I’m digressing, aren’t I? You ask me why I’m telling you this. It’s because it cannot be more clear to me that Rengoku-san loved you, and it makes me angry that you can’t even answer my question when I ask if you felt the same.”

It doesn’t make sense. Why would Kyojuro destroy the field of blue spider lilies, and then save one for Akaza? He told Akaza’s secrets to the Corps, and then begged them to spare Akaza. Shinobu claims he loved Akaza, but he had spent his last breaths apologizing.

Except it does make sense, Akaza had just refused to acknowledge it. Because if Kyojuro never loved him, Akaza could pretend this loss ached less. That he had lost something that was already counterfeit rather than something real. There was less room for grief if he could fill some of the empty space with anger.

He knows, though, that Kyojuro had compromised for him too many times to count. Morality had always seemed so black and white on Kyojuro yet he had found room for Akaza in all the grays in-between. To love is to surrender, Kyojuro had said, and hadn’t he done just that for Akaza? Over and over again even when he shouldn’t have.

Akaza had thought it would be easier to never properly confront what they had. They had never sat down and defined their relationship, never put it into words, as though avoidance would minimize some aspect of loss when it inevitably happened.

Now, nothing about this is easier—because it has always been real. Akaza had accused Kyojuro of thinking him incapable of love and Kyojuro not loving him, yet the truth was that Kyojuro had loved him whether or not Akaza was capable of returning it.

Akaza blinks, realizing his face is wet. He brushes his fingers under his eyes and finds that he is crying.

Shinobu’s expression does not change, but her voice has lost the edge when she asks him again: “So did you love him, Upper Moon Three?”

Kyojuro’s hair ribbon is still on Akaza’s wrist. He looks at the crimson that stands so starkly against his skin and remembers how it felt when Kyojuro tied it there. Some fleeting memory of warmth he can’t forget and can’t have back.

“I wanted to,” Akaza admits at last. “But I don’t know if I was capable of it.”

If Shinobu loathes his response, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she tucks her hands behind her back and looks down at Akaza with unreadable eyes once more. “Then I will ask you something you can answer,” she says. “Kibutsuji had Rengoku-san killed. Aren’t you angry?”

“I…”Anger at Muzan was never something that occurred to Akaza, even when he was being punished. Muzan was simply someone he served, a source of power. He knows better now, despite how long it had taken him to realize. All along, Muzan had been the one who had stolen his memories, who turned him into a demon when he never wanted to. And now, he is the hand behind Kyojuro’s death. “I am.”

“Do you want Kibutsuji dead?”

“Yes,” he says, firmer this time, and Akaza finds that he means it. Kibutsuji Muzan had always feared death with an obsession. If there’s one last thing he does, it will be to make sure the Corps can finally kill him.

The rage collects in the hollow of Akaza’s chest, and though it burns, it fills none of the emptiness.

Shinobu tilts her head. “Rengoku-san fought not just to protect people’s lives but their hearts too. I always thought he was better than me since I always killed demons because I was so angry. But I’ve come to learn that not everyone can be like Rengoku-san, and not everybody has to. I don’t care why you fight, Upper Moon Three, just that you do.”

Akaza swallows the ball in his throat and finds that it doesn’t go away. “I’m not Upper Moon Three anymore.”

Shinobu smiles at that. There is nothing kind about the look; instead, she bares it like a weapon. Akaza finds a touch of comfort in that. He would rather cruelty than pity, and Shinobu has no pity to offer. “Good,” she says. “I shall inform Oyakata-sama about your decision, and he will decide on your next steps.”

She turns to leave. As Shinobu pulls open the metal door, the thought suddenly occurs to Akaza.

“What happened to Kyojuro’s body?” he asks.

Her footsteps halt. She glances over her shoulder to look at Akaza.

“There will be a wake before sunset for Rengoku-san and his family,” she says. “Then they will be cremated.” She pauses. “None of the Corps trusts you enough to allow you out of this prison right now. And besides, it’ll be daytime, so you wouldn’t be able to attend anyway.”

Ah. It is fitting, Akaza supposes. After all, he’s not sure he deserves to see Kyojuro one last time. Especially not for something so personal, for Kyojuro and his family. Because Akaza had not only caused Kyojuro’s death but also that of his father and brother.

Kyojuro must have been so devastated when he found out they died. Akaza recalls the way his body had trembled from silent tears, mixed indistuingishably with the blood on his face.

Gods. How much pain had he caused Kyojuro during the time they knew each other? Right until the moment of his death, Kyojuro had paid such an unfair, wretched price because of Akaza.

“I understand,” he tells Shinobu.

She does not reply. Instead, the door clicks shut behind Shinobu, leaving Akaza alone once more.

In the wisteria prison, Akaza cannot feel the push and pull of the sun. Time passes him by, seconds bleeding into hours as he sits there chained, breathing in lungfuls of pain.

Sometimes, he finds his thoughts drifting. In one moment, everything feels surreal. As if this is one long nightmare. He will open his eyes and find that he is back at an inn, curled up under blankets with Kyojuro, who is rousing just before the morning sun rises. Then the thought evaporates like smoke, and Akaza is suddenly excruciatingly aware that Kyojuro is gone. He is not coming back.

The worst part of it is how vivid his memories are. He has spent all of his recent weeks and months with Kyojuro to the point where Akaza has memorized all the little details of him: from the exact cadence of his voice to the warmth of his laughter and the way heat blooms from his touch. In all of his memories, Kyojuro is so alive, so how is he meant to reconcile his memories with a reality where that is no longer the case? Akaza will think back to some insignificant, pointless conversation they had and struggle to come to terms with the fact that they will never have another one.

Every part of his mind protests that this isn’t how it’s supposed to be, that this loss is a magnitude of cruelty unheard of. And yet the universe watches on with mocking apathy, taking Akaza’s memories by the throat and laughing at his grief. This is how it is. This is how it always is, for you.

Is it his fault? Everything he touches, everyone he tries to love—they always die because of Akaza. He is never, never able to save the ones he wants to save. Even as Upper Moon Three, he hadn’t been able to protect Kyojuro. All the strength in the goddamn world and he was still weak.

Akaza does not know how much time it is before the door opens again. Kocho Shinobu stands there once more, though this time she is dressed in a white kimono rather than her uniform and haori.

Her eyes are rimmed red. She looks at Akaza silently for a few seconds.

“They will cremate the bodies soon,” Shinobu says. “But Oyakata-sama wanted me to ask if you would like to see him before then.”

“Your master?” Akaza asks, surprised. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he is more kind than you deserve,” Shinobu replies, a hint of impatience in her voice. “Now, please answer my question!”

See Kyojuro again… part of Akaza almost doesn’t want to. He is afraid of seeing Kyojuro’s body and of having to reaffirm this horrible truth. But he also knows that he will regret it if he doesn’t. Besides, it would be cruel to Kyojuro to refuse.

“I’ll go see him,” Akaza answers.

Shinobu unlocks the shackles. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she tells Akaza. “The Corps will not hesitate to kill you if you try to run, and I would hate to go against Rengoku-san’s wishes.”

Akaza lets out a hollow laugh. “Where do you think I’ll go, Shinobu?” he asks. “Back to the one who killed Kyojuro?”

She does not answer the question, instead leading him out of the wisteria prison.

They wind down hallways, passing by a few slayers who bow to Shinobu and shoot concerned glances at Akaza. Akaza pays them no heed. He would have thought it hurt less to breathe here, with the air free from wisteria poison, only to find that each breath still aches so horribly.

They arrive in the courtyard not long after. Although it looks empty, Akaza is certain that he is being watched by more than one Hashira. He can no longer pinpoint anyone’s exact locations without seeing their fighting spirits.

The sun has just set, so the sky is still awash with colour. Kyojuro would have stopped to look at the sky, had they been traveling. Akaza almost wants to stop and look, simply by habit he unconsciously picked up.

The casket is laid open on the engawa. Shinobu points it out to Akaza (as if it is not obvious) before she slips away.

Akaza does not move closer for a long time. From here, he can see the white clothing they had dressed Kyojuro in and smell the incense. The side of the casket blocks out most of Kyojuro’s features from this distance.

It must be so goddamn stupid to feel afraid to just go and look. The worst has already happened, so what is there left to fear?

Akaza feels like he is in a trance as he crosses the wooden boards and kneels next to the casket, finally taking in the body that has been laid inside.

The thought crosses his mind that he has never seen Kyojuro dressed in white. When he wasn’t in his uniform, he always preferred more vibrant colours.

Someone has cleaned the blood from his face, so Kyojuro’s features are visible save for the white cloth that has been tied around his eyes, hiding the slash from Kokushibo’s blade. That must have been too gruesome a wound to be dressed. His skin is too pale, without that flush of life that Akaza is accustomed to.

Kyojuro is so still in death. Everything about this screams that it is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Akaza has heard his fair share of people talk about the peacefulness that comes with death, except there is nothing remotely comforting about this. Kyojuro’s hands have been folded neatly over his chest but Akaza knows he does not sleep like that: he always tosses and turns and ultimately settles on his side. He may not look like he’s in pain but the lack of expression is far worse.

Right from the very beginning, even before he knew about the soul thread, Akaza had felt that tug of familiarity whenever Kyojuro was near. He hadn’t understood why until much later, but throughout the months, he’d grown to find comfort in that feeling of belonging. Of home. Being around Kyojuro was like learning how to breathe again after spending the last two centuries underwater. His mind no longer war-torn, his soul quiet.

Now, his chest is hollow. The body lain in front of him has Kyojuro’s features, but no recognition pulses through the soul thread. Akaza feels as though he is looking at a doll that crudely bears Kyojuro’s resemblance. How can it be Kyojuro if Akaza can’t feel him?

He picks up Kyojuro’s fingers. They are cold and stiff. Akaza knows the callouses that line his palms, but newer are the wounds at the pads of his fingertips, burned blisters from the poison he had used on the blue spider lily.

How had it felt like again, to breathe?

He doesn’t know what to do with this—this grief that wells up like a storm and does not retreat. Guilt, too, for not breaking the curse sooner. Regret for being so cruel. Disbelief, because this is not fair. Akaza was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to protect Kyojuro.

Kyojuro was so good, so kind. While Akaza mindlessly followed Muzan’s commands like a dog, Kyojuro had spent his entire life helping people. And yet he had traded his life away for Akaza’s worthless one, just like before, just like every goddamn time, over and over and fucking over—

When the tears come again, Akaza doesn’t bother biting them back. He kneels by a cold corpse that once was Kyojuro and weeps. His heart hurts so terribly that he thinks he might die. If he does die, he thinks he would be glad of it.

What was the point of giving Kyojuro to him and then taking it all away? Was he just the end of some cruel, cosmic joke? Did the universe find it amusing to watch him learn to love just so he will hurt that much more at the loss?

Even if Akaza deserved this, surely Kyojuro didn’t.

Akaza cries until he can’t cry anymore. Then he kneels silently next to Kyojuro’s body for a while longer, too tired to pull himself to his feet. He had told Shinobu he would help the Corps kill Muzan. Akaza wants to make him pay, but at the same time he can’t fathom the idea of shouldering this grief again tomorrow, then again and again for all the days that follow.

And if the Corps does manage to kill Muzan, what is Akaza supposed to do afterwards? Given that Kyojuro had left behind a blue spider lily for Akaza and had begged the Corps to spare him, clearly he wanted Akaza to live.

It’s an absurd notion at best and a terrifying future at worst. Muzan had taken his memories so that for the last two centuries, Akaza had spent every waking moment obsessively chasing worthless strength. He can’t go back to that anymore. Kyojuro is gone. There is no purpose for Akaza keep on living, even if that was what Kyojuro wanted.

Akaza doesn’t want to watch the seasons change without him. To whom will he point out flower names at the side of the road? And will he sit under fireworks, more aware of the absence next to him than of the sparks lighting up the sky?

In the end, it is the emptiness that hurts the most. This absence that Akaza cannot put into words. He keeps returning to it, reaching for the hole in his chest as if something will be different the next time he touches where his soul thread once connected to Kyojuro’s. Nothing changes.

“Akaza,” someone calls. Akaza looks over his shoulder, surprised.

A man stands at the door of the engawa. His skin at the top half of his face is mottled with some disease, eyes milky-white and unseeing. Even without his ability to tell fighting spirits, Akaza can tell that he’s incredibly weak. A young girl no more than seven or eight supports his weight.

He walks slowly, crossing the wooden boards as if each step requires all of his effort. Akaza takes him in. He’s certainly not a Hashira, although there’s something familiar about his features that Akaza can’t place.

“I am sorry for your loss,” the man says. His voice is soft. “Kyojuro was well-loved by everyone in the Corps, and we are all grieved by his passing.”

Akaza pushes himself to his feet. He doesn’t want comfort and condolences. It means absolutely nothing. He prefers Kocho Shinobu’s double-edged words over this.

The man stops in front of Akaza. “I am Ubuyashiki Kagaya,” he says. “The leader of the Demon Slayer Corps. Kyojuro has told me much about you, Akaza.”

Akaza had suspected already, but at the same time, he finds himself a little shocked that the leader of the Corps is a man who looks so frail. That, and the fact that…

“You bear resemblance to Muzan,” Akaza says. “Why?”

Surprise passes briefly over Kagaya’s face before he gives a small smile. “I did not know you would be able to tell,” he says. “The Ubuyashiki family is descended from the same bloodline as Kibutsuji Muzan, so I suppose some similarities remain.”

Akaza lets out a sharp laugh. Muzan would certainly be furious to learn that he was related to the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps.

Kagaya does not comment on it. Instead, he waves someone over. A young girl identical to the one supporting his weight walks over, holding a neatly folded bundle of cloth and Kyojuro’s sword in her hands.

The world stumbles to a standstill as Akaza’s vision tunnels on the two items. He recognizes the cloth as Kyojuro’s haori, except the last time he saw it, there had been blood stained into the white. It looks clean now. And the sword…

Sunk deep into the left side of Kyojuro’s abdomen, stained with his lifeblood. How ironic. Akaza had so often admired at Kyojuro’s skill with his sword, and yet it had become the very weapon of his death.

“Kyojuro has no living relatives,” Kagaya says. “And I believe he would’ve wanted you to have this.”

The girl extends her arms to Akaza, the haori and sword resting there.

Numbly, Akaza takes it from her. The cloth of Kyojuro’s haori is soft but it feels like sandpaper on his palms.

“I know Shinobu has told you what happened already,” Kagaya continues, always in that gentle voice of his. It makes a surge of anger well up in Akaza. He says he grieves for Kyojuro yet he remains so unbelievably calm. The only grief Akaza knows is violent, so how could this be genuine? “Kyojuro asked for the Corps to spare your life.”

“And then what, I help you kill Muzan? The Corps eradicates all demons from the world?”

“That is my hope.”

Akaza closes his eyes. His head hurts. “What is his death to you, Kagaya?” he asks. “Is it an inconvenience? Or maybe it’s a good thing because you got one of Muzan’s Upper Moons out of it. Surely you’ve sent so many slayers to their deaths that this isn’t a new occurrence for you.”

There is a moment of silence. Akaza opens his eyes again. Kagaya doesn’t react to the insult, his expression unchanging.

Kyojuro would be mad at him, wouldn’t he? He always spoke so highly of his master. But he isn’t here to tell Akaza off anymore.

“Let me tell you a story,” Kagaya says at last. “Unlike any of the other Hashira, Kyojuro knew me since he was a child as his family was descended from a long line of demon slayers. The first time I met him, his father had brought him to the Ubuyashiki Estate because he had begged to be shown around. We fed the koi together in the garden.” He gestures towards the pond underneath the tree. “He was five and I was eight. Back then, I had not yet lost my sight.”

Akaza glances at the koi pond. He can see the faint ripple of two fish swimming in the water. They must be different koi now.

“My father passed when I was four years old, and my mother when I was even younger,” Kagaya continues. “When Kyojuro learned of this, he was rather upset that I had no one to tell me stories before being put to bed. So he would tell me the stories his mother told him while we fed the koi. After I lost my sight, Kyojuro would tell me the details of the beautiful things he had seen in his travels so I could map them out in my mind.”

Akaza sinks his fangs into his cheeks. His eyes sting.

“Kyojuro loved this world,” Kagaya says. “He saw the good in everywhere he looked and he extended kindness to everyone he met. I am sure you knew that too, Akaza.”

“I know,” Akaza says. “I know, but I’m not like him. I don’t care about this world if he’s not here.”

Kagaya smiles, but he looks a little sad. “I will not pretend to understand the pain of your loss, Akaza, because I know what Kyojuro meant to you was different than what he meant for me,” he says. “What I can tell you is what Kyojuro would have wanted. It is up to you to decide what you do with that.”

Akaza looks down at the body in the casket. Kyojuro was always telling him Akaza should be able to do the things he wanted, but what Akaza wants now is impossibly far out of reach.

He swallows. “I told Shinobu I would help the Corps kill Muzan, and that still stands,” he tells Kagaya. “But I’m not kind or selfless like Kyojuro was. I just want Muzan to suffer for what he’s done.”

“I understand,” Kagaya says gently. “But know that Kyojuro saw the good in you too.” He dips his head at Akaza. “We can discuss more about Kibutsuji Muzan at a later time. I will take my leave.”

Akaza doesn’t reply. He listens to Kagaya’s footsteps depart.

Still clutching Kyojuro’s haori and sword, he sits down next to Kyojuro’s body again. Know that Kyojuro saw the good in you too. Any good, any kindness Akaza had tried to show had always been because of Kyojuro. The world looked beautiful because Kyojuro taught him to see it through his eyes. Yet now, looking at the trees that have begun to don their autumn gowns, Akaza finds no beauty in them no matter how hard he tries.

He reaches out to pick up Kyojuro’s slack hand with his own. By habit and memory alone, Akaza almost expects to feel his steady pulse and blooming warmth. The soul thread’s connection will light up when they touch.

“I can’t feel you,” Akaza says, half-hysterical. Shinobu told him there are Hashira watching him. He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. The world is dark and empty and there is no one left. “Why can’t I—why can’t I feel you.”

The hilt of Kyojuro’s sword digging into his chest is the only sensation there is. He holds it tighter, presses his face into Kyojuro’s haori, and lets the tears flow.

When he lifts his head again, Akaza doesn’t know if it has been minutes or hours. The moon has begun its ascent into the sky. It shines down at him with its impassive, lonely white.

The stars are so far away tonight.

Chapter Text

“The sun is rising.”

No flicker of a fighting spirit warns Akaza of peoples’ coming and going. He’s left to rely on the sound of footsteps, and as it is, Shinobu walks so quietly that her footsteps are barely audible even with a demon’s hearing.

“I know,” Akaza says. He can taste the sun in his throat. It’s been a day since the connection of his soul thread went dark, and he still can’t tell if it feels too long or too short. Time has all but lost meaning.

“It’s time to go back,” Shinobu adds. “Oyakata-sama has already allowed you more time than we discussed.”

Akaza exhales shakily. They will cremate Kyojuro’s body, and then bury his ashes and bones at his family’s grave.

Rituals for the dead. That doesn’t seem right on Kyojuro.

Akaza looks down at Kyojuro, his features forever set in an expressionless manner that is unfitting on him. The cloth over his eyes, the folded hands, the silence. Akaza has spent the entirety of the night sitting here, trying to carve the memory of Kyojuro’s face into his heart where he surely won’t forget. A sudden fear overwhelms him now: what if this is how he will remember Kyojuro from now on? Unsmiling and cold and lifeless? Poisoning all the rest of his memories of Kyojuro, until he can recall him in death better than he can in life.

“Upper Moon Three,” Shinobu calls.

Akaza turns away from Kyojuro. “I told you, I’m not Upper Moon Three anymore.”

Shinobu is back in her uniform. She tucks her hands inside of her pockets. “Please follow me,” she says.

The sun is minutes away. Akaza swallows.

He wants to look back one more time except he doesn’t know if that is something he can bear. So instead, he follows Shinobu back into the estate, still clutching Kyojuro’s haori and sword. Staying longer won’t do anything. It won’t bring Kyojuro back. It won’t make this hurt any less.

They arrive back at the wisteria prison. Akaza doesn’t protest as Shinobu re-shackles his wrists and ankles. She barely speaks to Akaza.

Shinobu steps back when she finishes. The metal chains burn slightly. When Akaza turns them back and forth, they catch the dim light in a way that is ever so unnatural.

“Nichirin?” he guesses.

“You’re observant!” Shinobu says. “Yes, they are.”

“I’ve fought enough slayers to know what the metal looks like.”

“Killed plenty too, haven’t you?” Shinobu shoots back, an edge to her tone. Before Akaza can reply, she abruptly changes the topic. “Oyakata-sama will want to meet with you soon. He will have questions about Kibutsuji that we expect you to answer, and then we will discuss our next steps. Does that make sense?”

Akaza nods.

“The current plan is that I am responsible for watching over you, because wisteria poison is the easiest way to keep you weakened,” she says. “That being said, you would prove a useful test subject for me.”

It takes him a couple of moments to process that. “Test subject?” Akaza echoes. “For your poison?”

“It’s difficult to gauge potency and dosage when demons usually die from it!” Shinobu says. “But if you recall, you were able to break down my poison, and you’re strong enough to keep on doing so. It would be incredibly useful for my research. Besides, you have broken the curse, so any poison I test on you isn’t something Kibutsuji’s cells will learn to adapt to through the blood bond!”

Months ago, Akaza would’ve probably tried to break her arm again for suggesting something so entirely absurd. He wasn’t going to let Kocho Shinobu poison him while he sat idly by and reported the effects to her. She was weak, she fought with underhanded tactics, and her mask of fake cheer had infuriated Akaza.

Looking at her now, he can’t bring himself to feel even an ember of the same fury. It had taken Kyojuro’s death for him to learn that some things were simply more deserving of his anger than others, and how Shinobu chooses to kill demons doesn’t matter to him.

And if having her use him as a lab rat will help defeat Muzan, who was Akaza to deny her request? It wasn’t as though he had anything better to do either. Besides, she had been Kyojuro’s friend. Even if Akaza didn’t like her, Kyojuro had always spoken highly of her.

That realization was the final nail in the coffin. “Fine,” he says. “Do whatever you want, Shinobu. I don’t care.”

