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Tanjirou is kind, perhaps far too kind to someone like him who does not deserve a sliver of his kindness. Even when his body is battered and wounded, he worries about Zenitsu first when it should’ve been himself that he has to worry about.
When the quick rattling noise of his worry had disappeared, Tanjirou collapsed on him while they were in each other’s grasp. Grunting from the sudden weight, Zenitsu blinked in confusion. “Tanjirou,” he grumbled, pulling away, “you’re heavy. Could you—“
Red smeared Zenitsu’s white cotton shirt until his lap. His eyes traced the striking color. Following the trail of crimson, he discovered where the stain was the most prominent. Tanjirou’s abdomen. The black uniform he wore could not even hide the large dark spot.
Blood, Zenitsu finally realized.
Gaze ricochet onto Tanjirou’s face, he took in the serene expression and the eyes hidden behind those eyelids. He couldn’t see the eyes that reminded him of the red sky in hazuki card from hanafuda they would play. At that moment, Zenitsu felt dread strangling his neck. His breath hitched, and he had cried, “Tanjirou! Tanjirou! Tanjirou!—“ repeatedly.
His ears were ringing. His throat was parched. His eyes felt as though they were burning. It had taken him a while to notice someone was screaming; a scream that tore from his own throat.
He would have kept screaming if Aoi and the other girls didn’t barge into the room after hearing the commotion. He would have kept screaming if Sumi, Kiyo, and Naho were not there to clutch his hands in their warm hold, holding him back from reaching for Tanjirou whom was pulled away from him. With tears spilling onto their cheeks, they tried to assure him that everything would be alright, Tanjirou would be okay. That he would be taken care of.
It’s been a week since then.
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—he echoes Tanjirou’s stifled sob when they are alone—for making you worry about someone like me. Zenitsu hears his own whimper as tears drip down his face and seep into the cracks of his wound.
It stings. But the pain is nothing compared to the thought of losing Tanjirou. He cannot imagine a world without his warmth, without the gentle melody that accompanied his presence.
That’s why it’s difficult for Zenitsu not to stare at him despite still hearing the noise his body emits.
Then, it hits him like a ton of bricks. Regardless of the scrapes scattering along his face, and the bandages that wrapped around his arms and his head, he’s here. Living, breathing, chest rising and falling in a regular pattern. His calloused palms and wavy, burgundy hair. His sun-kissed skin. His pink lips and dark eyelashes. The hanafuda earrings he never takes out, even when he bathes, even when he sleeps.
Relief washes over Zenitsu.
“Again?” a familiar voice, Aoi’s, says from the doorway. She was carrying a tray in her hands. “I’ve told you already, I know you’re worried about him. All of us are. But you’re still recuperating, too.”
He doesn’t hear her approaching footsteps. He doesn’t even hear the click of the door. Too fixated on paying attention to Tanjirou to notice anything else.
A sheepish smile spreads over Zenitsu’s face and he can feel his cheeks warming as scratched the back of his head. His heartbeat is thumping loudly against his ribcage and he takes a deep breath, trying to soothe it, “I’m sorry, Aoi-chan,” he sighed out.
What is he so flustered about?
Putting the tray on the table by Zenitsu’s bedside, she regarded him with a stern gaze. “The more you move around too much the more likely it is for the cracks on your face to spread. Don’t come crying to me if you happen to rip your eyeballs out.” Strangely enough, it doesn’t sound as harsh as usual. There’s a hint of gentleness in her voice that tells him she doesn’t mean it.
In the tray, there are a bowl of rice porridge and a bowl of miso soup.
It is lunchtime, he realizes, his stomach churning and rumbling in response. He doesn’t feel hungry though. The idea of consuming food makes him a little nauseous, and he can’t help but let out a grimace. “Do I have to keep eating this?”
An eye roll, a death stare, and a scolding later push Zenitsu to shove two spoonfuls of lukewarm porridge into his mouth, sip the miso soup, and gulps it down. It tastes as though it is water but congealed: bland, doesn’t have to be chewed, and easy to swallow.
Zenitsu isn’t sure the fact that it tastes like nothing is a blessing or not. Too much flavor might make his stomach upset, but too little makes him feel like eating is such a hassle.
Suddenly, he feels sorry for complaining to Aoi. She has been searching for a way to restore Kanao’s damaged vision, or at least do something so her right eye won’t be completely beyond saving. On top of that, she is someone’s who is in charge of the entire helper in Butterfly Estate and has to overlook other injured people. She has enough on her plate as it is.
“By the way,” Zenitsu says while Aoi is checking the drips connected to Tanjirou, “how is Kanao-chan?”
She freezes, her jaw clenches, and she closes her eyes, “…..there’s nothing we can do. Now we’re just helping Kanao-sama adjust with having half a vision.”
“I… see. I—” to stop himself from apologizing, he bites his tongue. He has a feeling Aoi won’t take it well if he does.
Silence falls between them.
As he swallowed sips the last remaining soup and puts the china back onto the tray, he glimpses Aoi watching him closely. Or rather, the cracks on his face by the looks of it. Beads of sweat formed on the nape of his neck, and strands of hair are sticking on his skin uncomfortably.
Once more Zenitsu is conscious of the cracks that marred his face. It’s going to leave an ugly scar forever. “What? What is it?” he says, fingers twitching, the urge to slap his hands over his face gnaws at him. He wonders if he should consider asking for a mask. Something like that kakushi would wear to cover half of their faces?
