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Tanjirou sighed as he breathed in that familiar, unmistakable scent. Just beyond this door, that man was already here, waiting for him.
His hands stopped just shy of touching the handle, the beady eyes of the decorative, golden lion sitting atop of it appearing to glare back at him for the hesitation. Instead, his hands ghosted over the long locks of hair that now cascaded well down his back. Feeling impatient, he couldn’t stop himself from fiddling with the hair-tie Muzan had given him - “To help make you more bearable to look at”, or so he’d said. Although Tanjirou hated the man, as any time spent in his company always managed to unnerve him just as much as the idea of frolicking through a field of flowers on a hot, Summer’s day - he still wanted to look, at the very least, somewhat presentable while in his presence.
Normally, he was never allowed to wear his hair up like this. When he was, it only meant one thing. And unfortunately, as amusing of an idea as it was, Muzan wasn’t going to be joining him in that field of flowers, helping him braid daisies and dandelions into his hair anytime soon. No, there was only one thing Muzan was here to do. And it didn’t matter how much Tanjirou protectively clung onto his ponytail, or how badly he wanted to preserve the faint image of the distant ancestor who only dwelled within the deepest recesses of his mind.
Just like every other year; Muzan was going to take it all away from him, and cut it off.
- -
Muzan sucked in a deep breath when he finally entered the room. Over the years, he thought it would get easier to see the face of the man who’d nearly killed him. Even though he’d gotten rid of those nasty earrings long ago, his ruby eyes and righteous spirit still remained. The hair was the only thing left he could still do something about.
“No matter how many times I see you like this…it never ceases to amaze me. You really do look just like him.”
Muzan Kibutsuji would be damned if he was going to spend another moment more wallowing in the humiliation of his past. He was going to erase that nasty after-image with his own two hands.
“Come, Tanjirou. Sit.”
- -
With every lock of hair he was losing, it felt as though the last remaining thread tied to his fading memories was being severed all over again. Tanjirou would never remember, he couldn’t recover anything of his past like this.
Not when Muzan was so intent on sealing it all away.
His throat was dry, and he had nothing left to lose.
“Next time, why don’t you try giving me a flower crown? It’d be much easier than cutting it all off, and it could help me look - in your own words - that much more bearable.”
It was only a joke. He’d just wanted to lighten the mood. But the light scraping of cold metal against the back of his neck let Tanjirou know exactly how little Muzan appreciated this particular attempt at humour.
“Next time, hmm? Why, if you’re still alive by then…I’ll think about it.”