Chapter Text
“Let’s start by drying both of you,” Akaza began, taking control of the situation, “seriously, what the fuck?”
A bunch of dry leaves were hurled at Douma, who just stood there with a sly smile while regenerating the few punches Akaza had thrown. The last one had practically blown half his neck apart, but Douma did absolutely nothing about it—and at this point, neither did Kokushibo. Technically, he could have. But he knew, from the last look his lord had given him, that he had temporarily lost the ability to reprimand his subordinates. If sleeping with and kissing one was apparently an exception, then clearly Muzan didn’t care.
You lose respect with one, you lose it with all. So Kokushibo simply stood there watching as Akaza kept throwing leaves at Douma. That’s what people do when they throw stones at an ugly snake, thinking it’ll be enough. It was pathetic that he had come to this point. Besides, if he had lost the respect of his subordinates, did that mean he could no longer say or think anything about Gyokko either?
The mere thought sent a shiver through Kokushibo just considering it. Surely his lord wouldn’t go that far—everyone knew that before Douma, the most hated was Gyokko. Though watching Akaza yell at Douma right now… that could be debated.
“Stop laughing! It’s not funny.” Another good handful of leaves flew through the air, and it was even worse because most of them didn’t even reach Douma. The wind reliably sent them right back into Akaza’s face, who seemed to completely ignore that fact. “Besides, nobody wants to see your body. I don’t even understand why you wear that tight-ass shirt, it’s disgusting. And why the hell do you have so many muscles? It’s almost rude. You don’t even work out.”
“Hmmm, I don’t know, Akaza-dono,” Douma began, then spun on one foot, arms outstretched, definitely soaking Kokushibo even more than he already was with his wet hair. No one had asked him to do that, really. “I think I’ve just been getting a lot of exercise with Kokushibo here. It helps more than you think.”
If Kokushibo hadn’t turned his head, pursed his lips, and looked away, Akaza probably wouldn’t have caught the implication. There are many kinds of “exercise,” and it wasn’t a lie that the night before they had fought on the dock until they nearly killed each other. But wow—that was definitely not the mental image Kokushibo had the moment Douma said it. And from the smile Douma shot him, he knew it. Which meant Akaza now knew it too, and he really didn’t need to.
“Gross! I didn’t want to know that, you idiot.” More leaves were grabbed from the ground and thrown at Douma. More than usual too—Akaza even had to brace some against his forearms to keep from slipping. “Stop mocking me, I swear I’m gonna kill you and when I do you’re gonna—”
Before he could finish the sentence, Akaza was interrupted by a large leaf stuffing itself into his mouth. One of those old, brown, very crunchy ones—if Kokushibo had to guess, based on the sound Akaza made as it went down his throat. It’s well known that demons don’t strictly need air, but the reflex to breathe still exists and doesn’t go away unconsciously. So Akaza started coughing uncontrollably, clutching his chest to try to expel the shredded pieces of leaf.
Even worse for Akaza was Douma’s loud, audible laughter at the sight of him choking on a damn leaf that he himself had thrown. In Kokushibo’s opinion, it was happening because he had ignored the wind direction from the very beginning. Still, Douma’s laughter only grew louder the longer Akaza kept failing to clear his throat.
A small snort escaped Kokushibo—almost imperceptible amid all of Akaza’s coughing noise. But of course Akaza noticed. It was hard not to when it was something that had literally never happened in his presence. And Akaza had known Kokushibo longer than Douma had—Akaza was the second Kizuki to join the group, after all. So obviously Akaza would go into full shock mode at seeing Kokushibo laugh, even a little, at anyone. He probably never imagined it would be because of him… but it was.
So Akaza tried to speak. Kokushibo wasn’t sure what he expected to say, but he couldn’t get a single word out, the leaf seemed to have lodged in a pretty deep part of his lungs. Which, unfortunately for Akaza, only made it harder for Kokushibo to hold back his laughter.
Honestly, Kokushibo would say it wasn’t even worth laughing at because there was nothing genuinely funny about it… but there was always something about Douma’s contagious laughter that made it keep going and going. Until the snort turned into louder, low chuckles—quite audible, actually. He was lying to himself; of course it was because he saw Douma clutching his stomach and then rushing over to slap Akaza on the back.