Shinobu looks a little surprised at his agreement, but she quickly schools her expression back into that shallow smile. “Good!” she says, clasping her hands together. “Then I will return to take you to Oyakata-sama soon.”

The iron door clicks shut, leaving Akaza alone with the wisteria once more.

Minutes pass. Akaza clutches Kyojuro’s sword and haori to his chest as if it will fill up the empty space where he used to feel Kyojuro’s soul thread.

The wisteria in the room makes him feel cold, which is strange because Akaza has never been cold. He thinks of the time in the blizzard when he’d found Kyojuro shivering in the storm, half-delirious. Akaza hadn’t felt cold then, so why was he feeling it now?

Kyojuro had very forcefully convinced him to wear warmer kimonos as part of his disguise when they walked through towns in the winter months. People will think you strange! he had said. Any human would be freezing to death if they wore as little as you do!

Now, Akaza unfolds Kyojuro’s haori and tucks it around his shoulders, as though it would make him stop shivering. The cloth has been cleaned from blood, but now that he’s taking a closer look, he still sees hints of pale pink, stained too deep into the fabric to be properly washed out. It still smells faintly of Kyojuro.

He can’t quite remember how he had spent his days before Kyojuro. It’s all a blur of monotony, devoid of colours. As if he had spent his entire life waiting and waiting, just to meet him. And now to lose him.

The flame-shaped guard of Kyojuro’s sword digs into his chest. Slowly, Akaza wraps his fingers around the hilt and pulls it out just enough to see the gleaming nichirin metal. Someone has cleaned the blade thoroughly as well. He can’t even smell the blood on it anymore.

Pulling the sword entirely out of the sheath, he stares down at the blade. Near the guard, the characters destroyer of demons is carved. He runs his fingers over the grooves and dips, then over the edge of Kyojuro’s sword until it draws a thin line of blood from his flesh.

Slowly, Akaza raises it forward so he can sink the blade into his body right where he remembered it had pierced Kyojuro’s. Lower left side of his abdomen. It must have pierced multiple organs. Likely a kidney, at the very least.

Kyojuro’s sword sinks into his flesh so easily. Blood spills over the blade, dripping meaninglessly down the side of the metal. The feeling of Kyojuro’s blade cutting into his body doesn’t even hurt the way it must have hurt for Kyojuro because Akaza is far too attuned to these sorts of injuries. It feels wrong to think that what had ultimately killed Kyojuro is nothing more than a scratch on Akaza’s body, soon to heal with no record of scarring.

At last, Akaza tears the blade out. He wants it to hurt and yet it doesn’t hurt enough and all of a sudden that is unbearable. He can carve out his heart, cut himself in two, and it won’t make a goddamn difference.

The thought passes briefly, temptingly, that there is one way that he could die by Kyojuro’s blade too. Akaza doesn’t have any skill with a sword but it wouldn’t be hard to cut his neck with it.

He could, right now. He could, but…

Akaza squeezes his eyes shut. Kyojuro had done everything in his power to make sure Akaza could live. And even if he doesn’t want to, even if he doesn’t deserve it, he can’t die before he makes sure Muzan has been destroyed.

So Akaza cleans his blood off and slides Kyojuro’s sword back into the sheath. He pulls his knees to his chest and presses his forehead against them.

Maybe that will make you miss me less.

He adjusts Kyojuro’s haori around his shoulders tighter. Too cold. Always too cold.

“Did you really think that?” he asks. Akaza would give anything for just one reply, to see him one more time.

The air is unbearably loud in its silence.

It must be a few hours later that Shinobu takes him out of the cell and brings him to Kagaya’s room. Again, she has startlingly few words to say.

For the leader of the entire Demon Slayer Corps, Kagaya’s chambers are surprisingly modest. He sits behind a wooden desk. Apart from a large bookshelf, a futon and a shelf, his room houses nothing else.

He smiles at them when they enter. There is a woman sitting near him with white hair and large purple eyes. “You may leave us, Shinobu,” he says. “Thank you for bringing Akaza here.”

Shinobu hesitates for a moment, but she ends up bowing. “I will be waiting outside to escort Akaza back when you finish your discussion, Oyakata-sama.”

Her soft footsteps fade away and the door clicks shut. Akaza stands in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do. Ubuyashiki Kagaya may be the master of the slayers, but Akaza has no more interest in bowing down to authority that has done nothing to earn his loyalty.

“Come,” Kagaya says. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”

Stiffly, he crosses the floor and takes a seat in front of Kagaya. His eyes never leave Akaza, and he finds himself slightly unsettled by the sight even though he knows Kagaya is blind. The woman beside him doesn’t say anything but pours him a cup of tea. Ceramics clink cheerfully.

“I brought you here so we could talk about Kibutsuji Muzan,” Kagaya says. “Up until Kyojuro, no Hashira has ever survived contact with an Upper Moon, and we have little to no information about where Muzan hides. A few months earlier, one of our newest slayers actually made contact with Muzan and survived.” His lips lift into a smile. “I hear you have met him before. Kamado Tanjiro.”

Akaza does a double take. “The brat with the hanafuda earrings?”

“Yes,” Kagaya confirms, looking faintly amused. “Kyojuro told me you were sent to kill him.”

The memory brings a sharp pang to Akaza’s chest. Back when finding out he was Kyojuro’s soulmate had turned his entire world upside down, when that one revelation had been the most jarring thing he thought he could experience. Akaza is almost envious of the person he was then. He had been so naive. If he had known then what he knew now, he wouldn’t have wasted his time shouting all of those cruel words at Kyojuro. He wouldn’t have blamed Kyojuro for keeping his secrets.

“Let’s start with the Infinity Fortress,” Kagaya says, folding his hands in front of him. “And then we can talk about the Upper Moons and Muzan himself.”

For the next half hour, they discuss the specifics regarding Muzan and the rest of the Kizuki. And for that brief time, Akaza busies himself with laying out the facts, focusing on nothing but providing Kagaya with the details he knows. It’s a decent distraction. His mind doesn’t wander back to Kyojuro until Kagaya finishes posing his questions, and he asks Akaza if there is anything he wants to know or anything Akaza wants.

Akaza shakes his head. What he wants he can’t have, so there is no use talking about it.

The smile he receives in return is slightly sad. “I am glad that you are aiding the Corps against Muzan,” Kagaya says. “And I am grateful for your cooperation, Akaza.”

“I’m not doing this for you.”

“Kyojuro spoke of you to me from the very beginning,” Kagaya says. “Since he met you, I do not remember a letter he has sent me in which you did not feature.”

Akaza had accused Kyojuro of treating all of their conversations and promises and secrets as if it were nothing more than intel for the Corps. As if their relationship was just a mission to Kyojuro. Hearing this from Kagaya…

“Kyojuro always liked to include bits and pieces of his travels to me in his letters,” he continues. “Especially the things he saw that he liked or made him happy. Sometimes, as Amane read me his letters, I wondered which category you fell under. The report, or the conversation after.”

Akaza sinks his fangs into his cheeks, not knowing how to respond. It feels so unfair to learn about all of these things in retrospect—the small and large ways that Kyojuro had cared for him. He had known that though Kyojuro was talkative and loud, he was never the type to show off. It made sense that he kept these details to himself, but Akaza wishes Kyojuro could have told him. So that at the very least, he could have spent less time doubting Kyojuro’s care back when he could still return it.

“Is that everything?” he asks Kagaya instead. He doesn’t think he can continue talking about Kyojuro without his eyes stinging again.

“There is one more thing.” Kagaya sets his teacup down. Akaza realizes that his hands are wrapped in bandages, and the glimpse of skin he catches is the same mottled purple that has claimed the upper half of his face. “The condition upon which we granted your pardon to Kyojuro is that you no longer harm or take any human lives. If this happens, then any protection the Corps offers is forfeit.”

So Kyojuro hadn’t told the Corps about the man he killed. Akaza swallows. “I won’t kill anyone if I have a choice,” he says. “But if I’m starved long enough, I won’t be able to control myself. What do I do then?”

“I have a solution, should you want to take it,” Kagaya says. “Have you heard of Tamayo?”

Akaza blinks. “Tamayo?” he echoes. Muzan had ordered any demon who encountered her to kill her on sight, and yet no one had ever found her. Kokushibo had spent centuries tracking her down, to no avail. If he knew she had been working with the Corps all along… an incredulous laugh escapes Akaza. “The traitor? Muzan would be furious to learn she was working with you.”

Kagaya looks amused. “Given your new allegiance, I do not think you should be calling her a traitor anymore. But yes, the Ubuyashiki family has been in contact with Tamayo for a few generations. She is currently working on a drug that turns demons back into humans with Shinobu.”

That is definitely new information. “So your solution is to turn me back into a human?”

“Not quite,” Kagaya says. “The drug hasn’t been completed. However, Tamayo is capable of making modifications to a demon’s body so that they are capable of surviving off just a little blood. Both she and the demon that has been working with her have successfully undergone these modifications, and she can do the same for you. If you are willing.”

“Are you offering me a choice?” Akaza asks. “Or has this already been decided?”

Kagaya’s expression remains level. “The decision is yours, Akaza,” he says. “I will not pretend that it is not the decision I would like for you to make, but I will not force you to make it either.”

Akaza scrutinizes his face and can’t find anything except the perfect calm, and that strange clarity behind Kagaya’s unseeing eyes.

From Kyojuro, Akaza had heard that Ubuyashiki Kagaya was a good leader. Understanding and kind, Kyojuro had once said, and it was impossible not to see the fondness when he talked about his master. Despite that, Akaza finds himself on edge, always looking for a caveat in Kagaya’s words. Some age-old habit, maybe, always waiting for authority to lash out at him inevitably.

“It’s the safest option,” he says. “For Tamayo to make the modifications. It doesn’t make a difference to me anyway.”

Kagaya nods. “I shall inform her,” he says, then turns to look towards Amane. “Could you please tell Shinobu to come back in?”

Akaza doesn’t stay long in the wisteria prison this time around. Shinobu comes to collect him as soon as the sun sets, a giant syringe filled with a suspicious purple liquid in her hand.

“We’re going to go to the Butterfly Estate!” she says. “Tamayo-san is there, as are all of my laboratory supplies. You will be staying at the Butterfly Estate for an indefinite time.”

“What’s that for?” Akaza asks, gesturing at the syringe.

The response is far too cheerful. “For you!” Shinobu says. “It’ll weaken your senses while we travel.”

Akaza raises his brows. “You think I’ll run away?”

“Never such thing as too little precautions,” Shinobu replies. She smiles. “In case you have forgotten, I still have very little reason to trust you.”

How funny. A poisoner like her speaking of trust.

“You don’t have to trust me,” Akaza replies. “But you can trust that I want Muzan dead as much as you do.”

She gives a noncommittal hum. Akaza holds his arm out and Shinobu injects the needle into his flesh.

The effects of the poison are immediate. It’s not quite the same as her other poisons. Instead of the sharp, fiery pain, this one is slower, inhibiting the sharpness of his senses into something much uncomfortably hazy. Akaza bites down the ache as Shinobu unlocks the shackles. This is better. It gives him something else to focus on.

They leave the Corps’ Headquarters not long after, with Akaza holding Kyojuro’s haori and sword again. Shinobu has very little to say to him. Akaza doesn’t want to talk anyway.

As they travel down the road, Akaza can’t help but be reminded of all those days of travel with Kyojuro. They’d spent so much of their time together walking from place to place, the silence always filled with insignificant conversations or arguments about meaningless things. For some reason, it always felt like he lost the arguments to Kyojuro.

When he and Shinobu reach the wisteria grove, he thinks of the days he visited Kyojuro when he was confined to the hospital bed. Things had been so simple back then. Kyojuro intrigued him in a way Akaza couldn’t place, but he could easily justify it by his fighting spirit or his strength.

Now he is returning to the Butterfly Estate after a year, with the poisoner he had sworn he hated, holding Kyojuro’s sword and haori and nursing an absence bigger than words can convey.

Akaza can’t tell how many humans are at the Butterfly Estate when he arrives, no longer seeing the flicker of individual fighting spirits. There is the faint chatter of voices when they enter, but the hallways Shinobu leads him down are all empty.

The room she has arranged for him looks much more pleasant than the one at the Corps’ headquarters. It has all the necessities like the inn rooms he and Kyojuro had so often stayed at: a bed, a dresser, a basin, and a desk. Wisteria decorates the walls, while the window has been boarded off so no sunlight spills into the room.

“Tamayo-san will be here shortly,” she tells him.

Akaza surveys the room again. “You’re not going to chain me up this time?”

Shinobu shrugs. “Pretty sure the poison will keep you better incapacitated!”

Right. She was planning on using him to test her poisons.

Akaza laughs. Was this how he was going to spend the remainder of his days until Muzan was killed?

“Is there anything you find particularly funny?”

“All of this,” Akaza says. “It’s really fucking ironic.”

“Then I am happy you’re keeping yourself amused.” Before she says anything else, there is a knock on the door. Shinobu reaches behind her and opens it.

Tamayo looks the same as Akaza remembers from Muzan’s memories; not particularly tall, with dark hair and lilac eyes, dressed in a floral kimono. She’s holding a metal tray in her hands, full of syringes, bottles of coloured liquid, and surgical tools.

She dips her head at Shinobu. “Kocho-san,” she greets.

Shinobu offers her a neutral smile back. “I will take my leave,” she says. “Please let me know when you finish, Tamayo-san!”

Without another word, she disappears out the door, leaving Akaza alone with Tamayo.

For a few seconds, neither of them speak. Then Tamayo sets her tray down on the table and turns to face him.

“Akaza-san,” she says. Her voice is saccharine. “I am pleased to meet you. My name is Tamayo, although I am sure Kibutsuji Muzan’s Upper Moons were all aware of my existence already.”

Akaza takes her in. From the blue spider lily to the Corps’ leader to Tamayo—how ironic that in less than two days’ time, he has come into contact with everything Muzan had spent centuries searching and failing to find.

“I am not an Upper Moon anymore,” he says.

“I know,” Tamayo says. “And I am sorry to hear of the circumstances that brought you here.”

Akaza shifts his weight, biting back a sharp retort. He doesn’t want to keep on hearing apologies or condolences. None of them changed anything. None of them would bring Kyojuro back. They feel like useless pity.

“How is it that Muzan has never found you?” he asks instead. “He had Kokushibo searching for you for centuries, and Upper Moon One couldn’t even find traces.”

Tamyo’s smile widens ever so slightly. Still polite, but there’s just a touch of viciousness behind her composed expression. “Muzan’s biggest flaw is underestimating the power emotion holds,” she says. “I hated him so much that I refuse to die before I can ensure his death too. I learned of ways to keep myself hidden no matter how hard he searched.”

“What did he do to you?” Akaza asks, faintly curious. Muzan had insisted on Tamayo’s death, and yet he had never learned anything about her beyond that.

“Certainly nothing special,” Tamayo replies. “When I was a human, I was incredibly sick. The doctor told me I had less than months to live before the disease claimed me. Kibutsuji Muzan found me and offered to turn me into a demon. He said I would be cured.” She lifts her pale lilac eyes to meet Akaza’s. “I wanted to watch my daughter grow up. I wanted to help my husband raise her. Instead, I killed and ate the two of them when I became a demon. Then I served Muzan personally for centuries until I broke the curse.”

Akaza shouldn’t feel surprised, but he can’t help but wonder—how had he lived so long in ignorance, acting as though being turned into a demon was a gift from Muzan? Everything Muzan had given him was a curse. From this counterfeit strength to the lie of eternity. A broken soul thread and centuries of loneliness.

“Did it get easier?” he asks Tamayo. “Losing them?”

She looks away, going to pick up a bottle of light blue liquid and a syringe from her metal tray.

“No,” Tamayo replies after a few seconds. “But you learn to live with it.”

How? Akaza almost asks, except the question catches in his throat and doesn’t make it out.

Part of him is glad to hear that answer. Losing Kyojuro hurts more than anything Akaza has known, and yet he doesn’t want the pain to leave or the wound to heal. If it hurts, at least it meant something. Akaza doesn’t want there to be a day when the memory of him doesn’t carve an ache into his chest.

Tamayo gestures at the bed. “Please lie down, Akaza-san,” she says. “The drug I’m going to inject you with should make you lose consciousness. It makes the procedure easier.”

Akaza nods, too drained to do anything but comply. Some age-old habit vehemently recoils from such easy surrender, but no habit can override the exhaustion that comes with grief.

He lies down on the bed. It’s softer than most of the ones Kyojuro slept on in inns. He turns his gaze up to the white ceiling.

Tamayo picks up his arm. For the second time today, he feels the needle of the syringe break skin as a drug is plunged into his bloodstream.

Everything becomes a hazy blur as the drug kicks in. One moment Akaza is looking at the white ceiling, and the next, his eyelids are shutting.

The dark that swallows him is more merciful than any of his thoughts.

The sun is bright.

The sun…

Akaza shrinks back, instinctual alarm flooding into him as he immediately moves away from the wooden boards that have been doused in sunlight.

His mind spins. Where is he? His thoughts feel muddied and incoherent and all of a sudden he can’t remember where he had been, where he is, why he is here.

“It’s not going to burn you here,” somebody says, and Akaza turns around so fast that he nearly gets whiplash.

There is a man standing on the other side of the room. The… dojo. This is a dojo, he realizes. The wooden floors are worn down, the ceiling is rather low, and parts of the walls need repairing. Still, the sight instills some strange kind of familiarity into Akaza that he cannot put into words or draw into memory.

The man takes a few steps closer. Akaza is frozen to the spot. He appears to be in his thirties, with dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail. He wears a white uniform with a black obi.

“Who are you?” Akaza asks, and his voice shakes no matter how hard he wills it not to. Guilt rises to his throat for having to ask a question he should know the answer to. He swallows it down. “Where am I?”

“Ah.” The man stops in front of him. He’s a fair bit taller than Akaza. Even without the flicker of fighting spirits, Akaza knows that he is strong. He was strong. Still, his smile is gentle. “You haven’t remembered yet, Hakuji?”

“Hakuji,” Akaza echoes. The name tastes like ash in his mouth. “That’s not—that’s not my name.”

Is it really not?

The man’s smile doesn’t go away, but he looks a little sad. “Akaza, then,” he says. “My name is Keizo.”

Keizo. Akaza continues staring at him, wondering why everything hurts so much. Even after the curse was broken, his human memories are a jumbled mess. He can pick out bits and pieces but never the specifics.

It’s only then that he notices he is wearing the same uniform as Keizo. The simple white, the black obi around his waist. A symbol of belonging, like the way Kyojuro’s uniform had tied him to the Corps.

The realization strikes him like a knife to the throat. Akaza takes in the dojo, their matching uniforms, the man’s kind smile, and he knows with certainty that Keizo is someone he had forgotten—someone who had once been important to him.

Is he speaking to a ghost? A mirage his imagination has dreamed up? Some long-forgotten memory, replaying itself?

Whichever possibility it is doesn’t change the fact that he still doesn’t remember. It doesn’t change the fact that he should remember, but he can’t, he can’t, no matter how deeply he digs into his memories and how desperately he tries to uproot them. Asking Keizo to tell him about his own memories feels too shameful, like another failure to add to Akaza’s thousands upon thousands.

“It’s alright if you don’t remember, Akaza,” Keizo says, pulling Akaza from his thoughts. “It’s not your fault either.”

Akaza shakes his head. “It was,” he says. A poisoned well, two still bodies. “I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t—I couldn’t protect her. And then I couldn’t protect Kyojuro either.” He stares down at his hands. His skin is corpse-grey, inked with demonic markings and so, so inhuman. It feels like he is making a mockery of something sacred by wearing this uniform. “All of this was my fucking fault.”

Keizo’s eyes soften. He reaches out and lays a hand on Akaza’s shoulder, his grip solid as steel and warm as summer.

“Is it easier to blame yourself than to accept that there are always things you cannot control?” he asks. There’s nothing cruel about his tone; just a simple question.

Akaza swallows thickly. He feels like a child. “I was supposed to be strong,” he says. It comes out plaintive at best. “I was—I was supposed to have learned my lesson.”

“From where?” Keizo presses. “From the memories that were stolen from you?”

“I knew. I couldn’t remember why, I couldn’t remember what happened, but I knew I was weak. I knew I lost someone. But I was still careless and stupid and in the end, Kyojuro had to pay for my weakness.”

There is a moment of silence. Keizo’s hand draws away from Akaza’s shoulder, and he is suddenly afraid that he has said something that angered the man.

Instead, Keizo pats his back slightly. “Come,” he says. “Let’s sit in the sun while we talk.”

Akaza opens his mouth to protest before he remembers Keizo’s first words to him: It’s not going to burn you here. So he swallows his fear and follows Keizo out of the room, where they sit down on the wooden steps.

In this dreamscape or memory or whatever in-between he’s stuck in, the sun does not feel warm like Akaza would assume it to be. He supposes that it’s because none of this is real. Still, the light washes over him, making him squint at the brightness.

Outside the dojo is a small garden. It’s nowhere as large as the one in the Rengoku Estate, but there are flowers blooming in bunches. For some odd reason, Akaza finds that he cannot recall the names of the flowers despite how he used to be able to list them so easily to Kyojuro.

“The world has been cruel to you, Akaza,” Keizo says at last, his voice soft. “Do you think you are deserving of it?”

Akaza looks at him. “Why else would it happen?”

“Tragedies happen to innocent people,” Keizo replies. “The guilty often get away with their misdeeds. Do you think Koyuki and I deserved to die? Did Kyojuro?”

Koyuki. That was her name. How had he ever forgotten?

Akaza shakes his head. “Of course not,” he says. “But I—”

“Do you think we all died for your punishment?” Keizo asks. “If this is about fairness and balance, don’t you think that would be unfair to us?”

Akaza sinks his fangs into his cheeks, turning away. He doesn’t know how to argue back. What Keizo is saying makes sense, but his mind clings stubbornly to the fact that it’s his fault. It has to be. At least then, it would make sense. At least that would provide some sort of justification as to why this keeps happening again and again.

“You loved us well,” Keizo says. “You made Koyuki happy and you made me proud. We couldn’t have asked for more from you, Haku—Akaza.”

