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Chapter Text

A thousand years ago, you crawled out from your grave in Heian-Kyo. You followed your all-consuming hunger into a fresh grave, popped the lid off the coffin, and devoured the corpse like slightly stale sardines from a can. The flavor wasn't good or terrible, just like the discarded preserved fish you remember from scavenging trash with the other medical nuhi last fall. You take another bite. Then, your brain catches up with your stomach.

You stare at the half-eaten face of the human being in your claws. You taste iron on your lips. When you finish spitting between screams, you run. You stowaway on a ship from Japan to Goryeo. You make enough money to charter your own vessel to Great Yuan, where you spend a century trading the silk road from Dadu to Istanbul, wandering the desert where no human can live to tempt you. As your falcon delivers the news of the Red Turbans driving out the Mongols to your sheephair tent, you find the blue spiderlily blooming from the desert sands of Garagum.

You split three centuries between the desert, the Universities of Cambridge and Oxford, and La Sorbonne. In 1492, Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue, and you perfected your master's medicine in your Parisian greenhouse. As Ponce de Leon sought the Fountain of Youth, you stepped into the sun for the first time in three centuries, your visage unchanged since the doctor first injected you with the medicine he would later use on Muzan Kibutsuji. 

At the turn of the 15th century, you learned to paint and sculpt from Da Vinci and Michelangelo. In the 16th century, you sat in the Globe's Pit to watch Shakespeare's plays premiere. In the 17th century, you debated Rousseau and Voltaire in Madame de Pompadour's salons. After Europe became saturated with the memories of those you've loved and lost, you venture to the New World.

Over the millennium, you've traveled the world from Heian Japan to Renaissance Italy. By the time the 1920's find you in America, you think you've seen it all. Then, the dead man appears in your living room with hair like fire and a hole in his stomach. His blood ruins your favorite carpet, and you're not sure you know anything anymore.

You're trying to drag the body to the garden when you feel his chest stutter with the intake of breath. He's alive. Without thinking, you break the skin of your right wrist with your left nail. You press the blood to his wound.

It's been decades since you last turned a human. You've forgotten how much the process takes from you. Rengoku's body hungers for you more than you had hungered for blood when you'd first woken. His wound needs your blood to rebuild his body. You're drained until you collapse against his chest, your last thought of his comforting warmth, like the first touch of sunlight on your skin two centuries ago.

..........

You wake in the middle of the night. Your eyes adjust. You reorient yourself in the darkness.

Your skin's sticky with sweat and blood. There's a man under you. He runs hot. You prop yourself up on his chest and scoot away. You may dress like a flapper and run gin, but you're no floozy.

The parlor's ruined with blood. Your maids come on Tuesdays. You're a bootlegger, not a gangster. The girls'll get scared by the blood, so you have to clean overnight.

Your maids won't disturb the unconscious man if you tell them you've a guest sleeping in, so you carry him to a guestroom, where you check that he's no longer bleeding. The wound on his chest has closed. You brush aside his hair, frowning at the unusual coloring before you check under the drying blood. His left eye has been restored.

You tear off his ruined shirt and clean him with it before tossing the clothes in the fire. The white "destroy" character stands out against the dark fabric before it all burns. You wonder what the man's destroying and what nearly destroyed him, but you figure you'll ask when he wakes.

..........

You drag the rug to a bathroom with a tub. As you run cold water over the hand-woven silk, you remember when you commissioned your carpet in Kankorum: the noise of the open air bazaar, the clink of gold coins in your gloved hands, the warmth of the sun at your back. You no longer remember the year, except that it was before you could walk in sunlight. You can't remember the weaver, except you recall she was a young woman with callouses on her hands and a twist in her spine, aged beyond her years by backbreaking labor at the loom.

When you open your eyes, you're back in Chicago, the cicadas calling into the night, your unexpected guest snoring softly next door. You prop yourself up with your wet hands on the marble tile, listening to the night for a moment before you drain the first tub of bloodied water, keeping the tap on while you run downstairs. After wiping the floor clean, you drain the tub a second time as you bleach the floor under the carpet.

The carpet's soaking in a third tub of water by the time you start the shower, tossing your clothes aside to be burnt with the dirty rags. You scratch the blood out of your hair, wiping the mirror free of condensation every wash to check your reflection. Once your hair's finally clean, you start on the blood covering your skin. If you're quick enough, you might still be able to catch an hour of sleep before sunrise.

..........

Rengoku senses a demon. It's right next to him. He slams open—whoops, wrong door. That's a closet. He tries again, leaving the bedroom for a tall, western-style hallway. 

This isn't the Butterfly Estate. When'd he get moved to a western mansion? He'll figure that later.

Now, he follows the sound of water and the demonic presence. He stops at a shut door. The knob doesn't budge—locked. He kicks down the door, wood splintering under his feet. There, behind the curtain—

"Demon!" 

Rengoku tears away the shower curtain. His slayer instincts tell him to kill. The being before him has taken thousands of human lives. Death weighs down the air like—

Wait. Is that death, or the moisture in the shower? Rengoku doesn't sense Blood Demon Arts, illusions, or killing intent. He's not seeing any demons, either, just a human-looking girl with scars—

Stop. Back up.

Locked door. Running water. Shower. Girl. 

Rengoku goes redder than the tips of his hair.

............

"I cannot bear to request your forgiveness! I will take responsibility!"

In your thousand years, you've had your share of surprises, from stepping onto the New World for the first time, to watching man taking flight, to—whatever this is.

You're in a bathrobe now, thank the Lord. The ginger-blond—Samurai? Bushi?—kneels in your garden. You don't know what happened in the shower, but it felt like a switch flipping. One moment, he was ready to murder you. Now, he looks ready to commit seppuku, kneeling on your bathroom floor, head bowed, hands on his knees while the sky starts to blue with morning. 

"Please stand, sir."

"As you wish!" he springs to his feet. You jump back at the sudden movement. Rengoku stills. You can't tell if he's regarding you like a small animal about to startle, or a predator ready to spring. Maybe both?

"What are you!" he demands. "You have a demon's presence. You feel like death! But also as though you have not eaten humans for years—"

"What is—" you try to speak up, but the man talks over you. He comments on everything, from the state of your bathroom (The floor is cold!) to the scenery outside (The flowers are blooming!) to his self-awareness (I do not know where I am!)

You watch the way he carries himself, back straight, shoulders squared, arms crossed over his broad chest. Definitely a warrior.

You're used to being ignored by men like him, so you wait, letting his monologue wash over you. You have all the time in the world, after all.

You take a seat on the edge of the bathtub. The room goes quiet. The bushi looks at you.

"You're in Chicago, Illinois, United States of America. What's a demon?"

Rengoku's eyes meet yours. You're caught under the full force of his fire colored gaze, which seems to glow in the dark with its intensity.

He's not an Evangelist, that's for sure. Though Rengoku's unarmed, you feel power pointed at you like a loaded gun. The bushi's finger is on the trigger, the sights lined, the gun ready to fire.

"I don't know what you mean, calling me a demon," you repeat, your voice clear and calm in the darkness.

Rengoku reads your lips. He takes in your expression. There's no hesitation in your voice or avoidance in your gaze. You're telling the truth.

You're a demon who doesn't know what demons are.

What does that make him?

He doesn't feel monstrous. When he woke, Rengoku didn't hunger for blood or human flesh. He felt no different than usual, which is why he chased the presence of a demon, hunting you down.

Coming down from his adrenaline now, Rengoku realizes that he's a little different. He feels a little stronger, moves a little faster than he remembers. When you threw him into the wall, he recovered more quickly than a human can. The bump on his forehead's already feeling better.

There's no other explanation to how he's seeing from both eyes now, his stomach repaired with no scarring. You turned him into a demon. He had been dying. Now, he's fine. He doesn't even feel like death, because he's never eaten a human being.

This feels wrong, too normal, too easy.

"Are you certain that you are a demon?"

You sputter, clutching the bathrobe tight to your chest.

"You—you ran into my bathroom, screaming demon. I don't know what a demon is. How would I know if I am one?"

The fire-haired man furrows his thick, forked brows. In that booming voice, he tells you of demons and demon slayers, Hashira and Twelve Kizuki, Muzan Kibutsuji and the country you'd left nearly a millennium ago.

You drop onto the edge of the bathtub as you listen. The energy of his voice washes over you, the excitement from earlier wearing off. Almighty Lord, the hour's too early and you're too sleep deprived for this.

Rengoku watches you blink sleepily, leaning against the marble walls. The rest of the moisture evaporates from the bathroom, clearing the air so he can focus on your presence.

You're not a demon like Nezuko. Your energy is threaded with the human lives you've taken. But death doesn't weigh you down like Tamayo. Your essence is lighter, faintly threaded with the scent of flowers—lilies? Rengoku closes his eyes and sees blue. He tells you he's a demon slayer and you nod lazily, like that's nice but none of your business. He finishes speaking and you yawn.

Your head tips back to expose the pale column of your throat.

He wants, suddenly, to run his thumb over your skin, and he doesn't know what to do with his wanting.

Dawn breaks. Sunlight spills through the window and over your features. You don't move from your spot.

The light stretches over to him. Morning passes over the healed wound in his stomach, the left eye he can now see out of.

"What are you?" Rengoku asks. "What am I?" he murmurs when neither of you burn.

You close your eyes, pinching the slight bridge of your nose, "That—is a long story." 

..........

In the 18th century, you cured your reliance on human blood, so you get to know Rengoku Kyojuro over breakfast. You fry eggs and bacon, and fry eggs and bacon, and fry more eggs and bacon because Rengoku eats for ten. As you cook, he migrates from your dining room to the kitchen, standing beside you where he can eat as soon as the food cools off from the grill. At this rate, you'll have to telephone your grocer to come tomorrow instead of Saturday.

"Delicious!" Rengoku exclaims between bites with exuberance.

At first, he looked suspicious of your food. You pointed out that he watched you cook. He took a first bite, then a second, and now he's on his fourth plate. Though the boy says he's twenty, he acts younger than he looks, approaching life with apparent joy that you've never been able to manage in all your centuries.

It makes sense. Rengoku hasn't said as much, but his build and the way he carries himself makes you sure he's from a bushi bloodline that persisted after the Meiji Restoration. He's well-fed, well-clothed, and well-trained to serve his Emperor or the Diet from birth.

Unlike him, your first twenty years were spent starving, sick, or both. The shogunate plucked you from the streets to stab needles in your skin, draw test tubes of your blood, and collect slices of your flesh. Their doctors loved you because you were too weak to fight back and too strong to die, at least until you got the injection that would be adapted for Kibutsuji Muzan .

You died despite all your master's promises. Or maybe you just seemed dead enough to bury. You remember nothing between the treatment flooding your bloodstream like ice in your veins, and waking in the unmarked grave with that terrible hunger.

You tell Rengoku of your journey from Kyoto to Chicago, omitting the gruesome brutality of slavery, the filthy truth of poverty, and the gnawing anxiety of running for your life. You give a sanitized version fit for a young bushi. 

Rengoku takes in the information without looking at you. He's washing your dishes, his sleeves rolled back to expose muscular forearms. He tries to keep his smile neutral, but you're too old to not see the hardness in his eyes, the set of his shoulders that speaks of preparation to strike.

Fine porcelain makes for a sharp blade once it shatters.

"You ate humans before you found it," Rengoku notes when you describe the blue spiderlily.

"Mmm-hmm," you admit and you wait.

When you dressed, you tucked a silver pistol into the waistband of your trousers. People like you and him are hard to kill, but the gun should at least slow him. If he tries you, you're ready.

Rengoku passes you the cleaned frying pan.

"Do you regret eating people?"

He keeps up the hard smile, and you can sense yourself being evaluated for our worthiness to live.

You could lie to him. You should lie to him. All your self-preservation instincts scream for you to lie.

But Rengoku is also a young man starting a new life in a new world. You know better than anyone how people can be robbed of their free will by lies and ignorance as well as whips and chains. In that instant, you make a decision that will define you.

You towel dry the pan and put it down, freeing your hands to reach for the gun. Then, you tell Rengoku the truth:

"I regret nothing. I only ate people who deserved it."

His thick eyebrows narrow.

"No one deserves to be eaten! How could so many people—"

"I'm a millennium old. I've been around the world. A lot of people try to take advantage of a young foreign girl traveling alone at night," you grin, baring your teeth back to the sharp canines, "but I'm more than I look."

The monsters you've known aren't demons; they're human beings.

Rengoku blinks at you with the surprise of a young man who's never had to fear being raped and murdered in the dark. He shakes his head.

"You were wrong to kill humans! Criminals can be sentenced in a court of law!"

Spoken like a bushi. The law never cared for people like you. In the eyes of the law, you weren't human, even when you were biologically human. Then again, you're not a person in his eyes, either, are you?

"People make laws. Not all people are good. Not all laws are good, either."

"You ate people in self defense, then!"

"I've eaten and killed in defense of others, also. Haven't you?"

"I would never harm a human being!"

Rengoku levels that hard smile at you.

"That's where we're different," you agree. 

“Return to Japan with me! Oyakata-sama will decide your fate—"

Oyakata-sama? Master? Your face falls like a curtain dropping over your emotions. Slavery should have been banned in Japan centuries ago, when you were in Britain. 

"I have no master," you reply, your voice cold. "Who's yours?"

"Oyakata-sama is the leader of the demon slayer corps! Perhaps I was not clear, since you are American! If you are a good demon, you should aid the demon slayers! We must protect humanity, together!"

For a moment, you're speechless at the audacity of this man who showed up dying on your living room, barged in on you in the shower, and then demanded you return to Japan for—what? Subjecting yourself to his demon-slayer tribunal? Joining a foreign war?

"No, thank you."

"Why not!"

You smile sweetly, an old habit from masters who beat in that girls like you should smile for your betters.

Besides how you like America and the life you've built here, there's the fact that you've never heard of the Demon Slayers. That's no surprise—nobody's heard of the experiments that made you, either. Shoguns and Emperors and Parliaments tuck people like you into unmarked graves, not the annals of history. You're acceptable sacrifice in the name of progress, and sometimes, acceptable sacrifice returns to bite them in the ass like the mistake that became Kibutsuji Muzan, who is not your problem. You're not bushi like Rengoku. Slave girls don't follow bushido. Your country used you up and threw you out; now, it's their turn to reap what they sowed.

"Nobody ever protected me."

Your voice is calm, your smile flawless, but those are the words of someone small, weak, and helpless. Rengoku's father slayed demons, but his mother raised him to defend the weak. You're a weak demon, and Rengoku doesn't know what to do with himself.

In the hours that you've known each other, you turned Rengoku into a demon. You admitted eating humans without regret. But you also healed his injuries and asked nothing in return. You dressed and fed him after he assaulted you and tarnished your honor. You told him the truth of your history and your choices, despite knowing he was a demon slayer.

During his first mission, Rengoku said that life is a series of decisions. You never have unlimited options or unlimited time to think, but what you choose in that instant defines who you are.

In the milliseconds after you speak, Rengoku makes a decision that will define him. 

"I'll protect you!" he declares with the innocence of youth and the invincibility of warriors.

You laugh in his face.

The shogunate of your era made armies of young men like him. When you left Japan, you learned that this happens the world over. Across countries and centuries, empires rise and fall under tides of blood from people like Rengoku, young, hopeful, and foolish enough to adhere to chivalry, to noblesse oblige, to bushido, to believe their drops in the bucket can save the world.

You've lived through too many promises made and broken, met too many youths like him. For everyone you've reeled back from the brink, there's one hundred where you watched the light leave their eyes in despair or in death. Rengoku is young, and you are too old to believe men like him.

Chapter Text

Despite his portions being ten times the size of yours, Rengoku finishes eating first. For the rest of the meal, he sneaks little glances at you between staring out the window.

"Yes?" you finally prompt.

"Would you want me to take responsibility!"

"Take responsibility for what?"

"For your honor!" he bows. "I understand if you would not wish to marry! You are not Japanese, and I am no longer a good match. I apologize!"

Rengoku bows again. Your brain struggles to follow his train of thought. Responsibility? Honor? Marriage?

Oh. Rengoku's a good Japanese boy raised by a bushi family. He thinks he dishonored you by seeing you in the shower. Japanese men take responsibility for women's honor through marriage. Lord Almighty.

"Look here, kid—"

"I am not a child!"

"Look here, young man . I'm a thousand-years-old. If I married everyone who's seen me in my birthday suit, I'd need a bigger house."

Rengoku's brow furrows at 'birthday suit.' The American slang must not transliterate. You try again. 

"Like you said, I’m not Japanese. You haven't dishonored me because we've different ideas of honor in America. There's nothing you need to take responsibility for."

"I respectfully disagree! But I understand why you would not want to marry me." He bows. You nod. Close enough.

That gets you a few more moments of peace, before—

"How should I return to Tokyo!"

You take a bite of egg, thinking. Sending Rengoku back to Japan won't be easy—he definitely didn't come with a passport or the proper visas—but you're a bootlegger. Your job is transporting illegal cargo across country lines. Sending a guy to Japan wouldn't be too hard on your operations.

"Do you have your passport? With an American visa?" you ask, just in case.

"I have neither!"

"Then it'll probably be a month or so. My secretary and I will need to arrange transportation in a way that doesn’t get you arrested for coming to the U.S. without the proper paperwork. Do you have any time sensitive commitments in Japan that we should be aware of?"

“I would like to return as soon as possible! I must report my experience to the Demon Slayers, and then—”

Rengoku stops abruptly.

“Can I be killed!” 

You swallow.

“Why do you ask?” you reply warily. 

"I'm a Demon Slayer! I have become a demon.”

Suicide is in his job description.

"Didn't you say there are good demons, demons that help protect people?"

"I did! But—" Rengoku stares at his hands. "I don't want to live like this," he says in a normal speaking voice, and it is the softest you've ever heard him.

"It's not your fault. I owe you an apology for turning you without your consent."

Rengoku meets your eyes. He's smiling the same hard smile he used when he thought you were one of his demons. Just as you start to wonder if you should defend yourself, he returns to looking at the spot just over your shoulder, tamping down the anger in his gaze until his smile's all light and warmth with none of the burn.

"I cannot blame you. I was unconscious, and you did not know!"

You sigh, ignoring the urge to cover your eyes. Were you anyone else, you'd try to understand why Rengoku wants to die so you can convince him to live. But you're the person who made him immortal without knowing what he wanted. You've taken away enough of his choices.

"Demons like you and I are impossible to harm with most materials. I'll provide the specialized ore that enables you to—"

You can't finish the sentence, so instead you raise two fingers and draw them across your throat.

"Thank you for your help!" Rengoku shouts. There's something heartbreaking about the way he keeps smiling. You can't help but remember someone you loved, long ago.

..........

Just past 8AM, you introduce Rengoku to your maids.

"Annie, Amane, this is my guest Kyojuro Rengoku. He's from Japan, he'll stay with me until he returns home."

"Yes, Miss Kikuchi," Annie and Amane say together in different voices. 

You change names every few decades, and Kikuchi is the latest variant. 

Rengoku also nods with enthusiasm despite understanding nothing of the English besides his name and your name. You're starting to be alarmed at his endless cheer. Less than five hours ago, he was bleeding out on your favorite carpet. He just turned from a demon slayer to one of his demons, not to mention committing to ritual suicide on returning to Japan.

Nobody processes trauma like that in hours. Either it hasn't hit him yet, or Rengoku's still putting up a strong front. Neither option's healthy.

Annie and Amane give you, then Rengoku little bows.

"Hello, Mr. Rengoku!" they say together. Annie pats her hair, looking at Rengoku. "Your hair is beautiful!" she says. You translate for her.

"Thank you!" Rengoku bows to Annie. "Your hair is also beautiful! I like the curling!" This time, Amane translates, elbowing Annie with a grin.

Annie glances at Rengoku and then at you. Her smile becomes mischievous in a way that you know exactly what she’s thinking. She whispers to Amane. Amane tugs on your arm, a question in her glance. 

You shake your head. You haven't aged in a thousand years, so you look Rengoku's age, but that's not what this is.

Amane raises her eyebrows and Annie pouts, grabbing your other arm. You clear your throat and free your hands, patting the girls’ shoulders before you ask them to keep out of Rengoku's guestroom and the damaged bathroom today. They nod, giggling together as they scurry away to work. 

Rengoku looks between you and the retreating servants with a curious expression.

..........

"Rengoku-san, this is Toshiro Haru," you introduce Rengoku in Japanese. "Toshiro-san is my secretary. He will arrange your transport back to Japan."

Toshiro glances at you from the corner of his eye. Though you try to work with Asians, given your Japanese appearance, you usually deal in English. Your Japanese is rusty, and Toshiro must be surprised by your archaic accent. 

"Rengoku-san came to the States undocumented. He works for an unrecognized government operation," you glance at Rengoku. He nods. It's hard to explain demons until you've seen them, so you decided together on this explanation for Toshiro. "I'll provide for his needs and transport while he's in the States."

Toshiro takes in Rengoku's red-yellow hair and eyes. His gaze lingers on the bushy eyebrows.

"Madam, you sure he's the real McCoy?" Toshi asks in English. "If you've more info, I can do some askin' around—"

"Toshi, I'm ancient."

Toshiro stares at you, eyes wide.

He's worked for you for ages, since he was in his teens. At first, he thought the secrecy came from you being a big cheese bootlegger, Asian, or both. He's since figured that it goes deep—you haven't aged a day since you met—but you pay good and treat him well, so he don't ask questions.

You switch back to Japanese.

"Rengoku-san works with beings like me."

You look at Rengoku. He nods. Toshiro's gaze moves between the two of you.

"Yes, Madam," Toshiro bows, returning to Japanese as well. "Please take care of me, Rengoku-san."