Only for Akaza to elbow him hard in the gut and shove him backward, staring at Kokushibo in pure horror because he was laughing. Right, he had forgotten that he supposedly hadn’t laughed in years, and the others had never seen it. An awkward situation, indeed.
“Since when the fuck do you laugh in your life? Do you even know how?” Akaza asked, voice hoarse, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. It was obvious, to many it might seem impossible, but for Akaza it might be even worse. He was gripping his knees hard, hunched over, still trying to cough up the remaining leaf bits. Kokushibo knew how he must look, but he hadn’t realized it was so obvious that everyone else had put him on an unrealistic pedestal. Well… everyone except Douma. From the damn beginning.
“I don’t. I never laugh.” After saying that, Kokushibo suddenly stopped smiling and looked at Douma with a dead-serious expression. Douma, even worse, seemed to be holding back laughter because it was painfully obvious what Kokushibo was doing—hiding behind Akaza so no one would catch his extremely suspicious face.
“You just laughed. Stop lying.” Akaza shouted back, and Kokushibo simply rolled his eyes to the side as if the very idea was absurd. It kind of was. But that didn’t matter anymore because the entire situation itself was absurd.
He never thought he’d be on a journey searching for the Blue Spider Lily, closer than ever to obtaining the flower, and instead of rushing to find it, he was here wasting time, mocking Akaza and his stupid dry leaf that he’d thrown at himself. Yeah, it really was pretty funny. Another smile slipped out as he remembered it.
“You’re mocking me again!” A frustrated kick to the ground snapped Kokushibo out of his thoughts. Akaza turned to Douma to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating. And Kokushibo would blame Akaza for that, nobody sane enough would ever trust Douma to agree with them on anything. He himself had done it, and look how that ended. “He just did it, didn’t he?”
“Hmmm.” Douma placed a hand on his chin and looked upward as if deep in thought. The only thing he was actually thinking about was how to annoy Akaza, or anyone in general. And he was definitely very good at it. “No, I don’t recall him laughing. It was just me, Akaza-dono.” Then Douma lowered one hand and leaned forward to pat Akaza’s hair in a condescending manner. Yeah, this was definitely going to end in a fight, Kokushibo thought to himself. He sighed afterward because this was completely his fault. “Sorry it bothered you that I laughed at you and your… leaf situation.”
“There was no situation, you damn idiot.” Akaza smacked Douma’s hand away and tried to compose himself in the process—first straightening his vest, then fixing his hair. There wasn’t much to fix on someone like him, but the intention was clear. “You know what? None of this concerns me at all. That’s the truth.” Akaza said, now shaking saliva off his pants, the fresh addition from all the coughing. Pretty gross, and it was beyond Kokushibo why Douma still didn’t mind getting close anyway. “If our lord doesn’t care what you two do, then I care even less. Let’s just focus on finding that damn flower so I never have to witness this again.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to see us ever again? I get why you’d say that about me, obviously…” As he spoke, Douma tried to approach Akaza again—who was already backing away toward somewhere. They didn’t even have proper directions, which was the worst part. There was nowhere specific to go yet because they still didn’t know exactly what Douma was supposed to make them search for. “I just thought Kokushibo here was your idol. It feels pretty rude that you’re sidelining him just because he’s with me now. I don’t see the reason why—”
“Douma.” Kokushibo cut him off right before Akaza could swing again. This was just a bunch of pointless babbling and he was already fed up. He might have been drunk less than thirty minutes ago, but that didn’t erase anything about his work ethic. They had a mission now, and they were going to follow it. “Just tell us where that family of doctors is. We’ll get the information we need, kill them, and continue with the mission.”
“Wow, wow, I think you’re moving way too fast.” It wasn’t necessary—for Kokushibo, the methodology had always been very straightforward, especially when demon slayers were nearby. It was common knowledge that Nagasaki was a large city that had started gaining importance in recent years. Kokushibo wasn’t obsessively keeping up, but it was noticeable that one had to stay informed about what was happening in the world during this era. The Sengoku period had ended long ago and he needed to be aware of that. But it still didn’t change his methodology, so he didn’t understand why Douma was interfering at all. Despite everything, he was still the superior here.