His eyes are stinging again. This is ridiculous, Akaza thinks, for him to cry so often, and now he can’t even get through a dream without shedding tears. Keizo’s words and presence make him feel so raw, like he’s been stripped down to the bone and all of his fears and weakness are barred for the man to see. But there’s also a sort of comfort to it—knowing that Keizo won’t turn any of those vulnerabilities as weapons against him.

“I don’t know if I loved Kyojuro,” Akaza admits at last. “I didn’t even know if he loved me until it was too late and I said so many cruel things to him. I don’t—know if I am capable of it. Loving him right.”

Keizo hums thoughtfully. “Here’s what I think,” he says. “I think you did love him, and have for a very long time. But you’re afraid of admitting it because then it means that loving someone is not always enough to save them. That doesn’t make your love any lesser, Akaza. You cannot save everyone. Sometimes you can only love them.”

“Then what’s the point?” Akaza asks. “If it’s not enough to save anyone, then it’s all…” Worthless. “I can never save anyone. If I am cursed to love and lose, then maybe it would’ve been better if it had never happened at all.”

“I know it hurts,” Keizo says. He sounds sad. He squeezes Akaza’s shoulder again, and all of a sudden Akaza remembers the way he used to do it before, centuries ago. When he was frustrated, when he was sad, all the moments in between. Keizo had always encouraged him to get back up. “I know it might never stop hurting. But do you truly think it would have been better if you never met him?”

Akaza thinks about the days he and Kyojuro spent together. He had seen his grey world bloom into colour, felt a centuries-long winter blossom into spring—and yet he is now dragged back into a colourless winter with only the memories of summer left to keep him warm. He thinks of clutching Kyojuro’s sword and haori, haunted by a future without Kyojuro.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

“I think you do,” Keizo says. “Would you go back before you met Kyojuro, if you were given the choice?”

Akaza closes his eyes. “No.”

They sit there in silence for a while longer. It feels so easy being around Keizo. A faint recollection touches his mind; days spent in the dojo under Keizo’s guidance as he teaches Akaza how to fight and how to live. He misses it so much that Akaza thinks he may shatter from the ache of it all.

After all, this is a place constructed on memory—be it his, or Keizo’s. Everything here is long gone. Even their borrowed time is ticking towards a resolution sooner or later.

“I’m sorry,” Akaza says at last, turning to look at Keizo. “You were the one who taught me all of my techniques, weren’t you? You told me to use my strength to protect people. But I just… I used it to hurt people. I killed so many of them.”

“You don’t have to seek forgiveness from me, Akaza,” Keizo says. “I can’t say I approve of what you did! But Koyuki and I have watched you all of this time, and I am glad to see that you are doing the right thing once more.”

“I’m not doing it because it’s the right thing. I’m helping the Corps because of what Muzan did.”

“That’s still a step, isn’t it?” Keizo asks. “If all you can do right now is to dedicate yourself to defeating Muzan, then go on and give it your all. But afterwards…” Keizo tilts his head. “Now that you know better, Akaza, shouldn’t you also try to do better?”

Kyojuro loved this world, Kagaya had said to him. Akaza had tried to do the same. He had entertained such naive thoughts of being like Kyojuro—helping others, making a good difference. Now, Keizo is asking him to do better, except how is he supposed to do it without Kyojuro’s help? Without him here?

“Kyojuro did not make you good, Akaza,” Keizo says. “He just brought out the parts of you that were already there. Everybody needs a little guidance sometimes.”

It sounds so impossible. Akaza is a demon; he has been for two hundred years. He’d taken countless lives. Even if there were parts of him that had been good as a human, surely the wrongs he has committed over the centuries have destroyed it all.

But Keizo’s eyes are sincere, and Akaza knows that he isn’t lying. After all, he was never the type to tell falsehoods to soothe Akaza’s feelings.

“Do you remember what I told you when you were frustrated you couldn’t master a move?” Keizo asks.

Akaza frowns. “I can’t remember anything from my human life.”

Keizo only lets out a laugh. It was such a friendly sound, full of easy warmth. Akaza doesn’t understand how it’s directed at him. “Be patient, Akaza,” he says. “In the beginning, everyone is like a child in everything they do. Then they get help from other people and start to improve. Kyojuro helped you, didn’t he?”

He doesn’t go on until Akaza gives a hesitant nod.

“You’re comparing yourself to him now that you know how to be better,” Keizo continues. “But your opponent is always going to be yourself. What matters is being better than you were yesterday. Don’t you think that’s an easier step to take?”

Akaza exhales. “What if I can’t do better without him here?”

“Can’t?” Keizo echoes. “Or you don’t want to?”

Akaza finds that he does not want to answer the question.

“It’s not going to be easy, Akaza,” Keizo says. “Nothing ever was for you, by no fault of your own. Sometimes good people suffer. But I think you’re strong enough to carry on.”

“Maybe you have too much faith in me.”

“Or maybe you have too little in yourself!” Keizo grins. “Ever the pessimist, Hakuji. Try to remember more of what I taught you now that you can, hm?”

Hakuji. Akaza wants to correct him again. Hakuji is a name belonging to a boy who died centuries ago.

He doesn’t correct Keizo, though. Hakuji sounds so much more right coming from Keizo than Akaza does.

“Alright,” Akaza says at last. “I’ll try.”

Keizo reaches up and plants his warm hand on top of Akaza’s head, ruffling his hair. Surprised at the action, Akaza sits frozen until Keizo takes his hand away.

It’s only then that he realizes the garden around him is fading. Ink seems to bleed out from the colourful patch of wildflowers. The blue sky in the distance is looking much more grey. Where had the sun gone?

“Looks like you’re waking up, Akaza,” Keizo says. “Well, I’m glad I got to talk to you here, even though I wish we had a little longer!”

Akaza turns to look at him, determined to memorize Keizo’s features so he won’t forget again.

“What are you?” he asks. His voice is beginning to echo strangely. “My memories? A ghost? Was this real?”

Keizo laughs. “Whatever you want me to be,” he says.

“Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know,” Keizo says. “But we’re your past, Akaza. Remember us, but don’t hold on too tight.”

If he and Koyuki were the past, then what about Kyojuro? Was Akaza supposed to make him his past too?

“Have you seen him?” Akaza asks finally, the last question he’s been too afraid to know the answer to. “Is he—is he…there?”

Keizo’s smile is warm. He reaches out as if to pat Akaza’s shoulder again, but his hand passes right through Akaza like he is made of nothing but air.

“I haven’t seen your Kyojuro,” he says. “But I wonder if that is because he is also trying his hardest to find his way back to you.”

Akaza turns around and sees that the dojo has disappeared. The steps they had been sitting on seem to dissipate into mist as well, until he is surrounded by a foggy haze of nothingness. Keizo’s form has become translucent.

“Wait,” Akaza says, and he no longer cares that he’s begging. He just wants a moment longer. To stay here with someone who still loves him unconditionally, who has the answers to the questions Akaza wants to ask. He reaches out and his hand passes through nothing but mist. “Please don’t go yet, I still…”

Keizo smiles, his features barely visible. “Innocence is beautiful and ignorance is easy,” he says, “but life is for living, Hakuji. Don’t forget that.”

And then there is nothing but mist, stretched for miles and miles all around him. The sun is gone, the dojo is gone, the flowers are gone. Keizo is gone.

He is alone once more.

Chapter Text

Akaza comes to with the smell of blood polluting the air and the stain of it all around his vision.

It takes him a long couple of moments for his surroundings to adjust properly. Even when his senses trickle back, there is a mutedness to them that wasn’t there before.

“Akaza-san?” Akaza blinks a couple of times, turning towards the sound of the voice. Tamayo’s eyes come into view. “Can you hear me?”

Akaza nods. His entire body feels so heavy as if his blood has all been replaced for lead, from the major arteries down to the smallest capillary. He can’t quite recall ever feeling such a way when he was a demon, but as a human, he’s suddenly certain this would not have been anything new.

His human life. Keizo. Koyuki. His father. The memories are faint, but more than a few of them have been tugged to the forefront of his mind after speaking with Keizo. His friendly smile, his warm voice, the way he had always encouraged Akaza to do better.

And Koyuki. How had he forgotten her? Akaza thinks of the two centuries of fireworks he had watched alone, waiting in vain. All he had done was keep up the empty half of an already broken promise.

One lash, two lash, three. His father had spoken to him gently, lovingly. He had died so Akaza wouldn’t have to continue stealing, and what exactly had he spent the last two centuries doing?

“You’re very weak right now, Akaza-san,” Tamayo says, “but the procedure was a success, so should you feel hungry again, a very small amount of blood should satisfy the hunger and be able to sustain you.”

It’s only then that Akaza realizes that his chest has been carved open, and is healing at a surprisingly slow rate. Muscle and fibre from each side crawl towards the other, slowly stitching together. There is an exorbitant amount of blood staining the white bedsheets.

Tamayo puts her tools back onto her metal tray, also covered in blood.

“I won’t need to eat any flesh?” he asks. “Just blood?”

Tamayo nods. “Just blood,” she confirms. “You will likely feel some discomfort the next few hours as your body adjusts to the modifications, so it is best that you rest. I have informed Kocho-san that she should not start any of her testing on you with wisteria until you are fully healed.”

“Thank you,” Akaza rasps, wincing at the way his voice seems to scrape past sandpaper in his throat. He almost can’t believe how easy this had been. Kyojuro had spent months fighting to stave off Akaza’s hunger by offering his own blood, and yet the solution had been right under their nose their entire time.

Then again, Akaza supposes that Tamayo wouldn’t have revealed herself to them until he had broken the curse, and he hadn’t been able to break the curse until it was too late to save Kyojuro, so there was that.

Tamayo dips her head at him. “I will take my leave,” she says politely. “Should the discomfort worsen, please send for me.”

Akaza lets her go. He doesn’t particularly want to talk to anybody right now. His head is spinning from his dream, from Keizo’s face to his words to all of the new revelations he’s gained. Or perhaps old memories he’s finally recalled.

Wincing at the ache in his body, Akaza pushes himself into a sitting position. The bloody bedsheets will be easily remedied by placing them out into the sun, which will evaporate any demon blood left behind. Slowly, Akaza peels them off the mattress and frowns at the blood that has soaked underneath.

It’s his own blood that covers his hands now, but not so long ago, it had been that of others. Of innocent people. He had lost Kyojuro and it hurt more than anything Akaza has ever known, yet how many others did he condemn to the same fate? How many lovers and families had he torn apart, subjecting them to the grief he feels now?

He feels so alone in this sadness, even though he must have made hundreds of people feel the exact same way.

Keizo taught him his techniques to protect people, meaning for Akaza to help others with his strength. And yet Akaza had sullied every sacred thing he had learned. How many times had he scoffed at Kyojuro—my mother taught me to use my strength to protect others—as if Akaza hadn’t been instructed to do the same by those he loved? At least Kyojuro hadn’t failed. At least Kyojuro had spent his life honouring the ones he loved, the ones who loved him.

But your opponent is always going to be yourself. What matters is being better than you were yesterday. Don’t you think that’s an easier step to take?

Keizo believes he could be good. Kyojuro had believed, too. Akaza wants to know what it is they see in him to come to such an insane conclusion. He looks at himself and he sees skin tainted with violence and failure and all of the undeserving cruelty he had inflicted on others.

One step at a time, Keizo had said. It feels like an impossible step to take without Kyojuro here to match his strides.

And what had Keizo meant when he said Kyojuro was trying his hardest to find his way back to Akaza? He was dead. No matter how goddamn stubborn or persistent Rengoku Kyojuro could be, he couldn’t bring himself back from the dead. By now, there is probably nothing left of his body but ashes and pieces of bone.

Akaza is shaken from his thoughts by a knock on his door. It swings open a second later, revealing Kocho Shinobu. She gives him one of her shallow smiles. “Knock knock!” she says. “I’ve brought you a visitor.”

Akaza stares blankly at her. He can’t figure out what visitor he could possibly have. He didn’t know anyone in the Corps.

There is a familiar caw. Too surprised for words, Akaza watches as Shinobu swings the door open a bit more to reveal the crow perched on her arm.

“Kaname,” Akaza manages, still shocked.

Kaname gives a reaffirming caw at the sound of his name. Shinobu bends down to lower Kaname to the floor so he can hop off her arm. Akaza realizes that his left wing has been put into a splint.

He had forgotten about Kaname in all the chaos and ensuing events. Now, Akaza stares at Kyojuro’s crow, a new sort of ache opening in his chest.

“Tamayo-san informed me that I cannot test my poisons on you until you recover fully!” Shinobu says. “We will start the day after tomorrow. Kaname wanted to see you, so I shall leave the two of you. Oh, here is a change of clothes, since your current ones are covered in blood!”

Akaza nods numbly. The door shuts while Kaname stands in the center of the room, looking much smaller than Akaza recalls him being.

Ignoring the way his body protests at the movement, Akaza pulls himself from the bed so he can kneel in front of Kaname. They’d spent much of their time together bickering over pointless things, with Kyojuro laughing at the two of them and sometimes making a half-hearted attempt to mediate their arguments. How lucky Akaza had been back then, and he hadn’t even known.

“Are you okay?” Akaza asks, examining the bird’s wing. He thinks it’s good that Kaname is alive. Kyojuro would have been terribly sad if that weren’t the case.

Kaname pecks Akaza’s hand twice with his beak. Yes.

“AKAZA OKAY?” Kaname asks.

Oh. Kaname had never called him by his name. It was always demon, even when Kyojuro tried correcting him. And Kyojuro had tried many times to correct Kaname, always to no avail.

For some reason, that’s what brings the lump to Akaza’s throat. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I couldn’t protect Kyojuro.”

Kaname tilts his head, staring at Akaza. Akaza must look horrific right now, covered entirely with blood, and the opening in his chest still slowly stitching itself together. There is blood all over his body too; despite the clean change of clothes Shinobu brought, Akaza doesn’t go put it on. He is just so, so tired. He’s not certain if it’s because of Tamayo’s modifications, or if this exhaustion has settled ever since Kyojuro died and will never leave again.

“AKAZA MISS KYOJURO?”

Akaza sinks his fangs into his cheeks in an attempt to bite back the tears, except they spill down his cheeks anyway. “Yeah,” he admits, and it comes out choked. Something in between a sob and a laugh escapes him. How ridiculous. Here he is, telling all of these things to Kaname. “Yeah, I miss Kyojuro so—much.”

Kaname lets out a soft caw. He hops a little closer to Akaza. He doesn’t say anything else. He must miss Kyojuro too.

Too exhausted to get back onto the bed, Akaza curls up on the wooden floors. Kaname settles down next to Akaza, the softness of his ink-black feathers brushing against Akaza’s arm.

They lay in silence until Akaza drifts off.

“So how does this work?”

“I inject you with poison!”

Akaza gives Shinobu a withering look. She isn’t the least bit phased as she begins filling a syringe with purple liquid.

“There are different types of poison I would like to test out, all of which are supposed to have varying effects,” she says. “If you could let me know how it feels, how it impacts your regeneration, and when you think you have broken it down, that would be incredibly helpful! And if you don’t mind, I would like to try to cut off a limb or two during the period so I can have a better sense of regeneration.”

Instinct alone screams at Akaza to pull away. To allow himself to be purposefully made vulnerable, to be cut up without fighting back—no living creature, human or demon, would willingly let themselves be subject to that.

Now that you know better, Akaza, shouldn’t you also try to do better?

Just for now, Akaza tells himself. He will bear this for a little while longer. One step after the other until he can ensure the Corps defeats Muzan. And helping Shinobu is just one of those steps.

He swallows down any words of protest and extends his arm to Shinobu, letting her inject her wisteria into him.

Akaza recalls thinking through a haze of pain that at least he is the one being poisoned this time. Unlike the first time Shinobu had poisoned him, no instinctual rage rises up. Perhaps it’s because he has finally remembered why he hated poison so much in the first place.

And so the hours trickle into days. Akaza spends most of his time either at Shinobu’s wisteria laboratories or confined in his small room, growing more and more accustomed to the smell and burn of wisteria. A week passes. He waits, he grieves, and he remembers.

Maybe it has something to do with the poison, the way it upturns memory after memory even when it’s been purged from his bloodstream. His thoughts circle back to his memories of Kyojuro like a vulture to a carcass. Small moments, like shared nights of reprieve after missions. Stolen kisses on forest paths. Monumental ones, like when he’d been pulled into Kyojuro’s dream on the Mugen Train. The desecrated field of blue spider lilies.

And more often than not, his mind obsessively replays their final conversation: Kyojuro half-delirious, making apology after apology. Sometimes Akaza wishes he could have told Kyojuro that he forgave him. That there was nothing Kyojuro needed to apologize for. Other times, he wonders if his lack of a response will tether Kyojuro to him in some inexplicable way, having never received a resolution. Maybe that will make Kyojuro come back to him.

Come back and finish what you started, Akaza wants to yell, as if the heavens will pity his grief when he knows it never did.

It isn’t just Kyojuro that haunts Akaza’s memories. Sometimes he suddenly recalls moments with Keizo and Koyuki, and other times, his father. In moments where he is entirely unsuspecting, he’s struck with a sudden memory of his human past, and Akaza is once again left to remember how he had forgotten people so important that he had loved so much. People he would never see again. Trampled upon their memory, insisted that they didn’t matter, as if anything Muzan offered could even hold a candle as an adequate replacement.

He understands Kyojuro a little bit better when he thinks of his family. That overwhelming need to apologize—if Akaza was granted one more moment with them, perhaps his last words would also be countless apologies.

The most jarring part about all of it is the way the world continues to move on around Akaza. He hears people come and go around him in the Butterfly Estate. The sun rises, the moon falls, the days pass, one by one.

Akaza wishes that everything would come to a stop, even just for a minute. For the world to acknowledge this terrible, aching absence. But it doesn’t. It never has, and it never will.

Ten days after Kyojuro’s death, he walks into Shinobu’s wisteria lab to find her pressing the fine point of a needle into her arm, face scrunched with a mix of concentration and pain.

More confused than anything, Akaza stares blankly at her for a few seconds. Shinobu notices him. Her eyes widen briefly but she doesn’t stop what she’s doing. Unless she has some other type of purple liquid, Akaza is pretty certain the syringe is filled with wisteria poison.

“I thought I was the one getting poisoned,” he says.

Shinobu winces as she pushes plunger all the way down. “No,” she says, voice deceptively light. “Turns out, it’s the both of us!”

Akaza cannot fathom why she is poisoning herself, unless Shinobu is insane enough to test her poison on herself even though she isn’t a demon. That doesn’t seem possible. Shinobu is insane enough, but not stupid enough.

“Why?” he asks. Shinobu pulls the needle out and gives it a little shake, and sets the syringe to the side.

She sits perfectly still on her chair for a few moments, features set in a pensive expression before she finally relents. “Do you know Upper Moon Two well?”

Akaza frowns. “Douma?”

“That is his name?” Shinobu asks. Her smile twists into something sharper, angrier. “Well, I plan on killing him!”

Staring hard at Shinobu, he tries to figure out if this is one of her jokes, but Shinobu looks incredibly serious.

“Why?” Akaza finally asks.

“He killed my sister four years ago,” Shinobu replies.

Right. So not a joke.

That shallow smile remains on Shinobu’s face as she starts preparing another syringe for Akaza. Akaza watches her practiced movements warily. He has always had difficulty reading Shinobu. Unlike Kyojuro, who always at least tried to mean his smiles genuinely, Shinobu wears hers almost as though she wants others to know that it’s nothing more than a mask. And despite knowing, it’s a useful mask all the same—Akaza has difficulty more often than not trying to decipher what she’s thinking.

This is an admittance, though, of loss. Some strange sort of olive branch, or as close as Kocho Shinobu got to olive branches. Maybe it’s a wisteria branch.

“I’m sorry,” Akaza says.

“Spare me the apologies,” Shinobu says. “Didn’t you hate hearing them too?”

That much is true. Akaza relents. “So why tell me?”

Shinobu shrugs. “You caught me injecting poison into myself.”

“You still haven’t explained what that was about,” Akaza points out, but it slowly sinks in. He narrows his eyes at Shinobu. She has always smelled like wisteria, even when she wasn’t actively in her labs or using her stinger blade. Akaza hadn’t thought twice about it, but…

“You want Douma to eat you?” he demands.

Shinobu smiles. “So you aren’t as dense as I thought you were!”

“You’re more insane than I thought.”

“Am I?” Shinobu tilts her head. “I have it calculated, Akaza. There is eight hundred times the lethal dose for a Lower Moon running through my veins right now, and all of it is untraceable. He won’t even feel the effects until after he has devoured me fully, and by then it will be too late. It’s the best poison I’ve ever made.”

“Why go to such extremes?” Akaza asks. “Surely there are other ways to kill Douma.”

“Maybe!” Shinobu says. “But what should I do? I’m not strong enough to cut a demon’s neck. No poison I can inject with my sword is a high enough dose. And…”

She taps her fingers thoughtfully against the side of the syringe. “I miss my sister,” Shinobu says at last. “I miss talking to her. I miss being understood so easily. This place is empty without her and I’m so angry. I’ve been so angry ever since she died.” She looks at Akaza. “Don’t you feel it too?”

He does, to some extent. On one hand, Akaza can understand Shinobu’s single-minded fixation on killing Douma; on another, perhaps the grief is too fresh for the anger to settle in fully. Of course he wants Muzan dead, but it’s rarely something that takes up his thoughts unless it’s brought up.

There’s just this hollow chasm of hurt, absence and exhaustion of a magnitude he has never felt before. He just—misses Kyojuro more than he hates Muzan.

Then again, Akaza remembers the first time he had lost Keizo and Koyuki. Hadn’t he done the same as Shinobu? Furious and grieving and cursing the unfairness of the world, he had killed those sixty-seven swordsmen and found himself hurting no less when they were all dead.

“Do you know why I really wanted to know if you loved Rengoku-san, Akaza?” Shinobu asks.

Akaza looks at Shinobu. She swings her legs underneath the chair, eyes piercing. “Why?” he asks.

“Because I wanted to be sure you could see this through,” she replies. “You’re a demon. You’ve killed countless people, so I hate you. But if you feel the same way I do, then at the very least, I know I can trust your anger even if I can’t trust you.”