Rengoku returns the gesture, "Please take care of me!"

"Thanks, Toshi. I'll be back late, so leave a note for whatever you need."

Rengoku notes the familiar nickname you use for the other young man. Toshiro focuses on the accounts on his desk. Rengoku watches you stand.

"Where are you going!" 

You turn back to find him staring after you like a wide-eyed bird with flame-colored feathers. You ruffle his hair. Rengoku goes very still and you pull back immediately, remembering that different cultures have different levels of comfort with physical affection. You'll ask for permission next time.

"I'm going to work. I'll be back tonight."

He glances at you from the corner of his eye. He nods.

"Understood!"

..........

You can't say you don't miss the wind in your hair and the coppers at your tail, but your op's big enough that you rarely drive gin-runs yourself these days. The few exceptions are small-batch imported fine liquors: rum from Cuba, whiskey from Ireland, absinthe from France dropped off on little notice to evade the coppers.  

You've a shipment of the latter coming up Mississippi. Your boys will take 10 hours to meet them by the Ohio River, but superhuman reflexes let you cut it in 8. Since "The Toll of the Sea" came out on the silver screen, coppers have also been accommodating for a pretty 'Chinese' dame 'running groceries for daddy.' A few tried to get handsy, but you showed them quick and got away with it because nobody wants to tell their buddies that a Chink girl wiped the freeway with their ass before handing it back to them.

This run goes smooth. You drop off the shipment with your distributors on time, and cruise into downtown by the end of the workday for a last meeting with your shysters.

The bulls are easy to bribe, but the feds are tightening up on bootleggers, so you've been working to get your hooch off the highways and onto the waterways. Your boys have scoped out a few ports in North Indiana for you to sign and seal the deal.

You meet Mr. Walsh at his downtown office. He goes through the papers with you. You sign them and a check for his office with a very generous tip. You've had a hell of a time finding mouthpieces who'll work with a Japanese dame. Walsh takes you serious and does good work. You'll be hard pressed to find a replacement when he retires.

When the workday ends, the nine-to-fivers start their drinking. You start checking-in on your speaks a quarter-hour after opening. Nobody's busy on Tuesdays, and the slow day gives you time. You'll chat with your staff and spot-check their accounts until the sunset comes around and the dancing starts.

..........

As his workday ends, Toshiro writes a summary of what Rengoku needs from you. He puts a paperweight on the papers, showing Rengoku so he can direct you to the notes if you ask.

"Thank you very much, Toshiro-san!"

At first, Toshiro thought Rengoku was fake, from his brilliant smile to the unnatural hair color. He's still convinced that the hair's dyed, but the young man's booming voice and determined cheer seem natural. Toshiro wonders if Rengoku's hard of hearing. It's been a day, but he doesn't think he'll ever be used to his volume.

He shuts his briefcase.

"Madame is one of your demons, isn't she?" he asks as he leaves.

Though he's a little odd, Rengoku's an open book. Anyone with a build like his must be involved in physical work. He wanted to write to his father and brother, so he must be educated or at least literate, not a simple laborer. Then, he asked Toshiro to find a bokken for keeping up his training. It didn't take a genius to put two-and-two together to figure Rengoku's some sort of warrior.

Toshiro's good at asking questions. The Demon Slayers are unrecognized but not a secret organization, so Kyujuro was happy to explain his work killing monsters that stalked the night and ate humans. You're not nocturnal and you eat human food, but Toshiro doesn't have any other explanation for your lack of aging and superhuman strength. 

"She's different from the demons we kill! She walks in the sun, and she doesn't—ah, she can eat human food."

"But you tried to kill her, didn't you? Amane said the bathroom's ruined. Somebody broke down the door and smashed the wall."

"Yes! It won't happen again!"

At least he's honest.

It'll be a few weeks at least before Toshiro can get the other man shipped out. Rengoku being undocumented makes his job harder. In the meantime, Toshiro doesn't like the demon slayer staying with you. 

You're his boss, and it's not his place to worry about you. But you’ve also this habit of picking up broken people, dusting them off, fixing them up, and sending them on to better lives. Toshiro should know, he's personally benefited from your habit, But he worries when you might pick up the wrong person and get hurt. 

Toshiro's not as tall as Rengoku, but as person of Japanese descent in America, he's built up the skill of staring down people taller than him.

"You won't be the first person she's helped who doesn't deserve it, okay? Don't make her regret it."

"I won't!"

Toshiro goes to his car. Watching the black Ford drive away, Rengoku wonders what sort of demon you are, that you've won such loyalty from humans.

Toshiro's gruff but respectful to you. Amane and that American girl—A-Ni?—are playful and affectionate, but underneath the language barrier, their casual banter, and Toshiro's formal manners, Rengoku recognizes the way all three employees look at you. He's seen the same gratitude from people who owed him their lives. 

The Demon Slayers' motto is "Destroy All Evil Demons," but you're not evil. You may not be a fighter like Nezuko or a scientist like Tamayo, but you help humans in your own way.

..........

You're dead on your feet when you come home. A few more hours, and you wouldn't trust yourself to drive even with your superhuman reflexes. Though it's barely sunset, you're ready to collapse in bed immediately, nevermind dinner.

Then, Rengoku comes in from the garden. He must have been exercising. His shirt's soaked through, and you can smell the sweat on him. He lifts the bottom edge of his shirt to wipe his face, exposing the muscles of his abdomen.

"Rengoku—"

At your voice, he tugs his shirt down, his face going red.

"Miss Kikuchi!" he booms. 

“Hello,” you greet him.

"Welcome back! Have you eaten!"

You nod. Speakeasies all have food to go with the alcohol. It's not the main attraction, and a part of you will never be entirely used to the richness of American fare, but you did eat.

Your cook only comes Wednesday through Sunday, when you're home. The speakeasy food will tide you over until tomorrow.

Rengoku proceeds to the kitchen.

"If you can wait a few minutes, the rice is almost ready!"

"Ah?" You're surprised that Rengoku can cook with his bushi upbringing. Wouldn't his family have staff for that?

"Toshiro-san said you're usually hungry on Tuesdays! Because you don't like American food!" Toshi is a darling. "I am not a good cook like you! But slayers sometimes cook when we travel on missions!"

You take plates and chopsticks out of the cupboard. Rengoku serves rice with egg, miso pork, and scallions. The rice is a little hard, the egg yokes are broken, and he had to cut the pork with scissors because you don't own knives, but it's nice to have familiar fare before you go to sleep.

You remember your manners, "Itadakimasu."

"Itadakimasu!" Rengoku tucks in with the usual "tasty!" exclamations between bites.

The sun sets. Something about his presence makes your house feel brighter and more lively. Probably his volume.

As usual, Rengoku finishes his food first.

"How was your day?" you ask, carefully watching his smile.

Rengoku pauses. You don't know if it's the setting sun, the realization that he is alone in a whole new world, or his emotions catching up to him. Something cracks. He remains smiling, but his eyes grow too bright.

"Excuse me!"

He stands abruptly, disappearing into the next room. When he returns, his smile is fixed. He bows.

"I apologize for leaving suddenly! What were you—"

"Do you want a hug?"

Rengoku blinks. He crosses his arms, uncrosses them, and crosses them again.

"I would not want to impose!"

You put down your fork, walk over to Rengoku, pull out the chair closest to him, and sit, resting your elbows on your knees.

"Look here, ki—young man. You're twenty. In the last twenty-four hours, you almost died, got turned into something like one of the demons you slay, and woke up on the other side of the world with absolutely nobody and nothing you know. You're allowed to be upset."

Rengoku closes his eyes. You turn away to give him privacy. In the living room's chest of drawers, you find a stack of napkins and hand them over, never looking at him the entire while. He blows his nose.

"Do you want me to go?" you ask. You can take your food upstairs.

Rengoku takes several deep breaths.

"You should finish eating!"

You return to your side of the table, focusing on your food and only your food. When you finish eating, you put down your knife and fork loudly, giving him fair warning before you look up.

You'll never get used to the intensity of his sun-colored eyes.

"Can—can I have the hug now!" Rengoku asks. You nod for your answer, walking over to his side of the table. Holding out your arms for this part always feels awkward until Kyujuro pulls you to him, folds himself around you, and squeezes. 

He's just as warm as you remember. You run your hands up and down his broad back until you feel him soften, slouching under your touch.

He must be popular with children, you think. He gives very good hugs.

"Was Toshi helpful today?" you ask, patting his head. The red and yellow parts of his hair have the same stiff texture.

Rengoku presses into your shoulder and inhales before releasing you. When you pull back, he seems softer, the hard lines of his shoulders relaxing, the tightness around his eyes easing a little. Good.

"At the start of June, Toshiro-san will send me back to Japan! Until then, I'll be in your care!" He bows.

'I'll be in your care' is standard phrasing. Rengoku doesn't mean it. You've known him less than a day, but you'd bet your house that Rengoku's more used to taking care of others than being taken care of. Nobody wears smiles like that for themselves. He's the type of person who sets himself ablaze to keep others warm, but you resolve to take care of him for once. He’ll only be with you a month, after all.

..........

That night, you dream of another youth with a bright, bright smile. Luigi puts a sundowner steel dagger in your hand. He calls you by the true name you haven't used in centuries, and he says:

"Please kill me."

You wake in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweat, tearing off the sheets because they're wrapped so tight you can't breathe. You're in Florence, you think. You can hear the brouhaha of drunkards from the Piazza. The Italian summer's too hot, and your room still smells a little like tempera paint.

Then, you open your eyes. There's no tempera paintings here. Your room's cooled by air conditioning. The only noises are the air humming and the crickets outside.

The man you loved has been dead for centuries. His reincarnation is your secretary. You're in the New World, Chicago, USA. 

You take deep breaths, dragging your consciousness out of history, into the present. You close your eyes. Your mind expands, taking in the texture of the bedsheets beneath you, the humidity of the night air, the sounds in the darkness...

You can hear someone snoring softly.

You know that's Rengoku. He's the only other person here. This is an entirely different situation than what happened in Florence and London, but you can't help thinking of another youth from long ago. 

You're a bootlegger and you can't sleep, so you drink.

Chapter Text

You're only a little hungover. Your biology can metabolize lethal poisons, much less alcohol, so the morning finds you no worse for wear except for this dull ache in the back of your head where your skull meets your spine. Eh, you'll be functional after breakfast.

The cook greets you from the kitchen. You sit down at the place setting for two, her and you. Odd, Patricia usually sits across from you, not beside you. Maybe she's already eaten? You get this feeling that you're forgetting something. 

You signed for the ports yesterday. You made a gin-run, visited your speaks...

Then, Rengoku enters from the garden. You listen to him greet Patricia in the kitchen, thanking her in slow but loud English with an accent, 'san-kyū.' He must keep earlier hours.

"Good morning!" Rengoku calls to you in Japanese, and it hits you that you've a guest who intends to commit ritual suicide on returning to his home country.

The edge of fear from your nightmares starts crawling back up. Lordy, you're gonna need more coffee.

"Ms. Patricia, can you put a pot on?"

"Coffee, Miss?"

"Yes, please, and thank you!"

"Good morning," you answer Rengoku, practiced calmness betraying none of your nerves. 

Rengoku sits. His nose twitches. His smile goes from bright to flat. You wait for him to loudly tell you what he's thinking. Instead of speaking, he starts eating. 

Patricia's a much better cook than you, so you know something's wrong when Rengoku doesn't exclaim over the food. You're even more concerned when he stops eating entirely, setting down his utensils. 

"Rengoku-san, what's the matter?"

Rengoku looks down at the table. He folds his hands in his lap, as if he's sitting in seiza. You're struck by his gaze because he never looks directly at you.

"Kikuchi-san! You were drinking!"

You didn't drink that much, but the combination of a warrior's fine-tuned senses and his transformation probably meant that Rengoku could smell the alcohol on you. 

"Toshi told you, right? I deal alcohol. I have to drink sometimes."

"You didn't drink at your work yesterday!"

"I had nightmares last night," you admit. "It's fine," you wave your hand dismissively. "I'm a professional. I only take a nightcap on occassion. Alcohol has very little effect on me, and it's not like I have a drinking problem," you say, like someone with a drinking problem.

You've raised more children of drunkards than you'd like. You recognize the exact moment Rengoku shuts down behind the perpetual smile, and you backtrack.

"I won't drink to sleep anymore," you promise. "No more drinking at home while you're here."

At the disbelief in his enormous eyes, you make a show of pouring your Pappy's down the drain while Rengoku watches. You'll cry for your fine whiskey later. Rengoku's is gonna commit seppuku in a month, so you'd better go teetotaler for May.

"I apologize!" Rengoku declares at your heartbroken smile, but the line of his shoulders relaxes so you tell him it's fine.

..........

Before work, you call the Smith family in Alaska and ask them to send over a piece of ore from the Sundowner Mines. Then, you attend to your charities.

Your most important work is also your most boring work. You spend the morning trudging through applications for funding, comparing the proposals against the applying organization's statements and records as well as your charitable interests.

Downstairs, Rengoku's writing his family. Toshi has confirmed that your networks can dispatch mail into Japan without compromising your identity or location. From inside Japan, Rengoku's contacts will be able to get word to his relatives.

When you come downstairs from the office for lunch, you find Rengoku exactly as you left him, staring at a blank sheet of paper with an equally blank expression.

"What are you working on?"

Rengoku turns to give you his attention.

"I am writing my father!" 

There's this pose that you've come to recognize as characteristic, where Rengoku sits or stands with squared shoulders, back straight, arms crossed over his broad chest. It's the picture of confidence, but like his smile, the posture's everpresence makes you look deeper. You've noticed that when Rengoku's worried, he sits even straighter, like he's trying to convince others and himself.

He's sitting very straight now.

Time to figure out which of his parents is the alcoholic. Not both, hopefully. You pull up a chair.

"I've written lots of letters. Maybe I can help. Would you tell me about your father?"

"My father was a great man! He had been a demon slayer, the Flame Hashira before me—"

Rengoku stops. He's a demon now. That'll be a problem.

"Might it be easier to write your mother first?"

At the mention of his mother, Rengoku softens, the slope of his shoulders curving a degree. You look beyond his bright smile to the skin around his eyes relaxing even as the space between his brows tenses with grief.

"My mother passed on, years ago." 

The lines in his brow immediately smooth over.

"But a part of her will always be with me! My mother taught me to be strong!"

Rengoku launches into another monologue about his mother's persistent influence. You listen and ask questions. He has nothing but praise for everyone in his family, from his parents to his younger brother, but all his answers have the same determined cheer like his smile. He talks around or speeds over moments of grief. You listen to what he doesn't say.

His father's the alcoholic. You're nearly certain. His mother's illness sounds like consumption, not alcoholism. Though his father's alive, Rengoku usually speaks of him in past tense, as if the man has stopped being involved in his life. 

"Your father, does he like sake?" you ask, keeping your pose casual and observing Rengoku's reaction carefully.

"Drinking is not illegal, in Japan!" Rengoku answers immediately, but he tenses, watching your reaction like an owl watching a predator. That's enough confirmation, so you don't push further. You change the subject, tapping the empty letter.

"People respond to grief in different ways. I think this letter is difficult to write because you don't want your father to—worry. Is that right?"

You pause around the word 'worry' so he hears what you're not saying: by 'worry,' you mean 'start a drinking episode.' 

Rengoku deflates, his crossed arms falling to frame the paper. You keep your limbs loose and your smile gentle, showing with body language that you're not going to prod at his vulnerabilities.

"You are right," he agrees quietly, staring at the usual spot just over your shoulder.

"Why don't you start by saying you're alive?" you direct the conversation away from his father's drinking. "You can tell your father about my history and how I turned you, and let him decide what that makes you. I wouldn't call yourself a demon, and I wouldn't mention, ah—" you repeat the motion of drawing your fingers over your throat.

"I am not certain if you're a demon!" Rengoku agrees. "But I'm ready to take responsibility, if I am!"

So, he's going to mention ritual suicide. You sigh.

"Your choice," you point upstairs. "I'm headed back to work. I'll be in my office if you've any more questions, 'kay?"

After a pause, Rengoku actually stands and bows, "Thank you!"

He's too formal to merely be thanking you for the offer to help. He means thank-you for listening to him and being considerate of his family. A part of the thank-you might also be thank-you-in-advance, for keeping his secrets.

He's too young to be cramming all these secondary meanings into two words, like he's too young to be parenting a younger brother and taking care of an alcoholic father. No wonder Rengoku projects strength and good cheer regardless of his personal feelings.

"You don't need to thank me," you reply. "Elders are supposed to take care of young people like you."

Rengoku's brows furrow until he realizes that by 'elders,' you're referring to yourself.

"You look younger than I do!"

"I'm a thousand years old, mister."

"But you are so small!"

"Like a bonsai," you spread your arms and pose at the top of the stairs like a scraggly pine tree. "Tiny and ancient!"

You smile when that finally pulls a laugh from him.

..........

In the afternoon, you select the proposals you'll accept and telephone Toshi's office about your decisions. They will update your portfolio and investments to direct funding to the new project. You spend the remainder of the afternoon reviewing updates to projects you've previously funded, making note of their performance for assessing future proposals from the organization.

By late afternoon, you're satisfied with the amount of work you've completed, so you venture downstairs to tend your garden. In the grass, Rengoku moves through his breathing styles. He finds you after you've watered the flowers and trimmed the beetle-bitten leaves off the roses.

"Will you train with me!"

"But I'm a demon?" Isn't that some sort of security risk, a demon slayer training a demon?

"You're a good demon! You should learn to defend yourself!"

You grin, "When did I get upgraded from 'demon' to 'good demon?'"

"You work with humans! You helped Toshiro-san get an education! You support Ms. Patricia's family..." Rengoku gives you a real, honest list of reasons, from what he's learned about your staff to how you helped him. The young man's too earnest for teasing. You're blushing at all the compliments, so you agree grudgingly and immediately get your butt kicked seven ways to Sunday. 

"Never return to Japan!" Rengoku declares as he helps you up for the fifth time. "You will die!"

You hold up a finger until you can remember how to breathe. 

"I can't, fight like you," you pant. "But I'm, basically indestructible. Trust me."

"You can be killed with nichirin steel!" 

"What's, nichirin steel?" How's he not even breathing hard?

Rengoku stares. No wonder you believe you're indestructible. You've never been exposed to nichirin steel. In America, a being like you could be King and Emperor, decimating all human opposition and leaving nothing but a trail of blood in your wake. Yet you choose to live peacefully, grow flowers, and helps humans. If you're not a good demon, there are no good demons.

"Do not worry! I'll—" protect you, Rengoku wants to say out of habit. But that can't be true anymore. He's returning to Japan in a month. "Let me teach you breathing!" he offers instead.

"I know how to breathe," you hold a hand up to your chest, inhaling and exhaling as demonstration.

"That's not what I meant!"

If you met a demon slayer, even a hinoto, you would die.

Rengoku explains the Demon Slayers' fighting system, from Total Concentration Breathing and Breathing Forms, to nichirin steel, sunlight, and wisteria. Some of their weapons wouldn't work on you, but other descriptions sound familiar, like how wisteria can poison Japan's demons. Though Muzan's demons are more mad and less adaptable than you, they compensate for sanity and adaptability with unthinkable power. You're strong compared to most humans, but Kibutsuji's demons are monsters compared to you.

You also notice how Rengoku speaks of demons. He slaps on a smile for nearly every emotion, but you're experienced enough to read under his mask. In a thousand years, no one you turned has ever demonstrated such immediate, strong, and persistent self-loathing for becoming whatever you are.

Hatred is a good balm for natural, human fear. Muzan's demons may be monsters, but a particular madness is needed in humans who are to slay monsters. You wonder if all of Muzan's demons deserved to die. Rengoku mentioned that there are exceptions, 'good demons' like you. You wonder how many died under the demon slayer's swords before they had a chance to be recognized as exceptions.

..........

Patricia stares at Rengoku inhaling dinner. She touches your arm. You take in her expression, unsure if she's more dismayed at his manners or the exclamations. 

"'Umai,' means tasty," you translate. "Think of it as his compliments to the chef."

"I see. How do you say—Arigatou?" Patricia pronounces with a strong American accent. You nod. She must've learned that from Rengoku early this morning. "Is he always so—energetic?"

You have no idea because you met him two days ago, but Patricia doesn't know that. You shrug noncomittally. 

Maybe Rengoku's always like this. Part of it's his personality with that determined cheer. Another part of it must be Rengoku being a warrior. Bushido teaches warriors to live in the moment, since they could die in battle any—

Your hand freezes, the spoon of beef stew halfway to your mouth.

Now that Patricia's asking, you vaguely remember umai being something cultural. Weren't samurai taught to savor each bite of food like their last? If Rengoku's bushi, then he's eating like this is his last meal. 

When he showed up in your living room, Rengoku had a smashed eye, shattered ribs, and that hole in his chest. He said his mother told him that he was born strong to defend the weak. His mother sounds like a good bushi wife, but you are not bushi, and it turns your stomach, the thought of asking a child to kill monsters.

You put down the spoon, having lost your appetite. Patricia notes the pause in your eating and doesn't push. She changes the subject.

"You young people have so much energy," she shakes her head. "Or you should, Miss. You'd do well to learn from Mr. Rengoku."

"Excuse me?" you grasp at your chest, instinctively playing along though your mind's half elsewhere.

"Look at you, picking at dinner." Patricia tsks, "You'll need to eat better if you want to grow taller, dear. My daughter just turned fifteen, and she's bigger than you."

Her familiar voice grounds you in the lazy summer afternoon, the golden sunlight spilling across your dinner table. You sigh.

"I'm long past the growing age, Ms. Patricia. How was Rosie—"

"I'll eat my shoe if you're a day older than Mr. Rengoku."