“Despite everything, that man left the mission in my charge now.” Douma interrupted his thoughts, as if he knew exactly what Kokushibo was considering in his head at that very moment. Honestly, it was incomprehensible how Douma did that, reading people so well that he could know precisely what they were thinking. Sometimes Kokushibo wanted to believe it was something exclusive between the two of them, but those months coming and going in Douma’s cult had proven it was just something Douma could do. Still… slowly approaching Kokushibo and gently sliding a hand over his shoulder—that was exclusive between the two of them. “So we’ll do it my way. We’re not killing anyone. People don’t function through fear.”
After saying that, Douma positioned himself right in front of Kokushibo. His sandals sank into the dry leaves, and the crunching sound was distracting Kokushibo. Just like both of the other man’s hands sliding from his shoulders down to the loose white edge of his haori, tracing a heart shape over his chest.
“I think it’s better to earn their trust, don’t you agree?” When he finished tracing the heart, Douma’s fingertips met right over Kokushibo’s solar plexus, pressing gently but firmly in the center. His lips parted into a wide smile and he ran his gaze slowly from top to bottom, as if reading exactly what he already knew Kokushibo was thinking. Because despite everything—again—Kokushibo was still trying to pretend the previous night hadn’t happened. For the sake of the mission, not to play mysterious. That tactic wasn’t useful to either of them anymore. But Douma was tempting him, leaning in closer to his side. “It’s worked pretty well for me so far.”
Wait, was Douma still talking about the doctors? Or was this suddenly about the two of them now?
Before Kokushibo could respond, he was interrupted by a loud, exasperated shout coming from the side—where they had completely forgotten Akaza was still standing. Both hands on his head as if he were desperately trying to wake himself from this horrible nightmare.
“I’m done. Completely.” Akaza turned and started marching off to the right, kicking leaves with every furious step and muttering a string of things under his breath. Kokushibo, watching through the Transparent World, could see his heart pounding much harder than normal. Fists clenched tight—it was obvious he was furious now. Really furious. At what point had Kokushibo completely lost any semblance of authority over both subordinates? The answer was standing right in front of him, still holding onto his clothes. “You two are horrible. Disgusting,” Akaza repeated. “This isn’t going anywhere. I don’t even know why I bother. I don’t want to see any of this.”
“Akaza-dono! Don’t freak out, I was just teasing a little!” Douma called out, twisting his body to keep Akaza in sight. Akaza only glanced back at them but kept walking backward without slowing down. Kokushibo probably should have stepped in and pointed out that the city was in the exact opposite direction, but there were more important things to deal with right now.
“No! I refuse—absolutely—to become like that idiot and follow your orders. I don’t care if he tells me to slaughter everyone in that stupid city, but if you so much as tell me which word to say, I’m out.” After saying that, Akaza spun around again and started walking the wrong way once more. Honestly, what was their lord thinking sending all three of them on this mission? Kokushibo would have said that out loud, but again—he would never question his lord’s will or decisions. Much less now that he had already given them his blessing and chosen not to kill them for something that, if Kokushibo were in his place, he would have executed them for ages ago. “Besides, I don’t want to see you two swallowing each other’s faces. Fucking disgusting.”
“I’ll go after him. Will you wait here? We still have some things to discuss.” Kokushibo nodded at the words like a stupid, obedient dog. Douma’s hands finally released his clothing as he whispered close to Kokushibo’s ear, letting go of the fabric before vanishing in a rapid blur. The difference in their abilities was obvious—even though Akaza was fast, Douma was at his side in less than a second, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him close.
If Kokushibo heard another annoyed yell, he definitely tuned it out. He’d leave it to Douma now—let him test whether his method really was as effective as he claimed—and then step back. Figuratively, of course. He was already pretty far behind physically.
“My dear Akaza, I promise I won’t do anything dirty in front of your poor innocent mind. I swear.” Douma raised his right hand as if making a solemn vow he was almost certainly lying about. And if Kokushibo didn’t have enhanced hearing, he probably wouldn’t have caught every word. But being an Upper Moon had its advantages—even if lately it had felt more like a drawback, it wasn’t entirely bad. “Besides, that man put the mission under my discretion. I’m sure you don’t want to disobey his orders, right? We both know that situation wouldn’t be very pleasant for you.”