She hops off her chair, syringe in hand. “Is that what love is to you, Shinobu?” Akaza asks. “Anger?”

I felt your anger and your grief for years, Kyojuro had once told him, and his expression had been so sad. I wanted to meet you so I could help you.

“What’s left of it, I suppose!” Shinobu replies. “Now, please give me your arm!”

Akaza does as she asks. The needle pierces through his skin and the poison floods into his veins.

Kyojuro would not want him to be so angry. He looks at Kocho Shinobu’s plastered smile and her empty eyes and he thinks that her sister probably wouldn’t have wanted her to be, either.

Did it matter? They were both dead.

Two weeks.

Akaza counts the days carefully. He doesn’t want to ever lose track. The thought had occurred to him one night: the possibility of mixing up how long it has been since he lost Kyojuro, the degradation of memory, and it terrifies Akaza more than anything. So he won’t allow himself to forget. Even if it means digging up the most painful memories over and over again.

It’s in the evening, after they finish her daily tests, that Shinobu brings him through the back of the Butterfly Estate. Akaza is still a bit hazy from the poison. It’s like that often nowadays; the poison lingers in his system more often than it doesn’t, muting his senses but not enough to cause him pain. Just faint aches here and there, which sometimes feels morbidly fitting. As if his body is matching the way his soul continues to ache.

There’s a dojo connected to the main building. “If you want to burn time, feel free to use it!” Shinobu says. She hesitates very briefly. “Rengoku-san once mentioned you enjoyed training in your free time. Besides, if you are to fight Kibutsuji with us, you probably don’t want to get too rusty! Just make sure you’re using the dojo when no one else is there. The middle of the night is probably optimal for you!”

Right. Even without the kanji in his eyes, Akaza can smell the fear from people when they see him in the Butterfly Estate. He is still a demon through and through.

A little surprised at the considerate gesture, Akaza turns to thank Shinobu, but she’s already gone.

Akaza spends the night going through his techniques in the dojo. He has performed each move so many times over that it is entirely carved into muscle memory, but there’s a sort of methodic comfort in doing so.

Two weeks turns into three until it’s been a month. Autumn has descended in full flourish all around. The days shorten and nights lengthen. The trees shed their summer gowns into colours of gold and orange and red. It makes Akaza think of Kyojuro. And miss him. So much that he wants to reach into his ribcage and tear out his heart, if only to pacify this awful pain just a little bit.

He asks Shinobu for a heavy book. She asks if he’s planning to kill someone with it, but brings him a book regardless. He spends an hour or so underneath the trees surrounding the Butterfly Estate, collecting the prettiest fallen leaves and tucking them into the book’s pages to preserve.

“Does that belong to Rengoku-san?” Shinobu asks one day, pointing at the ribbon on Akaza’s wrist.

Akaza blinks. “Yes, it’s Kyojuro’s hair ribbon.”

Shinobu laughs a little, the sort of laugh she does when she witnesses something she can’t quite believe. “What is it?” Akaza asks.

“Ah, nothing,” Shinobu says, and Akaza decides to leave it at that.

It is on the earliest morning of the forty-second day, when he and Shinobu are at her laboratories, that one of the triplets bursts into her room with wide eyes. “Kocho-sama!”

Needle in hand, Shinobu looks up. “Kiyo?” she asks, looking faintly surprised. “My goodness, what has gotten you so worked up?”

Kiyo sneaks a look at Akaza, but apparently, the situation is too urgent for her to be scared. “The Sound Hashira is back!” she exclaims. “And so are Tanjiro-san and his friends! They’re very injured. Aoi-san sent for more kakushi, but…”

Shinobu is on her feet immediately. “Let’s go,” she says, then pauses. “Akaza, come with me.”

Akaza raises his brows. “I thought you didn’t want me in the patient ward.”

“Yes, well, as much as I’d like Uzui-san to bleed out, we can’t always have what we want!” she says.

The Sound Hashira. Uzui Tengen. Kyojuro had once talked about him. They’d gotten dinner together. Akaza frowns. Maybe he wants Tengen to bleed out too.

The only time he’s been in the patient ward had been when he was visiting Kyojuro, but at the time, Kyojuro had his own room. Tengen, Tanjiro, and his two friends have been transported to one large room, with Shinobu’s butterfly girls and a few kakushi hurrying about as they tend to wounds. There are also three women crowding around Tengen’s bed.

They all look like they’re in terrible shape. Broken bones, large lacerations, and probably some sort of internal injury, given the way they’re all holding themselves. The boy with dark hair and a boar head next to his bed looks like he’s been stabbed multiple times and isn’t even conscious.

“What happened?” Akaza asks, surprised by the extent of the wounds.

Shinobu presses something into his hands. Gauze. “Stop the bleeding where you can,” she says. “Do you know how?”

Akaza nods. Shinobu points at the boy with yellow hair. “Take Zenitsu-kun,” she says.

Zenitsu had initially been lying quietly on the bed, but when he spots Akaza, his eyes widen. “Is that a demon?” he manages, voice pitching up an octave. He attempts to scramble into a sitting position before yelping in pain.

Shinobu sighs. “Go help Uzui-san,” she says. “I’m afraid if I let you near Zenitsu-kun, he’s going to die from entirely unrelated reasons.”

Akaza rounds the bed to Uzui Tengen. Crimson eyes track Akaza’s movements, but he doesn’t make any comments as Akaza binds up all of the small wounds and begins to work on cleaning everything else. There is a bloody stump of cloth where his forearm should have been, and the blood is beginning to soak through again, so Akaza works on changing the bandaging into something more secure.

Someone has also slashed out his left eye, leaving nothing but a mess of blood and gore. Akaza tries not to think about Kyojuro as he cleans the blood, but it’s impossible. Since Koyuki, the only person whose injuries he’d ever treated was Kyojuro’s, so it feels strange to use his hands to help someone who isn’t Kyojuro.

Tengen is entirely silent until Akaza finishes cleaning his eye wound and putting gauze on top. Finally, he says, “You’re Rengoku’s demon.”

Akaza pauses. “Did you just realize?” he asks. It brings a sharp pang to his chest. Rengoku’s demon. How could he be Kyojuro’s if Kyojuro wasn’t here anymore?

Tengen lets out a hoarse laugh. “I knew Kocho was in charge of you,” he says. “But I didn’t know she was having you help her here.”

“Would you rather me let you bleed out?” Shinobu asks, coming up around Akaza. She smiles widely at Tengen. “For the record, Uzui-san, I would be happy to do that! More than happy, even!”

Tengen glances at her. “I apologize for my actions, Kocho,” he says. “I shouldn’t have tried to take your wards. It won’t happen again.”

“Yes, well,” Shinobu says. “If it does happen again, I’ll make sure you’ll miss what Upper Moon Six did to you!”

Akaza almost laughs at the threat before her words sink in. “Upper Moon Six?” he echoes. “You were fighting Gyutaro and Daki?”

“Of course you knew them,” Tengen says. “They were so fucking annoying to kill.”

“They’re dead?”

“Why do you look so surprised? Don’t tell me you’re upset.”

Akaza shakes his head. The Upper Moons haven’t changed in centuries. No Hashira had ever been powerful enough to defeat any, except…

He glances over at Kamado Tanjiro’s sickbed, where he lies unconscious as Aoi tends to his wounds. His demon sister hovers around him, eyes wide with concern.

Muzan is afraid of Tanjiro for a reason Akaza does not know. Apart from the swordsman from the Sengoku era, Kibutsuji Muzan has never been afraid of anybody else. And now, Upper Moon Six is dead. It cannot be a coincidence.

He smiles at Tengen. “No,” Akaza says. Whatever pieces are falling into place, they’re leaning in the Corps’ favour—from Tanjiro to the deaths of Upper Moon Six. He knows Muzan must be furious. “It’s good news.”

Tengen’s eye roams over Akaza. He looks pensive for a few moments before he finally says, “You are different from what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

“I was afraid Rengoku had become compromised because of you,” Tengen replies. “But I see that perhaps he made the right judgements nonetheless.”

Akaza can’t help the laugh that tears out of his throat. Those right judgements were the reason Kyojuro was dead.

To his relief, Tengen doesn’t strike up another conversation as Akaza finishes dressing his wounds and moves on. He tries to ignore the lingering gaze on him, as though searching for remnants of a different person.

Later on in the day, when all of the patients are in stable states, Shinobu takes him to her labs again. This time, she doesn’t prepare a syringe, even as Akaza waits for her to ready her poison.

“Where did you learn to treat injuries?” she asks instead.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a pretty straightforward question!”

“I used to treat Kyojuro’s wounds when he was injured on missions,” Akaza says.

“That’s all?”

He hesitates. “My father was sick. And my—fiancée.”

Shinobu does not reply for a few moments. She looks at him in the sort of way where Akaza feels as though he is being dissected cell by cell.

Finally, she says, “Do you want to help me and the girls in the hospital?”

Akaza blinks. “You want me around your patients?”

“I want you to make yourself useful to me,” Shinobu replies. Her smile does not waver. “So, what do you say? I’ll have Aoi train you on any basics you need knowledge of.”

Helping Shinobu with her wisteria experiments was one thing, but treating her patients was another. It’s not as if Akaza can’t do it. But part of him resists. His hands are no longer fit to heal if they ever were in the first place. Even if he opens them from fists he has clenched tight for centuries, there is still so much blood stained into his skin.

One step at a time, except Akaza doesn’t know if he’s ready to take this step. To have some purpose of existence aside from the burn of wisteria and the ache of missing Kyojuro.

But oh, Kyojuro would have wanted him to. Akaza can almost hear his encouragement.

Just for now, Akaza tells himself. Just for now—until Muzan is defeated. He can make himself useful. He can swallow his doubt and fear and take this step.

“Alright,” he tells Shinobu.

She smiles faintly, almost like an afterthought. It reaches her eyes this time.

Two months.

Shinobu gets him a uniform that is somewhat similar to what the kakushi wear, except when Akaza glances at the characters on the back, it does not say destroy like the Corps’ uniforms all do.

“Demon,” he reads and gives Shinobu a flat look. “Ha, ha. You’re very funny.”

“I agree!” Shinobu agrees. “Now, maybe my patients’ blood pressure will stop spiking when they see you wearing one of our uniforms. Or at least a little less!”

Three months.

Tengen is discharged from the hospital. Tanjiro, Zenitsu and Inosuke have all woken up, so Akaza sees them around the estate sometimes. He tries to avoid them as best as possible. He doesn’t want to talk to Tanjiro at all, especially given their last meeting. And, most of all, Akaza doesn’t want his pity. He’d seen the boy burst into tears when Shinobu told him about Kyojuro’s death.

That was the thing—Akaza didn’t want to mourn Kyojuro with other people. He didn’t want to hear some variation of I miss him as well because it wasn’t a matter of as well. Kyojuro meant something entirely different to him. No one else felt this scope of his absence like Akaza did.

Maybe that was why it was easier to stick with Shinobu. She didn’t offer pity or apologies. She didn’t pretend to understand Akaza’s hurt, or so much as comment on it. It was a constant drive of tasks—testing her poison, treating the sick, day after day after day. In a way, perhaps she understood that it was easier for him to be kept busy.

And so time passes, and Akaza settles into a routine.

It’s not… bad. When he had lost his father, he had spent two years on the streets, fighting and hurting and furious at the uncaring cruelty of the world. When he had lost Keizo and Koyuki, he had killed sixty-seven people and Muzan had turned into a demon. So all things considered, what Akaza is doing now is probably an improvement. Even if the comparison is a bit skewed.

But the grief remains, a constant companion despite having taken on a new face compared to the last two times. It has mellowed into something less sharp than the initial few days of losing Kyojuro, but Akaza finds that it doesn’t hurt any less. Kyojuro’s absence catches up to him in all the unsuspecting moments. He will be at the dojo, going through his forms, and finds himself breaking down into near-hysterics at the memory of something small. Shinobu finds him once, inconsolable. She doesn’t say anything but waits until the tears subside.

“There are injured slayers,” she says. “Let’s go treat them.”

There are also moments where he forgets that Kyojuro is gone at all. Akaza will be talking over something with Shinobu and suddenly think about how happy Kyojuro would be to learn that they are getting along, struck with the urge to go find Kyojuro and tell him. And then Akaza will remember belatedly that he has no one to tell. He is doing all the things that Kyojuro had always tried convincing him to do, all the things Kyojuro had hoped of him, and yet. Yet.

The sudden clarity of those moments feels like a strike across the face, leaving Akaza too numb to even cry. It makes every little bit of progress he’s made feel like nothing at all. What is the point, Akaza will wonder, to be good, to do better—if it won’t be for Kyojuro? He misses Kyojuro all the more those days, nursing the emptiness that has nestled in his chest. He misses Kyojuro so much he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to live with it.

At least it doesn’t go away. At least that means it hadn’t been some fleeting obsession. If it still hurt, then at least it was something real.

Four months and three days.

Shinobu knocks on the door of his room in the morning. Akaza had assumed she was fetching him for more testing, but she doesn’t get any of her syringes ready when they reach their lab.

Instead, Shinobu produces a vial from her stand. “I’ve finished!” she announces.

Inside the vial is a familiar, deep blue. The last time Akaza had seen it had been wrapped in a white handkerchief, spindly blue petals splayed delicately against the fabric.

“That’s the medicine?” he asks.

Shinobu nods. “It will allow you to walk under the sun,” she says.

“You don’t feel hesitant about giving that to a demon?”

“It was Rengoku-san’s wish to give it to you,” Shinobu replies with a shrug. “Besides, I’m not giving it to you now. Until Kibutsuji is killed for good, it would be a terrible idea to have any demon walking around with immunity to the sun! But should you survive when all of this is over…” She shrugs. “Then it’s yours. If you want it, that is.”

Akaza stares at the small vial. He’d spent the past two centuries searching obsessively for it, and now it’s being offered to him just like that.

Or perhaps that’s too simplified a way of looking at it. Kyojuro had died because of the blue spider lily, so this is a prize obtained by a price Akaza loathed to pay. This is a prize Akaza doesn’t even want. Not anymore.

“To do what with, Shinobu?” Akaza asks. “If I survive this battle, if the Corps kills Muzan, what do I—” He shakes his head, a shaky laugh bubbling to his lips. “What use would I have with the blue spider lily?”

He’d spent so long bragging to Kyojuro about a demon’s eternity, but he no longer had any use for eternities. He would trade all a thousand years for just one more minute with Kyojuro.

“As I said, it’s up to you whether or not you choose to take it,” Shinobu says. She places the vial in one of the drawers. “I am simply doing as Rengoku-san asked me to. When the time comes, it will be your decision.”

Maybe Akaza will shatter the vial and spill its contents to the earth, where no one can have it. Rid the world of the cursed flower once and for all.

A blessing, Muzan had once called it. A gift fit for a god.

The memory tastes bitter in his throat. This is no gift. This is the visualization of all the heaviest losses the universe has cursed him with, a symbol of Akaza’s failure.

Five months.

Winter is here at her very coldest, even if Akaza doesn’t feel the wind’s bite like the humans do.

He watches the snow fall. He thinks of last year’s first snow spent with Kyojuro, when he had excitedly told Akaza that it was snowing. Kyojuro had always done that—been excited about the things he thought Akaza would enjoy. (You like the snow, don’t you? Kyojuro asked. After all, your compass is shaped like a snowflake!)

For some reason, the memory of Kyojuro makes winter feel cold. Even when Akaza is indoors, separated from the brittle wind by insulated walls, his body trembles looking at the snowfall they had once watched together.

There is a sort of terror that grows as the time passes. Muzan isn’t here to lock away his memories anymore, but Akaza is more than aware that time’s hand also degrades clarity. There will come a day when he has lost Kyojuro longer than he has known him. And what then? If it takes a year, two, ten to defeat Muzan, how faint will his memories of Kyojuro be by then? Right now, Akaza can easily recall the exact cadence of Kyojuro’s laugh. The scope of his smiles and the warmth of his hands.

He is so terrified of the day when memory becomes fickle and the details blur together.

Still, Akaza rarely allows himself to think of what he is supposed to do if Muzan is killed. If he fights, there is a realistic chance he will die. But if he survives…

The medicine made from the blue spider lily is what Kyojuro had left behind for him. Is that what he wanted—for Akaza to live under the sun? He wonders if Kyojuro had properly thought it through. He had done so many things to ensure that Akaza could live, but had Kyojuro ever considered that he had nothing left to live for?

It’s a decision for another time, Akaza tells himself. One he doesn’t have to make now.

Sixteen days into the fifth month, Kamado Tanjiro is once again carted back to the Butterfly Estate with concerning injuries. This time, the Love Hashira and Mist Hashira accompany him. Akaza knows Kanroji Mitsuri in passing from Kyojuro. She had been his Tsuguko once. She’d also been with Kyojuro and Tengen that time they shared dinner, but as it is, she turns out to be a much more pleasant person to speak with.

Most of them seemed to have gotten treatment already, so all Shinobu does is give everyone a quick check-over. Akaza hovers at the door of the medical bay, unsure if she wants him to stay and help.

Before he can slip away, Mitsuri spots him. She had been talking to Shinobu, but she catches Akaza’s gaze and her eyes widen.

“Ah, you’re Rengoku-san’s soulmate!” she exclaims, sitting up.

Akaza freezes, not sure how he’s to respond to that. He’s heard variations of him being Kyojuro’s something or another, but funnily enough, no one has actually called him Kyojuro’s soulmate to his face.

“Oh, Akaza’s here?” Shinobu says, looking over her shoulder. “He’s been helping around the Butterfly Estate!”

Akaza approaches the sickbed after a few seconds of debate. “Kyojuro told me about you.”

Mitsuri takes him in with rounded eyes. She has bandages wrapped around her forehead and arms, though she looks to be in high enough spirits. “I’ve heard about you too!” she exclaims. “Rengoku-san told us about you during the Hashira meeting before he—” She breaks off, expression clouding. “I’m so sorry,” Mitsuri says, her voice smaller this time.

Akaza swallows. “It’s fine,” he says.

There are a couple of seconds of silence. “He cared so much about you,” Mitsuri says. “That much was obvious to everyone.”

To everyone except Akaza himself, it seems. He wonders how long it will be before these reminders stop feeling so surprising.

Shinobu must have caught the expression on her face because she clasps her hands together. “Kanroji-san has brought back good news!” she says. “They have successfully killed Upper Moon Five and Upper Moon Four!”

Akaza blanks, not quite processing the implication of her words. He thinks he’s about to get whiplash from the conversation alone.

“Both?” he gets out.

“Yes,” Shinobu replies cheerfully. “Also, Nezuko-san has also conquered the sun.”

“She what?”

Shinobu and Mitsuri give him a run-down of the recent events. Despite being the one at the scene, Mitsuri’s explanations of the battle are near-nonsensical. Shinobu tacks on a few helpful comments, and in the end, Akaza manages to deduce that the Mist Hashira had slain Gyokko, while Mitsuri, Tanjiro, his sister and another slayer had defeated Hantengu. And then Nezuko had managed to gain immunity to the sun in the procress.

Dizzy from all the news, Akaza tries to picture so much happening all while he was quarantined to the Butterfly Estate, chasing after Shinobu’s orders after a good strong dose of morning poison.

Akaza lets out an incredulous laugh. “Muzan must be losing his fucking mind,” he says. “This means that he’s effectively down to only Douma and Kokushibo when the Upper Kizuki haven’t changed in centuries.”

“It also means that he may turn his efforts towards finding Nezuko-san,” Shinobu adds. “Her blood may as well be the key to granting him immunity to the sun.”

“You can’t let that happen.” Akaza frowns. “He’s survived death by decapitation already, so it’ll no longer work. If Muzan conquers the sun, then nothing will be able to kill him.”

“Yes, we know!” Shinobu says. “Oyakata-sama has thought that far ahead much before you have, Akaza!”

Akaza gives her a look. “I’m glad,” he says drily.

“In any case,” Shinobu continues, “Tamayo-san and I have just about completed the drug that turns demons back to humans. We will use it on Nezuko-san as soon as we believe it’s safe to administer, but we have also been working on a formula that acts much more aggressively and destructively. We hope to inject Kibutsuji with it in order to turn the tides in our favour and we’d like to use you to test out some of the effects.”

“If you inject me with the human medicine, wouldn’t I be… human?” he asks, frowning. “This isn’t exactly your wisteria poison.”

Shinobu waves her hand. “We won’t inject you with it, per say!” she says. “Tamayo-san and I are not that stupid!”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Cut off a limb or two,” Shinobu replies cheerfully. “Nothing you haven’t done before.”

Mitsuri, who had been quietly listening to the entire conversation injects, “That sounds painful!”

Akaza looks between the two of them. All of a sudden, this feels unspeakably overwhelming. Surrounded by the people Kyojuro had called his friends, talking to him now like he is one of them—it makes his head hurt.

They are so close, he can feel it. Like the walls are closing in, pushing everyone towards where the convergence of every single puzzle piece. Over half of the Upper Moons gone, Kamado Nezuko having conquered the sun, and the human drug’s completion—it is everything the Corps has ever fought for, and everything Muzan has feared.

It’s what Kyojuro had fought for, too.

“It’s fine, Shinobu,” Akaza tells her. “Just let me know when you plan to start. If you don’t need help, I’m going to go back.”

She doesn’t stop him. Akaza turns on his heel and walks through the now-familiar hallways of the Butterfly Estate. He knows each turn by heart. It hits him belatedly that he hadn’t said goodbye to Mitsuri.

He has just closed the door of his room when the tears come. Akaza doesn’t know how long he sits there, legs pulled to his chest and forehead pressed to his knees. He cries, because he still misses Kyojuro after all this time, because after all this time he still can’t believe he’s gone, and because he should be here but he’s not. Because even after so long, Kyojuro is still what takes up his first and last thoughts and every moment in between.

It must be hours later that Shinobu comes to find him. “We’re going to start testing now,” is all she says. “Let’s go.”

Before Kyojuro, spring had a habit of creeping up on Akaza.

On one hand, he knew the changes were gradual—snow melting, flowers sprouting, trees budding through the span of weeks. But it always felt like the switch between winter and spring was a quick thing. One day the ground was still laden with white, and the next time he noticed, leaves were already beginning to unfurl.