Between plates, Rengoku perks up at the mention of his name. 

"Yes?" he stops eating to ask you both in Japanese.

"Nothing," you shake your head. Patricia marches on despite the language barrier.

"Miss Kikuchi," she points at you. "Is short," she holds her palm up, just above the table. 

"I'm not that short!" you protest, but Rengoku nods. Traitor.

"Miss Kikuchi," Patricia points again. "Should eat more." Patricia makes the motion of eating with a spoon. "Eat more," she repeats, pushing more plates over to you.

"Yes," Rengoku agrees in Japanese. "You are small! Eat!" 

You gesture at your half-full plate. Rengoku and Patricia shake their head with identical motions. You have food pushed to you by two people using two different languages, until you're staring hopelessly at a full plate and a second serving of stew.

"How was Rosie's birthday?" you ask Patricia over another measured bite. Patricia pats your arm.

"Focus on the food, dear," she mothers like the parents you don't remember. You take another bite of stew. 

When Rengoku and Patricia are done eating, you're only halfway through your meal. You watch them point around the room or mime before talking in Japanese or English, slowly learning each other's language. Patricia's quicker to catch on—she's always been clever with spoken tongues.

When you're mostly finished with your food, Patricia finally relents, talking with Rengoku through your translation. They compare growing up in Humbolt Park and Sakurashinmachi. Patricia teases Rengoku for coming from an obviously well-to-do family. You struggle to translate the humor. Through their conversation, you begin to picture Japan with stone and brick buildings replacing feudal mansions, paved roads running under telephone lines, steel locomotives criss-crossing the land, a little like Chicago went overseas.

..........

Patricia left a slice of cake from Rosie's birthday in your icebox, with apologies that she didn't know you had a guest. 

You didn't know you had a guest, either. You try to give the cake to Rengoku, since he's the guest. He refuses politely. You go back and forth until you end up cutting the slice in two. You each bring your own plate to the wooden dock by your lake, where you sit with feet dangling in the water. 

"Tasty!" 

You stop at Rengoku's first exclamation. 

"This isn't your last meal, you know?" you tap your spoon against his plate. "You don't have to savor each bite like your last, you're not gonna die here."

Rengoku blinks at the fierceness of your expression. It feels a little silly, someone as soft as you wanting to protect him. But it's also nice. No one's looked at him that way for a long time. You make him feel warm. 

You manage one bite of your half-slice before setting aside your spoon, overfull from Patricia's food pushing earlier. Kyojuro looks at your plate, having already finished his.

You give him the cake. He devours it with the usual stream of umai's. You've said your piece, so you let it go as his usual youthful enthusiasm.

"Do you always live like this?" Rengoku asks, watching you kick at the water.

You hum against the calls of cicadas and the glub-glub of carp eating grass.

"No, I only work Monday to Wednesday." The years have taught you the value of leisure. You've developed an operation that runs itself. "The remaining four days, I tend my garden. I've been reading Langston Hughes. For the last year or so, I've also been catching on modern medicine—I need to stay up-to-date because I did med school four hundred years ago. How does Kibutsuji live, do you think?"  

Rengoku starts at you casually dropping the name of the King of Demons, but you're not one of Muzan's spawn. You're all the way across the world in Chicago and Muzan can't kill you through his cells.

"What do you mean, how does he live!"

"Kibutsuji didn't do much when he was human, because he was always sick," you lived awfully similar lives despite being a nobleman and a slave. "What'd he get up to with a thousand years of free time?" Does he have meetings like you, Toshi, and Mr. Walsh? What do they talk about? Finding the blue spiderlily? Demon politics? Stock portfolios?

Rengoku stares like you showed up headless on his living room floor.

"Muzan eats people! Eating people makes him stronger!"

Eating people never seemed to do anything for you but make you less hungry. You're surprised Kibutsuji hasn't cured his reliance on cannibalism. How does he not feel constantly disgusted with himself? 

"Muzan turns humans into demons with his blood! He makes them search for the blue spiderlily!"

"He has demons search for the spiderlily?"

"Yes!"

You kick the lake, processing the information. Kibutsuji's demons did sound monstrous and animalistic from Rengoku's descriptions. But you expected Kibutsuji to have higher level intelligence from how powerful he seemed.

"No offense," you say into the sky. "But Kibutsuji sounds kinda dumb."

Rengoku laughs, because what else can he do but laugh? Real demons describe their King in fear and trembling. They die for mentioning his name. The demon slayers spent centuries fighting to eliminate the monster. Now, a little American girl halfway across the world hears the horrors in a country she hasn't visited in a millennium, and can only describe their struggle as 'kinda dumb'.

"Demons can only be active at night," you wave at the sky. "Most flowers don't bloom at night. No wonder he took so long and still couldn't find the spiderlily."

It probably doesn't help that you killed the last known batch several centuries ago. Blue spiderlilies are stupid delicate flowers.

"Why does Kibutsuji work with demons instead of people? People would be better at finding flowers."

"Demons are stronger! Muzan controls the demons he created!"

Your eyes snap open. The world seems to slow. You can pick out the sound of every bird in the bushes.

"What?" your voice interrupts their calls.

Rengoku explains how Muzan injects his blood into people to make demons. He describes how the King's blood can kill demon hosts, read their thoughts, or control their bodies.

You set aside the rest of the cake, swallowing the bile that rises in your throat.

It's been a thousand years. Slavery's supposed to be banned in Japan. Why do some things never change?

You lie down on the dock and close your eyes. You empty your mind like the Panchen taught you. Breathe in, breathe out.

The setting sun kisses the treeline. Rengoku's senses go on hyper-alert at sundown. He's acutely aware that despite the approaching night, he's out in the open without a nichirin blade or wisteria incense, as defenseless as you're vulnerable, stretched out on your dock, your eyes closed, your hands folded over your stomach.

Two days ago, he wouldn't have been able to imagine a demon at ease beside a Hashira. But you're not a demon, exactly. You're not a child and you can't fight like Nezuko. You're not weighed down with death or regret like Tamayo. You walk in the sun and make friends with humans. 

(You're also soft, and nice to hold.)

Rengoku plops down on the wood beside you, wiggling into a comfortable position. You open your eyes to the bright orange beacons of his. His irises seem to shine in the dusk. He turns away when you meet his gaze.

"I hope people in Japan can live like you, one day!" he shouts into the sky. 

You smile at him, and decide:

You are going to murder Kibutsuji Muzan.

The doctors spent years researching for him. Your friends died testing medicine for him. From what Rengoku told you, generations of demon slayers spent their lives and deaths wiping up the mess Kibutsuji made. And what did he do to deserve it all? 

He was born right.

You weren't. Slaves who couldn't control their tempers died, so you quietly tuck Muzan Kibutsuji's name into that part of you which devoured tens of thousands of murderers and rapists. 

Men and cash make war. You won't throw people into wars, but the demon slayer corps already exists. You'll add money, and the knowledge of beings that they would consider monsters.

............

When you return to the house, you find the notes from England in the old wooden trunks of your study instead of sleeping. You take a sheaf of papers downstairs, where you put a kettle on before you page through the crumpling parchment. Your notes still smell of wisteria musk. 

You hear Rengoku before you see him.

"Good evening, Kikuchi-san," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. He must still be worried about you drinking.

"Rengoku-san," you put down the papers and spread your hands to show their emptiness. He turns immediately on seeing you in your nightgown.

Unlike you, Rengoku's fully dressed, his shirt buttoned to his collar. He matched the buttons to the wrong holes. You resist the urge to tell him or adjust it for him, instead finding a throw to drape over your shoulders.

"I'm decent, I think."

Rengoku takes a peek before he fully faces you. You pad off into the kitchen as the kettle starts to whistle.

"Would you like tea?"

"No, thank you! What are you reading!" His volume has returned. He's glancing curiously at your notes when you find him in the living room. You separate your stack into two, handing him half the papers. 

"You study wisteria like Kocho-san, the Insect Hashira!" he observes from the sketches of flowers. 

You hum, wrapping your hands around the hot tea. The air conditioning's a bit too cold downstairs. The tile floor feels icy against your bare feet. You curl up on a couch, sitting with your knees drawn to your chest.

"You're not the first human I've turned. Neither are you the first immortal who wanted to die." You look away, into the darkness outside your windows. The hour is so late that the fireflies no longer glow. "I can't fight like you, but I've also killed demons."

Rengoku sits cross legged in the couch across from yours. You look younger than him, and you act so playful that it's easy to forget how you carry the weight of a millennium on your shoulders.

"Do you want to talk about it!"

You stare into your tea. Rengoku told you about his family, so you tell him about your decades at Oxbridge. You try to model how you have learned to process grief, describing the joy of science and discovery without avoiding the pain of loving someone who wanted to die.

He apologizes when you tell him about Luigi.

"I am sorry if my situation recalls bad memories!" he adds.

"You're very different," you reassure him. "You didn't consent to becoming a demon." Rengoku never promised you forever, only to break his promise. "And I'm not in love with you."

"That—that is true!" Rengoku flushes. You snicker at how easy he is to fluster. He stares at your smile and then away.

Chapter Text

Rengoku is trying to kill you, but he calls it training. Fifty laps on top of your lake, running fast enough not to sink in the water is not training. It's attempted murder, or, according to Rengoku, your morning warm-up.

When Toshiro comes to pick up Rengoku for going to the tailor's, your secretary finds you sprawled out like a starfish dying on the grassy lawn.

"What did you do to Madam?" he demands. He's not very intimidating eating the breakfast sandwich Patricia shoved in his hands as soon as he came in. Coffee does not a complete breakfast make, according to your cook.

"We were training!" Rengoku answers, because your lungs hurt from straining for air.

"I'm fine," you manage after a few more seconds. Toshiro offers a hand. You grab him and pull yourself up, cursing like a sailor in a dozen tongues, half of them extinct. Toshiro grins. 

"Nice work," he tells Rengoku, because he hasn't heard such colorful language from you in years. Rengoku beams, absolutely innocent. You stumble, your legs not working like you thought they would. Toshiro slings your arm over his shoulder.

“You going to the office?” he asks you in English.

"Please help," you groan. "I don't want to crawl up the stairs."

Toshiro grins at the image, "Sure, Madam." He loops your arm around his shoulders. You test your legs, your muscles starting to recover with their unnatural healing time. 

"When y'all go to the general store today, can you also get an extra packet of razors?"

Toshiro glances back at Rengoku, raising an eyebrow.

"He's not that hairy."

You try to elbow him in the ribs. Toshiro catches your arm. 

"Not for him, for me."

"No problem, Madam."

"Thanks, Toshi." 

You regain your footing. Toshiro releases you once you take a few steps, but he loops your arm though his when you stumble. You pat his back in thanks.

Rengoku watches you return to the house with your secretary. It must be American, how easily you touch each other. Or maybe you just know Toshiro better than you know him.

..........

You don't work on Thursdays. Instead of perusing your usual medical texts, you uncover the shelves with your old journals and address books, sneezing at the dust. With your telephone caught between your head and shoulder, you turn through yellowed papers recording the names and phone numbers of a dozen contacts who call you by a dozen names. 

Some pick up the phone immediately. Others are busy, so you leave messages. Yet others are unreachable by phone, so you send telegraphs or set aside snail mail.

Your last contact of the morning is Graziana Valentina Adorno, a 15th century Italian banker who recently emigrated to Switzerland with her 12th husband.

"Grüezi," Swiss German filters through the call in her rich vibrato. You wind back the clock five centuries, remembering your Italian.

"Ciao, Ana. Sono—" 

"No, no, tesoro mio," Graziana switches to Italian herself. "I would recognize your Fiorentino anywhere. What is your name this century?"

"Kikuchi."

"Ah, chrysanthemums. Bright, like sunshine—"

You think, suddenly, of Rengoku.

"Yes," you agree. "How've you been? Are you and Ian well?"

"It is the twentieth century, tesoro. I'm with a lady now."

"Huh." You don't apologize. Exchanges between you and the other immortals are often like this. You could swear Graziana had just moved, but a decade is not long for your kind. You will call, and the world will have changed between now and when you last spoke.

"Ian passed five years ago. Cancer. I still miss him when it storms in the vineyard. We used to gather the fallen fruit..."

She trails off, sighing.

"Tell me, tesoro—Does it ever get better, missing the ones you love?"

You think of Toshi and Luigi before him.

"I'm sorry, Ana." You always miss the people you loved. Even if they come back, it's never the same.

"I had suspected. But you did not call to chat about my love. What's your matter?"

At Graziana's prompt, you turn to your accounting books, silently visualizing the network of your investments in America and across the world. You describe the demon slayers and their mission to her. Graziana takes in the idea of beings like you, but bloodthirsty and unthinking. She doesn't question the demons, only your fiscal intentions.

"It's not like you to fund a war, tesoro."

You wrap and unwrap the cord of the telephone around your finger. Graziana hums a frottole.

"What do you know of my past, Ana?"

"Euf. Enough not to ask." Graziana taps her nails against the telephone receiver. "I might venture a guess? You are of Japan, like these demons. Your demons are not so different from you and I, no?"

"That's right. The demons were created by someone like me."

"You would not do this. I don't like it," Graziana tsks. "It is none of our business. You have not been home in the millennium, no?"

You think of 'home' and remember clammy hands holding you down on wooden tables worn smooth by the struggles of previous bodies. You remember bamboo straws jammed down your throat because the medicine they ferried was worth more than your body. You remember your companions' lips and fingers turning blue with medicine that functioned more like poison.

You remember the hole in Rengoku's chest.

"I won't let that place fail others as they failed me. I didn't start this, but I'll end it."

Graziana sighs.

"We," she corrects. "We will end this. Your war is our war, tesoro mio. I shall call you back."

..........

After lunch, you write the demon slayers. In a message to be included with Rengoku's letter to his superior, you ask if he might know how Rengoku appeared in your living room. Then, you summarize your past in Heian Japan, explaining that your history motivates you to ensure that no one else—demon or human—experiences such flagrant violation of their rights to dignity and freedom. A thousand years have given you the financial reserves to support your causes, and you want to fund the demon slayers.

You end the letter with a summary of your capabilities, from potentially useful assets, to your international networks. Though you like your privacy, you drop enough detail to allow the demon slayers to verify your financials. 

Your story still looks incredible on paper. The corps can check your finances, but you'll need proof to back your origins. 

You recall Rengoku mentioning that the demon slayer corps have their own medical reserves. They might be medics rather than scientists, but they should have the skills and equipment to check blood samples. You don't like the idea, but you don't see a better option. That's why you had Toshiro get extra razor blades.

..........

You hand over the letter.

Rengoku reads silently, bright eyes scanning through the lines. Halfway through, he looks at you and then back down at the letter. For once, he's not smiling.

"I didn't know you were a slave," he says.

Time, privilege, and education go far towards erasing supposedly insurmountable differences of class and birthright. The centuries have transformed you. Your humanity equipped you with the instincts to mold yourself into any situation for survival. Rengoku's from a Japanese bushi family, so you pulled on the persona of a yamato nadeshiko as easily as he breathes.

"There's a lot about me that you don't know."

"I want to learn!"

You blink. That might be flirtatious coming from any other man, but Rengoku seems entirely earnest. 

"There is a lot to know," you defer. "How about I show you around Chicago while you're here?"

He’s only here a month, but you would like the young man to have positive experiences of everyday living before he goes.

"I would like that!"

"Good," you direct Rengoku's attention back to your letter, "I was planning to put blood on the paper. Would that prove my identity to your Demon Slayers?"

Rengoku looks at the scars on your hands. You always wear long sleeves, so he can’t see how far they extend up your arms.

"Are you sure!"

Kibutsuji doesn't know yet. The first letter is the safest place to include your blood, so he doesn't get it.

"I'm sure."

"I think a drop would be enough!"

That's nothing. You've bled more for far worse reasons, but you've also been spoiled by centuries of easy living. The cardstock packet of razor blades feels heavy in your mind despite weighing nearly nothing in your hands. 

It's one thing when someone's dying. You don't have to think. But you can't stomach hurting yourself intentionally, having to plan ahead and figure the best way to do it. 

Rengoku kneels, an elbow resting on his knee so you're looking at him instead of at the ground.

"Can I help!"

You hold out the packet of razor blades.

"Can you—" you make the motion of cutting, unable to finish the sentence. "I'm sorry."

Rengoku takes the razors.

"Don't be sorry! I can do it! Let me know how I can help!"

You smile weakly, "Thank—"

The phone rings. 

..........

"Hello?"

While Rengoku prepares to draw blood, you answer Graziana's call

"Sono io, tesoro," she greets you. "Your plans are fluxing, the timescale will depend on them, but in any case I won't need long. A few months to a year will let me liquidate enough to fund your slayers."

"How much money can you get?"

Graziana tsks at you with European sensibility. Since she moved to France in the 17th century, she's considered it inelegant to speak of monetary amounts.

"You can assume that any problem solvable with cash is no longer a problem. Have you the electric printing telegraph? I'll send details."

You pass her the contact information of Toshiro's downtown office.

"Grazie. Now, this matter of your opponent. My associates in the orient pass word of a beautiful man, one Muzan Kibutsuji, with interests in chemistry and imports. You should know that he has his own financial reserves."

Kibutsuji was nobility. If your assets both grew in proportion to your initial wealth, he should be far richer than you are because you had nothing but your body and your burial clothes.

"Should we be worried?"

"Ha!" Graziana barks in laughter. "No. Japan's in retrenchment, and your country makes more than Britain, France, Germany, Japan, and Canada combined with, oh—a dozen smaller countries? Nina and I are considering emigration. Moreover, your particular investments are international."

"So—"

"We'll bury him in cash. Now, here's what I need from you, mio tesoro..."

You go over liquidation plans with Graziana, giving your permission and your opinion on specific assets' futures. After you end the call, you compare the financier's opinion of your assets with your own notes. You record the changes you've agreed on before turning through the pages, marveling at how you've grown through the years.

Kibutsuji may have never overcome the Heian nobility's myopic nationalism, but you panhandled the market streets of Gaesong-bu for years. Nobody starving gives a rat's ass about their nation's superiority—they're too busy eating the rat—which enabled you to see through the countries' propaganda. You invested in international growth, accumulating enough wealth to rival nations by the 18th century. 

You're ashamed of your hoarding now. It took the French Revolution and five generations of therapists to assuage your fear of poverty, but you've since learned to live modestly, divesting from unethical businesses and donating nearly all of your annual income from the remaining investments. Now, you maintain just enough wealth to fund your causes.

..........

When you come downstairs, the dining table's stacked with supplies. Rengoku has enough antiseptic and bandages for a major surgery. Beside the rows of bottles and cloths, Patricia wrings her hands.

"Miss, Mr. Rengoku said he needed all this for an operation?"

"I need one drop of blood!" Rengoku explains in Japanese, holding up one finger.

"What's going on, Miss?"

You wave your hands at Patricia and Rengoku.

"Don't worry, Ms. Patricia. I'm fine, really. It's just—" 

'I need to sign a letter in blood' sounds bad. You're pretty sure Patricia has some guesses about your not-quite-human nature, but you don't want to push it.

"I need a bit of blood for a blood test, that's all. Mr. Rengoku's helping me. You know I don't like needles.

You repeat this in Japanese for Rengoku, adding, "I think you might be over-prepared."

"Am not!"

"Sorry to worry you," you give a little bow in Patricia's direction. "We'll be fine, right?"

"Yes!" Rengoku agrees with no idea what you just said in English.

"If you say so, miss," Patricia leaves with a wink at Rengoku.

Before you can ask what that meant, Rengoku has you seated and the pad of your finger swabbed with antiseptic. One nick and it's done, your regeneration ability closing the cut as soon as he smears your finger across the letter. 

While Rengoku bandages your finger, you take a closer look at the stacks of bottles and cloths on the table.

Is that cooking vinegar?

"Ms. Patricia said to distract you!" Rengoku explains when he notices you reading.

At the mention of her name, Patricia pokes her head back into the dining room. Rengoku gives her a thumbs up, and she starts bringing the bottles and cloths back to the kitchen.

"My kids do better with needles when they're distracted," Patricia explains when she returns to the dining room again. You bite back ‘I’m not a kid,’ because that's exactly what a kid would do. Instead, you marvel at her language-barrier defying communication abilities.

Rengoku puts away the razors before helping Patricia with the bigger bottles and buckets. You grab a stack of cloths yourself, stopping at the doorway to the kitchen in case she still has knives out. Patricia takes the clothes from you. 

When you've cleared the dining table, Rengoku touches your arm. 

"Do you like when we fuss! Or should I pretend nothing happened!"

"I'm sorry?"

"My younger brother fusses! My father—he doesn't fuss."

Rengoku trails off in a way that makes you suspect his father ignores his injuries at best.

"Sometimes, that's easier!"

Rengoku smiles carefully. Your mind leaves the dining room for 16th century Britain. Luigi fussed, you think. It was suffocating.

"Please don't coddle me."

"Then I won't!"

..........

True to his word, Rengoku doesn't coddle you. He keeps you away from water and strain, but the rest of the afternoon passes in lazy normalcy. He continues testing the abilities of his demon(?) body with a bokuto passed on to Toshiro by a Japanese-American family that no longer practices kendo. You seal and post your letters abroad before returning home for dinner. 

Patricia went home early, so you eat with Rengoku and his shouts of "tasty!" After dinner, you bring the used dishes to the kitchen together. He does the dishes while you sit on the counter and watch. At his prompting, you recite what you remember of your breathing lessons.

Sunset finds you on the docks with dessert. You've still no idea how they communicate, but Patricia somehow knew to make loaded sweet potatoes after Rengoku mentioned his affection for yams. Before you touch the hot yam wrapped in aluminum foil, you unwrap the bandages to check your finger.