Kokushibo understood perfectly: that was blatant fear-based manipulation. It wasn’t a secret to any Upper Moon that their lord especially enjoyed tormenting Akaza over almost anything. Sometimes Kokushibo privately suspected it came from some strange preference or expectation their lord had placed on the boy ever since the day they met. And though he would never entertain such a thought in his lord’s presence, it was quite obvious, even blatant. Therefore, threatening to tattle to their lord as if Akaza were a child under constant parental supervision was definitely not an act of trust on Douma’s part.
But it worked, somehow. Because Kokushibo heard both sets of footsteps come to a halt, followed by Akaza’s frustrated snort. Then Douma’s laughter blending with the sounds of the forest. And Kokushibo knew Douma had won again. He always found a way to get what he wanted, and it was impressive how effortlessly he wrapped people around his little finger. Kokushibo would give him that—now he truly had his trust.
“However, if you hear me screaming at night next to your room, please forgive us. Sometimes Kokushibo gets a little wild and—”
The next thing Kokushibo heard was a solid thud, followed by a tall body hitting the ground. Probably Douma’s. Then came the sound of two hands seizing narrower shoulders and a smaller body crashing down on top of the other. After that, both bodies began tumbling down what sounded like… a goddamn cliff? And finally, Akaza’s voice shouting that he was going to kill Douma, that he hated him, that he was a filthy disgusting creep, and so on.
Kokushibo sighed, for the thirteenth time that day. He definitely didn’t know why he had ever decided to trust Douma even once. He was an idiot, plain and simple. Douma, not him; Kokushibo thought. He brushed off his clothes and set off to find Douma and Akaza, who were surely already somewhere down the mountain. In the wrong direction, it should be noted. He’d go retrieve them, drag both of them by the arm, and they’d reach Nagasaki in about twenty minutes if everything went smoothly. Even so, Kokushibo smiled to himself.
Definitely, the thirteenth time was always the charm. In any context.
…
“This is a bad idea.”
It was truly pathetic, the position Douma had managed to drag them into. The three Upper Moons, the most powerful demons in existence, beings superior to humans and stronger than any demon slayer; right now, they were hiding in a damn alley. It was around two in the morning, the streets were still crowded because ever since the invention of electricity, night no longer meant sleep—and that was exactly why Douma had told them they needed to hide. It was a simple explanation, since Kokushibo had already received the full lecture from Douma about why his inhuman appearance with six eyes was terrifying to humans.
Still, Akaza hadn’t heard that part before, and for him, changing his demonic appearance was an insult to their lord. It made no objective sense. Their lord changed his appearance almost constantly and often blended in among humans. Kokushibo had never liked that approach, he had no interest in the idea of coexisting with humans in any way. But it wasn’t a secret to anyone that he had started getting used to his human form in recent days, thanks to Douma’s constant pressure and his disturbingly effective ability to persuade.
Kokushibo decided privately that he would let Douma handle the most important parts of whatever this plan was at the moment. That was why he offered no resistance when he felt Douma grab both their arms and stop Akaza from blatantly stepping out onto the city streets. In this era, it wasn’t entirely impossible to see someone with Akaza’s features. Makeup and body decoration existed purely for spectacle. But Kokushibo knew it was a bad idea because people would see Akaza as some kind of tourist attraction and draw attention, something Douma apparently wanted to avoid. If dragging both of them back into this dark, now far-from-quiet alley said anything at all.
Douma only had to apply force to drag Akaza along; if Kokushibo had wanted to resist, Douma wouldn’t have been able to move him an inch. But somehow, he had already done it, psychologically. Because in any other circumstance, or even just a week ago, the last thing Kokushibo would have been doing in this situation was leaning his back against the wood of a rather old house. Listening to Akaza protest and list all the reasons he didn’t want to change into a human appearance.
There was something good about all this, Kokushibo thought. It almost felt like he was reaching the state his father used to talk about when teaching him to be a samurai: letting the environment and the world not disturb your inner calm. Yes, he definitely liked that idea. But listening to Akaza’s shouting was starting to get a little annoying.