With Kyojuro, not even the earliest signs of spring escaped his scrutiny. Each one he spotted he would point out enthusiastically to Akaza, every time without fail. The faintest green poking from the icy ground. The first buds on a single tree while the rest remained barren.

Akaza looks, this time, right from the very beginning. When the flowers in Shinobu’s garden begin to peek through, Akaza spots the difference immediately. He hears phantom whispers of Kyojuro’s voice asking him the name of each flower, and he recites them in his head as though somewhere, somehow, Kyojuro will hear. Daffodil. Ajisai. Tsubaki.

Spring’s changes aren’t the only ones that are driven into motion by the switching of seasons. The Corps begins their push forward. Shinobu tells Akaza one day that demon sightings have gone down significantly, and so the Corps is beginning a training regimen for all its slayers.

“Given what you’ve told us, we have reason to believe that if pushed, Kibutsuji will try to bring the fight to the Infinity Fortress,” she explains. “The Hashira will train the lower ranked slayers so everyone can be as prepared as possible when the time comes.”

“He’ll have the upper hand there,” Akaza points out.

Shinobu smiles, icy and thin. “Then we’ll make sure we take it from him.”

On the day that marks the sixth month after Kyojuro’s death, Kagaya sends a letter requesting to meet Akaza.

It is Kaname who delivers the letter. Akaza hasn’t seen the crow in a good month or two—Shinobu had told him Kaname had been assigned to another slayer. He was an exceptionally trained Kasugai crow, and it would be a waste had he been sidelined after Kyojuro’s death. Akaza keeps a small cup of sunflower seeds ready for him in case he visits, and today, he brings it out as Kaname hops onto his windowsill.

“OYAKATA-SAMA REQUESTS TO MEET YOU,” Kaname tells him, immediately going for the sunflower seeds on Akaza’s palm.

There is a piece of paper poking out of his letter carrier. Akaza takes it out. It’s short, nothing but a polite, formal address requesting his presence, signed by a much shakier hand than it is written in. Since the sky has just darkened, Akaza readies to set out.

Kaname seems to have decided that he wants to accompany Akaza because he hops onto Akaza’s shoulder when he sets out to inform Shinobu and leave. His talons dig lightly into Akaza’s skin.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Akaza asks him lightly.

“NOT TODAY.” Kaname pecks his head. “HURRY HURRY. DON’T BE LATE.”

Shinobu sends him off with a wave of her hands, and Akaza begins the trek to the Corps’ headquarters out of one wisteria grove and then through another. One of the kakushi brings Akaza in when he arrives. Akaza has seen him once or twice around the Butterfly Estate, and thankfully, he seems to recognize Akaza too because he’s more weary than fearful.

The last time Akaza had seen Kagaya was before Shinobu took him to her estate. He’s spent the past half-year confined to the one building.

Now, it looks like Kagaya’s disease has taken a turn for the worse. His room has since been rearranged slightly, with Kagaya lying on a futon in the middle. There is hardly any bare skin that isn’t covered by strips of white bandaging.

Kaname gives a little caw before hopping off Akaza’s shoulder, going to wait at the door.

Kagaya’s unseeing eyes turn towards Akaza. His lips lift into a faint smile. At his side, Amane sits silently, her gaze also fixed unwaveringly on Akaza.

“Akaza,” Kagaya greets softly. His voice is much more strained than the time before. “I hope you are doing well.”

“Is there a reason you asked to see me today?” Akaza asks, not wanting to answer the question.

“Sit down, please,” Kagaya says.

Akaza isn’t particularly fond of the idea of making himself comfortable if Kagaya wants to speak to him about Muzan, but it also feels wrong to argue with Kagaya in his condition, so he settles down on his knees a few feet away from the bed.

“It’s been six months, hasn’t it?”

Taken aback, Akaza nods before remembering that Kagaya can’t see. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

“You have remembered, haven’t you?” Kagaya says.

“What do you mean to say?”

“I wanted to ask you if you feel it the same way I do,” Kagaya replies softly. “The end drawing near.”

“Muzan will make his move soon.”

“Yes,” Kagaya agrees. “When the time comes, will you be ready?”

“To do what?” Akaza asks. “To kill him?” He narrows his eyes. “Do you think I still have my reservations because he was my master before?”

“I don’t doubt your allegiance,” Kagaya replies. “That is not what I am talking about. Shinobu told me a few months ago that she has finished making a medicine for you from the blue spider lily. It will grant you immunity to sunlight. After this is over, will you take it?”

Akaza sinks his fangs into his cheeks. He’s avoided answering that question ever since Shinobu told him. It was still an inexplicable thought—allowing himself to live after Muzan was killed. Pointless. And then he would circle back to the fact that Kyojuro had gone to such lengths to make sure he could, so wouldn’t he be trampling over Kyojuro’s last wishes if he didn’t?

But did it matter, in the end? Kyojuro’s life for Akaza’s worthless one; why did he have to uphold that deal? Why did he have to endure a world without Kyojuro for an eternity he now dreads?

He looks at Kagaya’s patient expression, still waiting for Akaza’s response. Akaza suddenly has the thought that Kyojuro would be grieved to see how Kagaya’s illness has progressed so much in a few short months.

He would tell me the stories his mother told him while we fed the koi, Kagaya had told him. Back then, the hurt had been too fresh for Akaza to hear those words through any perspective other than grief. But now, he feels equal parts fond and sad. It is such an awfully Kyojuro thing to do.

“Kyojuro told me a story once,” Akaza says at last, “about past lives.”

Kagaya’s smile becomes a little wider in recognition. “Ah, I think I know that one. A life of planting, a life of watering, a life of reaping, and a life of cherishing.”

How often had Akaza turned those words over in his head. How often had he wondered, caught up in an impossibility. Just a child’s bedtime tale or a lover’s fickle wish.

“Do you believe it?” Akaza asks. “Kyojuro once told me he hoped that this life was his first. If he—” It sounds so foolish, but he presses on. “If it is, do you think he would come back one day?”

There is a moment of thoughtful silence. Half-desperate, Akaza waits for Kagaya’s response. Maybe he doesn’t need some impossible delusion to cling onto, but if there is just one chance…

“I cannot foresee this future,” Kagaya says at last. “I do not want to mislead you with an answer I do not know either.”

Akaza laughs. His throat burns and his eyes sting. God, he knows—he knows that Kyojuro isn’t coming back. Part of him just refuses to accept it, even if it means placing his bets on nothing more than a child’s tale.

“There is a myth about the blue spider lily that I once read,” Kagaya says. “They are said to be a gift from the gods. Amaterasu, the sun goddess.”

“Muzan called the flowers a gift fit for a god, not from a god.”

“Then this myth would call him wrong,” Kagaya replies with a touch of amusement in his voice. “The story tells of a woman who loved to tend her garden. Her husband was a soldier, and she would grow flowers in his absence as she waited for him to return to her. One day, she received a letter that he had lost his life in the frontlines.

“Heartbroken, she tore up her garden in her grief. During the last minutes of sunlight, she prayed to Amaterasu, and the sun goddess was moved by her loss. She touched the red spider lilies in the woman’s garden. With the blessing of the sun, they changed to the colour of twilight, when the moon and the sun shared the same sky. With the blue spider lily, the woman was allowed to make a single wish she desired.”

“So did she bring her husband back?”

“She did,” Kagaya says. “Since then, the story says that the blue spider lily reveals itself to those Amaterasu favours, and once they pick a single flower, they are able to have a single wish granted.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Akaza asks. “Don’t tell me it’s because you think that I can make a wish from whatever medicine Shinobu made from the blue spider lily.” He shakes his head. “If the gods are real, they’ve never answered a single fucking prayer of mine. I’ve learned long ago that there is no such thing as relying on their mercy.”

“You are not the one who picked it,” Kagaya says gently. “But whether or not the myth holds true, the blue spider lily carries Kyojuro’s regrets, his wishes, and his desires. And he picked it for you.”

“So what do I do with it?” Akaza asks. He sounds like a child. Desperate to be given an answer. The frail body hanging from the beams of the roof does not offer a reply, nor do the two cold corpses on the dojo floor. Kyojuro’s face is bloody and expressionless even when Akaza begs him not to go. “I don’t know what he wished for. I don’t—I don’t know what he wanted.”

“Don’t you?” Kagaya asks. “You ask me if I believe in Kyojuro’s story about our past lives. I cannot give you a definite answer, but knowing Kyojuro, I think that perhaps he is trying his very hardest to find his way back to you.”

Fingers grasped around Akaza’s wrist, delicate in a way that is so contradictory to Kyojuro’s typical steadfast confidence. Stay.

I haven’t seen your Kyojuro. But I wonder if that is because he is also trying his hardest to find his way back to you.

“How did you…” Akaza stares at Kagaya, unable to find the words. “Who told you that?”

No one could have, of course. There was no way Kagaya knew what Keizo had said to Akaza in his dream.

Before Kagaya can reply, he is shaken by a coughing fit. Amane is immediately turning him over gently so she can pat his back. Akaza watches as his frail form trembles at the exertion. Unbidden, the memories come to mind: feeding his father small sips of water as he coughs, changing the wet cloth over Koyuki’s burning forehead.

A spot of red touches Kagaya’s lips when he finally recovers. He looks up at Akaza again, his unseeing gaze knowing.

“I have reminded the Hashira not to lose hope in our fight,” Kagaya says, “even when things seem impossible and even when it is easier to give in. I will offer you the same words now, Akaza, even if it may mean differently for you. It is good to be grounded in logic and reason, but be careful that you do not fall into despair.”

Akaza swallows. What is he supposed to do—wait for Kyojuro to come back to him, based on a myth and a child’s bedtime story? How long will he wait, and will that waiting ever end? He tries to map out days and years and cannot picture how he is to spend all of that time without Kyojuro. Without ever knowing fully if he has bet all of his hopes on a fool’s gamble.

But Kagaya and Keizo had both said the same thing. I think that perhaps he is trying his very hardest to find his way back to you.

If there is even a sliver of hope, shouldn’t he take it all the same? Even if it’s foolish, if it means he can see Kyojuro again…

“I was wrong about you in the beginning,” Akaza admits at last. “You looked so much like Muzan, and I thought that you couldn’t be much different.”

“I understood your doubt,” Kagaya replies with a smile, “and I took no offence to your words. Trust is earned, not forced.”

Akaza dips his head. No whip lashes down, nor does Muzan’s curse tear into his cells. Kagaya’s faint smile lingers. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?”

“No,” Akaza says. He gets up, finding his gaze drawn to the blood that speckles Kagaya’s lips and the futon. “Take care.”

Demon sightings have gone down to nearly zero in a span of a few weeks. All around, the Corps’ buildings have suddenly become much more lively, bustling with slayers and the like. With no demons comes no more missions which results in no more severe injuries. The slayers he sees these days at the infirmaries have come back from training, searching for relief from a sore muscle or bruise. Multiple have paled and turned away at the sight of Akaza.

Unlike the other Hashira, Shinobu doesn’t participate in the same training. She seems to have thrown herself into her research all the more furiously. Akaza sees her and Tamayo around the estate, often discussing something about the human medicine with their heads together.

The air is thick with anticipation. Akaza spends day after day after day with his entire body wound tight in waiting, knowing that all of this will come to a head soon.

Kagaya’s words follow him in every waking moment. The end is drawing near.

It comes on a quiet evening in late spring.

Akaza is sitting on one of the stools in Shinobu’s lab, waiting as she prepares a dose of poison. And then all of a sudden, he feels it. An old, familiar presence. Once, it had always been a matter of tolerance or endurance—bracing himself through any punishment Muzan deemed fit. Then it had become a matter of fear, knowing that he had to somehow shield Muzan’s attention from Kyojuro. He could take any pain if it meant that Kyojuro was fine.

Now, the only thing Akaza can feel is the burning of a fury he’d carefully buried for the past few months. It claws itself into his chest now, touching the grief that has rotted in his core for so long and striking it into anger with a wildfire’s match.

“Muzan is here,” he tells Shinobu.

Shinobu’s eyes widen. Her hands freeze. “What?”

Nearby. Close, but not close enough. In the direction of the Ubuyashiki’s Estate.

When he gets up to run, Shinobu doesn’t ask more questions or stop him. Akaza hears her footsteps following close behind. Even unable to feel her fighting spirit, he can taste panic and anger all at once. After all, Shinobu always walks so softly that Akaza can’t hear her.

They are halfway there when the sky lights up in a brilliant bloom of orange and red. Immediately after, a near-unbearable wave of heat washes over them.

The realization takes a few moments to register. The burst of light and heat had been an explosion, and it had come from the Ubuyashiki Estate. Kagaya and his family were there. Had Muzan set off the explosion?

Except that was unlike him to do. Muzan never liked large spectacles because it drew unwanted attention to him, and this wasn’t something Akaza was aware he could do with his Blood Demon Art. But Kagaya had always been much more calculating. Behind the gentle smile and soft voice, he was a much more superior puppetmaster than Kibutsuji Muzan could dream of being.

“Akaza.” Shinobu snaps him out of the shock. Her voice is trembling ever so slightly. “Akaza, let’s go.”

They tear through the spring foilage of barely-grown leaves, heart and mind racing. There was no way Kagaya could have survived an explosion of such magnitude. It would certainly injure Muzan, of course, but it wouldn’t cause any lasting damage.

They converge with other Hashira as they draw nearer. Akaza spots Mitsuri and Obanai, both of their expressions stricken. Here, the aftermath of fire has licked into the woods, charring trees and stripping them of any growth.

What remains of the Ubuyashiki Estate is even more unrecognizable. Broken wooden beams burn, crackling as the fire eats greedily at them. The ground is blackened. Neither Kagaya nor Amane nor his children are anywhere to be seen, but in the center of the wreckage stands Kibutsuji Muzan.

He seems to have healed from the explosion because no burn marks remain. However, large thorns protrude out of every part of his body, trapping him in place.

The sight of Muzan makes the boiling rage spill over and ignite, like fire on oil. Some age-old instinct locks Akaza’s limbs in a habit of obedience for a split second but the hatred melts it away the next instant.

Muzan was the reason Kyojuro was gone. Akaza had spent two centuries serving him, biding his every whim, taking every punishment without so much as a plea for leniency, and yet Muzan had killed Kyojuro. The one person Akaza had ever wanted to keep, to protect. The one thing Akaza ever had for himself.

And beyond that, Muzan had been the one who had stolen his memories and locked them away. He’d turned Akaza into a demon when all he wanted to do was die, sent him on that spiral of rage and grief and unknowing, all the while dangling an illusion of false-strength in front of him to keep him on this pointless chase.

God. Akaza knew he was at fault too, that he was hardly innocent, but would he be here had it not been for Muzan? At the very least, Kyojuro still would be.

From behind the wreckage, a small shape darts out. Belatedly, Akaza recognizes Tamayo’s form. With one swift movement, she closes the distance and digs her claws into Muzan’s abdomen.

He can see Tamayo’s mouth moving but he can’t hear what she says. The fire crackles, the smoke rises, and this is what Kagaya had talked about—this is the start of the end.

Muzan’s teeth bare into a snarl. His eyes flit around like a caged animal, furious and wild.

Behind Akaza, one of the Hashira lets out a cry. He feels the rush of wind. Everything is a blur of sensation and nonsensical colour.

Through the flames, Muzan’s eyes meet Akaza’s. Surprise crosses his expression for a moment before it morphs into a sneer. He’s too far away for Akaza to hear anything he says, but a fleeting memory of their last meeting crosses his mind.

You exist to serve me and to carry out my orders. That is what I created you for. So why would you think yourself capable of loving him? That is not your purpose, Akaza.

Breathe out.

Muzan wanted him to be a weapon? Fine. Akaza will be a weapon, then. If only to plunge the blade into his master’s back. His compass flares to life beneath his feet and he braces himself.

Breathe in.

The next step forward Akaza takes is not met with solid ground. Instead, the charred wood underneath his feet disappear, replaced by the ever-moving boards of the Infinity Fortress.

Breathe—

He sees Muzan’s contemptful expression, marked with mistaken triumph. Akaza carves the hatred deep into his bones, anger’s hand taking the awl.

(The end is drawing near.)

—out.

Akaza falls.

Chapter Text

There is a paralyzing sense of deja vu as Akaza falls.

He spots a few other Hashira and slayers before the walls of the Infinity Fortress swallow him and he is alone once more. The twisting boards are all hostile now; they slice through the air as though to knock Akaza off balance and crush him down. The ground rushes up to meet him with a vengeance. Akaza is accustomed to Nakime leading him to his destination, not actively trying to hinder him.

It doesn’t matter. Her Blood Demon Art is intricate but it was never one for sheer power. Akaza slams through a wall, landing in a hallway with splinters of broken boards. He takes off running.

Kokushibo and Douma are still alive. Given that the rest of the Upper Moons are gone, it would make sense for Muzan to have granted more blood to other demons to replace them, but strength wasn’t so easily built up through his blood alone. He would need time to craft demons as strong as the Upper Moons were, so at least the biggest threat to the slayers are still Upper Moons One and Two.

Kokushibo… briefly, Akaza contemplates finding him, but the thought rots from his desire almost as soon as it blossoms. Upper Moon One had killed Kyojuro only because of Muzan’s command. Akaza has no time to waste on a puppet wielding a sword. He’d passed on all possible information about Kokushibo to the Corps, so he must trust that the Hashira will be able to kill him.

Then there was Douma. Akaza had spent centuries wanting to take back his rank, despising his attitude and that empty mask he always wore. How funny to learn that Shinobu’s hatred ran much deeper than his.

He tries not to think about her, with her perfectly planned death. Is that what love is to you? Anger?

He turns down winding hallways. Muzan’s demons flock in droves here; Akaza activates his compass, crushing bone and tearing flesh. Even without his ability to sense fighting spirits, his compass still directs his movements and these demons are hardly powerful enough to land a scratch on him.

He hasn’t properly fought for a good part of a year. Shinobu allowed him to train in the dojo, of course, but Akaza had done that as a way of passing time and distracting himself from worse thoughts. Still, he finds that it’s frightfully easy to settle into the rhythm of killing. Even after six months of helping Shinobu out with her patients, hurting is still as easy as breathing. Easier, maybe.

Flashes of recognition cross some of the demons’ faces. Akaza ignores it and pushes forward.

Muzan will be at the center, he’s certain. He must have absorbed the medicine that Tamayo and Shinobu had been creating, so knowing him, he will have himself sealed away like a coward as he tries to heal any damage it did to him. If the Corps can reach him before he has regained his full strength, it will be much easier to keep him incapacitated until sunrise.

No tug in his mind alerts Akaza of Muzan’s presence anymore. How ironic. The last time he was here, he had been bound by the curse to Muzan, and Kyojuro by the soul thread. Neither burn in his chest anymore.

He turns down twisting hallways, crushing whatever demon he comes across, trying to locate the heart of the Infinity Fortress. Contrary to its name, he knows that even Nakime has her limits, and her power is not endless—there is an end to this place.

Deeper and deeper still. Akaza comes across evidence of other slayers: gouges made from swords in the wooden walls that Nakime is too preoccupied to fix; bodies, later on, with lifeless eyes and gruesome wounds.

He pushes on at the first dead slayer he sees. The next one, he wonders—had Akaza treated them at the Butterfly Estate with Shinobu? Had Kyojuro once been friends with them; would he have grieved their passing too?

Akaza turns down a much larger hallway, just to hear a caw above him. One of the Kasugai crows glides near him, a talisman of sorts stuck to their head. “KIBUTSUJI,” the crow says, beginning to turn to the left. “KIBUTSUJI IS HERE. FOLLOW.”

Heart racing, Akaza sprints after them.

One turn, another, and another—and then he’s here.

There are a good twenty to thirty slayers already. It seems to be the convergence of hundreds of hallways, leading to a large, empty space where a cocooned mass of wriggling flesh is suspended. Even without the curse’s connection, Akaza can immediately sense Muzan’s presence: that oppressive feeling that he had spent so long simply tolerating with his head down. His breath stutters, anger curling heavily in his stomach.

One of the slayers closest to him finally notices his presence. She jumps backwards, her sword immediately levelled to Akaza’s throat. “Demon!” she shouts.

The three other slayers in the hallway turn around. Two of them raise their swords too, while the third pushes his companion’s down. “Wait!” he says. “That’s the demon that’s been working with Kocho-sama.”

Akaza knows him. He had been to the Butterfly Estate before, and Shinobu treated him for a broken rib.

“Ah,” the girl says, realization crossing her face as she lowers her sword. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you for a moment. Akaza-san?”

Akaza has no time to play name games. (As it is, he doesn’t remember any of theirs.) Instead, he pushes forward to the edge of the hallway, close to the cocoon of flesh Muzan is in.

It pulses, like some sort of sick heartbeat. He narrows his eyes. Muzan must be trying to heal himself there.

“Where are the Hashira?” he asks.

“The Hashira?” she echoes. “They’re not here yet. The Kasugai crows brought us here. We should strike while he’s still—”

“No,” Akaza interrupts. He scans the hallways again. The faint murmur of voices from the other slayers drift through the unnatural silence of the Infinity Fortress. “You can’t do that. You won’t be able to hurt him, he’ll just kill you.”

“He’s not even awake,” one of the other slayer interrupts. “Shouldn’t we take this chance to injure him?”

Akaza shakes his head again, his mind racing. Even the Hashira would have trouble holding out against Muzan. Everyone else here would be free blood for him to recover with.

“You need to leave,” he says. “Don’t come near Muzan until the Hashira arrive.”

The girl’s fingers tighten around her sword until her knuckles whiten. “He killed my family,” she says tersely, shakily. “I can’t… I can’t walk away. I can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Akaza snaps. “Look, I just—”

He feels the faintest movement behind him, and Akaza knows—even without the flicker of fighting spirits, even without the curse’s connection. It’s instinct alone that has him tackling the girl out of the way, narrowly avoiding getting her throat slashed out.

Akaza scrambles to his feet. “Run!” he shouts at her. The first slayer who had recognized him is already dead. “Wait until the Hashira arrive!”