"Can I see!"

You put the yam in your lap and scoot closer to Rengoku, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him. After you nod, he takes your hand like you're made of glass. Rengoku checks that the cut's healed. His eyes follows your scars to where they disappear beneath the buttoned cuffs of your sleeves.

"Your scars! Do they hurt?"

"Sometimes, when it rains." 

While Rengoku's holding up his hand, you notice a curious pattern on its back, like a scar, but in an intentional pattern. 

"Is that a tattoo?" you point to the back of his hand.

Kyojuro's gaze follows your pointing. He shouts a word, and the character for flame appears on the back of his hand.

"The Demon Slayers have tattoos to show our ranks! Mine is the mark of the Flame Pillar!"

"Can I see?" you ask, holding out your hands.

Rengoku stares.

"You can!" he agrees after a pause.

You take his hand in both of yours. When you ask, Rengoku repeats his password. You watch the ink appear and disappear into his skin while he watches you, fascinated by your smaller hands around his.

Chapter Text

Through the University of Chicago, you source wisteria species from North America and Iran. You arrange their transport to Shanghai and Seoul, where the extent of your direct influence ends. But what are friends for?

Yan's contact information is outdated. They're even worse about keeping in touch than you are, but they're young. You're about to call Graziana for help when—speak of the devil—the phone rings with a Shanghainese number.

"Mama~" the familiar child's voice calls out from the telephone receiver.

"Yan, isn't it past midnight for you?"

"Maybe~"

You bite back the urge to remind Yan of their bedtime. Yan may look like a child, but they're more than sixty-years-old and intelligent beyond their biological age. They only insist on behaving like a kid because you'd met when they were young, but you shouldn't encourage that.

"Mama," Yan whines. "it's almost Yan'er's birthday~ Yan'er wants a present~"

You sigh. Like you, Yan'er doesn't know what day they were born. Unlike you, Yan'er picks a birth-month or two every year, whenever they feel like presents.

"What would you like?"

"Yan'er wants perfume! It's called number five. A white man brought a bottle from France to Shanghai. Now, all of the jiejie want one~"

"And how many bottles would you want?"

"One crate only. Yan'er is modest~ Right, Mama?"

"Not Mama. My name is Kikuchi this century," you remind Yan. "I'll get it to you soon. Happy birthday, Yan."

"Yan'er loves Mama~" and then they switch abruptly from a child's whine to talking business.

Yan passes you their current shipping address. From the conversations of their European clients, they've assembled a profile of the perfumer, her company, and what they want that you can offer in exchange. Yan delivers the thoughtful analysis in a disconcertingly childish voice.

Before they hang up, you make your request.

"Yan'er, while you're on the line, I also need a favor from you."

"What does Mama need from Yan'er?"

You glance at your notes on wisteria. The flower is prized for its beauty, perfume, and taste.

"I want wisteria to be the most popular flower, scent, and flavor in Japan."

"Aiya, Mama, Japan is too big. By this season's end, Yan'er can only cover Edo~"

You can hear the pout in their voice.

"That works. Please start with Tokyo. Be careful not to handle the plant yourself."

"Yan'er remembers, Yan'er is allergic. Yan'er is also poor, but flowers are expensive, Mama~"

You know from Graziana that Yan'er isn't poor by any stretch of the word, but they sound heartbroken.

"I'll pay for it," you sigh,."Money is no object."

"Mama is the best~" Yan'er cheers, their voice brightening instantly before they give an exaggerated yawn.

"Yan'er will need wisteria and adverts and recipes and celebrities and more. But Yan'er is sleepy now~ Yan'er will tell Mama all that Yan'er needs tomorrow~

"I'm sending some plants your way. Let me know what else you need."

"Okie~ Have a happy day, Mama~"

You bid Yan goodnight and call your friends in France. They tell you Yan's perfume is No. 5 and the perfumer called Coco. Just as Yan predicted, the mademoiselle is seeking to expand her couture into North America.

You can help with that.

..........

The following week, you receive Yan'er's requests for flowers and a list of wisteria-based products, from perfume and makeup to recipes for Western desserts. You assemble the list while Mr. Walsh finalizes the paperwork for your ownership of the new docks. You map out waterways and arrange shipments as your garden fills with white, pink, blue, and purple wisteria.

Rengoku wanted a section of hardwood that he's already carved from a tree with your permission. You're gifting rare plants to chefs at the Berghoff and the Drake Hotel, as well as botany professors at the University of Chicago. The French mademoiselle has requested fragrant dried flowers for the wisteria-based perfume you commissioned as a part of your new partnership. But most of the wisteria is bound for Shanghai, where Yan will distribute the dried plants and seeds. 

You've hired local perfumers and horticulturists to handle bulk drying for Yan and Coco, but you personally organize flowers for the demon slayers, labeling the sprigs with your notes.

Since you avoid blades, Rengoku cuts flowers for you. He brings baskets of wisteria that you group and label. While he hangs the organized fowers in the sunroom to dry, you arrange the unused flowers in milk bottles that you set aside for Annie, Amane, Patricia, and Toshiro.

Three bottles remain. You go to the sunroom, where Rengoku has strung the exposed wooden rafters with spools of twine. Your handwritten labels dangle along alongside sprigs of wisteria every few centimeters. When wind stirs the paper tags, the floral scents permeate the air.

"Would you like flowers for your room?" you call to Rengoku from inside the house.

Rengoku looks down from the stepladder. You stand in the spot of sunshine at the threshold, flowers spilling from your arms. 

"Can you repeat that!" Rengoku shouts. "I think I misheard!"

You cross the threshold to him, "Flowers," you enunciate clearly. "For your room. Will you take them!"

You hold up the glass bottle. Rengoku automatically accepts it from your outstretched hands. He peeks at your face. 

You haven't been Japanese for a thousand years, so you wouldn't be familiar with kabuki, or how wisteria flowers symbolize love and tenderness in the plays.

"Very beautiful," he tells the flowers, thinking of your smile. "Thank you!" 

The glass bottle is warm in his hands where your fingers had rested.

..........

All of the docks you purchased were operational on receipt, but the first shipments unveiled opportunities for expansions and improvements. You're back in Mr. Walsh's office by Monday, drawing up terms of construction for builders to bid on.

Walsh squints at you over the rims of his glasses.

"It's not like you to be distracted, Miss Kikuchi. Whatever is the matter?"

You pinch the bridge of your nose, "What isn't the matter? Torrio and Capone had Colosimo shot last Tuesday." A demon slayer showed up dying in your living room. You learned that Kibutsuji has been terrorizing Japan for the last millennium. You are funding a war to murder a former nobleman.

"I have also been hosting—a guest. From Japan. And learning about his work," you wave vaguely. "I've been busy."

"I wish you'd told me you had a guest," Walsh tsks. "I might have helped you plan your tour of Chicago."

You shake your head and immediately feel guilty. Toshiro has taken Rengoku around while running errands, but you've been too busy between your bootlegging business and attending to the demon slayers' needs. Rengoku hasn't voiced a word of complaint, but he's not a complainer. While you work, he practices his breathing beside the garden, where your gardeners have put down a sand lot for his training.

The young man's going to die in a month. You need to figure out whatever young people do for fun these days, and take him out on the weekends. He should have an opportunity to enjoy life while he's here.

"I have been a terrible host," you admit.

"You work too much," Walsh sets aside your papers, rubbing his hands together with the eagerness of a Chicago native ready to share his love of the city.

"Shall we take a break here? Perhaps I can help you plan your weekend. What does your guest like to do?"

You think of Rengoku's 'tasty!' exclamations.

"He likes to eat, especially yams. He likes wrestling and Japanese theater, but he's not fluent in English."

"So our theater's out. What about a performance in one of your speaks?"

"He doesn't like alcohol."

Walsh's eyebrows fly into his forehead.

"Your guest's a Temperance man?"

You shake your head, "Temperance doesn't exist in Japan. It's—ah, personal."

"No speaks, then. A pity. Boxing? That's similar enough to wrestling, I reckon." Walsh thumbs his chin. "But I can't see you watching an underground match, Kikuchi."

You smile, "Believe it or not, I don't like violence."

"I see your trouble," Walsh nods, but your lawyer doesn't back down. You spend an extra hour in his office, planning a day trip to the city instead of reviewing contracts. His secretary tries to take the time off your bill. You insist on paying for Mr. Walsh's time, but you do accept when his office offers you two tickets to the White Sox game Saturday.

..........

"I haven't been a very good host," you apologize to Rengoku over dinner that night. "I haven't taken you anywhere fun, or even into the city. I'm sorry."

"You and your staff have taken good care of me," Rengoku pauses, like being taken care of is a new notion for him. It probably is, and you feel worse at the thought. "Besides! Toshiro-san brought me to the city! I arrived in your house with no notice! You hosted me anyways! Do not feel sorry!"

"I'd like to be a better hostess. Will you be free Saturday? I was planning on a baseball game, dinner, and a walk around the city, but we can also make other plans for anything else you'd want to do."

"What do you like to do!" 

You rub your nose, embarrassed. You got most of the partying out of your system in France before the revolution. Now, you spend most of your time at home, reading or gardening, except for the occasional visit to your speaks. That's not an option here, given Rengoku's history with alcohol.

"I've been a homebody these last few decades."

Rengoku's bifurcated caterpillar brows furrow, "But you supply illegal drinking establishments!"

"I like fast cars. And dancing," you admit, thinking of the slinky flapper dresses in the back of your closet.

"I would like to see the places that make you happy!"

You tilt your head at him. Rengoku wears his shirts buttoned to his throat unless he's training. You can't for your life imagine him letting loose anywhere, much less in a speak.

"You don't drink." 

"Would I have to drink!"

"You wouldn't have to do anything you don't want to," you pause. "But, ah, I like to keep a low profile." 

Rengoku's one of the most striking people you've ever met, and you've met a lot of people. He'd stand out anywhere even if he wasn't one of the few Japanese people in Chicago. Some bootleggers like attention, but you're not one of them. When you don't grow old after decades, people ask questions.

"I can be quiet!" Rengoku declares, loudly. "I really can," he repeats at normal speaking volume this time. You smile despite yourself.

"My speaks are loud," You gesture at your hair. "Don't get me wrong. I think you're very striking. But I've never met anyone who looks like you, and I'm a thousand years old."

Rengoku blinks. You think he's striking.

"I can cut my hair! And dye it! Would that work!"

You tap your lip. Rengoku's gaze follows the path of your finger across your lower lip before his eyes snap abruptly to yours. He holds your gaze like he's not changing his mind.

"Are you sure?" you ask again.

He nods, "It would be no trouble!"

..........

You prefer menswear in your day-to-day life. The straight, loose cut of women's summer fashion is comfortable, but the sleeveless dresses bare all your scars. Unfortunately, Chicago's daytime crowd ain't so fashion forward that you can get away with wearing trousers out as a woman. While Rengoku gets his hair done, you scour your closet for a nice dress and long-sleeved cardigan.

You end up with a sheer voile dress and fine silk cardigan to match your soft cloche cap. Since you're going out, you rouge your cheeks, line your brows, and paint your lips dark red. 

Graziana sends you the latest in comfortable wear and skincare from Europe. Beauty standards have varied so through the centuries and around the globe that you don't pay much attention to how the coloring changes your features. Bold daytime makeup is in this decade, so you put on enough to blend in.

When you come downstairs, Rengoku stares.

"Is there a problem?" you ask at the persisting silence.

"You are a modern girl!" he shouts like it's a revelation.

You frown at the unfamiliar term, moga, until you remember Amane telling you about her return to Japan last year. Western clothes are normal clothes for you, but in Japan, wearing Western dresses instead of kimono makes you moga, a modern girl. 

Being moga comes with positive connotations, like being self-sufficient and fashionable. Women who dressed like you front magazines in Japan, but financial and emotional freedom also means rejecting traditional Japanese values. Dressing in Western clothes is a symbol of rebellious, libertine women.

Rengoku's the eldest son of a bushi family. Men like him associate with good, traditional women who wear kimono and obi to social outings, not garçonne in sheer voile and slinky silk dresses.

"I'm not Japanese," you remind him. "This is normal dress here." But knowing that and feeling fine with it are two different matters. "Does it make you uncomfortable, going out with me dressed like this?"

Rengoku shakes his head, hard.

"I am comfortable with you! As you say, you are not Japanese! Even if you were, you should wear what makes you happy!"

He flushes, avoiding your eyes. 

"I was surprised, is all! The dress—it suits you! Very well!"

"You cut quite a figure in a suit yourself," you nod at his jacket and vest. Then, you go to look for your bag, so you don't notice Rengoku's flush growing brighter.

..........

You haven't followed baseball since the 19th century, when the National Association barred participation by African Americans, but you remember the rules well enough to explain the game. Rengoku yells that he can read lips to save you the shouting. He's heard of baseball, though it's not played professionally in Japan.

You quickly catch him up on who's your home team and how they score. Before the end of the first inning, he's shouting in time with the crowd, his volume startling the people in the row before you. By the time the concession runners come to your stands, he's praising his favorite players using nicknames based on their dress or mannerisms.

You nod along, nibbling on a hotdog. You pass Rengoku his coke when he reaches for it. He sips and hands it back with a "umai," before refocusing on the game.

While he watches baseball, you watch the people in the stadium. The last time you'd been to a baseball game, the field was dirt and bleachers instead of a grassy baseball diamond and stands with plastic seats. But the crowd had been integrated instead of overwhelmingly white people. Since Plessy v. Ferguson upheld "separate but equal" accommodations for white and black people, America had been re-separating on a racial divide. As a northern city, Chicago was less formally segregated than the south, but Black Chicagoans and immigrants were increasingly confined to the South Side by discrimination and redlining. Even at the ballgame, most everyone you see is white.

Segregation has minimal impact on your day-to-day life. Asians are rare enough in Chicago that you got stares anywhere, on the North Side or the South Side. Wealth and personal connections got you the access you wanted in either world, while safety was never a concern because you're virtually indestructible. But as someone who lived through the American Civil War, you hate to see your country regressing, the rights that you and your friends fought for being scraped away.

Your charities have planted the seeds for changing public sentiment and political agents, but seeds take time to grow. It never feels fast enough when real people have to suffer.

"Are you having fun!"

Rengoku pulls you out of your thoughts with his voice. His eyesseem brighter under the sunshine and the contrast of his newly dark hair.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself." Rengoku reads your lips. "I'm happy you're happy."

"That doesn't answer my question!"

You shrug. Baseball's the national sport, but you've seen more than enough games in your long long life.

You're more interested in Comiskey Park. Being a local made you assume you'll go eventually when the stadium was finished. Now, it's been ten years, but you've never been.

"I've seen too many baseball games for another one to be much fun. Do you mind if we look around? I haven't been here before." You have to toss the hotdog wrapper and return the coke bottles anyways.

"Good idea!"

The crowd grows dense when you climb to the top of the rows of plastic seats. You glance at Rengoku's hand, but you can count on one hand the number of times he's willingly touched you. You grab his sleeve instead, searching his expression to ensure he's comfortable with the contact.

Rengoku turns when you tug on his sleeve. He looks at your smaller hand next to his.

If he were Toshiro, he thinks, you would've taken his arm.

When he doesn't pull away, you tell him your plan for covering the two tiers of the stadium: first, you'll circle the crowds on the bottom, and then you'll go up top to the balconies.

Halfway across the bottom circle of the stadium, you spot concession stands selling the sweet potato fries that Mr. Walsh mentioned. Rengoku's delighted. You order five servings, less than you would've liked, but there's a line behind you and you don't want to keep the families waiting.

As you eat, a young man in a newsboy cap approaches you. Rengoku stops eating to regard the guy with his full attention.

"May I help you?" you prompt the newcomer.

"'Scuse me, missus. Mister," he adds with another glance at Rengoku's startling eyes. "We was wonderin' if y'all know a Missus Kikuchi."

The guy pronounces his English with Italian vowels, so 'Kikuchi' sounds like 'key-koo-chi'. A runner for the Italians, then, if he knows your name. Probably Torrio.

"Does he mean Kikuchi!" Rengoku asks you before you can respond. The messenger recognizes the correct pronunciation of your name.

"Missus Kikuchi," the runner tries, sounding better the second time time. "Mister Capone would like ya te join him in his box up top." He points at the private boxes in the balcony.

"I'm sorry, I don't know a Mister Capone."

"Mister Capone says he'd like to know ya."

"Perhaps another day. I'm with a guest right now."

"He says your guest's welcome te come with ya."

You continue smiling, repeating the "perhaps another day" response until Rengoku interrupts, hearing you repeat the same sounds at least three times.

"Do you want to go!"

Of the phrase that you keep repeating, Rengoku doesn't understand 'perhaps.' But he knows what 'day' means, and 'another' sounds like 'other.' 'Other day' would be you declining or postponing a request. The young man might be making you uncomfortable, though you remain smiling.

"One of my competitors invited me to a meeting that I just declined," you translate in Japanese. "His messenger was just leaving."

You switch from Japanese to English for the messenger, "I was telling my guest here that you were just leaving. Isn't that right?"

The young man's gaze switches between you and Rengoku with your matching smiles. There's something vaguely threatening about the missus, and the mister's orange eyes are too unnerving. Faced with you both, he decides he'd rather deal with Capone. He scurries back up to the balcony.

..........

You're a millennium too old to change your plans for gangsters, so you go to the second-tier of the stadium as planned despite the encounter with Capone's lackey. You're walking through the hallway connected to the private boxes when you come across a portly man leaning on his doorframe. He's sharply dressed in a linen suit with a tie in silk that shines like water.

"Miss Kikuchi," the man doffs his trilby. "You're as pretty as a china doll, like they say."

Rengoku must sense something dangerous about Capone, because he puts himself between you and the gangster.

"It's fine," you murmur in Japanese. Bootlegging's a quarter mind-games and intimidation. You don't show alarm even if you feel it. Fortunately, not much alarms you after all these years. 

Rengoku also kept his permanent smile. He watches your body language and relaxes.

"I hope they also mentioned that I'm only passing through and not looking to stay, Mr. Capone."

Capone takes your free hand, shaking it with both of his. Rengoku stares at the contact.

"They also mentioned you'd be available another day. Can I interest you in dinner at the Drake?"

"What did he say?" Rengoku asks as you pull away from Capone. 

"He asked me to dinner. For business."

"Is that so!"

"Your friend has interesting eyes," Capone smiles at Rengoku. Rengoku smiles back, the hard smile you recognize from when he first arrived in Chicago.

Capone's fishing for how you respond when he calls Rengoku your friend. You sidestep the question.

"I apologize, but we must go."

Capone shifts slightly, his posture as relaxed as ever, except he's now blocking your path downstairs.

"I can move him!"

Rengoku doesn't step in immediately out of respect for you, but he offers.

"No need."

You both speak in Japanese, keeping your tones even and your smiles on, so Capone can't derive more information from your expressions. Capone smirks like he understood anyways.

"The Drake this day next month," you decide. Rengoku'll have returned to Japan by then. You don't want to alarm him by coming home covered in blood. Hopefully, it won't come to that. "You can pick the time, Mr. Capone."

"Al, for the dolls," he winks. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. "I'll send the hour to—Mr. Toshiro, is it?"

Capone's dropping that he knows Toshiro's name and address. You'll have to up the security on his home and office.

"That will do, Mr. Capone," you agree, your tone even.

Capone replaces his hat, moving aside to hold the door of his private box open behind him. The messenger from earlier ducks down, avoiding the trio of piercing gazes.

"Are you sure you don't want to stay, Miss Kikuchi? You can keep your bodyguard."

"Good day, Mr. Capone."

..........

"I don't like him!" Rengoku declares as soon as Capone's door shuts. "He's forceful and intelligent because he pretends to be soft!"

You know that because you're in the business and American, but Rengoku barely met Capone.

"How could you tell?"

"He shook your hand to be polite. But he blocked you when you wanted to leave. I think he's a dishonest person!"

"He's a criminal," you pause. "Then again, I am, too."

Rengoku may serve an unrecognized operation, but the demon slayers corps are still a surreptitiously permitted military force. Your job's illegal, plain and simple. Your differences extend far beyond your culture and styles of dress.

Rengoku pauses, thinking in one of his rare silences.

"I am not well-read on your laws!" he replies once you return to the first floor. "They seem very different from Japan's laws. Toshi-san said that in America, your 'large fish' criminals can afford to have the law rewritten. For example, drunkenness isn't illegal in Japan!"

You nod, pulling Rengoku closer by his sleeve. You'd never say this in public, but nobody else in Comiskey Park speaks Japanese, so Rengoku gets your full treatise on why illegal substances should be legalized. Prohibition's stupid because people are always going to drink. Without regulation, violent criminals like Capone have the opportunity to dominate the trade, not to mention people getting poisoned by backwater moonshine and bathtub gin from the lack of regulations. Then, there's the crooked law unevenly enforcing substance bans to hurt already disadvantage communities. 

You sigh, "We don't have demons like you, but bad people are everywhere."

"Like the man on the second floor!"

You shrug. You've only met Capone once.

"I like to give people a chance."

"Is that why you agreed to dinner!"

"A business dinner," you pause. "You understood us?"

"I did not understand a word! You spoke too fast. But if you weren't picking a time to eat, you would not have spoken for so long!"

No wonder Rengoku communicates so well with Patricia. His ability to figure meaning from context is amazing.

"I'm certain that man wants more than business with you!"

You smile grimly. Capone started as a pimp. You like to give everyone a chance, but you also prepare for the worst. Many men like him don't think of women as leaders or peers, and it doesn't help when Western media portrays Asian woman as submissive sexpots.

"He can't make me do anything I don't want to," you shrug, popping your knuckles. 