“There’s just no reason. I don’t want to be around a bunch of weak, stupid people. I won’t do it.” Akaza crossed his arms and turned his head away again, refusing once more to look at Douma, who was still trying to convince him. The walk to the city had been an uncomfortable silence between Akaza—who perhaps didn’t want to bring up Douma’s awkward comment about screaming in the room because of Kokushibo himself, not the fact that they had fallen off a cliff—and the moment Kokushibo found Akaza on top of Douma. It was awkward.
Douma was just idly playing with one of Kokushibo’s sleeves while humming that pretty song in a calm, carefree way. Apparently oblivious to whatever tension filled the air. But it became impossible to ignore when he finally tried to convince Akaza to do something that, by Akaza’s own standards, was impossible.
“Tell me the truth, Akaza-dono… are you embarrassed because you’re ugly?”
There it was again—that same strategy Douma had used to get Kokushibo into his human form. The worst part was that it had only been… like a week ago? No, definitely three days. Four, counting tonight. It was strange to think that in just three days, Douma had managed to change Kokushibo more than he had in the previous months. Because if Kokushibo remembered correctly—and he did, since it had been three days ago—that tactic of calling the other person ugly so they would switch to human form worked extraordinarily well. Kokushibo knew he wasn’t ugly, and Akaza probably wasn’t either. But Douma was definitely in a completely different league, and it was easy to get rattled by him if your ego was sky-high as a demon and most likely very low as a person.
After all, there was a reason why everyone here ended up becoming demons. Even if Douma didn’t fit neatly into the usual parameters of someone absurdly traumatized, his personality was probably the direct result of the cult he was raised in. And although Kokushibo had spent months there, he could easily tell that it was obvious Douma’s current height hadn’t always been like that a century ago. Much less under the influence of Douma’s parents rather than Douma himself. Who usually employed cheap manipulation techniques, but not particularly aggressive ones. Not usually, at least.
“Of course I’m not ugly. Do I look ugly to you?” Akaza turned around again to confront Douma, eyebrows furrowed in indignation. Because in his entire life he had surely been called many things—if Kokushibo had to guess, judging by the criminal tattoos and the fragments of Akaza’s past that their lord had once shared when he started complaining about the creation of the Kizuki. But Kokushibo didn’t think “ugly” had ever been one of them. That probably spared him until… eighteen? If he remembered correctly, that was how old Akaza had been.
And he certainly acted exactly like an eighteen-year-old would.
“Of course you do.” Douma answered without hesitating for even a single second, and Kokushibo raised an intrigued eyebrow.
In his own case, Douma had gone with the strategy of comparing him to ugly humans without saying it outright—just calling him terrifying. But straight-up telling Akaza he was ugly was intriguing, so Kokushibo adjusted his stance, crossed his arms over his chest, and settled in to watch the exchange. Because Akaza had now furrowed his brow too, one hand over his heart and his fragile ego clearly quite wounded.
“Don’t worry, I know you’re scared we’ll judge you for being ugly as a human, but you’re already ugly as a demon and no one has ever said anything.” Saying this, Douma took a step back until he reached Kokushibo and wrapped an arm around his waist. Kokushibo sighed—for the fourteenth time. No, the first, because it was already a new day, even if it was still the early hours. He knew he was about to be used as an example in a discussion he wanted no part of. “Look at my friend Kokushibo here as an example. He was also afraid he’d be ugly as a human. But his demonic beauty doesn’t even compare to his human face, and the same thing could happen in your case. Just… the other way around.”
“You’re full of shit. I don’t believe you. And I’m not ugly.” Akaza stepped closer and placed an accusatory hand on Douma’s chest. At this point it wasn’t even worth trying to be discreet, any passerby nearby would have heard them by now. And they would assume—not entirely incorrectly—that this was just a drunken fight in the middle of a pile of trash. So what was the point? It still escaped Kokushibo, like so many other things. “She didn’t… she didn’t tell me—”
“She?” Douma repeated the word as if he had just found the perfect weak spot. He grabbed Akaza’s finger with both hands and pulled it toward himself. “Did you have some pretty girl who used to remind you that you weren’t ugly?”