“Be mindful of your wound. It might be scabbed over but there’s a chance of the cracks opening up and spreading,” she says as quiet and swift as she walks to the door. Hand on the doorknob, she stops short. “……that person would just worry more if that happens, don’t you think?”
*****
Even as the sun paints orange hue on their skin, Zenitsu stays by Tanjirou’s side.
He squeezes the calloused hand in his—a gentle yet strong and firm hand that pulled him out of the depths of his mind, held him together when he was in pieces—it falls limp within his grasp. Although slightly muffled because of the state he is in, Tanjirou’s body hums a melody that is distinctly him. And perhaps only his, because no one he’s met ever has something that almost brought him to tears. No one has a sound that makes him picture a vast blue sky with the warmth of the sun embracing him.
Eyes closed, Zenitsu cradles that hand against his ear, listening to the piece that Tanjirou’s veins play.
Recalling what Aoi said to him, he nods to himself. “I know,” he whispers. A pang of inexplicable guilt gnaws at him, yet it doesn’t compare to the icy cold dread that encased his lungs when he diverts his eyes from Tanjirou.
Is it selfish of him to risk himself so he can stay close to Tanjirou?
*****
The thing about losing a family, loving or not, related by blood or not, nobody ever knows when their ghosts are going to haunt them.
One night when he closes his eyes, wishes for sleep to come, wishes for Tanjirou’s barely heard sound to lull him to sleep—much quieter now that Zenitsu lies in his own bed, away from the other. But the sound that reverberates in his head is keeping him awake. Kaigaku and his own voices, taking turns with whispering that he is a weak, wailing, loud-mouthed trash; useless, and a coward. That he can never protect anyone. That’s why everyone that he will end up witnessing people turning their backs on him. Too much of a pain in the neck to deal with.
Hands seal over his ears, Zenitsu wishes away the cruelty in that truthful remarks.
As time passes, he finds his body curling into a ball, hearing the whispers get louder. Not even Gramps’ gruff yet kind voice telling him, “you are my pride and joy,” can drown it out.
He reaches for the sighs of Tanjirou’s sleep-steady breath, an anchor among the sea of sounds, to no avail. It’s too quiet, too far away. Zenitsu is wide awake, mind swarming and swirling. Weak, useless, coward.
Each second adds another insult that strikes at him.
He lies tossing and turning for who knows how long, until he can’t take it any longer.
The feel of cold wooden floors against his bare feet is a mere passing thought as he walks over to Tanjirou’s bedside. His gaze falls on Tanjirou’s moonlit face. It’s been a week yet it feels longer than that. Zenitsu wonders when he will finally open his eyes, if there’s a way to wake him up faster. He misses hearing his voice, his laughter, and his smile that rivaled the sun.
Sitting by the bed, Zenitsu props his chin with his bandaged hand. Eyes closed, he tries to focus only on Tanjirou’s breath and heartbeat, and before he knows it, the voices can’t be heard anymore. As his eyes flutter open, he takes in the dark scar on Tanjirou’s forehead.
It used to be darker and more jagged when they first met, now it curves at the edges. Like it’s set ablaze.
He’s curious if it’ll burn his hand if he touches it.
Like a moth to a flame, his thumb is drawn to the scar. He traces the path of fire on his skin. From his hairline to the upper trail, above his left eyebrow, to the diverging trail below where he starts. The skin is oddly smooth against his fingertips; he had thought it would be as rough as his palms.
It doesn’t burn him.
But it ignites a burning sensation that rolls down his throat, into his chest, and down to the pit of his stomach. His body starts to quiver, and he wrenches his arm back. He curls in as though to protect himself, mind running a mile a minute. Something is wrong and he knows it. It’s a familiar feeling but different. Too intense, too daunting. The intensity sets alarm bells ringing.
No, no, no.
Then, it dawns on Zenitsu suddenly, the risk of allowing love into their friendship—one of the very few things that Zenitsu has—the rejection that surely follows if his feeling slips out or if he confesses to Tanjirou. The face that Tanjirou would show. He doesn’t know how he can stand it.
*****
Tanjirou wakes up another week later. Inosuke, Aoi, Kanao, and the little girls swarm around him after Zenitsu called them earlier, telling them he’s regained consciousness. Though he seems exhausted, he still manages a warm smile.
As Zenitsu stands a little farther from the others, Tanjirou frowns. He breathes in the surrounding air and Zenitsu tries to avoid his gaze in an attempt to deny the crackling fire in his stomach. For he is frightened of Tanjirou finding out about his blossoming feelings from the mere scent that permeates from Zenitsu.
“Zenitsu,” Tanjirou tilts his head, his voice overflowing with concern that strangles Zenitsu’s throat, “is something wrong?”
Before he can stop himself, Zenitsu looks up and meet his eyes. Trying to suppress the tears in the back of his eyes, he closes his eyes, shaking his head.
“No,” Zenitsu says quietly, “I’m just glad you’re finally awake.”
忍ぶれど
色に出でにけり
わが恋は
物や思ふと
人の問ふまで
- 平兼盛
Though I would hide it,
In my face it still appears--
My fond, secret love.
And now he questions me:
"Is something bothering you?"
- Taira no Kanemori