"What do you want!"

You give an overview of the current Chicago gangs so you can explain your plan to limit Capone's violent tendencies while accessing the Irish-American neighborhoods under his boss Torrio's control. 

"That's not what I meant!"

You tilt your head in a question, waiting for him to continue.

"I meant what you want in a partner!" Rengoku shouts, staring straight ahead.

He's seen modern girls in downtown Tokyo and on department store advertisements, but he's never spoken at length with a moga beyond rescuing them from demons or politely declining advances. The stereotype is a free-spirited young woman who buys what she likes and loves whom she chooses, but you don't seem particularly interested in shopping or romance. You said you're not a moga. He doesn't know what you are.

He does know that you haven't mentioned a lover besides the Italian man who passed on centuries ago. But you're kind, clever, and good with finances. He couldn't imagine a more eligible woman, so you must have had no shortage of suitors.

The ballgame ends. The crowd begins to push towards the ballpark entrances. You grab onto Kyojuro's sleeve, hoping you can hold on in the rush until he takes your arm.

"Is this acceptable!" he asks you, his grip gentle over your cardigan. You can barely feel the touch with your thick scars.

"Yeah!" you shout back.

He beams. His bright eyes close and his thick eyebrows go up. With his newly dark hair and his question about what you want in a partner, you are suddenly reminded of another young man from long ago.

You don't have many data points to extrapolate from, but there's a pattern in the sorts of people you've loved: they're all cheerful, kind, and good in a way you'll never be. They make you love a world that you're sometimes not convinced that you like. Then, they die.

Qing Secret:
Yan was a child prodigy and the AMAB child of a prostitute in 1860's Shanghai. You turned them in their tweens or early teens.

Chapter Text

After dinner, you start the evening at Hotel DeJonghe. Their dining room has thirty tables draped in white cloth for two diners each. The tables are small enough you can lean over and translate the menu for Rengoku, but too small for all the dishes you order. After the waiter confirms you're truly only a party of two, he pushes a second table over.

As your dishes fill the table, the restaurant fills with other diners. 

"No one here looks like us," Rengoku observes in a normal speaking tone, his voice softer because he's noticed the quietness of the other diners. A few of the diners still glance over at his volume and the unfamiliar sound of Japanese. You ask your waiter for empty plates and bows, so you can share the dishes instead of claiming your own, American-style.

"Less than one in ten-thousand Chicagoians are Japanese."

It was less obvious in Comiskey Park, where the crowd was massive, moving, its attention elsewhere. The identical tables at DeJonghe makes the contrast between you and the other diners obvious. Besides the wait-staff, you and Rengoku are the only non-white people in the restaurant, perhaps because the owners happen to be personal friends with your lawyer.

Halfway through the meal, the eldest DeJonghe brother shows to ask how you're enjoying dinner. You translate Rengoku's compliments to the chef and give your own opinion. Henri taps the Shrimp DeJonghe and laments that the dish tasted better before Prohibition, when Emil would cook with sherry. When he says goodbye with a handshake, you slip your business card in your hand. Your next sherry shipment isn't arriving until the autumn, but you'll take advance orders as a favor for a friend.

"Business?" Rengoku guesses at your sleight-of-hand.

You nod, tapping the shrimp, "Normally, this is made with white grape wine."

"Senjuro also cooks with sake!"

Several diners jump at his volume. You nod in understanding. Cooking with sake uses up the sake, so their father drinks less. 

You'll never get used to how cheerfully Rengoku and his younger brother have adapted to their father's alcoholism.

"I hope Father is taking care of himself," Rengoku murmurs with concern instead of resentment. He is better than anyone this world will deserves.

"Your letters should have arrived this week," you remember. "You'll hear back from your family before you depart Chicago."

Both of you go quiet at the thought of his departure.

..........

You rap on the side door of Fanny's Fried Chicken. The bouncer's familiar eyes glance out from the slot in the door. Tommy recognizes you before you can give him the Coop's passcode for the month. The iron door swings open. 

The scent of drink and sweat hits you like a warm front. Rengoku crosses his arms over his chest. Tommy's eyes narrow at the shorter man's hard smile and startling gaze. The bouncer may be taller, but Rengoku's presence is like fire, spreading wild and sucking the oxygen from the air. 

You take Rengoku's sleeve. He glances at you but doesn't pull away. You hold on, nodding at Tommy.

"He's with me," you tell the bouncer. Tommy steps back. "We can go home as soon as you like," you tell Rengoku in Japanese.

"Understood!" he marches into the speak like he's prepared for battle. You sigh and pull on his sleeve, steering him into a dark corner far away from the bar. This spot's usually for necking couples, but it's clear while the nights young.

"Rengoku," you lean close so he can hear you above the noise of the speak.

"Yes!"

He relaxes minutely when he recognizes the scent of wisteria. It sticks to your skin. You're close and you smell familiar, like the flowers that have saturated his room in their scent over the past days.

"We leave whenever you want to, including now. If you want to leave, tell me. If you don't feel comfortable saying so, grab me," —you demonstrate on your own arm— "and squeeze my arm three times in a row."

The last part's normally for the young women who go out with you, but you figure offering can't hurt.

Rengoku considers your arm. He doesn't squeeze, but he takes your arm carefully. 

"Is this acceptable!" 

"Yes," you nod, moving from sandwiching him between you and the wall to leaning against the wall beside him. You want Rengoku to feel safe, so you wait for him to move when he's ready.

Beside you, Rengoku takes deep breaths and shakes his head once. His hair flies everywhere like an owl with fluffed up feathers. You smile, tucking the image away, a memory for the ages.

"I am ready!" he declares. You make your way into the speak, patting his hand on your arm. He holds on tight.

..........

Merri saved you a quiet corner booth. 

The manager of your speak is technically Merriweather, after the American explorer born in her home state of Virginia. You'd met her at an annual meeting of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, funny enough. Being neither Christian nor Temperate but a very good liar, you'd recognized the spark in Merri's eye as her dear aunt waxed poetic on the evils of drink. One thing followed another, and now she's managing the Coop at the tender age of twenty-two.

Merri pulls you into her ample chest.

"Miss Kiku, darling! And who's this?" 

She releases you, offering Rengoku her hand to shake. His gaze lingers on her hair, its platinum blonde similar to his natural hair color under the sodium lights. Merri flashes a smile that could give even him a run for his money.

Rengoku takes a second to react to Merri's English, with its harsh Midwestern accent instead of your soft southern vowels. Americans say their family name last, he remembers.

"My name is Kyojuro Rengoku!"

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Kyojuro—"

"No, Rengoku."

"Mr. Rengoku, good to have you with us."

"All the way from Japan," you add. Merri catches on with that reminder and Rengoku's accent. She slows her speaking just enough to enunciate every word clearly.

"Welcome to America, Mr. Rengoku."

"Thank you!"

Merri nods, putting her hands on her hips before turning back to you. The gesture lifts her dress by the shoulders, silver tassels sparkling in the light. Heads turn and you grin, knowing half the speak's here for Merri as well as the drinks.

"So, Miss Kiku. What will you and your guest be having today?"

"Virgin Old Fashioned's."

Merri raises an eyebrow at 'virgin,' but she shrugs and doesn't ask questions as you make the rest of the order.

...........

"The people are different colors! Like us!"

You nod. Several upperclass speaks are whites-only. You're not white, so you don't supply those.

Merri slides into the booth beside you with two virgin Old Fashioned's and her own drink. You slide one to Rengoku.

"It has no alcohol," you tell him. He nods, taking a sip. 

"It isn't very sweet!" Most American desserts are too sweet for his tastes, you've noticed. "Good," he tells Merri in English. "Thank you!"

"You're very welcome, Mr. Rengoku. What brings you to America?"

Rengoku pauses. You translate, knowing he understood. Language skills aside, there's no easy way to explain 'I turned up dying in her living room.' You're about to answer with a white lie, but Rengoku beats you to the punch.

"I work, with Miss Kikuchi!"

Merri's eyebrows go into her forehead. 

"You seem like very different people." She crosses her arms, opening her eyes wide to mimic Rengoku's straight posture and piercing stare. "Don't tell me he don't remind you of a copper. A policeman," she explains to Rengoku. "You are like a policeman."

You translate.

"I am responsible for public safety!" he agrees in Japanese. You tell Merri, and she elbows you in the ribs, guffawing. 

"Darling, when'd you go and start working with 'officers of public safety?'"

"I've many different investments with very different people," you shrug. "Like you and me, we're very different, aren't we?"

Merri sighs, tugging at your cardigan, "One of these days, we'll get you in rags that show some skin."

Rengoku asks. You translate again.

"I always wear long sleeves," you add in Japanese. "It covers the scars. She doesn't know," you tilt your head in Merri's direction, just not enough for her to notice, but enough for Rengoku to understand.

Rengoku's gaze moves from your quiet smile to Merri's lively grin, then back to you. He turns suddenly to the dance floor, pointing at a couple skipping across the wood floor.

"What is—" he mimics their arm movements, looking to Merri for an explanation. You take a sip of your virgin cocktail, grateful for the change in subject. 

"They're dancing the Charleston!" Merri exclaims, adding the arm motions to illustrate her English when she says 'dance.' "Do you dance, Mr. Rengoku?" she asks, repeating the same arm motions with the word.

"I do not, dance!" Rengoku repeats, quickly learning the new word. Merri nods encouragingly. Cal waves at her from the bar.

"Well," Merri pats your arm, "Miss Kikuchi here is an excellent dance-er. I'm sure she'd be happy to show you the ropes." 

Merri slides out from your booth to attend to her next customers. You translate for Rengoku.

"Would that be appropriate!"

Do Japanese people not dance?

"Dancing is appropriate here," you confirm, nodding. "I could teach you?" 

He looks at you, and then away.

"In that case! I would like—"

By the bar, Merri's new guests start shouting. One man throws a punch. The other reaches under his arm, and the speakeasy erupts in a brawl.

..........

Before you know it, Rengoku's across the speak, forcing the brawlers apart. Tommy and Cal react first, grabbing the brawlers from Rengoku and escorting them out of the Coop. It's over before most people notice it happening. 

The good thing's that the instigators aren't a regulars. Merri can throw them out without worrying about losing repeat business. The bad thing's that the instigators aren't regulars. You don't know their background. To expand their turfs, gangs or speaks send rabble-rousers to competitors. Brawls scare your customers away to neighboring speaks.

"Kiku, have you got a sec?" Merri calls from the storage. "Leslie's got some info on the rascals."

You glance at the storeroom, and then at the front of the house, where the guests at the tables next to the rabble-rousers have ushered Rengoku into the bar. He's holding a whiskey as thanks for his quick response. Rengoku takes one sip of the alcohol and coughs. The man beside him thumps his back. Rengoku laughs with him and the others, but there's a wildness to his gaze as he searches the speak.

"I'll handle it tomorrow."

You vault over the bar to Rengoku's side. He senses your presence before he sees you. He reaches blindly for your arm, grabbing on and squeezing thrice.

If you were out with a girlfriend, you'd mention their boyfriend's arrival and steer them out. You can't do that here. Mention Rengoku's boyfriend, and you get trouble. Mention a girlfriend, and he gets teased about the ol' ball and chain. You're in a society that doesn't take women seriously, unless it's about sex.

Oh, boy.

You swallow Rengoku's drink and drape yourself across his lap, feeling like a cradle robber. 

Under you, he goes very, very still. You cross your legs, looping one arm around his shoulder.

"Sorry, gents," you smile at his well-wishers with hooded eyes, pitching your voice so it carries. "He's got an urgent evening appointment with me. Isn't that right?"

The air of your sentence ghosts over his throat. Rengoku stops breathing. You spoke too soft and low for him to understand the English, but he feels the purr of your words.

"Say yes and carry me out of here," you instruct in Japanese. He can almost feel your lips, soft and warm on the shell of his ear.

"Yes!" he says in Japanese and then English. You're wrapped in his blazer and scooped into his arms. You wave and the crowd parts, Rengoku carrying you through the bar amidst hoots and hollers. You depart with a wink, your arms draped over his back. From the storage room, Merri wolf whistles. You flip her a one-finger salute against Rengoku's back.

As soon as the door falls shut, you drop the seduction act, hopping out of his arms. 

"You all right?" you ask, patting his back with the hand resting on his shoulder.

Rengoku turns his unblinking stare on you. You could swear his eyes glow in the dark.

"What was that! In the speakeasy—"

You grin when he pronounces the English word with a Japanese accent, like 'su-pi-ku-iji,' but the night wind carries away the noise and heat of the speakeasy. Your mind clears with the breeze. You rub your nose, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. 

"I pretended to seduce you. It got people to move aside, thinking we were eager to leave."

In a pinch, your first instinct is to make other people do what you want. Deception and misdirection come easy to you, but Rengoku doesn't have a dishonest bone in his body. Like Merri said, you're very different people.

"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable," you offer, remembering how careful he is with touch. 

"Do not be sorry!" Rengoku pauses, swallows. "You were effective," he adds softly before his volume returns. "In making people move, that is!"

He plows through the nuances of social and group interactions. Rengoku knows this. Uzui and Kocho are the hashira for covert missions, not him, but he understands that subterfuge can be powerful. You feel soft and small and nice in his arms, but you wield a different sort of power than what he knows. A word here, a nudge there, and everything changes.

..........

Rengoku goes quiet on the drive home. You have your driver David drop you off at the driveway instead of the front door. On the walk to the house, you wait for Rengoku to fill the silence and tell you what's on his mind.

Halfway across the road, Rengoku stops.

"I do not like this strength!" he shouts, startling a bird. "It is unfair, in a fight with humans! Unnatural!"

You think of the bar brawl, how quickly he ended the fight. But Rengoku was always strong, or he wouldn't have survived that chest wound until he met you. It's not the strength that bothers him.

"Because you're not human, that's why being strong bothers you?"

"Yes! I'm not human," he admits softly, like he can barely bring himself to admit it.

You've never turned someone who's been raised to hate what he is. But you're no stranger to hating your own body.

The darkness of the night, the sparkling of the stars, and the alcohol in your blood gives you courage. You take off your cardigan. Beneath the silk, your arms are more scars than skin.

"I'll aways find it a little disgusting," you admit, staring at the rows of pale, stiff, raised scar tissue that wrap your arms from shoulder to wrist. You can't bear to touch the textured skin. 

"You are not disgusting!" Rengoku shouts. You huff. He can't even see your arms in the darkness.

He holds out his hands.

"Your arms. Can I see them!"

You back away instinctively. 

In the light of the sodium lamps that light your driveway, Rengoku's hands are big, calloused, and scarred. He doesn't have a doctors' elegant hands. You swallow and offer your arms, tensing your muscles so you won't flinch at the foreign contact against long-untouched scar tissue.

Rengoku notices your stiffness.

"Does this hurt!" he asks, releasing you with more care than you'd thought a bushi could muster. When you shake your head, his hands return, thumbs gently tracing the lines of the scars on your arms. "Tell me if it hurts!"

His touch is so light it tickles. You giggle. Rengoku smiles softly, still looking away from you. 

"You are not disgusting," he yells at the streetlamp. "I find you beautiful!"

Were he any other man, you might think him flirtatious, but Rengoku's completely earnest, which is somehow more endearing.

"Gosh," you realize aloud. "Girls must fall over themselves trying to marry you."

Rengoku pauses. He looks at you, then back at the streetlamp.

"No, thank you! I do not want three wives!"

You frown, wondering where he's getting that specific number before you steer the conversation back to your original point.

"Knowing that I'm not disgusting and believing it are two different matters," you tell Rengoku as he examines your arms. "I may never get over how I feel about my scars. But I remind myself that scar tissue is strong. That my body has served me well through the years. That I've helped many people.

"You may not like what I've made you," you agree. "But that's my fault, not yours. You may not like your strength, or find it natural. But I don't think you should regret using what you have now to shut down violence, like you did today."

"I do not regret what I did!" Rengoku agrees. He stops there. You withdraw your arms, pulling the cardigan on and the sleeves down so your scars are fully covered.

It's not your place to tell him that he shouldn't kill himself, but you still feel responsible for Rengoku's self-hatred. 

"For what it's worth, I don't think I'm a demon like Kibutsuji. Shouldn't it follow that the people I've turned are different as well?" 

"I do not think you are like Muzan!" Rengoku agrees, "But what I am is not for me to decide!"

He speaks with the conviction of a warrior used to putting his fate in others' hands. Rengoku has told you that another demon was trialed by the hashira and his 'oyakata-sama' before her acceptance into the Demon Slayer Corps. He expects he'll be subject to similar procedures on his return to Japan.

"We should hear from your organization in a week or so," you offer.

You hope for their own sakes that the leadership of the Demon Slayer Corps makes the correct decision. You won't interfere with their trial out of respect to Rengoku. But, if Rengoku is no longer a member—

The Demon Slayer Corps and their so-called 'master' have done nothing to earn your respect. You are going to kill Muzan Kibutsuji, and you are not above replacing the incompetent leadership of an allied organization to facilitate a murder.

You stop walking to clutch your pearls, surprised by the viciousness of your own thoughts. You haven't felt so strongly about anything—or anyone–in a long time.

"What is on your mind!" Rengoku asks at your silence.

You smile because you cannot possibly tell him that you were considering the potential incompetence and overhaul of his demon slaying organization.

"I just remembered that I promised you a dance," you deflect. "Would you still want to learn?"

Rengoku blinks.

"There is no music!"

"I can sing."

Jazz is definitely not what the director of the Sistine Chapel choir imagined when you and Graziana weedled him into teaching you. In the mid-16th century, your voices carried through the cathedral under Michelangelo and Raphael's unfinished paintings. Now, you transform the light and air of opera into the playful sleeplessness and twinkling lights of Chicago's nightlife.

You count your steps in sing-song, stopping only to make Rengoku kick off his shoes the third time he steps on you. To your surprise, his martial grace doesn't automatically translate into his dancing. He's not nearly so terrible as you are with fighting, but you relish the opportunity to best him at something physical for once.

You tease Rengoku mercilessly, of course. It's only fair return for the half-dozen times he's knocked you on your ass during his training.

Rengoku knows that he doesn't understand abstract language at all. He's worse with the jokes than the dancing. But he doesn't mind the teasing, not when it's you. 

His loud voice, odd coloring, and bad hearing made Rengoku the target of humor meant to exclude and hurt, before he grew tall enough for his bright smile to become intimidating. You're not unkind with humor. But you don't shy away from it as if you expect he can't understand. You take care to word things in a way that he understands, or explain yourself when he doesn't, so he might understand next time.

Twirling across your lawn together, he finds that he prefers your gentle jokes. You make him feel normal. Maybe it's American. Your country is a mixing pot of different peoples and cultures, after all. Or maybe it's you, meeting all of these people and deciding you'll treat them thoughtfully.

Chapter Text

The next Tuesday, a crow assaults Toshiro in your upstairs office. Annie grabs you, the young redhead terrified by the massive black bird that swooped in through the window. You find the crow standing atop your bookshelves, neck craned down to examine the gilded spines of the titles.

"Message for Mum! Mum Pond!" the crow yells on seeing you. You see the message held in its claws. As for mum—though Yan would disagree, you don't have children, and definitely not biological children. However, your current name is Kikuchi, chrysanthemum pond. The messengers must have translated the characters of your name from Japanese to English.

"That's me," you tell the crow. "Kikuchi. Mum Pond. Hello."

The crow lifts its head from the gilded books to stare down at you.

"Hello?" you try again. The crow preens, like it's decided you're not deserving of its attention.

Rengoku has mentioned that the demon slayers use crows to communicate. Perhaps he'll know what to do.

As you leave the study, the crow swoops down from its shelf, landing neatly on your head. You turn your eyes up, careful not to dislodge it. The crow lowers its head, beady eyes staring down at you.

You go downstairs, where Rengoku's reading on the couch.

"I was hoping for your help with—" you point at the crow on your head.

Rengoku laughs.

"Come here!" he tells the crow in Japanese, holding out his arm.

The crow gives him a side-eyed glance and continues preening.

"Come!" Rengoku switches to English. This time, the crow hops to his offered arm. 

From the perch on Rengoku's arm, the crow turns the side of its head to face him. It tilts its head up until it's staring into his orange eyes.

"Shiny!" the crows screams, approval evident even in its inhuman voice. Rengoku accepts the crow's message, passing the roll of paper to you. 

"What do you feed a crow, Rengoku-san?"

"Mine likes eggs! Do you have eggs!"

Patricia is out today to take Rosie's class on a field trip, so you look to Rengoku. He confirms no knifes are out. You go to the kitchen and Rengoku follows with the crow on his head, pecking at the golden roots that have started to show under his dyed hair.

You find chicken eggs in the icebox, putting one in a bowl that you show the crow. When you set the bowl on the dining table, the crow hops after it, claws scrabbling to balance on the textured edge of the porcelain. The crow cracks the shell with its beak and eats the egg, shell and all. 

Between pecking at the bowl, the crow chatters at Rengoku.

"His name is Eagle One!" Rengoku translates, because of course he speaks crow.

You unroll the parchment with Eagle One's message. The leader of the Demon Slayer Corps has responded in script written by a talented but inexperienced hand. Either Kagaya Ubuyashiki's a child, or he dictates his messages to children. 

Kikuchi-san,

Thank you for sharing your history with me. The Demon Slayer Corps would benefit from your generosity. The Insect Hashira has need for medical equipment, which she will request in a following message from Butterfly Estate.

With Appreciation,

Ubuyashiki Kagaya

"Rengoku-san, how old is Ubuyashiki-san?"

"Oyakata-sama is twenty-three! Why do you ask!"

You point to the script of the letter.

"The letter seems to be in a child's hand."

"Oyakata-sama dictates letters to his children!"