“I didn’t—” Akaza tried to retort, but his expression suddenly looked overwhelmed, and his eyes grew glassy with something resembling tears. It was strange, seeing Akaza in this state. “I… I didn’t—” And Kokushibo quickly recalled that story about Akaza’s past that he had filed away in his mind because he had zero interest in it.
Recap: poor kid who stole things to get money for his sick father. Father committed suicide when he found out. Kid was rescued by a martial arts instructor. Was going to marry the instructor’s daughter, and then both of them died in some violent way he forgot the details of. Then Muzan blocked his memories so Akaza wouldn’t collapse. That was it. Yeah, going down that road was a bad idea.
Taking control, Kokushibo straightened up and shoved Douma aside. His body was quickly guided to a darker corner of the alley, leaving Kokushibo standing directly in front of Akaza.
“Akaza.” Kokushibo said, and his voice snapped the other out of his thoughts. It made him look up at the imposing figure of his superior—despite everything—and remember that this was still a mission. Douma might be leading the plan, but there was a reason Muzan considered Kokushibo more of a companion than a subordinate. And Kokushibo would act like it. “You don’t need to dwell on your human life unnecessarily. Just follow Douma’s plan and we’ll find the lily as our lord instructed.”
Akaza pressed his lips together again and slid his gaze downward, hiding what was probably a pitiful expression. “Fine,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. And pretending—terribly obviously—that nothing had happened. Kokushibo only hoped Douma wouldn’t bring it up again anytime soon.
He might explain the reasons to him someday, but only if it was appropriate. After all, Douma was usually nosy, and when the two of them knew too much about each other, they had nearly killed one another. And then kissed, and then gone far beyond that. Just last night, it should be noted—but Kokushibo was veering off topic again in his own useless thoughts. Which weren’t interrupted, because obediently, Douma simply stayed quiet off to the side. Probably intrigued by the interaction more than out of any real consideration for Akaza, but it would serve.
“Now, both Douma and I will transform into humans, and I expect you to follow our example. Remember your rank, Akaza.” Seeing Akaza try to avoid the issue again, Kokushibo opted to draw his sword and use the flat, non-sharp side to knock Akaza’s hand away from his hair. Regaining his attention. “Douma may say and do whatever he wants about hierarchy, but don’t forget that he obtained the most important information. More than we have in all the centuries we’ve been working on this. So treat him with the respect your superior deserves. Even above me.” Kokushibo’s amber eyes narrowed in the darkness, and a choked sound escaped Akaza’s throat. “Do I make myself clear?”
Akaza nodded awkwardly and lowered his hands back against his pants. Then silence filled the alley in a deeply uncomfortable way. This was becoming a complete pattern. Sometimes Kokushibo felt like everything was repeating itself because he had already lost count of how many times he had said—or thought—“again” to himself throughout this simple week. And that was significant, because Kokushibo never lost count of anything. At least he had been good at mathematics when he was human, the one thing that stood out more than his brother. Not counting the fact that Yoriichi had barely been taught any of it and was a noble first and foremost, but beyond that.
“Well, that sure was tense.” Douma broke the silence again, clapping for himself. For himself because no one joined in, and it somehow made things almost worse than before. “I’ve already gotten rid of my fangs and my pupils are round again. Who wants to go next?”
Stepping out of the shadows and into the light spilling directly from the main street, Douma appeared in his unusual human form. Normally, he didn’t bother hiding his demonic features in his cult because it wasn’t a secret to anyone there that Douma was some kind of immortal creature. That he had led the cult for an entire century and worshiped his lord as the primary god who had brought these “blessings” to the group. Theoretically true, but that was a story only the brainwashed would believe. And if they were going to pass as normal people, his eyes alone would draw unmistakable attention.
But it was beautiful, in a different way. Kokushibo tilted his head slightly, observing Douma’s human appearance. His rainbow eyes now had round pupils, just like that moment on the dock. Beyond that, Douma had also made sure to smile with completely flat, white teeth. His skin was no longer so unnaturally pale, and on top of everything, he had circulated more blood throughout his body.