There is blood on the floors that haven’t been there before. One of the Kasugai crows echoes a similar command: “FALL BACK. FALL BACK FROM KIBUTSUJI MUZAN UNTIL THE HASHIRA ARE HERE.”

There are already so many corpses in the blink of an eye. Akaza spots Muzan standing on the torn halves of the flesh cocoon, his body tensing to make another move. His form is much more monstrous than it has ever been, with tentacles extending from his back and mouths full of jagged teeth growing all over his body.

Some of the other slayers must still be alive. Before Muzan can attack again, Akaza tackles his form away from the convergence of corridors.

He doesn’t have time to count how many slayers there are left. He must have taken Muzan by momentary surprise, because Akaza manages to knock both of them off of the cocoon and into the empty space below. Open air rushes past him as they fall.

By some miracle, he manages to throw a single punch before Muzan gains the upper hand. Faster than Akaza can process, something sharp stabs into his throat and another into his stomach. The floor rises to meet them; Akaza slams into the wooden boards painfully, his throat full of blood and his fury growing like the high tide.

With a snarl, he tears out the tentacle that had pierced his neck. It’s futile—a second later another has taken its place, piercing both of Akaza’s shoulders and pinning him to the floor. He hears bone fracture.

“Cease your pointless struggle, Akaza,” Muzan says. His red eyes meet his. There must be some sort of venom; Akaza finds that his limbs feel sluggish, and all the strength seems to have been drained from his bones. Muzan smiles faintly, some look of dark satisfaction that makes Akaza want to tear his throat out. “And here I was, thinking you would crawl back to me once you realized your folly.”

Akaza tries to speak but his mouth is full of blood. Muzan twists the appendage into his shoulder, more and more bone breaking in its wake.

“How sad,” Muzan says. His voice is mocking in its gentleness. “You could have had so much power, Akaza, but you threw it all away for a human and yet he died anyway. Don’t you think it’s such a waste?” He leans down. Slowly, leisurely, he sinks his claws into the left side of Akaza’s chest until his hands are wrapped around his heart. “He destroyed the blue spider lily knowing full well what it meant for you, didn’t he? Your soulmate. All of your sacrifice, Akaza, for someone who didn’t care about you in the very end.”

Everything hurts. Like the most corrosive of poisons. Akaza laughs. How many countless times has he kneeled before Muzan, taking each punishment, each burst of anger like it was some twisted birthright? It hurts now, but at least it’s finally because he’s fighting back. At least this anger is his. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he spits. “You didn’t know him. You could never understand. You—”

There is a wet sound as Muzan tears his heart out, a mess of veins and arteries ripping with it. Akaza watches as the organ in his hands continues to beat slowly, even when separated from his body.

“I’m here to kill you,” Akaza continues, ignoring the gaping hole in his chest. “For what you did to Kyojuro, and for what you did to me. I remember now. I wanted to die, but you turned me into a demon. You stole my memories and lied to me. The Demon Slayer Corps will make sure of your end, Kibutsuji.”

At his name, Muzan’s expression darkens. He casts Akaza’s heart to the side. “If you remembered your human past, then you must have also remembered it wasn’t my fault, Akaza,” he says lowly. He leans closer. “You killed all of those people when you were still human. It was so gruesome that I had thought a demon had done so. And was I the one who killed your loved ones?” He sneers. “It was all you, Akaza. Just like that Hashira’s death was your fault as well.”

Akaza tries to attack him with a snarl. He manages to tear his right arm away, shattering the bone completely, but Muzan is quicker and stronger than he ever was. A second later he’s pinned down once again.

“I will admit I underestimated you.” A new barbed tentacle pierces Akaza’s flesh. “I didn’t expect you to break the curse or get out of the Infinity Fortress. But that doesn’t matter. If I put enough of my blood back into you, I will be able to control you again. I’ll make sure I don’t make the same mistakes twice with you, Akaza.”

The feeling of Muzan’s blood flooding in through the wounds registers before the implications of his words do. For a terrifying moment, Akaza is paralyzed, too weak to move.

He hadn’t even considered that possibility—Muzan awakening the demon connection again with more of his blood. Then the fear washes over Akaza. If he were to forget, if he were Muzan’s to control again, then all of this would be for nothing. He will lose his memories of Kyojuro. He will hurt the people he has grown to care for—Shinobu, her helpers at the Butterfly Estate, and he will once again stain Keizo’s Soryu style with violence.

With Akaza’s remaining strength, he reaches for his uniform pocket, where two syringes of Shinobu’s wisteria poison lay. She had given it to him before they left, like some souvenir to appeal to her rather twisted sense of humour. She’d only laughed when Akaza asked what they were for.

Now, he crushes the glass under his fingers and digs the shards into Muzan’s skin, feeling as poison soaks through flesh and corrodes right to the bone.

With half-delirious satisfaction, Akaza realizes that Shinobu’s poison is clearly potent enough to hurt even Muzan. The tentacles lose their strength. Muzan’s veins blacken and pulse, his eyes widening in a mixture of shock and fury.

Akaza tries to tear himself away. Before he can succeed, the aftermath of the sun flashes in his periphery, and he’s being pulled away from under Muzan by a human hand.

Head spinning, Akaza spots Kamado Tanjiro standing above him. His sword is braced in front of him, the scar on his forehead twisting down his face like flames. There are scrapes and cuts all over his body, but the injuries that Akaza can map out by eye all appear no more than superficial.

“Akaza-san!” Tanjiro exclaims, his burning eyes never leaving Muzan. Another Hashira stands on the other side of the room—the Water Hashira.

Relief seeps into Akaza’s exhausted body. There are finally Hashira here. He doesn’t know how many slayers remain in the upper levels, but at the very least, he managed to distract Muzan long enough for the Hashira to catch up and keep him in check. The rest depends on Yushiro now—he needs to bring the Infinity Fortress above ground for the sun to reach them.

All the injuries he had sustained are healing far too slowly. Tanjiro takes a step in front of him as if to shield him from Muzan.

Part of Akaza wants to scoff. It seems so ridiculous: this boy that Muzan had once sent him to kill is now trying to protect Akaza, even when Akaza is the only one who can survive the worst injuries imaginable. Yet something about it all reminds him of Kyojuro—the way he’d sometimes worry about injuring Akaza when sparring, despite knowing Akaza could easily heal, that makes Akaza falter.

“Kibutsuji Muzan,” Tanjiro says in a tight voice, taut to the point of trembling.

Muzan’s eyes flicker over him, down to Akaza, and his lips twist into a contemptuous sneer. “All of you are so persistent,” he says. “Flocking back to me like flies every damn time, talking about how you’re going to avenge a friend or a family member or a lover. Don’t you think it’s enough that you’re even alive?”

Tanjiro’s sword trembles before him, more out of anger than fear. “What did you say?”

“Consider yourselves lucky,” Muzan repeats. “So what if I killed your loved ones? Natural disasters claim lives all the time, yet no one seeks revenge against them. It’s simply impossible. So let go of your grudges and go on and live your lives. It’s not as though the dead will return to life if you kill me.”

An incredulous laugh tears out of Akaza’s throat. The opening Muzan had torn in his torso still hasn’t healed, but he pushes himself to his feet anyway. “A natural disaster?” he echoes. “You tell us not to hold grudges, while you killed Kyojuro because of your own fucking grudge. Because he destroyed your blue spider lily.” He narrows his eyes. “Do you think anything about your existence is natural?”

“You speak as if you were not a demon yourself,” Muzan says. “As though it wasn’t your fault the blue spider lily was destroyed, Akaza.”

As if it wasn’t your fault Kyojuro died.

With renewed fury, Akaza attacks him again. This time, Tanjiro and Giyu join him.

Even with their combined efforts, it’s hardly enough. The only blows he manages to land heal in an instant, and Akaza sustains much more damage trying to get in close. At some point, his regeneration will fail him if this keeps on going, while Muzan has much more reserves than any of them do.

“Don’t get too close!” he hears Giyu shout at Tanjiro. “We don’t need to cut him!”

Akaza tries his best to bear the brunt of Muzan’s blows, but even he can’t hope to block everything. At some point, one of the tentacles slams him against the wall and tears another opening in his chest.

Tanjiro shouts his name, and the momentary distraction allows Muzan to slash out his left eye.

Everything is a haze of pain and fury. Akaza struggles but his body isn’t healing properly and he can’t break free. They need more Hashira; they need the sun. His thoughts shutter. He can’t let Tanjiro or Giyu die because Kyojuro had cared for them, and the least he can do is make sure they survive. But for all he wants to do, his body is no longer keeping up with his mind’s commands. Everything is fading too fast and too sudden.

“Are you waiting for sunrise?” Muzan asks, his voice mocking. “Sunlight cannot even reach this place. Do you really think two Hashira and a demon I created would be able to kill me? ” He tilts his head. “The Hashira in the striped haori and that girl with him have just been killed too. How many more lives do you have left to spare on your useless struggle?”

Akaza’s heart skips a beat. Obanai and Mitsuri. They had been killed?

The barbed claws digging into Akaza’s chest twists, snapping bone and making viscera squelch grotesquely. It hurts, which seems so stupid. Akaza has grown so accustomed to the pain of injuries, so why does this one hurt so much?

He hears Giyu shout Tanjiro’s name in a panicked warning. Akaza wraps his blood-slicked fingers around the tentacle and attempts to tear it out of his body.

Two things happen at once. The ceiling above Tanjiro breaks as a familiar figure tumbles through, a pink and black blade slamming into Muzan with inhuman strength. At the same time, something sinks into the tentacle holding Akaza down with a dull thunk.

Akaza would recognize Shinobu’s stinger sword anywhere. Shocked, he looks up only to see her standing over him.

Her haori is torn to near-shreds and her hair has fallen from her usual neat updo, the butterfly clip nowhere to be seen. There is blood all over Shinobu and she seems to be favouring one leg over the other. But she’s alive.

Her poison has the intended effect: a second later, the pressure holding him down retreats and Akaza stumbles forward, gasping for breath. An attempt to map out which organs have been wounded is fruitless. At the very least, he’s pretty sure both his lungs are torn. He can’t hear the beat of his own heart anymore, so that’s probably gone.

“You didn’t die,” Akaza finally rasps when his voice starts working again.

“Yes,” Shinobu says with absolutely nothing pleasant in her smile. “But Upper Moon Two did! And goodness me, you are in terrible shape.”

Muzan’s eyes narrow as he surveys them all. Behind Shinobu are Kanao and the boy with the boar mask. Obanai and Mitsuri stand side by side, while Giyu is attempting to bandage Tanjiro’s eye.

“I saw you two die,” Muzan spits, the appendages around his body lashing in agitation. “I saw it, how could—”

He breaks off, eyes widening. For the first time tonight, the first hint of fear passes his expression. “Nakime,” he shouts, then louder, “Nakime!”

There is no response. The Infinity Fortress is motionless when it was always ever-moving when Nakime was in control of it. As if every fibre of wood is awaiting command, trembling in unnatural anticipation.

Then the silence shatters. Where there was just stillness becomes replaced by a vicious pressure that drives Akaza to his knees. Beside him, Shinobu makes a faint noise of pain as she collapses too.

Akaza’s wounds still haven’t healed. The pressure worsens the blood flow that pours endlessly from the hole in his chest. Belatedly, he realizes that they’re being lifted upwards at a breakneck speed. The boards splinter from the force, pieces of the Infinity Fortress shattering and falling all around them.

Yushiro must have succeeded in controlling Nakime. He must be bringing the Infinity Fortress to the surface.

A few paces above them, Muzan lets out an enraged snarl, an approximation of Nakime’s name as though she will hear and obey him. Akaza spots Tanjiro and Giyu on another piece of rapidly breaking wood, huddled against the ground as the unforgiving pressure continues to bear down on them.

Suddenly, as soon as it started, they’re pulled to a halt. The Infinity Fortress creaks and groans all around them, pieces still crumbling even though they have stopped moving.

Akaza pushes himself up, searching for Muzan. His eyes are narrowed, the tentacles lashing wildly around him.

“Vermin,” he spits, but he doesn’t seem to be addressing any of them. “How dare you use what belongs to me!”

“He’s trying to control Nakime again,” Akaza realizes. “We need to distract him until Yushiro can bring us up to the surface.”

None of the Hashira waste even a second. Mitsuri’s sword lashes out at Muzan immediately, but despite the initial distraction, he’s still quick to retaliate, knocking her back into a wall. The wood of the Infinity Fortress seems much more fragile now, crumbling like dust when Mitsuri slams against it. As if the entire thing is finally coming undone.

“Keep him occupied!” Akaza shouts at the rest of them.

They push forward, a blur of blades and the ringing of metal clashing. The Hashira, Tanjiro, and other slayers that have regrouped.

The air bleeds with the scent of iron. The pattern of Muzan’s blows is much less calculated now, lashing out wildly at anything and anyone that gets close. One slayer is cut down. Another. Akaza regrows an arm, wincing at the decreasing speed of his regeneration.

No matter how hard they keep pushing, it doesn’t seem to be enough. Even when the Serpent Hashira lands a blow across Muzan’s throat, he heals it in an instant. The Infinity Fortress has stopped moving.

A touch of fear rises in Akaza. What if Muzan has completely driven out Yushiro’s control—or worse, killed him through the connection? They don’t stand a chance without the sun, and there is no way they can get Muzan into the sun unless the Infinity Fortress is brought to the surface.

He shoves the useless thoughts away. If Muzan had truly wrestled back control of Nakime, the Infinity Fortress wouldn’t be locked in a standstill right now. They just need to find a way to distract Muzan enough for Yushiro to gain the upper hand again.

“Akaza.” A hand grasps the back of Akaza’s uniform, tugging him back. Surprised, he turns around to look at Shinobu.

There’s a new cut open on her face and her limp is even worse. Akaza isn’t sure how she’s still standing in her state.

“I have another dose of the drug Tamayo and I made,” she says. “I remixed some of my poison, so even if his body has adapted to the first dose, he will have to take time to break the new one down, and that should be enough to buy Yushiro the time he needs. The quickest way for it to take effect would be to inject it through his neck.”

Akaza nods. “What do you want me to do?”

Shinobu gestures at her leg. “My ligaments are torn,” she says. “I can’t move fast enough to reach his neck. I need an opening.”

Akaza nods again, turning back towards Muzan.

The slayers that have joined them have thinned down, broken bodies scattered on the floor. The Hashira are still standing, but every single one of them is gaining more and more injuries, and they are only human.

Letting his compass alight, Akaza joins in again, breathing in poison and blood.

Even with his compass’ guidance, it’s not enough. He hadn’t realized it much against the weaker demons, but without the telltale glows of fighting spirits working in tandem with his compass, he is half-blind; a compass with no true north pointed to nowhere. No way of predicting his opponents’ next movements, accumulating unnecessary wounds he once should have been able to dodge. Against Muzan, it has given him a noticeable handicap.

But he doesn’t know how to see them again. As if Kyojuro has taken it away with him, because even as Akaza’s mind pushes him to fight this battle, his heart has already decided that it is useless. Winning against Muzan will not bring Kyojuro back. Killing him will not make it hurt less.

Frustrated, Akaza holds his breath as another blow slices his abdomen open. Shinobu asked for an opening, but he can’t even get in close.

This is Kyojuro’s fight. Killing Muzan, protecting others—Akaza is just a pretender who has taken up the mantle for him, and he didn’t even do it for the right reasons. How ridiculous it is that he spent all those centuries revelling in the satisfaction of a fight, only for his strength to fall short when it finally mattered.

He needs to see fighting spirits to get in close. He needs to be able to regenerate properly, he needs to focus, he needs to—

(“How do you do it?” Akaza had once asked Kyojuro, curious. They are sitting in a grassy field, just after Kyojuro finished patrol. A brief break, nothing but a thinly veiled excuse to spend some quiet time together. “Total Concentration Breathing. I can tell when you’re using it, but I don’t understand how something like breathing can make slayers so much stronger than other humans.”

Kyojuro looks thoughtful. “I don’t know how to explain it!” he says. “I have been doing it since I was a child, so I suppose it’s like second nature to me!”

“That’s very helpful, Kyojuro.”

Kyojuro laughs. “Let me try to show you!” he says. “Close your eyes, Akaza.”

A little skeptical, Akaza does as Kyojuro asks. The faint summer breeze brushes over his skin, the night air cool. Kyojuro’s fingers are much warmer as he splays them right under Akaza’s ribcage.

“Can you hear the flowers breathe?” he asks.

Akaza opens his eyes, surprised. Kyojuro’s face is inches from his. “The flowers, Kyojuro?” he echoes. “How am I supposed to hear the flowers breathe?”

“There is a field full of flowers here!” Kyojuro replies. “Listen! And close your eyes again!”

Now very much skeptical, Akaza sighs and shuts his eyes. He listens, but he does not hear any flowers breathe. The wind whispers. A lone bird calls. The grass rustles. What else should he listen for?

“I don’t hear it,” he says after a while.

“That is because you are too impatient!” Kyojuro chastises, but his tone is fond. “Every living thing has breath, Akaza, if you listen close enough. It is the sound of life. That is what Total Concentration Breathing is. Attuning yourself to the breath of the world.”

“So what does it mean that demons don’t need to breathe?”

Kyojuro’s hand retreats from over his diaphragm. “You still can if you choose to, right?” he asks. “Well! If you can’t hear it today, maybe we will try again some other day.”)

—breathe.

Akaza gasps in a single, ragged breath to his torn lungs. His body aches. He has accumulated so many injuries from Muzan that he’s certain there’s more blood pouring out of his wounds than there is inside his body.

But he draws in one breath, then another. He hears the sound of the slayers around him, each inhale and exhale. They’re all using Total Concentration Breathing, but the pattern sounds slightly different than how Kyojuro used to breathe.

Muzan does not draw breath, even now. He could, except he doesn’t because he thinks himself above human necessities.

No flicker of fighting spirits tells him where to go or how to dodge. Akaza’s compass flickers beneath his feet as he draws in low, tearing through one of the sharp tentacles, and finally manages to break through.

The first blow catches Muzan off guard. Simple memories shutter through his mind—Keizo’s teachings, his cheery smile when he said them. The solar plexus to wind your opponent. Hitting them across the jaw can give them whiplash.

Flesh and bone give under his fists. Muzan stumbles, clearly taken aback by the attack. Akaza takes the opportunity to pin him to the ground.

Muzan recovers quickly, attempting to tear Akaza away from him. Akaza barely feels the pain as one of the tentacles pierces into his body. In a split second, Muzan throws him off and immobilizes him.

Breathe in.

“There was a blue spider lily Kyojuro saved,” Akaza says around a mouthful of blood. “Did you know that?”

All at once, Muzan freezes. His eyes narrow, lips pulled back in a snarl. “What did you say?”

“He saved one last one for me,” Akaza repeats. “So I could walk in the sun. I destroyed it.”

That second of time is all that Shinobu needs. Faster than Akaza can blink, she has lunged forward, the tip of her stinger sword protruding from Muzan’s throat.

His veins blacken and pulse. Still, Muzan’s furious gaze remains pinned on Akaza. One of the tentacles lash out at Shinobu as if on instinct, and she pulls away, barely avoiding being cut.

“You’ll never have it,” Akaza tells Muzan. “Immunity from the sun. Not from the blue spider lily, and not from Kamado Nezuko. What you fear will come true no matter how hard you try to conquer it.”

His senses are buzzing. In the background, a voice Akaza’s mind belatedly registers as Shinobu is shouting his name, except her voice and the warning don’t register. He can no longer move, whether it be from his regeneration finally failing, from Muzan’s poison, or something else entirely.

The Infinity Fortress starts to tremble around them, wooden boards raining from the ceiling. Then the anticipatory anger seems to finally compress and flood out, Muzan’s crimson eyes wild and monstrous as he snarls a curse of sorts. Some sort of twisted satisfaction sinks into Akaza, but as it meets the emptiness in his chest, it doesn’t fill anything up.

There is a flash of silver blue. Akaza only registers what happens far too late—Muzan had picked up one of the fallen slayers’ nichirin blades and swung it at him. Faster than he can avoid, the sword slices through his throat and severs his neck from his head.

Breathe out.

Can you hear the flowers breathe? What a strange, foolish question.

Akaza still can’t, after all this time.

Chapter Text

The strangest part about it all is that it doesn’t hurt.

Akaza thought it would. Since he became a demon, he had gotten accustomed to guarding his neck above everything else. A lost limb could regenerate. Cut his body in half, and it could stitch itself together. Decapitation by a sun-forged blade was the only threat to a demon’s life, bar the sun.

Except he feels nothing. Not even the faintest hint of pain. Vaguely, he is aware of his body being tossed aside, but all of his senses have gone into shutdown. The Infinity Fortress seems to be moving again around them because Akaza feels that unrelenting pressure return. That means Shinobu’s poison had done the desired effect—impacted Muzan’s control over Nakime enough for Yushiro to gain the upper hand, once again bringing the Infinity Fortress to the surface.

Splinters dig into Akaza’s skin, covering his body, and yet none of it hurts. As if his nerve cells have forgotten to transmit the warning of pain amongst all the other sensations. As if no other pain matters but the one that has festered and never faded in Akaza’s chest ever since Kyojuro died.

His neck had been cut by a nichirin blade. Akaza repeats the fact to himself once, twice, three times, and the severity it should come with never sinks in.

Should he be afraid? He is dying. He is going to die. And yet…

Soon, even the feeling of the wooden boards crushing his body has become far away, as if his consciousness has been severed from any physical connection to the world. The here-and-now becomes nonsensical, memory mixing together with an unstoppable tide.

Crack. The whip connects. Akaza is not Akaza but Hakuji, eleven years old and held down by men twice his size. They don’t even care enough to give him a bit to bite down on when they lash him: once, twice, ten times, a hundred times.

—What do you think love is, Akaza?

The memory of Kyojuro’s voice doesn’t sound right. Akaza tries to reimagine the tone of his voice, tries to picture his wide-eyed, serious gaze when he had said those words, but the exactness of the moment is lost to him and to time.

—I think to love is to surrender.

Crinkle. The piece of paper in his hands is getting scrunched. His entire world lies in pieces at his feet as Hakuji stares at the too-frail body hanging from the ceiling, those terrifying, impossible words written on that piece of paper. It was not fair. Why could nothing he ever did be enough?

Would you have cut my neck?—

The flat of Kyojuro’s blade, cooled by the night breeze, drags ever so slightly over Akaza’s shoulders, but it does not cut his throat. Instead, Kyojuro tilts his head at him and smiles. Bright as the sun, warm as daybreak.

—No, I suppose not!

Flutter. A single cherry blossom petal is laid gently in the palms of Akaza’s hands as he offers it to Kyojuro. He holds his breath not because demons don’t need to breathe but because he is afraid. He is afraid of Kyojuro turning away from him, he is afraid that Kyojuro will come to his senses and realize that Akaza will destroy him, ruin him, break him. He is afraid of all of that, but he is much more terrified of being alone. He has tasted what it feels like to be in the sun, and Akaza is too selfish to turn back.

I chose you because—

A field of death.

—I wanted to.

A single blue spider lily.

I’m sorry, Akaza.

The entirety of Kyojuro’s room is a terrifying shade of crimson. The books he used to press his leaves are torn. All the leaves he had collected throughout his childhood lay scattered on the ground, some already in pieces. Kyojuro kneels in the centre of it all, his life slowly ebbing out and Akaza is helpless to stop him from leaving.

Kyojuro is leaving, he is gone, he is dead, and Akaza is all alone. He doesn’t know how he managed to bear it for the past six months. Each day, he wonders how he will get through the next one.

Stay.

If Akaza still had his head, he thinks he might have sobbed. He can no longer feel the boards and splinters digging into his skin. As if everything around him has liquefied, and he is being swept away in this relentless tide.

Stay.

For who, Kyojuro? Akaza wants to ask. He would have stayed in a heartbeat had Kyojuro been here, he would’ve fought tooth and nail to make it back to Kyojuro, but maybe this is how it’s meant to be. Maybe he doesn’t have to wonder how to bear another sunrise to sunset without Kyojuro, because this is finally the end.

He had wanted to wait for Kyojuro, yet Akaza was so afraid that it would all be in vain. How many years will he have to endure, never knowing if he was betting everything on nothing more than a child’s bedtime tale?

His neck was cut. No demon except Muzan had ever survived decapitation by a nichirin blade. Akaza would disintegrate like all other demons he had watched Kyojuro slay, with nothing left behind but the broken remnant of a once-whole soul thread, with no body to bury and no one to mourn him by. No more waiting and no more hoping.

Stay, Kyojuro had said, and it hits Akaza now, the sheer insanity of that single request. How much Kyojuro had surrendered at that moment.

Akaza thinks of the night they had watched the fireworks together, sitting knee-to-knee as they lit up Kyojuro’s box of sparklers. He remembers seeing Kyojuro smile, and then feeling his warmth down to the very fabric of his soul.

He thinks of Kocho Shinobu’s thinly veiled fury when she had said: It matters because Rengoku-san loved you.

I know, Akaza thinks. I know, I know, I know. It took me so long, too long, but I know now.

He squeezes his fists shut. Akaza had expected to feel nothing but that strange, watery sensation, except his hands wrap around something solid—a broken piece of wood that pierces right into the flesh of his palms.

It hurts. It hurts, and that means that his body hasn’t disintegrated yet despite Muzan cutting off his head.

Akaza feels his thoughts sharpen back into something much more coherent. The pain in his palms pulls him out of the nonsensical tide of memories. Tightening his fists, Akaza focuses on regenerating his head. If he could do it for an arm or leg, then surely, he could do the same now.

The place where the nichirin blade had cut him starts to burn with a white-hot pain Akaza has never felt before.

Something oddly light and pillowy expands in Akaza’s lungs, the feeling opposite of the pain across his cut neck. He doesn’t know how it is that he can breathe when he still has no mouth or throat, but for some reason, he does. The steady in and out of the flow of air fills his entire body.

Can you hear the flowers breathe?

Ever so slowly, he feels his head start to reform. Being remade almost hurt more than being torn apart, but Akaza presses on and focuses on regenerating.

Taste is the first sense that returns to him. Akaza’s mouth is full of blood and iron. His sight is blurry, but opening his eyes to darkness is still different from not having eyes at all. Finally, he hears the silence—that strange finality where the air seems to buzz with audible stillness.

Akaza gasps a lungful of dusty air. With his head regrown, he realizes that he is pinned under the boards of the Infinity Fortress. It crushes his body with so much force that he can barely move a finger. There is a jagged piece of wood that pierces through his chest. His regeneration either isn’t working or is so slow that it might as well be nonexistent.

Freed from the tangle of memory, Akaza tries to gather his bearings. When Muzan had cut his head off, he had still been inside the Infinity Fortress. He can’t see beyond the rubble, but it… feels different. Although the air is still, it is not the same as the uncanny silence that exists inside the Infinity Fortress—Yushiro must have succeeded in bringing them to the surface.

How much time has passed since then? Akaza can’t hear any fighting. Had the Corps been able to keep Muzan occupied until sunrise, or had he escaped?

Who had been killed? Who was still alive?

He can’t just lie here. Gritting his teeth, Akaza tries and fails to push himself up. A jolt of pain runs down his spine. He tries again, digging his fingers into broken pieces of wood and dragging his body in what is hopefully an upward direction.

Akaza isn’t certain how long it takes for the pressure on his body to lessen. He must be near the surface. He pushes a board away, only to recoil immediately as a ray of sunlight falls over him.

Even the brief contact sears painfully into his skin. Akaza pulls the board back down, too many thoughts racing through his mind at once.

The sun had risen. That meant the fight would have ended, one way or another—either Muzan had been killed by the sun, or he had escaped. There was no way for Akaza to confirm until nightfall came around again. Everything is still eerily silent, with no slayers that he can hear or sense in the nearby vicinity.

The uncertainty gnaws at him, making him anxious, except there is nothing he can do. The patch of skin that had been burned by sunlight continues to smart, healing so slowly Akaza doesn’t know if it’s healing at all.

Buried beneath the broken remnants of the Infinity Fortress, full of terrified unknowing, body aching and bleeding from too many wounds to count, Akaza closes his eyes.

In the moment, he had regrown his head because it felt wrong to give up. He had resolved that he would wait for Kyojuro, so he will wait. He will wait until the earth turns to ash and the moon falls from the sky, he will wait until there is nothing left. If that is how long it takes for him to see Kyojuro again, then Akaza will learn to endure it day after day.

But right now, Akaza feels so—exhausted. Some bone-deep feeling that his regeneration couldn’t hope to heal, an accumulation of the last six months he has struggled through. He is tired of fighting. He is tired of all of… this.

So when the fatigue washes over him again, Akaza doesn’t fight it. He lets it carry him away, and everything fades into merciful oblivion.

Throughout the day, Akaza drifts in and out of consciousness. He checks the sun periodically. At some point, he is aware that his injuries have begun to heal, but it’s at a snail’s pace. Without more blood, Akaza doesn’t know if he can fully recover anytime soon. He’s already running on empty reserves.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he feels the instinctual warning of the sun creep away. Akaza pushes away the wooden board that had been blocking him from the sun and drags his body out from under the rubble.

He’s standing in what looks like a mass graveyard of the Infinity Fortress—pieces of shoji doors and wooden walls scattered on the ground everywhere. Twilight has just begun to descend, shadows lengthening as the remainder of the sun’s light retreats beyond the horizon.

Akaza can’t sense or see anyone around him. Wherever he had been deposited must be further from where everyone else had been, if there had been a fight at all. There was still the possibility that Muzan had escaped or killed the Hashira.

Akaza doesn’t want to think about that.

He does anyway, his mind running through possibilities, each more gruesome than the last.

Following the trail of wooden boards, Akaza follows the path of destruction. It takes him a few minutes to realize he’s limping, and then another to realize that his right leg is broken.

That must be why it hurt so much to put pressure on. Akaza continues walking.

The moon has begun to rise when Akaza spots the first body. A slayer lies in the rubble, their stomach torn open. Viscera spills out of the wound and blood stains the dirt.

He must have reached the area where the Corps had fought Muzan, because soon after the first body, the count grows exponentially. Two, three, six, ten—all with horrific injuries, all still and unmoving.

Feeling numb, Akaza takes in the sight. How many of these people had Kyojuro known? How many had been his companions, his friends? He has seen his fair share of death throughout the years and never blinked an eye. Akaza has torn people apart limb to limb, and yet…

A face catches his eyes in Akaza’s periphery. He picks his way across the battlefield towards him.

A boy, perhaps no more than thirteen or fourteen. Akaza doesn’t remember his name, but he does remember that he’d once visited the Butterfly Estate to treat his injuries. Akaza had bandaged his arm. He had been visibly afraid of Akaza, but hadn’t protested about his presence like other slayers often did.

Now, his eyes are fixed on the sky, blank and unseeing. His neck has been twisted at an unnatural angle. It should have been a quick death. A painless one.

Akaza bends down next to the slayer, brushing his fingers over his eyes to close them. Then he sits there for a while longer, unmoving. He isn’t sure what to do or where to go. Being unable to see fighting spirits still makes Akaza feel blind.

So many dead. Where were the Hashira, where was Muzan? Had all of these sacrifices been for nothing? And if Muzan was dead…

“Akaza?”

He turns around so fast that Akaza thinks he might have torn the worst of his wounds open again, ruining the tedious work his regeneration had done in the past few hours. It doesn’t matter. At the other side of the field stands Kocho Shinobu, her purple eyes wide and her expression entirely unguarded.

Shinobu is still alive. That was good news.

She has a crutch tucked under an arm as she limps over to where Akaza is. She still looks surprised when she reaches Akaza, scanning him head to toe.

“You’re still alive,” Shinobu says by way of greeting. “Even though Kibutsuji cut your head off!”

“Is he dead?”

“The sun killed him,” Shinobu replies.

Oh. After hours of tortuous unknowing and second-guessing, the confirmation was overwhelming. Akaza had suspected, he’d hoped, but hearing it from Shinobu cemented a reality that he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around.

For two centuries, Muzan’s power was all he had known. It seems so impossible for him to be dead, just like that.

The relief is a fleeting feeling. Victory tastes like dust and blood. Muzan had been right on one part. Killing him would not bring anyone back. Killing him would not bring Kyojuro back.

Akaza feels so lost. He stands in this field rotting of death, amidst bodies that were once people who all deserved to live much more than he did, and the emptiness comes back with twice the ferocity.

“Akaza,” Shinobu prompts, her lips twisting into a faint frown.

“What?”

She opens her mouth to say something before seeming to decide better of it. Strange. Kocho Shinobu rarely hesitates.

“What will you do now?” she asks instead.

Akaza almost laughs. He might have if he had the energy.

Wait for Kyojuro, he could say, but that is hardly a sufficient answer, nor is it what Shinobu is truly asking him.

“I don’t know,” Akaza says. “Muzan is gone now, so I suppose the Corps isn’t needed anymore either.”

Shinobu’s eyes are scrutinizing. She always has that uncanny way of digging into people. “You survived decapitation, so clearly, you were trying to live.”

“I don’t know,” Akaza repeats, shaking his head. He glances at the slayer who lies at their feet, forever monumentalized in too-early stillness. “I just knew that I couldn’t die. Not when Kyojuro had done so much to make sure that I would live. I want to wait for him, but now that Muzan is dead, I don’t know how I’m supposed to wait. I don’t know how long it will be.” He does laugh this time. It feels like knives tearing at his throat. “I don’t even know if he will come back.”

Shinobu is silent for a moment. She shifts her weight on her crutches. Suddenly, she looks very small and tired too. Akaza remembers that he still hasn’t asked her how the fight with Muzan had been. Who she had lost.

“His name was Shuji,” she says, gesturing at the boy. “He just turned thirteen a week ago.”

Akaza swallows. “I remember him from the Butterfly Estate but I didn’t know his name.”

“There are hundreds of injured slayers,” Shinobu continues. “We don’t have nearly enough kakushi to properly treat everyone. We’re still combing through the battlefield to see if there are people alive. Our resources are spread too thin to even begin to count the dead. If you don’t know what to do now, why don’t you start by helping me with the injured? Besides, you’re a demon, so you won’t get tired. It’ll be beneficial for us. When the wounded have been discharged and the dead have been buried, you can decide again what you want to do.” Her voice softens. “Many of these people were Rengoku-san’s friends, you know.”

One step at a time, Keizo had told him.

Akaza could—try to. Muzan was dead, but the aftermath he had left was far from finished. At the very least, he could see that through.

Kyojuro would have wanted him to do that, too. Maybe it’s too late now to do the things Kyojuro wanted of him, but…

Inch by inch, Akaza pushes his uncertainty down. “Alright,” he agrees. “I’ll—I’ll help.”

Shinobu’s smile is small and tired but it’s genuine. “Okay!” she says. “Then let’s go. It’s best that we hurry, since we’ve wasted enough time here already!”

Shinobu fills him in on the details during the walk back. It turns out that Akaza hasn’t even seen the worst of it. In the main area where the Corps had fought Muzan, entire buildings have been levelled, while the corpses that litter the streets are even more numerous. Shinobu thins her lips as she explains that although it’s already been half a day since Muzan was killed, all of their resources have gone into saving the injured, so they hadn’t been able to count or bury the dead. She’d been going back and forth on a broken leg, looking for survivors and treating any immediate injuries with the medical kit strapped to her back.

The Butterfly Estate is more full than Akaza has ever seen it. His regeneration has finally caught up and healed the worst of his wounds, but the energy it had taken leaves Akaza feeling even more exhausted. Shinobu gives him a change of clothing.

“It doesn’t say demon,” Akaza says, pointing at the back.

“Yes, well, I don’t have copies of your specially customized uniform, and yours is covered in blood and Infinity Fortress… debris, so that is not sanitary to wear around patients!” Shinobu replies. Then she hands him a flask. “Blood. You look like a single wisteria flower will take you out!”

Akaza gestures outside. “I just walked through the wisteria grove fine.”

“How many times did you cough up blood?”

As always, arguing with her is useless, so Akaza drinks Shinobu’s flask of blood. He decides not to think about where she got it from. Afterwards, she sends him to the sickbay. He has never seen it so crowded—there are more patients than there are beds to fit them. At one glance, he can tell that all of the injuries here are severe if not life-threatening.

It’s a sobering sight. He sets to work under Shinobu’s direction until the sun rises and she relocates him to a room facing west.

And so the days pass like that, one, then two, then three. Akaza works day and night, sitting vigil over patients’ long nights of tossing and turning, changing bandages and stitching wounds and learning to mix poultices from Shinobu. Sometimes he wonders if she rests at all, except she is so busy that there is rarely a moment for them to sit down and properly speak.

Sometimes, during the quieter nights, Akaza sits alone. He has long grown accustomed to no longer seeing people’s fighting spirits, but it still feels disconcerting during nights at the hospital. He will find the sudden urge to check pulses and breathing, just to reassure himself that everyone is still alive.

One week passes. Akaza catches Shinobu in the hallways one day and asks her about the rest of the Hashira.

She blinks. “Ah, you don’t know?” she asks.

“No one told me.”

“We’ve converted the nearby estates to hospitals,” she says. “Kanroji-san and Shinazugawa-san are at the Wind Estate. Most of the slayers there have milder injuries. Tokito-kun and Tomioka-san’s injuries were more severe, so they are in a nearby wisteria house. Himejima-san and Iguro-san did not make it.”

Even after living at the Butterfly Estate for half a year, Obanai and Gyomei were two Hashira Akaza had never spoken to. Kyojuro had mentioned them briefly, though—Obanai had once been saved from a snake demon by Kyojuro’s father, so they’d known each other since they were young. He knows from Shinobu that Gyomei was the one who killed the demon who had slaughtered her parents.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Shinobu.

Shinobu straightens her shoulders into a straight line. She offers him a thin smile. “All things considered, the amount of casualties is far lower than what Tamayo-san and I projected,” she says. “The information you had given us on Kibutsuji proved crucial, and might I say saved many lives!” She looks as though she’s about to say something else before she reaches over and gives Akaza’s back a slight push. “Go. We should get daily check-ups finished before noon.”

After three weeks, the number of sickbay patients starts dwindling as more and more slayers have been discharged. Regardless, there is very little time for breaks; Akaza busies himself day and night and tries his utmost to focus on the tasks at hand.

Still, his thoughts catch up to him in all the spare moments in between. The aftertaste of victory is a bitter one, bought with the cost of lives and blood. Akaza witnesses the repercussions of it every day at the Butterfly Estate, watching the slow crawl of recovery for the lucky ones, or the delayed yet inevitable deaths of others. Still, despite the losses, there’s a heaviness that has lifted amongst everyone. The patients chat enthusiastically to each other, their voices threaded with hope. Even the ones who were scared of Akaza in the beginning have become friendly with him.

This was everything Kyojuro had fought for, everything he sacrificed for, everything he wished for. Akaza can’t help but think that he deserves to be here to witness this victory after everything he has done for the Corps. It feels so unfair that he isn’t.

The deepest, unchanged cruelty is still his absence. Although over half a year has passed, he doesn’t think he will ever get used to it. It is often the way that it bleeds into mundanity that is the most unbearable; how Akaza will be doing something insignificant and be reminded of Kyojuro, the way he will look at a moon he has lived under for two centuries and feel so suddenly that its light looks so lonely when it didn’t before.

And then he will feel the loss as deeply as the very first day like nothing has changed at all.

A month after Muzan’s death, Shinobu sends him to the Wind Estate. The patients have finally thinned to a point where she can manage them on her own with a smaller team, she explains, and those who were in critical condition are well on their way to recovery. Those who need monitoring but no critical care have been moved to other estates.

“You’ll be in charge!” she adds, as though to increase Akaza’s skepticism.

“In charge,” he echoes.

“Yes,” Shinobu says sagely. “None of the patients there are badly injured, just need rest and rehabilitation. I don’t have enough work around here to keep you busy, so I’m sending you over there! Unless you have somewhere better to be, or something better to do!”

Akaza does not, in fact, have anything better to do, so he takes Shinobu up on her offer. The only belongings he brings are Kyojuro’s sword and haori.

The Wind Estate isn’t too far from the Butterfly Estate, although Akaza has never been to it before. Kaname is the one who guides him there.

He hasn’t seen Kyojuro’s crow for a good few weeks. He had dropped by to see Akaza after the battle, but apart from that, his hands had been too full, the hospital too chaotic.

Akaza gives him a handful of sunflower seats as Kaname perches on his shoulder, calling out directions to the Wind Estate. He’s met by a kakushi, who directs Akaza to his room and shows him around the building.

The sickbay here is much smaller, and clearly a more temporary setup than the one at the Butterfly Estate. There are a little more than twenty patients, two of them being Mitsuri and the Wind Hashira. It’s still near midnight, so everyone is asleep.

After a quick run-down of all the patients’ conditions, Akaza returns to his room. This building, these people—they all feel so foreign. For all of her sharp words and shallow smiles, he’s gotten used to being around Kocho Shinobu; fond, even, of her. Now, with the final bits of familiarity stripped away, Akaza feels like a stranger once again. He knows Mitsuri and she’s always been kind to him, except Akaza can’t help but wonder if that kindness is meant for him, or for some piece of Kyojuro she thinks he left behind with Akaza.

He steps outside the shoji doors into the garden, where flowers have grown freely. Unlike the Rengoku Estate’s garden, the patches of grass are interspersed with wildflowers and weeds.

Spring is fading rapidly into summer. The days are long, the nights are short, and Akaza is painfully aware that soon, the day will come when it has been a year since Kyojuro died. Then, there will be the day when he has lost Kyojuro longer than he has known him.

In moments like these, alone with nothing but the pale light of the moon, where loss aches just as freshly as it did all those months ago. As though digging his fingers into an old wound and pulling it all apart, only to find out that nothing underneath has healed at all. After everything, after all this time, Akaza can scarcely stand the thought of yet another tomorrow without Kyojuro. How is he supposed to endure even longer, never knowing whether or not he’s placed his hopes on a fool’s gamble?

Akaza is so tired of waiting. Even with Keizo and Kagaya’s words, even with everything Kyojuro had left him, he wonders if it would be better to let himself give in. Muzan and all of his demons were gone. Even Kamado Nezuko was now a human. Akaza was the only one left. Maybe once and for all, he should just…

A soft, inquiring caw snaps Akaza out of his thoughts. He looks up, surprised, only to see Kaname gliding over to him from one of the open windows.

“I thought you left,” Akaza says. He shifts his weight onto his knees.

“KANAME STAY.”

Akaza blinks. “For how long?”

Kaname does not reply to that question, only pecks Akaza gently on the leg. Then he turns and points the tip of his wing at one of the bushes nearby. “TSUBAKI.”

Akaza looks at the red flowers growing. They are indeed Tsubaki.

Now properly shocked, he asks, “How did you know? Do you—do you remember from when I taught Kyojuro?”

Puffing out his chest in clear pride, Kaname lets out an affirmative caw. He points with his wing at another patch of indigo. “AJISAI.”

Some mix of a laugh and a sob chokes in Akaza’s throat. “Yeah, Ajisai, you’re right,” he manages. “What about that one?”

Turns out that Kaname is not nearly as good at naming the flowers as Kyojuro was, but he’s a very attentive learner and has quite an impressive memory. They head back into the Wind Estate half an hour before sunrise, with Kaname settling down on the futon in the corner, beginning to groom his feathers. He seems to be here to stay, at least for the near future.

Akaza swallows. The sun will be up soon. Although Kyojuro’s sword lies just a few paces away, he knows that decapitation won’t be enough to kill him anymore—he will need the sun. And if he takes the medicine made from the blue spider lily, then neither death by decapitation nor the sun will be able to kill him.

One step at a time.

Kaname has finished grooming himself. He looks up at Akaza with unblinking eyes, his tiny head tilted as if to say, what are you waiting for?

Akaza pulls the blinds over the windows, smooths out the wrinkles in his uniform, and heads to the sick bay.

Mitsuri is happy to see Akaza. Shinazugawa Sanemi is much less so.

Had he had a few less broken bones, he probably would’ve tried to attack Akaza. He does tell Akaza so.

“I should cut your fucking head off,” he spits.

“Muzan already did that,” Akaza replies. Sanemi will not allow Akaza near to change his bandages, and if he tries to force it, he thinks that there’s going to be a few more broken bones he’ll have to treat. “It didn’t work.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll burn in the sun just like any other demon.”

“Shinazugawa-san!” Mitsuri interrupts. “Please stop! Shinobu-chan assigned him to be in charge of the patients here!”

“What the fuck was Kocho thinking?”

Eventually, he quiets down. Akaza gets one of the kakushi to do Sanemi’s daily check-ups as he goes around to the rest of the patients.

He reaches the last hospital bed only to be greeted by a familiar face and a loud, “Akaza-san!”

“It’s you,” Akaza says. She’s now missing an eye and there’s a just-healing scar cutting across her face, but she was the slayer who he had tackled out of the way when they had first found Muzan. He reaches for the medical supplies, recalling her distraught face when Akaza asked her to run from Muzan. “I guess you followed my instructions after all.”

The girl’s eyes are still wide. “You saved my life.”

Now beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, Akaza shakes his head. “The more slayers Muzan killed, the more powerful he would have gotten,” he says. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

She looks at him for a few moments with her good eye. “You’re bad at this,” she says. “Most people just say something along the lines of ‘you’re welcome.’”

“You’re welcome,” Akaza tells her blandly. He should get the other kakushi to do her check-ups tomorrow.

“There were other slayers, you know,” she continues. “Kibutsuji was going to kill them all. The moment he attacked, we all knew it. Many of them are alive right now because of what you did.”

In his periphery, Akaza feels Sanemi and Mitsuri’s gaze on him.

It just… feels wrong. To be seen as someone who could save a life. Even after working with Shinobu in the infirmary for so long, even after the battle with Muzan, some integral part of himself simply can’t comprehend that it’s something he can do. Not after all the blood that stains his hands. Not after the prices everybody Akaza loved had to pay on his behalf.

But this slayer, probably no older than fourteen or fifteen, is looking at him with some stupidly stubborn determination that feels a little reminiscent of how Kyojuro would be so headstrong about all of the things he believed in. Back when he was recovering from his injuries, he’d argue right back to Akaza knowing that Akaza could kill him in seconds.

Akaza sighs. “What’s your name?” he asks her.

The girl’s eyes brighten. “Takahashi Himari,” she says. “Kinoto.” She holds out her unbroken hand as if offering to shake his.

This is all so ridiculous. But Akaza reaches out and clasps her hand anyway.

Sanemi is no more patient with Akaza afterwards, but at the very least, he’s stopped putting up a struggle every time Akaza nears him. A few days after Akaza’s arrival at the Butterfly Estate, a boy with a striking resemblance to Sanemi visits him.

His brother, one of the kakushi informs him in a hushed whisper. Akaza watches as Sanemi yells at his brother for not taking care of himself, as though he isn’t the one confined to a hospital bed on account of too many broken bones.

Despite everything, time passes. Akaza grows familiar with the kakushi working at the Wind Estate and the slayers they treat. Takashi Himari drags him into unwanted conversation in every free moment she catches him in, while Kaname keeps him company on late-night walks, cawing out flower names.

Spring has gone now, with summer in full bloom. Trees full of leaves, flowers growing into fruit, the wind’s touch always carrying a hint of warmth. There will be festivals soon. Akaza tries not to think about them, about the fireworks he had so desperately wished to watch with Kyojuro again.

It’s a day before the summer solstice that Shinobu comes to see him.

Akaza hasn’t seen her in a good three weeks. Despite the Wind Estate being close to hers, it was still a fair bit of a walk, and she was always so busy that Akaza assumed she didn’t have an hour to spare in her schedule.

She’s waiting at his door when he turns down the hallway, hands tucked into her pockets and hair let down from her usual updo.

“Good evening!” she says politely, smiling cheerfully.

“Do you ever sleep?” Akaza asks. “It’s almost midnight, not the evening, you know.”

“It’s basically morning for you, then!” Shinobu shifts her weight. Despite that ever-pleasant smile, she seems to have something to say to him.

Sure enough, Shinobu asks, “Do you want to talk here or outside?”

“Kaname’s in my room,” Akaza replies. “Let’s go outside.”

The moon is almost full. In another night or two, it will be. Then it will wane, then wax, then all over again. And Akaza will wait.

Shinobu no longer carries her stinger sword at her hip, Akaza notices belatedly. She still had back when he was helping her at the Butterfly Estate.

“It’s still strange Upper Moon Two is dead,” she says after a few minutes of silence. “Sometimes I find myself with the urge to go into my labs and mix more poison!”

“What do you do instead?”

“I mix poultices,” Shinobu replies. “Much more than we need. I think a few of the kakushi want to bring it up to me but are too scared to!”

They stand in silence for a while longer.

At last, Shinobu reaches into her pocket and produces a small vial, offering it to Akaza. Akaza recognizes it immediately. It’s filled with a blue liquid, the colour so pure that it looks surreal.

“Have you made your decision?” she asks.

Akaza takes the vial from her. It burns underneath his fingertips like the sun. His throat closes uncomfortably. He doesn’t have an answer for Shinobu, not really. He’s not sure if he ever will.

“If you’re going to wait for Rengoku-san, it would be rather inconvenient to have to hide from the sun every day,” Shinobu adds when Akaza does not reply. “It’s the solstice tomorrow. There are only a few hours in a day you can even move around freely!”

Tearing his gaze away from the medicine, Akaza looks up at Shinobu again. “This isn’t about convenience, Shinobu,” he feels like he needs to remind her, although Shinobu clearly already knows that. “I don’t… I don’t know how I’m supposed to wait for so long. I don’t know how long I’m even supposed to wait or if he’ll even come back. I’m so tired of it already and it hasn’t even been a fucking year.” Some approximation of a laugh escapes Akaza. “Now that I have my memories of my human life and Muzan is dead, I can’t even tell what I’m living for. I’m just still alive because that’s what Kyojuro wanted for me and I couldn’t bear to throw my life away after everything he did to keep it.”

“So then what will you do?” Shinobu asks, an edge coming into her tone. “You don’t want to live and you’re too guilty to die.”

Wasn’t that the irony? Akaza shakes his head, tired amusement stirring in his chest. “When Tamayo made the modifications to me, I dreamt of someone from my human life,” Akaza tells her. “His name was Keizo. He used to teach me my martial arts after he took me in. He told me that now that I knew better, I should be able to do better and help people. When I spoke to Kagaya, he told me about how Kyojuro loved this world and was always kind to everyone he met. He said that Kyojuro saw the good in me too. But no matter how many times I try to convince myself, it just seems so—insane. I’m not selfless like Kyojuro. All of the times I helped others, it was conditional for him and now, he’s gone. Kyojuro loved the world but I don’t. I don’t even think I can do it for him, no matter how much I try.”

The night breeze rustles the trees and grass between them. For a few long moments, Shinobu doesn’t speak. Akaza turns his gaze back to the medicine held between his fingers. It feels as though he’s letting Kyojuro down if he doesn’t take it, but at the same time he feels undeserving of all of Kyojuro’s sacrifices. You don’t want to live and you’re too guilty to die. He almost hates Shinobu for being so cuttingly accurate.

“I know what you mean,” Shinobu says at last. “Being unable to believe the most positive possibilities. My sister was an optimist and I used to think she was insane half of the time! I never understood how she could have so much to be positive about.” She toes the grass with a foot idly. “Think about it another way, then. You think you don’t deserve Rengoku-san and what he did for you. So while you wait for him, why don’t you help others as a way of repaying your debt and become someone worthy of his love and his sacrifice? Perhaps it’ll be easier for you to live like that. And then one day, maybe you’ll find that you’re doing all of it genuinely, because you truly do care, and not just because of what you owe Rengoku-san.”

Akaza exhales. “That sounds pretty optimistic to me, Shinobu.”

She lets out a faint laugh. “What, earning your worthiness to someone’s love because you feel guilty?”

“Not if you put it that way.”

“Now that everything is over, I’m planning on opening a medical clinic,” she says. “Be a doctor. Treat patients not just for the Demon Slayer Corps. When Nee-san and I were small, we always talked about doing that together when we got older. She’s not here but… but I’m still alive, aren’t I? If I can do some good, even if it’s without her, I might as well try. Nee-san always told me she thought I was a kind person, even though I didn’t believe her one bit.” She pauses for a moment. “You could continue to help me, if you’d like.”

Akaza blinks at her. “What?”

“I don’t have that long to live.” Shinobu’s expression doesn’t change, her lips lifting into that thin smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Probably five years, ten if I’m lucky. The poison has caused too much damage to my body for me to live anywhere near a full life. But Nee-san would have wanted me to make the most out of the time remaining. So the offer is open if you want to take it. Besides, it seems to be a pretty decent way of occupying your time while you wait for Rengoku-san!”

The agreement is at the tip of his tongue, but Akaza can’t quite bring himself to say it. It makes sense, of course, like most of the things Shinobu proposes to do. Yet…

“What if he doesn’t return?” Akaza asks. His voice escapes with a shudder, but he hardly cares how weak he sounds. “What if—what if I’m never going to see him again?”

Shinobu’s eyes linger on him, unreadable and serious. Akaza is so much more accustomed to her sharp remarks that he almost wishes she would make one of them now, if only to lessen the fear that eddies in his stomach, in his chest, in his lungs. If Kyojuro were here, surely he would have felt it in their soul threads.

Shinobu doesn’t speak for a few moments. No confirmation, no comfort, only a tight-lipped smile. Her eyes are glassy; Akaza doesn’t know whether or not it’s a trick of the moonlight.

“I can’t tell you that, Akaza,” she says softly. “The decision is up to you.”

Heart clenching, he stares at the small vial in his hands. The otherworldly blue. The flower that Kyojuro had preserved for him, against all odds.

Walk in the sun. Without him. How absurd.

“I will leave now, Akaza,” Shinobu says. “There are a few errands I must run tomorrow, so I must try to sleep! You don’t have to now, but when the last patient is discharged, please let me know your answer.”

She spins on her heels, soundless and light. Akaza watches her leave until her figure is no longer visible, and then he stands alone in the garden for much longer, cradling onto the blue spider lily’s cure.

He knows, deep down, that this isn’t a choice Shinobu can make for him, and yet Akaza wishes he had someone there to tell him what to do. It had been his father, once, and then Keizo, and then Kyojuro. He has nothing but memories of them to go off of, and although Akaza knows what they would want him to choose, he can’t help but feel as though he’s not brave enough to make the choice when no one is here to guide him through it.

The summer flowers sway in the breeze. Akaza wants to list them aloud, if only to hear someone’s voice asking him for their names.

He thinks of Shinobu’s words, about earning his right to love Kyojuro. About being worthy of him by undoing all the harm he had caused. It’s good in theory, but good isn’t enough—not when everything comes down to that goddamn uncertainty. If he spends a hundred, a thousand years atoning for all his sins only to never see Kyojuro again, then what? If he had to burn down the world for a chance to see Kyojuro one more time, Akaza is afraid that he would still do it in a heartbeat. Even if it were the last thing Kyojuro would want him to do.

The voice of wind whispering through the garden sounds a little lonely. Akaza holds onto the vial so tight that he is afraid he will break the glass, yet he can’t bear to loosen his fingers.

Once, he had asked Kyojuro if he wanted to meet Akaza in his next life. It had been silly stories then, just one of the many pieces of his childhood that Kyojuro always clung to and cherished. Still, Kyojuro had been sincere and endearingly serious in his answer.

Maybe we won’t be a demon and a slayer the next time around.

How had Akaza missed it, all of the ways Kyojuro had cared for him, had surrendered for him, had loved him? If he could turn back time, he would’ve gone back and made sure he didn’t take it all for granted. If he could do it all again, he would want to do it right.

Belatedly, Akaza realizes his hands were trembling. Slowly, he uncorks the vial, half-afraid that the liquid will splash out from how much he is shaking.

Surprisingly, the cure is entirely odorless when Akaza lifts it to his lips. He takes a deep breath, matching the exhale to the breaths of the wind and steels his fraying nerves. There is no going back if he does this.

Before he can lose his courage entirely, he tilts the vial into his mouth and swallows the elixir.

It doesn’t taste like anything, not exactly, not after the first few seconds. But then Akaza feels the flare of warmth in his throat, in his chest, in his stomach, soon fanning into the burning of flame. He doubles over, surprised by the sheer intensity of the pain.

Akaza doesn’t know how long it is that he stays hunched over blades of grass. He can feel the way the blue spider lily tears through his organs and body like wildfire, with a heat that makes him feel like he’s being devoured from the inside out. He had only ever been burned briefly by the sun, but this must be what it feels like to die under it.

At long last, the pain subsides. Slowly, he pushes himself up, shivering from the aftershock and the memory of fire. When Akaza peers down at his hands, he’s half-certain he’ll see his fingers charred and blackened. They’re not.

The sound of his panting is jarringly loud in the night silence. For a while, Akaza remains unmoving, trying to catch his breath, his mind not quite caught up with the implications of what he had just done.

There is still a good few hours before the sun rises. Akaza moves to sit near a bloom of colorful wildflowers—reds, oranges, blues—waiting for the sun to finally come.

And because memory is more fickle than anything and because Akaza is so, so afraid that he will forget, he turns over memory after memory of Kyojuro. The good moments, full of laughter and fond touches and easy smiles; the times where the world felt like it was being torn apart; and then all of the things in between, even the most inconsequential of memories. He doesn’t want to forget any of it.

Everyone is a map of who they have met and loved, Kyojuro had once told him.

Akaza can map it out now, even though he didn’t remember how when Kyojuro first asked him. Every move of the techniques he had held at such high esteem were always Keizo’s. The fireworks; Koyuki. Each time he had bandaged and dressed Kyojuro’s wounds, knowing how only because he had once taken care of his father.

And Kyojuro…

The sky is lighter on the horizon now. As a demon, Akaza had only ever fled at the sight of the sun, yet it seems like another lifetime ago that he feared its light. Now, he just misses it.

For the first time in two hundred years, Akaza watches the sunrise alone in the midst of summer. At long last, it pours off the horizon, spinning the air into brilliant threads of gold. It doesn’t burn when it touches his skin, but it is so achingly warm that it carries a sort of different sort of hurt.

“Is this what you wanted for me?” he asks no one in particular.

The sun gives no response. Akaza sits stock-still until warmth turns scalding and gentleness is sandpaper. And then he bows his head and weeps.

Chapter Text

The field is full of blue flowers.

Kyojuro isn’t quite certain how long he’s been here. He vaguely recalls that he woke up here at some point in time, but the rest of his memories are hazy at best. The hows and whys and wheres remain unanswered.

He knows he is searching for someone, so he continues towards where the sun rests on the horizon. Come to speak of it, the who is uncertain as well. But it is someone important. Someone too important for him to give up on.

The blue flowers that crowd this field are so dense that Kyojuro crushes a few under his feet every step he takes. It’s unavoidable no matter how hard he tries to preserve the flower field. Once, he looks behind his shoulder to find that he has left a path of trampled flowers, stretching back as far as the eye can see.

So Kyojuro continues his long march onwards, towards the sun’s never-changing position on the horizon. There, where land meets the sky, he is certain he will find what he is looking for.

At some point, he is suddenly aware that the clothing he is wearing has been torn. On his left side, there is a cut in his flesh. He touches his fingers to the wound. They come away covered with a golden liquid that shines when the sun’s rays hit it just so. The injury doesn’t hurt at all.

Strange. But this place, the muddled memories—they’re all stranger still, so Kyojuro continues on.

It might have been hours or days or even weeks before he thinks that the sun begins to appear closer and brighter. As if Kyojuro is finally nearing the horizon.

The memory touches him then. It isn’t sudden or jarring, but rather gentle, like a butterfly’s wings. Ah, Kyojuro remembers. Akaza. I’m looking for Akaza.

But… he can’t reach Akaza. He touches his hand to his side again, where the golden ichor flows slowly. He had died. Upper Moon One killed him, along with his father and Senjuro. The last he remembered of Akaza was his hand on Kyojuro’s shoulder, his voice pleading and plaintive and furious all at once.

I broke the curse, Kyojuro. Just like you wanted me to.

Kyojuro, I won’t forgive you if you leave me.

I’ll forgive you if you just stay, Kyojuro.

Kyojuro, stay with me.

Kyojuro stumbles over his next step even though there is nothing that could have tripped him. His side hurts when it hadn’t before, all of this time. His chest hurts even more. He reaches deep inside, where he has felt Akaza’s soul thread all these years, and comes away empty and aching.

Where is he now, if he had died? He had assumed… well. He bends down to inspect the flowers, and sure enough, he is in a field full of blue spider lilies. Why is he the only one for thousands of miles all around, trapped in this neverending day? Where is his family?

Still. If he is dead, Kyojuro assumes there is nothing else he can really do except walk. It’s not as if he’s running on limited time. So he does.

The sun comes closer and closer still. A while later, when Kyojuro looks down, he realizes that the blue spider lilies have grown much more sparse. Instead of grass interspersed between the flowers, he is walking on crystal clear water. Each step sends a small ripple.

He reaches the sun when the blue spider lilies beneath his feet have all disappeared. He meets the sun when the sky kisses the sea, and everything around him is bright and calm.

She sits in the water, fingertips skimming the surface and sending droplets scattering. The robes she’s dressed in are intricate, red adorned with woven gold. Though she is all of the radiance of the sun, her hair is dark as night.

“Hello!” Kyojuro says. The water ripples as he takes a step closer. “I don’t suppose you can tell me how I got here.”

Amaterasu lifts her face towards him. She is very ageless and beautiful. The only way Kyojuro can think to describe her features is perfection as if she had been crafted by the most gifted sculptor and pulled right to life. It’s also difficult to keep his gaze on her for more than a few seconds at a time before his eyes start to smart.

“You picked one of my flowers,” she replies. “That is why you are here, child.”

Kyojuro blinks. Oh, he thinks. She has his mother’s voice. He’s so disoriented from the realization that he forgets to reply for a good few seconds.

“The blue spider lily?” he finally asks. “It belongs to you?”

“Yes.” Amaterasu rises to her feet. Her gown trails against the watery ground, leaving more ripples. “They are my blessing for those who have gained my favour. To make a single wish.”

A wish. Kyojuro struggles to wrap his mind around her words. He supposes it makes sense that the flowers are from Amaterasu, given that they had only bloomed under the touch of sunlight and given that Muzan had desired them to walk under the sun, but…

“I didn’t make a wish,” he points out.

“You did not,” Amaterasu agrees.

“So I should be able to make it now!”

Her eyes flicker over Kyojuro, and Kyojuro struggles to stand his ground. It feels as though he is being dissected piece by piece. He is all too aware of how powerful the goddess in front of him is. How insignificant he must be in the grand scheme of things, and how fortunate he already is to have spoken to her. And yet none of that seems to matter right now.

“You destroyed my flowers,” Amaterasu says. “Yet you would ask me for another wish?”

“I saved one,” Kyojuro corrects her. “Isn’t one enough for a wish? Besides, I didn’t have a choice! I couldn’t let Kibutsuji Muzan obtain the flowers. Do you think I wanted to destroy them, knowing the consequences? It got my family killed!”

“Then what would you have wished for?”

For his father and brother not to have died. For Akaza to have been able to break the curse. For Kibutsuji to be destroyed, and all of his demons with him.

Just one wish.

“I want to return to him,” Kyojuro says. “I did not want to leave him.”

Amaterasu’s gaze is ever-seeing, too bright. She takes a step closer to Kyojuro before reaching over and pressing her fingertips against the wound in his abdomen. Underneath her touch, his flesh slowly stitches itself together until no more golden ichor drips from it, and the skin looks unblemished and whole.

“I cannot bring you back when you have already died,” Amaterasu says firmly. Her face is still gentle, but something about her expression has become stony. “And it is not your fate to meet him again, in this life or in your next.”

Or in your next. That meant there was a next.

“Why?” Kyojuro presses. “We were—we are soulmates. Surely the universe did not make a mistake?”

“It did not,” Amaterasu replies. “But it does not mean you are meant to be tied together forever. Your paths have intersected and departed. The thread has been cut. That is what has been written.”

Kyojuro shakes his head. “Then change it!” he presses. “You’re able to, aren’t you? If you are able to grant a wish, this shouldn’t be impossible. You said the blue spider lily is your blessing for those who gained your favour. Doesn’t that mean I should be allowed my wish?”

When Amaterasu does not reply to him, Kyojuro lowers himself to his knees. He presses his palms flat against the cool water and bows his head. “Please,” he repeats. “Let me return to him. There is no other wish I would make.”

“I am not able to grant your request,” Amaterasu says. “Get up, child. Pleading will not change my mind.”

“Not able to, or won’t?”

She turns away from Kyojuro. It is as if all of his surroundings have suddenly darkened, an eclipse blocking out the sun.

“Many lovers end in tragedy and families are torn apart,” Amaterasu replies. “That is the way of the world. If those most devoted to each other must still lose their beloved, why would I grant you and him a different ending than that of your fate? He hurt you. You lied to him. You were not good to each other. Give up and let yourself rest. You have earned it.”

A life of planting, a life of watering, a life of harvesting, and a life of cherishing, his mother had told him.

(Why, Akaza asks, his eyes curving into crescents, do you want to meet me in your next, Kyojuro?

Yes, Kyojuro had replied. He hadn’t said the rest of it aloud, but looking at Akaza’s smile, brighter than the moon or sun or stars, he had thought: and the life after, and after, and after.)

Kyojuro lifts his head. With Amaterasu facing away from him, he can hardly see his surroundings, much less her radiant features. He sets his shoulders and steels his spine. His mother has taught him much, but funnily enough, she has never warned him about arguing with gods and goddesses. “I won’t give up on him! Not if there still is a chance.”

“I will not help you, child,” Amaterasu replies. “I suggest you do not wait here for too long. I will not return.”

With a sweep of her robes, she is gone and Kyojuro is alone. He reaches out, one last desperate gamble, but his fingers only grasp at empty air. “Wait!” he yells into the shadows. No one responds.

It is so dark without Amaterasu that Kyojuro can’t see a single thing around him. He touches his fingers to the ground again and finds that the clear water has gone, replaced by smooth, cold stone.

Your paths have intersected and departed, Amaterasu had said. It is not your fate to meet him again, in this life or your next.