You hum, nodding as you turn to the next page.

The postscript of the letter is longer than the message itself. The master of the Demon Slayers attached a list of Rengoku's favorite foods, should he become homesick. You smile despite yourself. Given Rengoku's father's condition, you're still pleased that a trusted adult remembers Rengoku's favorites.

You do not trust Kagaya Ubuyashiki, but you've worked with many people who you don't trust. Leading the Demon Slayer Crops is a job that requires sending people to their deaths. You will always be suspicious of people with such power. Besides, you have a history with Japanese noblemen, and you will never trust a man whom his subordinates call 'master.' However, Ubuyashiki's concern for Rengoku certainly helped put him in your good graces.

..........

Mr. Ubuyashiki,

I will provide for the Insect Hashira's needs upon receipt of her message.

With well-wishes,

Kikuchi

P.S. Mr. Rengoku has several variations of our yam dishes in Chicago. This past Saturday, we attended a game of baseball, where he was quite invested in the performance of Mr. Red Faber, whom he nicknamed 'spit-ball.' The baseball stadium also offered fried yams, which he declared tasty with his usual enthusiasm.

Thank you for the list of his favorite foods. I do not cook, given my personal history and aversion to knife-work. However, our cook is familiar with Asian cuisine and quite fond of Mr. Rengoku. She will continue to provide for his comfort.

..........

Eagle One adores Rengoku. After the crow ate, you only earned the grudging permission to wipe his beak after searching the office and presenting him with an assortment of ("Shiny!") office supplies. You cleaned Eagle One's beak with a wet cloth, and he delicately selected a brass paper clip before hopping back onto Rengoku's shoulder.

"He is not a Kasugai Crow!" Rengoku translates the crow's chattering. You're seated in the garden, on the lawn chairs just outside the sunroom. "They are American!"

You blink at the plural "they," searching the sky. There are multiple crows?

"They volunteered on behalf of their ancestors' debt," Rengoku continues. "They call you the woman of many names!"

You parse the crow's language, remembering as many birds as you had names. They watched you over dead bodies with the same beady dark gaze as Eagle One. Before you cured the terrible hunger, good people smelled delicious, and bad people tasted as bad as they smelled. You only ate bad people, so you rarely finished a meal. The crows didn't seem to mind. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Eagle One squints at you and hops onto your head, abruptly popping the bad memories under his claws. You can't meet Rengoku's bright gaze, so you move the crow to your lap and rub his feathery head instead. Eagle One levels a look of absolute displeasure at you, but he tolerates the scratches. He even crooks his neck, so you get a better angle.

"I've killed a lot of people and fed a lot of crows," you admit. "That's what he means by his ancestors' debt."

You bury your face in Eagle One's feathers. Eagle One gives an indignant squawk, but he opens one wing over your head, sheltering you beneath the feathers.

"Do you regret it?" Rengoku asks, just like the day you met.

You remember dingy alleyways, slippery brick, the stench of garbage and the hands grasping for you in the darkness. 

"I regret nothing," you repeat, sitting up straighter. Today, you're tired, not fierce with anger and bristling in self-defense like the day you met. Knowing doesn't make you feel any less disgusted, but you remain confident that you did the right thing.

Rengoku smiles, a complicated expression. 

He doesn't agree. As long as people live, they have the opportunity to learn and change. That's what he'll always believe, but he hasn't lived as long as you. And he isn't a woman.

He didn't want to embarrass her by asking, but rumors went around that Mitsuri defended herself against more humans than demons, the first few months after she changed into the new 'standard issue' demon slayer uniform. When they went on missions together, Shinobu was merciless with the men who harassed her and her girls. At Rengoku's suggestion of a less violent approach, she had smiled politely and stated firmly that it is neither her nor her girls' responsibility to educate men who should know better. Besides, some men do not believe women are worth learning from.

He understands what she means now, seeing how Capone spoke down to you when you were entirely polite with him. Rengoku may not agree with your methods, but you've lived alone all these years. He can't grudge you for defending yourself against people like that man.

..........

Ten minutes later, a second, massive crow flies into your window. You scoop the bird up into your arms. It blinks at you, apparently no worse for wear despite the impact. The pale scar spanning half its face seems old.

"Message for—Rengoku!" the second crow squawks. "Go south! Wait, south? Yes, south! Go south!"

South is your garden. You look up to a bald eagle dropping a bag of letters. Rengoku catches the cloth sack.

"Eagle Two!" the second crow screeches. You think the new crow is naming the eagle until it points to the eagle with a talon and calls it "Bob!"

Bob circles twice and lands majestically in your garden. So, Eagle Two's the second crow.

Eagle Two chatters to Rengoku. Rengoku's eyes frown over his smile, filled with confusion from the Eagle Two's uncertain speech.

"Bob is short for Robert Edwin Brown the Third," he finally translates, pronouncing the American name with an accent. As he sorts through his letters, you bring meat for the eagle, one more egg, and trinkets for the new crow.

"I think there might be a message for me from the Insect Hashira," you remember Kagaya's message as you set the food and the trinkets on the lawn.

"Let me see!"

"Thank—No! Don't eat that!" you yell as Eagle Two picks up a thumbtack like she's going to swallow it. 

Eagle One pecks Eagle Two. She drops the sharp object. Eagle One picks a silver paperclip that matches the color of Eagle Two's scar. You store the rest of the shiny objects away, where no crow or eagle can accidentally eat them.

When you return to the garden, Rengoku passes an envelope that smells of flowers and poison. He has his own matching envelope, though it's thicker and smells more like flowers than poison.

"This is for you!"

You open the envelope.

Kikuchi-san,

Oyakata-sama informed me of your generous offer.  I would appreciate your help obtaining the following. Please send the attached to the below address.

Sincerely,

Kocho Shinobu

The following ten-page list starts with five species of wisteria, each from a different country. Shinobu's smart to verify your supposedly different demon nature and your international shipping networks. You'd anticipated the request, which is another reason you started drying wisteria with Rengoku last week.

The dried samples shipped to Japan earlier this week. It includes fifty-plus species and every one of the five varieties Shinobu described. You need only ask Yan to divert the shipment to Shinobu's address. However, in her message, Shinobu didn't specify live or dried plants.

You know why she omitted the specification. Shipping live plants internationally would be ridiculous. Wisteria are fragile—you'll need delicate handling, climate control, and at least one dedicated traveling horticulturalist to tend them. That's prohibitively expensive for most people, but you're not most people, and you rather like the idea of impressing your capabilities on the medic of the Demon Slayer Corps. You decide to call Yan after you finish reading Shinobu's list.

The rest of Shinobu's list includes enough research equipment to start a state-of-the-art laboratory, from fume hoods and walk-in freezers, to cell lines and cell culture reagents. Shinobu included detail down to the product ID and American patent number when available, or specifications and construction instructions when the equipment must be made from scratch. She's definitely testing your generosity to its full extent.

Good thing you've hundreds of years of experience buying your way into people's hearts. 

You could send the requested equipment piece-by-piece. But it doesn't make much sense to set up a laboratory in an individual's estate, especially if the Butterfly Estate's already being used as a field hospital. A true laboratory needs energy, water, gas, and phones lines, as well as supply chain logistics to bring reagents, maintain equipment, and attract scientists. It makes more sense to put the lab in the city proper.

You wonder if the new University of Tokyo needs a new research wing.

..........

"Toshi, will you fax Yan'er?" 

Toshiro looks up from his paperwork for the day, having returned to your study upon the evacuation of the Eagle One.

"What would you like to send, Madam?"

"I want five live wisteria plants delivered from Canada, America, Iran, China, and Korea to Tokyo, Japan." 

Toshiro raises an eyebrow.

"Live plants? Can't you just send seeds and have the Japanese plant it?"

You glance again at Shinobu's list.

"I'm not sending plants so they have plants. This is a show of power for our new Japanese friends who may or may not be skeptical of our international capabilities."

Toshiro scoffs with annoyance at your 'new Japanese friends.' But he also thumbs his chin like he's stroking the beard he doesn't have. That familiar smile flashes right out of his teenage years—you can adopt the kid out of the street, but you can't take the street out of the kid.

"Why send plants when we can send trees, Madam?"

..........

Toshiro translates the telegraph, "Yan'er says it'll cost ya."

You're disappointed but not surprised at the instant reply. Of course Yan remains awake in the small hours of their morning. You read the paper over Toshiro's shoulder. There's nothing on the electronic telegraph paper except a string of dollar signs. 

"Will you tell them that cost is no problem?"

Toshiro sends back two more rows of dollar signs.

"Yan'er says they're happy and they love you," Toshiro tells you a minute later. 

You squint at the message.

"Pardon me?"

Toshiro turns the page sideways. He points to the colon, followed by the letter 'D.'

"This is a happy face, Madame."

Then, Toshiro turns the page upside-down, to a 'greater-than' symbol followed by the number three.

"See how this looks like a heart?"

You shake your head and sigh. This is why Toshiro has always been Yan's favorite.

"Can you also tell Yan I need them to provide one of the wisteria trees?" you spell the Chinese species from Shinobu's list. "As big as they can ship it."

Toshiro sends the message and receives more than a hundred faxed lines. The paper fills with nonsensical characters in a shape that even you recognize. It's a massive wisteria tree. 

You are suddenly worried about the size of the biggest tree that the child prodigy can transport from Shanghai to Tokyo.

..........

Though you've few Japanese contacts, you have friends at the University of Washington in Saint Louis who have friends at the University of Tokyo. Their administration turns out to be extremely interested in a new research wing, but any competent university leader is always interested in a new research wing.

With demand given, you place a call to Korea later in the afternoon to arrange supply. It's very early in the morning in Manjeok's time zone, but he usually rises before the sun.

If only Yan could be more like Manjeok. Maybe with a few more centuries.

"Yeoboseyo." 

"Manjeok-ah, annyeonghaseyo," you greet via telephone.

Like Graziana, Manjeok recognizes your voice. Your Korean is very, very rusty. 

"Nuna."

You never ask how Manjeok is because you receive one-word answers that tell you absolutely nothing. Despite being a talented speaker, noted diplomat, and inspiring leader, he's famously reticient in person. Your phone conversations are mostly you maintaining a one-woman monologue through his one-word responses, like when you called weeks ago about Muzan Kibutsuji and his demons.

Today, you also dive right in.

"Manjeok, I'm building a research facility in Japan, at the University of Tokyo. I was wondering if you might oversee the design and construction to ensure that the space is also useful for conducting anti-demon research."

As the second-oldest and the most war-inclined immortal, Manjeok is also the best equipped to help design the Todai research wing. 

"Yes," Manjeok agrees easily. 

"Thank you, Manjeok."

"Welcome."

"The second request is a rather unusual. I need a tree."

"Tree?"

You name the Korean species on Shinobu's list, spelling the scientific designation at Manjeok's request.

"Demons fear wisteria. I'd like to send samples to the demon slayers for their research, and I'd like to send live trees to show our capabilities."

"You dislike attention," Manjeok observes, his longest sentence yet.

You wind and unwind the phone cord around your fingers. Manjeok is right. You like to live quietly, and you've done so for a thousand years.

"If I had to choose, I like freedom more than I like peace."

"Yes," Manjeok agrees quietly, as you knew he would. As another former slave, he has dedicated his immortality to countering trafficking, particularly in his home region of East Asia. 

"I'm grateful for the help. Thank you—" you are about to bid Manjeok goodbye when his quiet voice interrupts, vibrating lowly through the speaker.

"Don't. Your war is our war, nuna," and it is the longest sentence he has ever spoken to you.

After Manjeok ends the call, you stare out at the garden in silence and remember evenings in Florence, when you waited for Nicco in his study. In his last years, after working on his farm estate, the former diplomat would take off the mud and filth and change into his old ambassador's clothes. Through his readings, he entered the courts of rulers who have long since died, while you summoned your oldest memories to help him recreate antiquity.

On his deathbed, Nicco worried that you'd die terribly. Being immortal gave you unthinkable power, but you're too soft, so someone like you could only be taken advantage of. However, the father of "it is safer to be feared than loved" grew up in an era of war between Italian city-states and the papacy. You'd always wondered what Nicco might have written, had he grown up in an age of peace. You like to think he would be proud to see you and Graziana now.

You are not Kibutsuji Muzan. You do not control demons. Neither are you Ubuyashiki Kagaya. The immortals are neither yours, nor children. You will never ask the people you turned to fight or risk their safety for you. You've strongly advised them against fighting, but their lives are always their choice. Graziana, Luigi, Yan, Manjeok, Rengoku—they will ever be their own people. You will ensure it as long as you live, and you are deathless.

"It is safer to be feared than loved," but you don't need safety. Death is an old friend. When you were human, you wished for the cold embrace that took your friends. Now, you and death cross paths but never shake hands, so you can afford to be kind to the world that was never kind to you, and some people will be kind right back. 

..........

Ms. Kocho,

More than fifty varieties of wisteria, including the five you requested, are en-route to Butterfly Estate. I included my notes on the flowers' properties. Note this information may be outdated or misremembered given its age.

The rest of your list reads like a laboratory set-up. My charities have elected to fund a new research wing at the University of Tokyo. As a condition of my support, Todai will grant access to and support the attached Demon Slayer Corps laboratories in perpetuity. 

My project manager, Mr. Kim Manjeok, asks that you supervise the facility design to ensure it meets the Corps' needs. He will reach out to you at the address you provided. His procurement team will import the items on your list, suggest alternatives for your approval, and deliver on any additional needs that should arise in the course of laboratory construction.

With well-wishes,

Kikuchi

..........

You don't know how to send letters via crow or eagle, so you go downstairs with your papers. Eagle One, Eagle Two, and Bob are nowhere to be found. When Rengoku emerges from his room, you hold out your envelopes to him with a hopeful expression. 

"The birds should return tomorrow! We will send the post then!"

You nod and gesture at his letters.

"What did the demon slayers tell you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I do not mind! The response was as I expected! On returning to Japan, I will be subject to trial by the hashira! They will decide if I am a threat to humans!" 

Rengoku pauses. His brows lower.

"Kocho-san, the Insect Hashira, has been studying your blood," he adds.

You knew this would happen. That's why you put your blood on the letter, after all. Ubuyashiki-san can put your cells under the sun to confirm you are what you say you are, as well as what you—and Rengoku, by extension—are not.

But it's different, knowing vaguely what you want to happen, and hearing Rengoku tell you that someone is studying your blood. You find a seat in the nearest chair, feeling faint. Rengoku pulls up another chair, sitting close enough for you to feel his warmth.

"Do you want a hug!"

His booming voice startles you out of the daze. It takes you a moment to process his offer.

Rengoku is warm. That's nice. Your house feels a little too cold with the air conditioning now.

"If you don't mind—"

"I do not!"

His bright eyes fill your vision. You close your eyes and strong arms come around your waist, nearly lifting your from the chair. You bury your face into Rengoku's hair, inhaling the scents of pine and sandalwood under the shampoo.

"Is this acceptable!" he shouts, too close to your ear. 

Between Comiskey Park, the Coop, and now, it's the third time Rengoku asked that. Such a polite young man.

You pat his fluffy hair, latching on to that sense of amusement until you can giggle through the sniffing.

"What is so funny!" Rengoku asks, drawing back to watch you with big owl eyes. 

"You always ask, 'Is this acceptable?'" you explain between hiccups. "At Comiskey Park, at the Coop, and here."

"I do!" he agrees, pulling his chair closer to you. "You always ask me, too!"

"Because you always seem startled when I touch you. I figured it was a cultural difference, and I should ask."

"We do not touch so casually, in Japan!" Rengoku agrees. "And you—you are a woman!"

You pause. 

"So, should I not—"

"I do not mind!" he yells. "We are in America, after all!"

"Then you don't have to ask me every time," you decide. "If I'm uncomfortable, I'll tell you."

Rengoku considers you like he's making a decision. Then, he completely envelops you in his arms. You sigh, feeling yourself relax into the instinctive protectiveness of his gesture. He feels like safety.

..........

After, he offers to tell you about the results of Kocho's experiments.

"Are you sure that's allowed?" you ask, frowning at the flower-scented papers.

"Kocho-san did not forbid it! Besides, it is your blood! I think you have a right to know!"

You think so too, but you've a feeling that Kocho might not have the same opinion about your right to know. Since she's the insect hashira, she will be one of the people deciding Rengoku's fate. You want him to be in her good books, so you phrase your answer carefully.

"I have some knowledge of how my cells behave from my previous studies. I think it would help the demon slayers to corroborate your findings with my knowledge, don't you think?"

"This is true!" Rengoku agrees, grinning as he understands your train of thought.

From your experiments seeking death, you know that your cells basically sit around and do nothing unless attacked. Physical attacks don't work unless you're using sundowner steel. Biological and toxicological attacks can trigger them to counter and divide, but they always die back to their original count, as if committed to a stable state.

If Kibutsuji's blood controls his demons, his cells would need to divide rapidly, unlike your cells. They'd need to take over the host or parts of the host body.

"That is correct!" Rengoku confirms. "Demon cells multiply endlessly! Unless the host is killed! Or the cells are exposed to sunlight! Or nichirin steel, which is infused with the power of the sun!"

"That wouldn't have hurt my cells." Rengoku nods. "So, Kibutsuji's cells ate my cells?"

"They tried! But your cells divided, overwhelmed them, and died back to their original count!"

It makes sense—you were stubbornly healthy while Muzan wasn't, after all. You may not have powers like him, but you—and your cells—aren't completely useless. You're a little proud of that.

"Does that mean I'm not a demon, since our cells aren't the same?" you wonder aloud.

Rengoku pauses, crossing his arms.

"I do not know what Kocho-san believes! She calls you an 'American Demon'!"

He pronounces the name like it's the scientific classification of a new species. You smile to yourself, thinking of the American Pekin and the German Pekin. So, there's the Homo Sapiens, the Daemonium Japonica, and now the Daemonium Americanium. 

"It does not matter to me what you are!"

There's a fierceness in Rengoku's smile. It makes you warm, like he's determined to protect you regardless. It also makes you worried, because you remember the hole in his chest and hate the idea of Rengoku throwing himself into battle like a human shield. He's strong, but he's also more to you than his strength and ability to protect others.

..........

Since Patricia isn't around, Rengoku makes dinner. Since he's insisted on making himself helpful around the house as thanks for your hospitality, Patricia has helped him select a knife set that he carefully stores when you're around. 

Never in your life would you have imagined a bushi doing chores for you. If they saw you now, the doctors who kept you would have aneurysms. But Rengoku's surprisingly handy around the house. His family hasn't hired staff for generations, since demons became common enough that working for demon slayers could be dangerous. Other demon slayers and the kakushi help for major renovations, but otherwise his brother takes care of the home, and Rengoku helps when he's home.

You insist on cleaning up after dinner, since he cooked. After, you go to Rengoku on the dock. There is one letter, a message addressed to 'aniue,' that Rengoku keeps in his shirt, in the pocket closest to his heart. You find him worrying the paper in his hands. Though it's only been a day, the creases in the letter are already fuzzy from him re-opening and re-reading the contents.

"My younger brother wrote me!" he tells you as you find a seat beside him. "Our father has been training young Kamado!"

"Kamado?"

"He is a demon slayer! He was with me on the Mugen Train! He is learning to master his breathing!"

You falter at 'young' demon slayer. You can't see Rengoku calling an eighteen or nineteen-year-old 'young'—they'd be too close to his own age. That means Kamado is even younger. Yet he was sent on the Mugen Train with Rengoku, to face one of Kibutsuji's most powerful demons. 

Is Ubuyashiki throwing a literal army of child soldiers at monsters? What is wrong with Japan? You make a mental note to amend your letter and request the demographics of the demon slayer corps before the crows arrive tomorrow. 

Meanwhile, Rengoku reads you excerpts from his letter. Senjuro found a litter of stray kittens outside the Rengoku mansion, and has been secretly feeding them because their father doesn't like animals. His father seems to be taking an active role in the family and the demon slayer corps again. Rengoku never speaks of it, but you guess from his easy, uncomplicated happiness that Shinjuro's alcoholism is under control or at least better than before.

Then, Rengoku folds up the letter and carefully tucks it back into his shirt.

"Senjuro—he is so happy I am alive! Even if—I am not human anymore!"

His perpetual smile falls at the thought of facing his family, of watching Senjuro and his father grow up and grow old while the ages of the world pass him by.

"Human lives have value and nobility because humans age and die! How do you find meaning and beauty?"

You don't know how to comfort him. You've never known your family.

"I'm not nobility," you remind him.

You think of Annie and Amane, Toshi and Luigi, children you raised and adults you supported, generations upon generations until the names and faces grow blurry in your mind. These people are your meaning.

As for beauty, the year you escaped to Goryeo, you tended a woman warrior who gave birth in battle defending her country. The cries of the infant in the saddle, that was beauty. As you sailed to Great Yuan, the salted wind in your hair, the scratch of hemp rope against your palms, that was beauty. The open desert, as wide as the ocean, with sand dunes like frozen waves and an open market rising like a flower between the crests, that was beauty.

"There's meaning and beauty in finding my own when I had nothing."

You sit with a slouch, your hands folded neatly to hide the scars. Though you can't change your form or use blood demon arts, you've also weathered the millennium. More than that, you've wandered the earth and made your home with humans. You look small and ordinary, but you wear your immortality like a soft, familiar cloak instead of stolen power and monstrous armor.

"I think you are very strong!" Rengoku declares.

"I know."

You smile at him, quiet and confident. You're not flamboyant like Uzui and his wives. You'll never have Kanroji's physicality. What you have is like Kocho's cleverness, but not quite that, either.

The hashira are extraordinary people. Rengoku admires and respects his peers, but he preserves a particular affection for the energy with which train conductors call time, the thoughtfulness of bento sellers discussing their business, and how Senjuro's smile also sparkles after a good spring cleaning. You may not be human like them, but you remind him of what he loves about humanity. There's beauty in the quiet confidence of ordinary people.

..........

Goryeo/Renaissance Secrets: 

Manjeok is a historical figure from Goryeo Korea.

Nicco is Niccolo Machiavelli, who wrote "it is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both."

Chapter Text

The sundowner ore arrives the week before Rengoku's departure.

It looks like a block of gunmetal-colored rock with bands of rust spanning the sections that have been exposed to air and water. It's not much, but Rengoku accepts gingerly, like he knows he is holding your life in his hands. The weight makes it enough material for a short blade, a single dagger.

You give him the instructions for its processing verbally, so there's no written record. Though you're not afraid to die, you are afraid of pain, and protective of the other immortals. Rengoku nods solemnly, his usual smile put away.

"Would you like it returned, after?"

After what, he does not specify.

You weight the risk of shipping the blade internationally against the risk of Rengoku keeping or passing on a weapon lethal to you and the other immortals. The decision's easy, really. You trust him.

"Will you promise me to have it destroyed, after?"

"I can!" he bows. "I promise."

"Thank you," you say, your hands tight, fingers twisting together. It doesn't feel like enough. You can't just give a nice young man a weapon meant to kill him, ask him to destroy it after, and say thank you. "For what it's worth, I hope you pass your trial."

He smiles at you, "I know!"

Rengoku does not make promises he cannot keep. Dying taught him better. But he wants—he wants many things, not all of which agree with each other. He wants to see his family. He wants to train Kamado and his friends. He wants to be human.

He wants you to be happy.

"I will try my best!" he promises you, and your hands relax a little. 

..........

The week of his departure, you take Rengoku shopping for souvenirs. His only request is edible gifts, so as to avoid cluttering his coworker's homes. That's easy, because this century, Chicago is the candy capital of the world. 

Your city had over a thousand candy purveyors, and that was two decades ago. In the last two years, the onset of Prohibition has made breweries churn out sweets in place of alcohol. Taverns converted into ice cream parlors, bakeries, and candy shops. 

You take Rengoku to Gunther's Candy Company on State Street, a multi-floor affair that combined eatery, store, and candy factory. Rengoku examines the machinery while you translate from the guidebook and the staff explaining their caramel manufacturing process. After, Rengoku matches the candy in their cases to the machines you saw. As you pick out your purchases, your reflections browse alongside you in the tall, gold-lined mirrors embellishing every wall. 

It's odd seeing yourself beside Rengoku. He's young, but your reflection in the mirror looks around his age, if not younger. After the ballgame and the speakeasy, you've continued spending weekends in the city, from the jazz clubs to the Magnificent Mile. You're often mistaken for a couple, because Americans think two unrelated young Japanese man and woman together must be dating.

The idea's ridiculous. Rengoku's never thought much about courtship, as he calls it. He was always too devoted to his work, and his family's marriages have always been arranged by nakōdo. Figuratively and geographically, you're about as far as anyone gets from the noblewomen who marry into his family. Meanwhile, you haven't been seeing anyone for centuries.

You think of Rengoku as another of your foreign friends. Spending more time together has helped you come to an understanding. Rengoku's young, but not as young as you thought. You're soft, but you don't always need protecting. 

He finds an open table for you both in the crowded rear section. You bring over the sampler of candy, two of every flavor you like, one of the flavors you don't like but Rengoku wanted to try. Rengoku goes through the selection at the speed of light. You don't know how he tastes anything between devouring the candy and shouting 'Delicious!'

Given his appetite, Rengoku massively overestimates how much candy he needs for the demon slayer corps, the kakushi, and his team. You check his math against the number of people, and knock a zero off the pounds of individually packaged assorted candies. For Ubuyashiki and his children, you also add on a small, neatly packaged selection as a gift from you in anticipation of future collaboration. For Senjuro, Rengoku picks a variety of salt water taffies he thinks his younger brother would like from tasting the candies.

Some of the hashira are easy to shop for. Rengoku says his former pupil enjoys western desserts, finding delicate, beautiful chocolates with accents of dried flowers. The Stone Hashira gets rock candy, which you confirm to be vegan given Gyomei's Pure Land Buddhism. The Mist Hashira gets blue fairy floss woven into a fluffy cloud and encased in hard, protective packaging to retain its shape. For the snake hashira, Gunther's offers to shape their gummy candy into the shape of a snake. Rengoku happily chooses a milky white base for the color.

Candies don't seem to fit Rengoku's other coworkers. The wind hashira has a fondness for sticky rice wrapped in red bean paste. You've had a similar dessert in Great Yuan, with a fried sticky rice shell enrobing red bean paste, so you place an order in Chinatown to be delivered to you on the day of Rengoku's departure, so it arrives in Japan relatively fresh. 

Since you receive messages from Kocho at all hours of day and night, you send her Columbian coffee and Indian ashwagandha. Rengoku buys another drink, a pungent fermented tea for his father. Tomioka gets a jar sturgeon caviar since he apparently likes fish. Makes sense, as he's the water hashira. 

For the Sound Hashira, Rengoku requests 'something flamboyant.' 

You bite your lip, thinking of the beautiful bottles gathering dust in your storehouses.

"Uzui-san, does he drink? Some alcoholic drinks have rather flamboyant packaging."

"He would accept alcohol as a gift!"

"Do you mind bringing him..." you trail off, letting Rengoku finish the thought.

He smiles, his usually intense gaze softening.

"I do not mind! But thank you for asking!"

You bring a bottle of Louis XIII from your storehouses. The bulk orders of candy arrive on your doorstep that afternoon. As Rengoku packs, you check the packages against your order, stopping on the custom-made gummy snake. It stares back at you, coiled comfortably into its special order package.

"Rengoku-san, if the snake hashira eats this, is it cannibalism?"

You hold the tin open to show Rengoku.

"I think you are overthinking this!" he says, and then he notices the gummy snake's rather close resemblance to Kaburamaru. "Perhaps I should have chosen another color!"

..........

Rengoku packs through the week of his departure. You bring him his cape. 

After his arrival, nearly all of Rengoku's uniform had to be discarded, but he seemed particularly attached to that cloak. He had no luck getting bloodstains out of the white fabric, but you've concerning experience cleaning blood from all manners of surfaces and objects. A quick application of hydrogen peroxide, and the cape was good as new.

"Do all your uniforms come with capes?" you ask as you set the garment on his bed. 

All that fabric bellowing behind you seems like a workplace hazard. It could get caught, or worse—your opponent could grab a handful.

"Cape!" Rengoku asks. You hold up the cape by its shoulders. The white fabric unrolls to the jagged bottom edge with the red-and-yellow border. It's the exact color of Rengoku's hair, now that the barber has trimmed the brown tips off.

"It is a sleeveless haori without front panels! It has been passed down through my family for generations! It is the uniform of the Flame Hashira!"

You turn the 'sleeveless haori without front panels' so the inside faces you. Nope, definitely a cape. 

"How does it stay on?" you wonder, half to yourself, squinting at the 'sleeveless haori.' Weren't capes supposed to wrap around the neck, or be attached to the rest of the uniform? You don't remember how you got the cape off of Rengoku when he arrived.

"There are ties under the shoulders! Here!"

Rengoku flips the cape over his shoulders in a smooth, practiced motion. With the cape resting in place on one shoulder, he shows you the straps and attachments over his other shoulder. You see how the haori might tie to attachments on his shoulders.

You reach for the attachment straps. Rengoku sits on his bed, so you're not straining at his taller figure. Your fingers twist into the white ribbons hidden under the haori.

"So, there's a strap or a button on your uniform, here," you tap your thumb against the top of his left shoulder, near the curve of his neck. "You tie the ribbons around it. Same for your right side." 

"There is another strap! Behind my collar! I rarely use it. It is difficult to reach!" 

You push at his shoulders. Rengoku turns obediently. You fish the ribbons out from behind his neck before tucking them back in and flipping the right side of Rengoku's haori down, so both sides of the cape rest over his shoulders. 

Once you release him, Rengoku turns back to face you. You grin. Sleeveless haori it may be, but the flame hashira garment absolutely looks like a cape. 

"You look just like a superhero."

"A superhero!"

"They're caped-excuse me. They're heroes in American comics that wear," what did Rengoku call it, again? "sleeveless, frontless haori. Superheroes defend justice, protect people who need it, and catch criminals."

"That is not so different from demon slaying!" Rengoku agrees, back straight, arms crossed. Between that pose and the bright, intense smile he wears like a uniform, you realize—Rengoku isn't all that different from the superheros covering American action comics.

Then, Rengoku slips the haori off his shoulders, and he's once more the young man who talks like he's shouting, eats for ten, and cannot dance. He handles his family garment with a reverence that makes you want to look away, as if you're intruding on something private. 

Rengoku bows to you.

"Thank you for taking care of the haori! It is very important to me!"

He clutches the bundle of fabric with such fondness, it takes you a minute to find the words.

"Of course," you swallow. "You trusted me with it, after all."

There's a pause.

"Yes!" Rengoku agrees, with extra volume. "I did. I trust you!"

It's not like asking a comrade for assistance in battle. That's the type of trust Rengoku is used to offering and receiving. He keeps the other types of challenges that he's faced close to his chest, under a smile so bright that most people don't know they exist.

You're not a fighter, but you're perceptive. You notice what he's not saying. You don't comment on it, but you help, from advising him on writing his father, to steering him out of the speakeasy, to take care of his family's haori.

He admires your understanding of people and your subtlety in your affairs. There's something else, too, besides the admiration and trust. It's heavy like wisteria musk—instead of dying, the flower clippings in the glass bottle took root—but too dense for either of you to unravel in the less-than-a-week before he returns to Japan.

You slip out of his room, and Rengoku continues packing.

..........

Toshiro frowns and grumbles, but he's awfully protective of his unofficial position as Rengoku's going-away-party-planner. You're shooed off when you to take a peek, though knowing Toshiro, everything has been decided many days before departure, from the finger-foods (a half-dozen variety of yams in a dozen different dishes!) to the color of the tablecloth (crisp linen with a red-embroidered gold-base table runner).

Then, the afternoon before the party, Rengoku off-handedly mentions his new age.

"I am twenty-one now!" he tells Patricia in English when your cook offhandedly asks his age.

Though his English no longer needs the illustration, Rengoku still holds up the requisite amount of fingers: two on his right hand, and one on his left.

You frown, "I thought you were twenty?" you ask, holding up a two-and-zero to illustrate.

Rengoku switches to Japanese to explain.

"You are correct! I was twenty!"

Which means—

"Rengoku-san's birthday was in the last month," you translate for Patricia. "When was your birthday?" you ask Rengoku in Japanese.

"The 10th of May!" He holds up the month on his right hand, the date on his left.

"Why didn't you tell me?" you protest as Patricia pushes past you, heading for the phone in your office so she can call her baker.

"You are very busy! I did not want to trouble you!"

You'd known him for less than two weeks then. Rengoku was probably being polite. And Colosimo got shot the day after, on May 11th. You spent that week running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

"You're no trouble," you insist. "The opposite of trouble. Anti-trouble!" you shout on your way upstairs, where Patricia is already talking Mr. Roeser into accepting a late order. When she seems to have trouble, you take the phone receiver and offer an atrocious amount of money for a rush cake.

..........

The day of Rengoku's departure comes too soon. The Roeser's truck pulls up to Toshiro pulling his hair out in a fit because Rengoku's party is in a half hour, and the table runner they sent him used the wrong shade of red. Patricia's baker arrives with bags under his eyes and a carrotcake using yams instead of carrot. He leaves a considerably wealthier man, while Toshiro is saved from premature hair loss by the cake, which nicely covers up the too-maroon embroidery details.

In the kitchen, Patricia shoos away Rengoku, who has designated himself her culinary helper for the duration of his stay. He joins you in the living room, greeting the guests that arrive, from new faces like Toshiro's wife and Amane's newest beau, to familiar people like Annie and Amane.

Merri sends her apologies—the girl's really too busy. But Cal's off for the evening. He comes in with Delaney, the Coop's jazz singer. Patricia's eldest children, Rosie and Rivera, flock to the musician, listing their favorite tunes. 

Dinner is a multilingual and multicultural affair. America is a melting pot, and many people brought dishes of their own cuisines. Toshiro has seated you, himself, and Amane strategically along the table to translate. After clearing a dozen plates, Rengoku joins the conversations on recipes and traditions. 

At the end of dinner, Patricia brings out the birthday cake. Toshiro directs her to its placement on the table. Amane leads the table in singing happy birthday while he translates. Rengoku flushes crimson under the candlelight. He looks mesmerized by Delaney's singing.

The ease which which he blows out twenty-one candles is wholly unfair—you're pretty sure he uses breathing techniques. Rosie gasps and Rivera's eyes sparkle. After, you look away, talking with Cal as Rengoku cuts the cake and passes the plates down the table.

Everyone helps with clearing the table and putting plates away. While Patricia runs the dishwasher, Cal leads the men in pushing aside the dining set and living room furniture. Rengoku single-handedly maneuvers the heaviest pieces, clearing the space.

Rosie pulls you by the wrist to the piano. She's brought her sheet music to show you how her playing has developed. After a few warm ups, Delaney challenges her to a play a modern tune instead of the old dead white men. Rosie purses her lips and launches into her own rendition of Tiger Rag. Delaney taps his fingers to the beat, humming along.

People start dancing with their guests, Toshiro and his wife Mimi, Amane and her boyfriend. But soon, Amane abandons her boyfriend for Mimi, who's evidently the most talented dancer on the floor. In turn, Toshiro shows Annie the steps. Cal grins and play-wrestles Rengoku to the dance floor. Rengoku plays along to pull in Rivera, who resists Patricia's motherly nudging, standing aside shyly aside while his sister's at the piano.

Delaney offers you his hand. You accept the dance and rotate through your guests, first Patricia, then Rivera, Cal, and Rosie, after Delaney takes over for her at the piano. Mimi gives you a workout approaching Rengoku's training intensity. 

While you're catching your breath, perched on one of the displaced couches, Rengoku offers you a glass of water. You turn the drink bottoms-up. He looks away from the curve of your throat.

"One more dance!" he asks after, a question and a request. You hold out your hands. He takes them, pulling you up from your seat. This time, he doesn't step on your feet once.

..........

It's past sunset by the time you send everyone off. Rengoku's overwhelmed with hugs and overenthusiastic American affection. Cal ruffles his hair and Rivera stares at the red tips with an awestruck expression. Cal and Delaney, Patricia and her kids, Annie and Amane wish him safe travels in groups. Toshiro does not hug or bid goodbye to the young man, simply instructing him with usual gruffness on where to leave his luggage for easy pick-up later in the evening.

As the evening settles in, you direct him from your perch on the piano bench, and Rengoku replaces all your furniture to their original positions without breaking a sweat.

"Do you play!" he asks after, staring at the instrument.

You smooth your hand over the piano's cover. It took you an embarrassingly long time, several centuries really, to learn the piano. You're not talented like Rosie, and you hadn't much patience for sitting still and repeating the same finger movements again and again, until you got it right. All the times you started, you stopped before getting much further than learning to read music.

The breakthrough came during your decades at Cambridge, after Luigi's passing. The landlady at your boarding house had a piano passed down from her grandfather's grandfather, along with moth-eaten stacks of sheet music. There wasn't much else to do in the dreary London winter, so you borrowed more books from the University library and learned to play. 

"Yes," you push back the wood, and the piano cover falls back with a click of wood against wood. 

Your fingers smooth over the cool white keys, tendons seizing with the memory of the English winter, when the wet cold chilled you to the bone. You tried soft felt gloves, but played badly when you couldn't feel through touch the position of your fingers and the seams between the ivory keys. The solution was alternating between playing and squatting by the fireplace to warm your hands between songs. Despite the summer warmth, you breathe into your hands out of habit before falling into a familiar rendition Chopin's Nocturne No. 20, your playing all muscle memory.

Rengoku steps closer, turning his right side to the music, listening quietly and staring at your hands until you finish the song.

"You did not play so Rosie could be the center of attention!" he realizes.

You smile at the piano. The first few times she visited your home, she had been fascinated by your instrument. Your first present for Patricia's eldest daughter had been her very own piano.

"Rosie is much more talented than me. I just had lots of time to practice, that's all. She learned much faster, and she composes her own music, like some of the songs you heard today."

Rosie's music isn't unlike Rengoku's dancing. They pick up the arts with such facility, you'd be envious if you didn't have all the time in the world to catch up.

"Can I try!" Rengoku asks, his intense stare focused on the piano.

"Sure," you scoot to one side of the piano bench, patting the open spot in the center. Rengoku takes his seat, his hands assuming a starting position over the keys. He glances to you for affirmation. You nod. He has the correct finger positioning, so there's nothing you need to correct.

Rengoku starts playing. You're stunned when he repeats the first movement of the Nocturne, hitting all the right keys in the right order. His rhythm's a little off, and he ignores the foot pedals. You suspect he's never played piano before, relying instead on the visual memory he acquired from martial arts practice to watch you play and follow the movements of your fingers.

"I think I hit the right keys!" he concludes after.

You cover your mouth with both hands, shaking your head, "Rengoku-san, that was incredible."

He grins wide, the smile hiding his eyes.

"Do you think so!"

"That was not an easy song to learn, for me at least. Yet here you are."

"What I can hear—it does not sound right!"

"That's all right. We can work on that."

You close your eyes, remembering the texts you read, squatting by the boarding house fireplace, your frozen fingers held too close to the fire or tucked under your armpits to warm when they weren't turning pages. You explain how the pedals change the tone of the piano, and how piano playing isn't just hitting the right notes, but also hitting them with the right intensity and duration, so the sound expresses the feelings of the piece.

Rengoku tries again, and again. You haven't used metronomes for a long time, so you tap your fingers to help him keep time. The night grows cooler until you should turn the air conditioning off, but instead you sit a little closer to him, because this is comfortable and he is very warm. 

..........

Toshiro returns in the early hours of morning. To smuggle Rengoku out of America, he picked an hour when everyone's asleep or getting there. In the rush of motion loading the car and grabbing the last of Rengoku's luggage, you're bundled into the Model T still wearing your house slippers. The silk is so thin, you can feel the texture of the asphalt beneath your feet as you send Rengoku off, until he picks you off the ground.

"Oh!" you laugh with surprise. He holds you tighter, his nose buried in your hair. 

"Thank you for taking care of me!" he shouts.

You hands stop patting his back. You hold Rengoku tightly, suddenly awake, remembering the world you're sending him back into. When he tries to pull away, you grab his shoulders so Rengoku has to meet your eyes. 

"When you get back to Japan, you'll have to take care of yourself."

"I am strong! I will be all right!" As you expected, he tries to evade your gaze. 

You follow the movement of his eyes with your face.

"If you don't take better care of yourself, we'll be worried for you all the way in America. Right, Toshi?"

In lieu of a reply, Toshiro offers a long-suffering sigh and musses up Rengoku's hair. 

"Toshi-san!" Rengoku laughs, dodging Toshiro's hands.

"At home, I'm sure your younger brother worries about you," you remind Rengoku. "Your father, too, in his own way. You have to be alive and healthy if you're going to protect others, Rengoku-san."

There's more than that. Taking care of himself is about more than protecting others. He's more than a shield for other people. But a few words now cannot dissuade a man like him from values that have been drilled into him all his life, that have been a part of his family's identity for generations on generations. Rengoku's leaving, and there's too much you cannot say.

"I will call you when I arrive!" he promises. "I will write when I can! Do not worry!"

He tuck your hair behind your ear with infinite care that speaks louder than even his words. The pilot screams that he has to go. 

Toshiro wraps an arm around Rengoku's shoulders and shoves him into the plane. The secretary pulls you away from the airfield. The plane taxis for take-off. With a deafening hum of engines, the aircraft lifts off and disappears, a blinking dot in the evening sky.

..........

It's odd, returning home to a quiet house. Since it's nearly morning, you don't see the point in sleeping. You start the coffee in your office. While it brews, you find yourself at the door to Rengoku's room, remembering the morning you first kicked this door open and put his unconscious body in the bed.

When you open the door, he left the room almost exactly as he found it when he arrived. From the window, you can see the spot on the lawn, besides your other wisteria, where Rengoku planted the cuttings from the flowers you gave him. On the desk, there's a fabric bundle, neatly folded and tied together with ribbon.

The fabric bundle holds two packages. One is yokan wagashi, beautifully molded and pre-cut into strips. You set the dessert aside to try with your coffee.

The other is a thin stick you recognize as hand-carved and polished wisteria wood, the same material Rengoku had requested from your trees. With the ornament, he included a note in his neat, bold script.

Miss Kikuchi,

This is a kanzashi. In the past, people believed that wearing thin sticks in your hair could provide protection from evil spirits. While I cannot be with you, I continue to wish for your safety and good health.

Please keep up your training,

Rengoku Kyojuro

Chapter Text

The phone rings late in the evening of the second day, as you're catching up on your charity work and reviewing Graziana's progress on the foundation that will fund the Demon Slayers.

"Moshi-moshi?"

"I have arrived!"

Rengoku's booming voice is fainter with the long-distance call and background noise. You hear soft speech in the background. Since his home doesn't have a telephone installed yet, he must be calling from the airfield or the city. 

"How was your trip?" you ask.

"The trip went well! We traveled so quickly! As if chasing the sun!"

You hear a deep voice, closer to the phone than the other background. Rengoku's voice becomes fainter, suddenly, as if he turned away from the receiver.

"...Yes, she is still in America. I can hear her. Do you want to try? Would you like to speak to my brother!" Rengoku's voice booms again into your ear. You blink at the sudden change in subject.

"Oh, yes. Sure?"

There's the buzz of static from phones changing hands, and then a new voice.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

Senjuro's voice is very deep. You're startled by the low pitch combined with a child's intonation.

"Yes, I can hear you. Hello. Are you Senjuro-kun?"

"I am! My name is Senjuro Rengoku. Um, thank you for taking care of aniue."

You smile at the papers on your desk. Senjuro is such a well-mannered boy.

"Your older brother was a lovely house-guest. I'm glad he's returned safely to you. He's missed you, and your father."

Senjuro says something you can't make out. On your side of the line, there's another burst of static sounds as he returns the phone to Rengoku.

"There is a line gathering behind us, for the telephone!" 

"I will let you go, then. Thank you for the wagashi and the kanzashi, Rengoku-san. I'm glad you arrived safely. Best wishes for the trial."

"I will let you know the outcome!"

..........

There's no sense worrying about your chickens before they hatch. The week after Rengoku's return to Japan, you focus on business instead of worrying about his trial and its outcome. You secure several new safehouses for Toshiro, his family, and your other affiliates. As a temporary measure, Mimi returns to California until your meeting with Capone, which you postpone several times to test whether the Torrio gang has further tricks up their sleeves.

While you wait, you address the concerns you've developed about your burgeoning partnership with Coco Chanel. While the mademoiselle is an excellent businesswoman, you're only interested in business that doesn't require the exploitation of people. On further investigation, your European contacts passed on disturbing rumors of her anti-Semitism and troubling labor practices. As you investigate, you've taken to working on the wisteria scent directly with her perfumer, Ernest Beaux. 

Beaux has the extraordinary ability to identify scents from brief descriptions from your travels—frankincense from the musty, spicy tang of Arabian bazaars, sandalwood from the heady, woodsy incense of Buddhist temples—and blend these scents in a way that improves each element. Beaux's final selection includes thirteen samples with the same top note of sweet wisteria, bright and effervescent like a flower garden in the summer sunshine. From these optimal combinations of heart and base notes, you'll select the fragrance to be your perfume line.

You've gotten to the point in your process when the perfume testers you receive from France smell virtually identical. However, as a condition of working with you, Beaux also sends samples to the Butterfly Estate, and faxes Yan the raw ingredients and percentage composition of each perfume. Kocho sends you the perfumes' toxicity panel through her estate's new electric telegraph. Yan estimates the cost of mass-producing each scent.

The results make your decision look like a no-brainer. Your favorite scent also happens to be the least expensive to mass-produce, and the most toxic for Japan's demons. It almost seems too easy to saturate Tokyo's perfume market with this perfume.

Sleeping on the decision gives you a better idea. The next day, you ask Beaux to release production instructions for two scents: the most toxic scent, and the least toxic scent. Your wisteria perfume will have two labels. Yan will produce as much as possible of the demon-toxic scent and sell it as cheaply as possible. Meanwhile, the non-toxic scent will be your luxury label. You'll only make 500 cases, and you'll sell each bottle at an a hundred-times markup from the regular price. 

Since the scents smell virtually identical, there would be little reason to spend money on the expensive variety, unless you've too much money, or you're biologically restricted to the expensive variety.

You're going to kill Kibutsuji Muzan, but you're a bootlegger. First, you're going to rob him blind.

..........

While Yan adds perfume to their product line, you analyze the business reports coming in from Japan. Overall, the numbers look good. Based on your sales at the population of Tokyo, Japanese families are averaging five wisteria-related purchases per household per week and climbing. It's not much, but it's a good start.

It's also enough data to help you assemble a map of Tokyo. Annie helps you cover one wall of your study in corkboards, where you map out the city-level wards that comprise Tokyo and analyze them one-by-one. Are there merchants who refuse to carry wisteria-based products despite their popularity and profitability? Neighborhoods that seem particularly resistant to the fashionable flower? You send the information to Manjeok, who employs locals informants since he's closest to the scene in Seoul.

Your data is less useful on the outskirts of the city—the population's less dense, making sales harder to track. It's difficult assigning meaning to numbers. However, inside the city, your investigations narrow down the search for Muzan's spawn to several locations, including a club in Yoshiwara, an art gallery in Ikebukuro, and several wealthy neighborhoods in Central Tokyo. You pass the information to Ubuyashiki via the Butterfly Estate electronic telegraph, encoded by a cipher that you send via crow.

..........

Bob lands in your office window box a week after Rengoku's departure. He taps the glass politely. You accept the package in his claws, drying clammy hands on your trousers before you find the envelope with Rengoku's familiar script.

He passed the trial. You sink into your chair with relief. Bob waits politely until you recover use of your legs, and then he hops on your arm so you can take him to the kitchen for food. As he eats, you read the rest of Rengoku's letter.

Rengoku's script is hurried, sharp and wild instead of bold and steadfast. Ubuyashiki gave him a mission immediately after he was reinstated as the Flame Hashira. After he posts the message, he will depart, first to destroy the sundowner ore per your instructions, and then on to his next mission. 

Logically, you know Rengoku will be fine. Beings like you don't die. But you don't like Ubuyashiki putting him to work immediately, less than a full day after Rengoku returned to Japan. Health is more than physical well-being. You wonder about the condition of a demon slayer corps where leaders like Shinobu and Rengoku seem to be working themselves at their physical limits. 

..........

After you read Rengoku's letter, you relax enough to notice and be surprised by how many other letters there are in Bob's package. You recognize the Butterfly Estate stationary, but otherwise the envelopes are new. You open the first one, which is addressed in English with a child's hand, the letters awkward and wobbly. The message inside is also in English. It has been marked by two different hands, the child's handwriting and another, more elegant cursive

Miss Demon

Miss Kikuchi,

My teacher saysaid I must thank you and practise English. 

Tokito thanksThank you for the fairy floss.

Tokito

At the bottom of the signature, the adult's hand added Tokito's full name and title, as if Tokito got distracted, and the English tutor gave up trying to make the Mist Hashira finish the thank-you note.

While you're glad that he's receiving an education, including foreign language instruction, you are extremely concerned that the Mist Hashira is apparently an easily-distracted child. 

..........

Ubuyashiki's response estimates the demon slayers' average age to be twenty, give or take a few years. Apparently, the corps membership fluctuates too often for his daughters to catalog that information with any degree of accuracy. Also, a good deal of the demon slayers were orphaned so young, they do not know their own age.

You put aside the letter to jog a lap around the lake, cooling your head before you compose an extremely strongly-worded response.

..........

The next thank-you note is in an envelope decorated with plum blossoms. The stationary inside is textured handmade paper, and it comes out of the envelope with a spray of golden paper confetti. If you didn't know from that, you know the sender by the time you read five variations of the word "flamboyant" in the first sentence.

..........

This time, the familiar butterfly stationary smells like coffee instead of flowers or poison. You're glad that your choice of beverage gifts seems to be well received, but also curious.

If you were Kocho, you would have sent the thank-you note via electric telegraph. A paper note's a rather traditional choice. Combined with the level of education evident from your correspondence, you're nearly certain that Kocho was raised well by a wealthy Japanese family. Based on what you know about East Asian culture, women like her married into business or became housewives.

You wonder how she came to be a part of the Demon Slayers. Considering her irregular hours and the intensity with which she seems to work toward their mission, you suspect tragedy.

..........

The next envelope seems to have been caught in the rain. But all the other envelopes in the stash had been dry. Only when you open the envelope do you realize—the stains inside and outside the envelope were different. And they smell of salt.

Was—was the writer crying?

The writer tells you he is writing on behalf of the Stone Hashira. Rengoku had informed Himejima of your consideration for his diet. He is so touched that a stranger on the other side of the earth would have such consideration for the Buddhist moral precepts.

The writer apologizes for the tear stains, and tells you not to worry.

..........

By the time you reach the last envelope in the stack, you're almost concerned about what you'll find, given the eccentricity of Rengoku's other coworkers. But Kanroji seems like such a normal young woman. She tells you what chocolates she enjoyed, and includes several questions alongside a Japanese recipe for a "Tenshi-kēki", or "Angel Cake."

You think the recipe meant "Angel Food Cake," which is not supposed to have that much butter, or any butter at all. You send corrections in response to Kanroji's questions on the Western dessert, and recommendations to use a copper bowl to whip a more stable cake into shape.

..........

Like this, in the weeks before the meeting with Capone, you develop a correspondence with most of the hashira. Ubuyashiki reassures you that his organization is not abusing children, but he seems to have very different ideas of what constitutes appropriate work for children. Shinobu messages you at all hours of the day and night about her work on the wisteria varieties you sent. Every week, Manjeok updates you on the process of the new Tokyo University research wing.

When he isn't rushing into his next mission, Rengoku writes in such a way that you imagine his sentences ending with exclamation marks instead of periods. His letters read like military reports with no military activity. He's very matter-of-fact: this is what I did, when, where, and with whom.

His brother Senjuro enjoys the salt water taffies, especially the caramel and watermelon. His father tried the tea. He has been training Kamado with his father, but that is all he can tell you through an unsecured message.

From Rengoku, Eagle One and Eagle Two get all manner of shiny trinkets from Japan, while you receive an assortment of postcards.

With Kanroji, you exchange all manner of recipes. You translate French pastry recipes for her. She finagles Japanese recipes into variations Patricia can duplicate with ingredients from Chicago and Chinatown. Though you haven't been home in a thousand years, some of the flavors are so familiar they make your chest ache with loss for reasons you cannot remember.

As the postscript for one message, you included an offhanded question about how being the "Love Hashira" might work. Unlike the other Hashira, Kanroji's breath has no physical representation. Even sound produces soundwaves, after all.

One thing leads to another. The postscript becomes a long discussion on the metaphysics of love, and eventually its own series of correspondence. You send Kanroji the Japanese versions of the Arabic love poetry that you've been meaning to translate for centuries. She sends you modern Japanese writings, and a few of her own poems. 

When you send Ubuyashiki your first round of business updates, the information on your investments and business strategy must somehow pass to the hashira. You receive another (flamboyant) envelope, and the Sound Hashira (flamboyantly) inserts his (flamboyant) ideas into Yan's plans of making wisteria the Tokyo fashion. Yan's sales numbers takes on an exponential trend less than a month after Uzui's involvement.

You don't normally reply to thank you notes, but you send a response to the Stone Hashira because—he cried because Rengoku brought him rock candy? Is the man okay?

There's no polite way to ask this. You don't know what else to say, so thank the kakushi intermediary for composing on behalf of the Stone Hashira, and ramble about the Buddhist community in Chicago. You're not familiar with the Pure Land Sect, but from your time in Great Yuan and multi-century friendship with the Panchen, you're familiar with Tibetan Buddhism. 

The response you receive is somehow even more tear-stained. Rengoku tells you this is normal, from Himejima. As the conversation about Buddhism continues, you collect a stack of the blind hashira's rumpled letters, written in the different hands of the Stone Hashira's staff.

A month after Rengoku's return to Japan, you receive a single telegraph "Thank you for the fish eggs" from the Butterfly Mansion. You have a feeling the Insect Hashira bullied the response out of the Water Hashira. 

Through the letters from Tokito, you're increasingly under the impression that you're writing the mist hashira's tutors instead of the boy. Sometimes, the handwriting even resemble Ubuyashiki's children instead of Tokito's print. 

You never hear from the wind or snake hashira. Rengoku assures you the gummy snake was not badly received—the snake hashira's just a quiet man. You hope his coworkers are simply antisocial rather than illiterate, or harboring a particular resentment towards you. 

Then, you put those musings away. You've bigger problems to worry about, including a dozen new businesses to run. The hashira are Rengoku's coworkers, not yours. You're a friendly person, but you don't need their friendship, only their occasional cooperation.

..........

The morning of your meeting with Capone, you wake before dawn to a thump. It came from downstairs, maybe the living room?

Wait. The living room.

You're downstairs with superhuman speed. 

It's not Rengoku, thank Almighty. This time, you find some body with blue striped tattoos on grey body paint. It's a body, because it's missing it's head. 
Then, the body's chest rises faintly. The man's still breathing. 

Chapter Text

Lightening rarely strikes twice in a lifetime, but you've been around for ten. The universe needs to stop sending you dying men. In the meantime, you have purified water and a pack of beef jerky stocked under the ottoman in the living room. Considering how Rengoku reacted when he arrived, you won't risk passing out again.

Your blood has never failed to pull anyone back from the brink of death. That doesn't make it any less terrifying to watch the body grow back its head. The bone, muscle, and brain rebuilds into a young man with short dark hair and long pink lashes. You eat your beef jerky, leaving him in an empty guestroom to sleep off his recovery while you answer the phone that's been ringing off its hook.

" Mosh— "

Rengoku yells your name. You pull the headset back from your ear.

"Akaza disappeared in battle! Is he with you!"

"Describe Akaza to me."

Rengokuo describes a demon with pink hair, grey skin, and stripes painted on his face and body. He should have the characters for Upper Rank Three—

His voice cuts off abruptly. You turn to see the once-headless man towering over you in the darkness, holding the phone cord that he's torn from the wall. His hair is dark and his skin flesh-toned, but the characters for Upper Rank Three are carved into his eyes where the pupils should be. 

Akaza's hand closes around your throat. He moves shakily, as if possessed. His teeth clench and his arms tremble, like he's fighting himself. When he blinks, his orange eyes are replaced by blue irises with dark, round pupils. 

He blinks again. 'Upper Rank Three' is back. His hand tightens around your throat.

You're losing air, growing lightheaded, your thoughts muddled by adrenaline. But you register two things:

One: there's something wrong with Akaza.

Two: You've one panacea-for-all-illness with you at all times. 

You shove your fist at Akaza's mouth. 

He bites down. You scream. The demon swallows your blood, and something changes. He opens his eyes, but his pupils stay round. The normal flesh tone of his face creeps down, erasing the grey skintone and tattoos. He falls back from you, stumbling, then kneeling to the ground.

You sink to a seat on the cold tile floor as he throws up blood. There's so much blood. It's black and pungent, like he's been poisoned. It spreads across the ground. Your mind shuts down.

Akaza's body doesn't function like yours. You know this. But you've too many bad memories of poison and medication that turned out no different from poison. Akaza may be a demon, but he looks normal now, human and young, not much older than the countless other kids you've watched die in the Heian doctor's estates. 

The tide of memories rushes in. You black out.

..........

When you wake, Annie is crying. Amane has one of your pistols. Her normally quiet voice is shrill and vehement. She yells at Akaza in Japanese with English fillers, mostly curses. Her fury has the demon backing away slowly, hands up, one hand still holding the telephone cords he tore out of the wall.

"Miss Kikuchi!" Annie grabs your arm when she feels you stir. You groan. Your arm's healed. The blood—or whatever it was that Akaza threw up—has vanished under the sunlight. Thank the Lord, you do not want to explain that to Amane and Annie.

You pull the girls behind you, draw yourself up to your full height, and cross your arms. You address the demon in your most authoritative voice.

"Akaza, go to your room."

Amane goes silent. Akaza stares. 

Apparently, your most authoritative voice is 'angry mom.' 

You brace yourself for a whole world of pain. Akaza puts down the phone cords and slinks away to his guestroom. Annie and Amane look at each other like they can't believe that worked.

Before you can wonder how it did, Annie and Amane are grabbing you in anxious relief. You calm the girls, making up something about a distant relative temporarily staying with you. The lakeside view and fresh air will be good for his mind. 

Amane doesn't look convinced. But you both looked uninjured when they discovered you, so Annie manages a weak smile. You remind them you're stronger than you look. Amane concedes, relinquishing your pistol. You tuck it in your waistband, to put back in the gun safe. The girls know you can handle yourself despite being involved in questionable business, so eventually you convince them to take the day off.

Amane promises to find your phone repairman. You give her his business card. She leaves with Annie. Then, the house is empty, so you go meet your first Japanese demon.

..........

You find Akaza in the bathroom where you met Rengoku. He's holding his eyes open in the mirror, examining his round pupils.

"What did you do?" he demands when he senses your presence.

"I'm sorry?"

"The King of Demons—I can't feel him in my head. I can walk in the sunlight. I don't hunger for flesh. But I'm weak."

Akaza ends on a hiss, punching the wall in frustration. His fist goes through the marble wall. You take a step back instinctively, legs bending, arms tensed.

"I don't hurt women," Akaza scoffs. 

You remember the way his arm trembled, like he was holding himself back from strangling you in the study. The person you met first hadn't been him, not completely. He could have hurt the girls, but he backed away from Annie and Amane with no sign of further internal struggle. Unless he turns pink-haired and grey-skinned again, you trust the demon not to hurt you, if that's what he is still.

Rengoku mentioned that Muzan creates demons with his blood. Akaza said that he can't feel Kibutsuji inside him. You remember the pool of black blood he threw up. You don't think Akaza will change color again. 

"You drank my blood," you start, reminding Akaza what happened in case he doesn't remember.

He stretches his arms, the muscles of his biceps flexing taut.

"I know that," he mutters.

"I think that's what forced Kibutsuji out of your head."

Akaza's eyes widen when you name the King of Demons.

"What are you?" he asks.

You pinch the bridge of your nose at the sense of déjà vu. Between Akaza in the morning and Capone in the evening, you're due for a long day.

"Are you hungry, Akaza-san? I can explain over breakfast."

..........

Akaza tells you he prefers to be called Hakuji, so you call him Hakuji. On the way downstairs, you swing by the laundry room and give him a spare jacket and a pair of slippers because he looks uncomfortable with how much skin his outfit exposes. The mismatched clothing and soft silk slippers has the added effect of making him much less intimidating. At breakfast, he eats quietly, listening to your explanation of how you became immortal, what being immortal means, and how you create other immortals. You use blood. Muzan uses blood. But Muzan's not here right now. You put in more blood. You think that forced out Muzan's influence, so he's not—

He was a demon.

Rengoku's letters said that the Upper Rank Three demon had been seeking him across Tokyo. When he first appeared in your living room, Rengoku had a hole in his chest from Akaza's attack. If Rengoku hadn't appeared in Chicago, if you weren't here—

Hard, bitter anger rises in your throat. You swallow, forcing your hands to relax where they've balled into fists. You shouldn't think this. You know better than anyone—you can't be yourself when you're sick, starving, or drugged out of your mind. 

"Didn't think you had it in you," Hakuji mutters as you rub blood back into your whitened knuckles.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Killing intent," he says, like those words should mean something to you.

At your confusion, Hakuji explains his fighting style. He lifts his arms like a boxer to demonstrate. You ask questions that make it evident you've little experience with hand-to-hand combat beyond going at your attackers with brute force.

"How did you turn Rengoku?" Hakuji demands. "You can't fight—"

He looks you up and down, eyes narrowing.

"Did you seduce him?" Hakuji asks, suddenly oddly furious on behalf of his opponent. "You tricked him."

You flush, indignant at the accusation. 

"Excuse me! I did not—"

You abruptly recall giving Rengoku flowers, sitting in his lap, and dancing in the dark.

You cover your mouth. No, he's too young. You're not supposed to think of him in that way.

Hakuji takes in the play of emotion across your face with narrowed eyes. His expression goes from anger to suspicion to smirking.

"You don't have it in you to seduce anybody," he agrees.

There's something under his teasing and bluster. Being a demon (former demon?), Hakuji must be old like you. You've both the experience to put on a strong front and make it more believable than Rengoku's perpetual smile. He does too, though it takes a different form with his lazy arrogance and backhanded compliments. 

"Rengoku-san is a nice young man," you reply. "Not like us."

For a moment, Hakuji stiffens. Then, he deflates, like a balloon pricked with a pin.

"Yeah," he agrees, avoiding your gaze now that you've seen through his unaffected facade. "Seems like it."

It's hard to inhabit the same space with other immortals, sometimes. It sinks into you, the weight of mistakes you'll never forget, regrets you'll never fulfill. You can draw a sheet over it—your careful manners, Hakuji's wild grin. But they're always there, underneath, waiting. They never goes away. You don't know all Hakuji's experienced, only that your pasts both weigh too heavily. Together, they threaten to combine in a supermassive black hole and drown you all in memory. 

You go to the pan, creating distance. Flipping the bacon almost feels like a month ago, when Rengoku had been the man at your table.

Terror hits you suddenly, like a fist to the stomach. 

Rengoku was hostile in the beginning, but he had reasons behind his suspicion. You can't think of Hakuji without remembering the blankness in Akaza's eyes, the absence of thought and self. Akaza was strong with none of Rengoku's caring. Hakuji punched a hole in your stone walls. If Akaza comes back—

He wouldn't. Kibutsuji's cells die in the sunshine. Your cells eat his cells. And even if that failed, Akaza doesn't hurt women.

But knowing that and believing you're safe are two different matters. Fear doesn't go away just because you know it should. You haven't felt so small and helpless in centuries.

It's an unkind thought. But you wish Rengoku were here. You shouldn't blame Hakuji. He's just a tired young man, out of time and place not only at your dining table, but also in his homeland and modern-day Japan. He was trying not to harm you even when he was Akaza, but you want Rengoku instead. You miss his tempura hair, sunshine smile, the way he avoids your eyes and talks too loud. 

You don't know when your mind started associating him with safety. It's childish. He's more than his strength, and you've done fine for yourself all these years. You're not someone who needs protecting. But it was nice having him here, nice to be held and assured that he'll keep you safe. 

Now you're crying in the kitchen, backing away from the stove so you don't further salt the pork with your tears. The bacon is burning. You squat on the cold tile to dry your eyes in your elbows, because you can't see the pan through the tears.

.........

Hakuji has not been so terrified in the last century. For the first time in his two-hundred years, he's met a demon to rival Muzan. She shoved Kibutsuji's blood out of his body. