Work Text:
The second he catches a whiff of citrus, fresh and radiant, his breath hitches.
Even when his conscience screams at him not to be rude, he still can’t contain his urge—muttering apologies to the kakushi who carries him on her back, Tanjirou releases his grip on her shoulders and breaks into a dash, chasing after the citrus scent.
Multiple shouts of alarm follow him, regardless he can’t quite discern what is said, too distracted—or perhaps too immersed by his aim that it falls on deaf ears.
Even as his aching muscles and injuries are burning, he wills himself to use his breath, pleading his lungs and wound-riddled body to work a little bit longer, just until he’s where he needs to be, where he can bask in the light and breathes in happiness. Even as his vision wavers, blurring at the edges and signaling he’s on his limit, he doesn’t falter.
There, that room! he thinks, his heart thudding in his chest and against his fractured ribs, a mix of exhaustion and anticipation.
Then, his eyes fall on the only figure in the room, sitting up on the bed as he stares out the window and sun bathes his skin and his dandelion-yellow hair in light, the brightest thing amongst the dull-white walls and clean white sheets.
Tanjirou wastes no time to shout; his voice wobbly and it echoes off the walls as he runs to the bedside. “Zenitsu!” his worry makes him forget about Zenitsu’s keen sense of hearing.
Zenitsu shifts his head to look at him.
Now that he’s in close proximity, seeing the state Zenitsu is in makes him freeze in shock. Bandages run across his right eye, covering it. Scars marred his face, angry red, a stark contrast on his fair skin; like the roots of a plant, it runs down right under his covered eye to his jaw and the back of his ear.
The glimmer in his eye is dim, lacking the joy that’d reflect in his eyes when he looks at Tanjirou, Nezuko, and Inosuke. It reminds Tanjirou of times when the sun is shrouded behind dark clouds, his shine is hidden by thinly veiled and poorly hidden sorrow.
“Tanjirou.” he smiles, a relieved one, lips pressed and one visible eye curving up at its corner. “You’re alive, I’m glad.”
He looks tired, but that isn’t just it. Even if he’s tired, he will cry, will complain as he clings to Tanjirou.
This Zenitsu looks a minute away from crumbling and Tanjirou can’t help the strangled sound—something like a sob and anguished cry—something that resonates remorse and failure. It’s a sound that says ‘Why didn’t I insist to stay and try harder to ask what’s wrong?’ and ‘I should’ve been there to fight by his side’ .
Tanjirou crashes onto him—he tries, tries his hardest to quell the urge to be close to him and be mindful of Zenitsu’s injuries, but he can’t. He needs him in his arms, with his nose buried into his neck, breathing in his citrus scent. Just to make sure he’s here and breathing.
“I’m so glad you’re alive.” Tanjirou says, voice hoarse, and suppresses another sob. The searing pain of his fractured ribs digging into his gut and his opened stitches—from when he runs—are a mere distant feeling compared to his relief. He cannot bring himself to care about that. Around them, his blood stains the white bedsheet and shirt Zenitsu’s wearing. “I’m sorry, Zenitsu, I didn’t—”
“Stop it.” Zenitsu whispers, firm despite the sadness that permeates the surrounding air, and pulls away to meet Tanjirou’s eyes. His single amber eye gazes at him with concern, gentle and warm. It serves as another reminder that he isn’t as weak as he believes himself to be. “I’ve told you to do what you have to, didn’t I? I’ve told you there was something I needed to do myself. I did it and so did you.”
Tanjirou’s lips quiver, “But, you’re…” he trails off, eyes scrutinizing over the scars on his right cheek and his calloused hand hovers, uncertainty encases his veins and muscles, unsure if he can touch Zenitsu without causing him pain.
“Ah.” As if he just remembers the root-like scars are on his face, he raises his right hand—bearing identical scars—covering it as if he’s ashamed, and Tanjirou feels his gut twists. “Does it look that bad? It looks… ugly isn’t it.”
Tanjirou shakes his head. “I— Zenitsu, that’s not it,” he gently holds Zenitsu’s uninjured hand in both of his, as if he’s carrying a prized china, as if it’s something fragile yet beautiful, something to be cherished. “Are you okay? You’re badly hurt, right? What happened?”
Zenitsu says nothing. His lips are sealed shut, evasive about who he fought and what he did. He doesn’t even cry as he would often do. The scent of sadness—no, not exactly, grief , Tanjirou realizes as his nose catches the earthy smell of chrysanthemums among the citrus: of the end of spring, when it rained and the raindrops hit the soil, a farewell to the flowers blooming in the season.
“If you don’t want to tell me it’s fine, you don’t have to.” he tightens his grip on Zenitsu’s hand, a little stronger and grounding, but not strong enough to hurt. Tanjirou presses his thumb against his wrist, feeling the steady pulse there. “Just having you here, alive, is enough for me. You’re important to me after all.”
A whiff of something salty drifts in the air and he blinks. Looking up, Tanjirou sees the eyes before him welling up with tears, dripping down his cheeks, both the scarred and uninjured, and he gasps. Alarmed, he whips his head left and right, looking around to find a handkerchief, a clean cloth, or anything clean to wipe his tears away.
“I’m so sorry! You’ll hurt yourself so please stop crying.”
Zenitsu sniffles and raises an arm to wipe his tears with his sleeves, but Tanjirou stops him, grasping the forearm lightly and uses a thumb to dry his tears on the unblemished skin before he pulls Zenitsu into his arms, bandaged head cradled with a rough palm, and brings his face into his chest. A gentle nudge to let him cry there as he envelops him with warmth.
He cries louder, though the sound is muffled by the cloth of the haori Tanjirou’s wearing and his shirt is damp with Zenitsu’s tears. “You’re an idiot. Why did you say that?! Crying makes my face hurts!”
“I said sorry, will you forgive me?”
Zenitsu wraps his arms around Tanjirou’s body, his fingers clutches at his back, and the fabric wrinkles in his fists. “It really hurts, you know!”
Tanjirou hums and runs his hand through Zenitsu’s hair, “I know.”
“It stings and aches. Like someone stabbed and dragged a knife on my face.”
And as Zenitsu sobs and hiccups, Tanjirou draws comforting circles on his back and brushes his nose against the blond hair, breathing in sunshine and warmth.
His vision wavers, dark spots stain the corners and he tries to blink it away to no avail. It seems like his body is at its limit.
The smell of grief and sadness are still among Zenitsu’s scent; they swirl and mingle in the air around him. But with time, it will fade away. The wind will chase away the dark clouds, slowly but surely, and the sun will cast its shine again.
There is a voice in the distance, it calls for his name; loud and frantic. It echoes in his head and the thud of footsteps against wooden floor follows after it.
Maybe not anytime soon, but someday.
And Tanjirou promises himself to be by his side every step of the way.