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Zenitsu had been too afraid to face him.
When it first happened—when Tanjirou’s body laid mangled beneath the affects of Muzan’s last curse, when his breath stilled only to rise again with something wrong inside of it’s rhythm—Zenitsu had fled in fear.
The scent of blood still clings to everything, even hours after the transformation. Even after the redemptive sun has risen, and failed to burn a demonic body with it’s rays, the blood remains. And Zenitsu can still hear the lingering screams of terror.
He ran far enough to where everything became somewhat bearable. Far enough for the sounds of screams to fade to less, but close enough that Tanjirou still remains underneath his radar.
Glancing over at his blade, lying uselessly at his side, he lets out a shaky huff. His cheeks are still damp with tears, his blonde hair tainted with dirt and grime. And when Zenitsu curls tighter into himself beneath the overhang of a broken building, he quietly wonders how much longer he'll have to wait for Tanjirou to find him.
His entire body trembles at the mere thought. But he knows, essentially, that’s why he's still here. There’s an ache in his knuckles that reminds him cruelly of his exact purpose. An ache from gripping a small vial too tight.
The vial that Kanao had placed in his hand with fingers that shook worse than his own.
He still doesn’t understand why she entrusted him, of all people, with something like this. A single injection of a wisteria-based poison, an antidote Lady Tamayo had manufactured for moments exactly like this. The only hope to eradicate the last of the demon race forever.
It's cold against his chest when he tucks it back away into his uniform. And the thing is, he's waiting, without even knowing if this poison will work. He's already figured out that Tanjirou is immune to the sunlight, as well as the fatal cut of a Nichirin red blade.
So what’s to say the wisteria won't be too weak to bring him back?
A breeze picks up, curling through the ruins with a wind that sounds too close to the wail of a banshee. Immediately, his heart stutters and he looks up—hearing footsteps, and a gentle yet warped sound that strives to lure him in.
Zenitsu’s breath catches. His heart beats at an abnormally rapid pace, every nerve in his body coming alive with warning. His sword lays out of reach, his wrist instinctively twitching for it, although it will serve no purpose now.
The wind changes, and his fingers hover over the spot where the vial is hidden, torn between defense and despair. “Zenitsu?”
It’s barely above a murmur, but Zenitsu already knows who it is. His name sounds strange coming from Tanjirou's lips, it’s off.
His eyes flick towards the sound, and there—through the broken husk of a doorway is him. His hair is tousled, skin streaked in dried blood and curving, sinuous marks paint his skin. His eyes are glowing faintly red in the shade, and Zenitsu can barely bare to meet his gaze. There’s just something so inhumane inside of his irises.
Tanjirou stands still in the frame of the doorway, haloed by the blazing morning light that dares to touch him and fails to burn. Zenitsu holds himself back from saying anything, stiffly shifting from his curled up position and maneuvering into a guarded crouch. He reaches for his sword, simply for a sense of familiarity.
“I was looking for you,” Tanjirou speaks after a moment, a small smile pulling at his lips. There’s a flash of pointed canines, an irregular crimson tint painting his teeth that Zenitsu catches.
“I thought I wouldn’t find anyone when I woke up, you know.” He continues, smiling once again, and moving to step through the doorway. The action sets Zenitsu on edge, and in one swift motion—he retrieves his sword and backs away quickly from the man approaching him.
He hates how his hands shake when he holds his blade out in front of him, a futile threat and a fruitless warning to stop Tanjirou from approaching him. “I’m not.." He starts, lips curling back into a deep frown.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Zenitsu.” He murmurs, and he sounds so certain that it’s almost convincing. Yet Zenitsu doesn't lower his sword. It’s the only form of comfort he has right now and it’s a tangible weight to hold onto. There’s nothing else left for him, nothing to calm the tremor in his body.
Tanjirou’s gaze flickers to the trembling blade, and something unreadable passes over his face. Something close to disappointment.
"Don’t.” Zenitsu breathes, his jaw working with the singular word. He hesitates with his next words, his confidence diminishing by the second. He tries his best to hide it. “Don’t come any closer.”
And actually, Tanjirou pauses. He stands there, a distance away from Zenitsu and just looks at him. For a moment, it’s as if he’s actually complying with Zenitsu's demand.
But then he moves anyway.
Zenitsu’s heart nearly stops when Tanjirou closes the distance in a blink, so suddenly close that their shadows merge together. But the blade never touches him, it gets awfully close to doing so, but Tanjirou’s careful to avoid the sharpened edge.
His hand rises to Zenitsu’s wrist, slowly, like he’s coaxing a wounded animal from a trap. When his fingers graze his scuffed skin, Zenitsu doesn’t flinch.
“Your hands are shaking,” Tanjirou starts, he’s so close that the blonde can smell the persisting charcoal and pine on his skin. “Why?”
Zenitsu stares at him, the absurdity of that question rendering him momentarily speechless. His lips part, but nothing seems to come out, and his sword begins to dip in hold.
Tanjirou’s other hand lifts to his face, gently caressing his cheek, with a promise of no harm to come to him—and Zenitsu feels like a lunatic falling for such deception.
Maybe he’s starting to understand why Inosuke couldn’t bring himself to slice Tanjirou’s neck.
His courageous demeanor crumbles in that moment, his sword slipping from his hands and falling to the floor with a faint clatter. The tender touch on his cheek feels too fucking familiar, and Zenitsu hates the way his lips quiver and his body doesn’t reject it. He doesn’t pull away.
Because this is Tanjirou’s touch. ..Isn’t it?
His mind fails to separate right from wrong, and Zenitsu bites down a sob as Tanjirou’s fingers trace his cheek. His thumb moves lower and lower, excessively pointed nails scathing his skin. Across his lips, down his throat. His hand slides behind Zenitsu's neck, tugging him closer as his nails pierce the barrier of his flesh. He complies with the touch, almost as if he’s succumbing to it.
“Good. I’m right here.” He says with a smile, and suddenly something snaps, he's shaking and trembling again with even more force. “No, you're not!” Zenitsu yelps, the words pouring out of him before he can stop them. “You’re not the same, Tanjirou, you—you’re right here, but you’re not.”
The demon-boy only frowns, and for a second, Zenitsu sees something flicker behind those red-tinged eyes. Hurt, maybe.
“I'm right here.” He states again, as if it isn’t even a question. And Zenitsu must be a fool for believing him, but oh, it’s so terribly hard when the image of Tanjirou—his Tanjirou is right in front of him.
He wants to imagine that none of this had ever happened. That Tanjirou had never been turned into a demon in the first place. He stares, and studies, and scrutinizes Tanjirou's face with clouded eyes.
Everything is still the same, and in his eyes Zenitsu sees a reflection of his bestfriend.
“I... I thought you were gone,” He then whispers, his voice cracking with the words as stray tears pour out of his eyes.
Tanjirou doesn’t respond. He retraces his course, dragging his fingers back up Zenitsu’s neck to trace underneath his eyes, to collect another tear that slips out. His mouth parts like he may say something, but instead he just leans in, nose brushing against Zenitsu’s.
“Why did you leave me?” Zenitsu chokes out, tilting his head to the side as Tanjirou's lips find the curve of his jaw. It’s too gentle to be anything but cruel, instead saccharine and cloying.
And then he kisses him.
Zenitsu doesn’t resist right away, his fingers twitching at his side where the vial rests beneath the fabric of his uniform. The kiss is so hot and wrong and desperate, and he regrettably allows Tanjirou to back him into the wall of a ruined building.
Stone digs into his spine, Tanjirou’s body pressing so close to his, that if he were to reach for the antidote right now—it would be so incredibly easy to inject it. Right here, right now. But his mouth is a distraction, tasting of blood, iron, hunger, and desire.
“Please,” Zenitsu murmurs, a bit of unsure of what he means with the plea. But he doesn’t push the demon away. His hand instead fists into Tanjirou’s checkered haori, gripping onto something authentic.
Tanjirou makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, something between a hum and a growl before he presses in closer. His tongue licks into Zenitsu’s mouth, and Zenitsu gasps into it against his own will—breathless and dazed. His body betrays him in all the ways grief likes to twist affection.
Tanjirou’s hands roam, now. One pins Zenitsu’s hip into cold stone, the other snakes beneath his shirt to graze the curve of his ribs. Sharp nails claw at his skin, not enough to draw blood, but enough to remind him all over again of who this is.
Zenitsu turns his head away for a breath, panting softly. The nails scratching his skin hurt, his mind reeling at the sensation of pain. And it’s so unusual, because Tanjirou would never hurt him. He’d never even imagine it.
”You’re not him,” He whispers gravely, even as his own thigh lifts voluntarily, to hook around Tanjirou’s hip to keep him near.
”Then stop me.” Tanjirou growls back into his ear. He shudders violently, not just from the heat building in his core, or the statement—but also from the way Tanjirou begins to grind down against him.
His hips roll, and Zenitsu feels it, hot and dizzying through the fabric of their tattered uniforms. His own body reacts shamefully, arching into the contact, seeking more friction against his clothed cock.
”Tanjirou—“ He gasps, “Tanjir—fuck, I can’t,” He stutters over his own words, head tipping back and knocking against the wall. His jaw goes slack with a moan, as Tanjirou’s mouth travels down his neck. He sucks at the hollow of his throat hard enough to leave a bruise, pain coursing through his body electrically.
He lets out a small whimper, Tanjirou’s hands slipping lower and lower until his calloused fingers are working at the ties of Zenitsu’s trousers with a rough urgency. He fumbles impatiently, before managing to loosen Zenitsu's pants enough to where they slip low on his hips.
Cool air brushes his thighs, a chill biting at his bare skin as Tanjirou’s hand slides around his waist to pull him impossibly closer.
He presses his forehead into Tanjirou’s shoulder, forcing his eyes shut once he hears more rustling of fabric. His grip on Tanjirou’s haori grows tighter as his eyes grow bleary once again. He doesn't look down, even as claws dig into his flesh, even as he feels something thick and hard graze his leg.
He refuses to look upwards, and then a few seconds pass of complete nothingness. Zenitsu breathes heavily against Tanjirou as apprehension mixed with anticipation gnaws away at him. A few more beats pass, of nothingness, and suddenly everything becomes too quiet for his liking.
The thump of an irregular heartbeat and a static in the background is all he can hear. He debates for a second to look upwards—
He yelps, as a hand abruptly wraps around his length and squeezes harshly. A combination of pain and pleasure shoots up his spine, before Tanjirou moves to press a nail to the slit of his dick. Zenitsu’s so confused, so fucking disoriented that he barely hears the command.
"Look at me.” He demands, lips having found their way to Zenitsu’s ear. His nail threatens to push into his urethra, but the command is loud in contrast to the quiet. It terrifies him enough that he slams his head back against the stone just to meet those cold, vacant eyes.
Immediately, with Zenitsu’s cooperation, something within them shifts—the malice fades along with the pressure on his cock. Zenitsu lets out a short sigh of relief, shuddering with the lingering pain. “That’s better.”
He chooses not to give a response, because he knows well that his mouth may choose to betray him, just as his body has.
Zenitsu allows Tanjirou to manhandle him, adjusting him against the stone to a more convenient position. He’s forced to stare blankly forward, until he recognizes a familiar thirst inside of demonic eyes. He shudders when Tanjirou gives a light, apologetic stroke to his cock—his entire demeanor resetting once a smile adorns his lips.
Something shifts, and he feels Tanjirou lean in, his hand travelling from the base of Zenitsu’s dick to the curve of his ass. The telltale sign of what’s coming.
He braces himself for the point where Tanjirou finally decides to line himself up, sliding inside without any preparation at all—which, he’s actually thankful for due to his sharpened nails. The contact elicits a shameful moan from Zenitsu’s lips, as Tanjirou gradually buries himself into his hole, groaning with neediness.
Zenitsu’s eyes are lidded as he stares forward, a feeling of euphoric dizziness washing over him once Tanjirou settles inside. The stretch is distressingly painful, blurry black spots clouding his vision momentarily.
But it remains pleasurable despite everything. And that feeling alone instantly becomes overidden with guilt because this is still wrong. So, so wrong.
”Fuck,” Zenitsu curses to himself as Tanjirou gives an experimental thrust—grinding into him softly. It hurts—but it hurts so good.
Each thrust is slow, building in pressure, the atmosphere around them becoming thick with gasped curses and breathless moans during the build up. Zenitsu tries to drown it out, reaching up to card his fingers through messy, burgundy hair. The familiar scent of charcoal and pine clings to the strands, something he desperately holds onto.
It's faint, but he’s clinging to the scent like it's the last thread tethering him to a reality he can understand.
Everything is somewhat distorted, a fog developing in his head from ecstacy and conflict. When Tanjirou steals his lips into a hungry kiss, he acquiesces, wincing when fangs graze his bottom lip and puncture the flesh. It’s all so blurry, but ravenous and heady with the taste of blood.