And most importantly, Douma had shortened his hair to ear length. In a messy style that somehow still looked intentional, but far less extravagant. Kokushibo wasn’t unaware of the possibility of altering their bodies, but he had never considered it because it wasn’t necessary. Douma saw the opportunity to stand out less, and he took it. Even if his appearance already didn’t leave much room for people to look twice. The touch still made sense.
It made him look less perfect and, somehow, more human. Kokushibo felt his cheeks heat up like a stupid teenager again and remembered the giggles of those girls at the sleepover laughing at him. He had to focus and not be so obvious. Kokushibo wouldn’t say he disliked it at all—it just made Douma look like he actually had the twenty years he always claimed to have, the ones no one ever believed.
That would help them maintain the mission. If they all appeared to be around the same age, it would be less suspicious to see a group together. Even if they didn’t look remotely alike, that wasn’t the important part. Focus on the mission, Kokushibo repeated to himself. He interrupted his own thoughts with an awkward cough and turned his head to look at Akaza, who finally spoke again after also processing Douma’s sudden change in appearance.
“I always wondered why the hell you didn’t change at all when you turned.” Looking him up and down, Akaza crossed his arms over his chest, his tone almost accusatory.
“Hmmm, that’s actually a very good question, you know?” Douma ruffled his own hair, getting used to the shorter cut. His muscles flexed under his tight red shirt, and his neck stretched taut at the collar, now much more visible without the long hair framing it. Kokushibo really needed to stop staring so much. “That man once told me it was probably because I never had much to lose. I think he was right.”
Letting the words hang for a second, the implication finally hit Akaza. He made an uncomfortable face as he understood the inference behind them, and why he probably shouldn’t have asked. Kokushibo knew this would be a good moment to interrupt the conversation. There was no need for either of them to veer into topics better left untouched. That was why Kokushibo decided it was his turn to move forward. This whole stupid scene in the alley was dragging on longer than necessary, honestly.
Kokushibo closed all six of his eyes at once, concentrating again on erasing the four extra ones from his face and blocking his view of the Transparent World. On top of that, he followed Douma’s example and made sure to retract his full set of fangs as well. Now he looked like a normal person again. And objectively speaking, he hadn’t changed much when he transformed either. Remembering it, those had been the three most painful days of his life for purely cellular reasons rather than any dramatic physical change. He still remembered the ancient rage he felt the first time he looked in a mirror and realized he still had the same damn face.
But he would try—as with so many other things—not to dwell too deeply on that period of time. Those horrible eighty years he would rather forget, and which he mostly had, most of the time.
Opening his eyes once more, the world flattened back into a single layer of uniform noise. Nothing stood out in any particular way, making the silhouettes of both others appear less sharp than before. And even worse, Akaza was still standing there awkwardly with himself, unsure how to respond to Douma. It was easy to snap back at him when he was just being an annoying idiot, but keeping up with Douma when he suddenly turned serious in certain moments was difficult. Kokushibo, unfortunately, had already been there before. So he simply decided to speak, almost proposing a topic of conversation.
For the first time in his life, was he the proactive one socially? Not really; he used to be talkative as a child. That was just a very long time ago.
“I don’t think the transformation process needs to involve an extreme change. In my case, the only visible deformity was my face.”
The silence that followed was even more uncomfortable. Had he said something wrong? That was exactly why he preferred not to speak most of the time. It was simply too difficult, because Douma and Akaza only glanced at each other before shutting their mouths at the same time. Even more surprisingly, this seemed to be the first time Douma and Akaza actually agreed on something. And Kokushibo didn’t like that it was about him.
At the very least, could they say something? He liked silence—he preferred silence, even. But he didn’t like it when it came right after he had tried, and apparently failed, to start a conversation.
“What are you talking about, friend?” Akaza said, visibly confused. And Kokushibo had to resist the urge to frown when he realized that even Akaza was now capable of calling him “friend.” He wasn’t anyone’s friend; he needed to be clear on that. Besides, Kokushibo knew exactly what he was talking about, that’s why he’d said it. But now he just looked like an idiot for some reason. His respect—his so-honored respect—lost. And now his dignity too, because it seemed he’d said something stupid.
“If before you showed up in the Infinity Castle in your human form, I thought you were at least fifty years old.”
“That’s not true. I don’t visualize myself as someone old.” Kokushibo tried to refute it. Because that’s what a perfectly normal and young person like him would do. Besides, if anything, his entire conflict as a human had revolved around being furious that the Demon Slayer Mark would kill him at twenty-five and he wouldn’t be able to age or grow stronger. A euphemism, but still.
“Visualize.” Akaza repeated the word as if it sounded stupid coming out of him. Suddenly, Akaza started laughing. Douma’s cackle followed, and then both of them were laughing at him. He still didn’t understand why; he was sure, absolutely sure, that he hadn’t said anything stupid. Nor did he look old.
“That—” Akaza tried to speak between laughs, holding himself up by leaning his arm on a particularly disgusting pile of trash. Kokushibo grimaced at that—not because of the whole situation, obviously. There was no reason for that; he just found it strange that Akaza was touching it with his hands. “That’s exactly what an old man would say.”
“Do I really look that old?” It came out incredulous, and it was strange because Kokushibo rarely lost control of his voice. But it didn’t help at all that this had happened during his poor attempt at social interaction. Now he felt pathetic too as he turned to look at Douma, probably to make sure it wasn’t the case.
And of course it was, because Douma was laughing terribly hard on the other side. It made no sense.
“…Then why that time you approached me, in your cult…”
“Oh, wow—” Now Douma was the one trying to speak without succeeding. It wasn’t funny at all. “You’ve always been handsome, really, but when I first approached you, I didn’t think you looked twenty-five human years old at all.” Douma had gone so far that he was even trying to open his eyes to talk. “It’s like… your eyes? Maybe.”
“Douma’s talking about your wrinkles,” Akaza interrupted, finally composing himself once the joke stopped being so overwhelmingly hilarious. “When you have all six eyes and no eyebrows, your face wrinkles up when you’re annoyed.”
“Which was normally. Like, all the time.” Finishing each other’s sentences? Was this serious? Kokushibo had never imagined it, and certainly not that he would be the target. “But you’re cute anyway.”
Now he was the ugly one. He hadn’t expected the conversation to turn on him.
“You thought I looked fifty?”
“Yes.” Both said it at the same time, without any doubt.
It wasn’t fair. Kokushibo didn’t think he looked old as a demon. He could be serious, but that had nothing to do with age. He could have lived more than four hundred years doing nothing truly important besides training, but that had nothing to do with age. Mental maturity had nothing to do with physical appearance.
So Kokushibo decided he’d had enough of this. He had already put on his disguise, and that would be sufficient. He was probably being quite childish. Still, he turned around and walked away from that rotten-smelling alley, venturing into the bustling main street of Nagasaki.
The smells of food from the still-open stalls welcomed him; some families walked by, and the sound of the crowd let him blend in among the people. Pretending not to hear Douma’s shouts—who could definitely catch up if he wanted to, but couldn’t draw attention—he moved farther away.
Kokushibo would be fine; his offended attitude would probably pass in a few minutes. However, since he wasn’t old, he allowed himself to throw a little tantrum. It wasn’t important; he still had control over his own silly emotions. That’s what he told himself as he looked down, solely focused on his sandals stepping on the street and the sound of his accelerated breathing. Not from exertion, but still.
Why had it affected him so much? It made no sense at all; he needed to stop thinking about—
A collision against someone’s shoulder interrupted his thoughts. And he must have been more out of it than he realized if he was so unaware of his surroundings that he hadn’t noticed a person literally right in front of him. Kokushibo brought a hand to his nose from the impact—more out of embarrassment than pain. Then he lifted his gaze from the ground to see who he had bumped into. And also, who had been stupid enough to stand right in the middle of a crowded street.
He simply hadn’t expected the sight that greeted him to nearly freeze him in shock. And Kokushibo wasn’t someone who got surprised. He wasn’t many things; he had always defined himself by what he wasn’t, and above all, he wasn’t—
“Yoriichi Tsugikuni?” That damned name slipped out of the stranger’s mouth. The yellow hair with red tips stood before him like a ghost from Michikatsu’s memories. Fair skin, thick eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and those red eyes just as they had once been. Kokushibo’s mouth went completely dry. It wasn’t possible. But it was exactly the same as back then.
“Rengoku?”
.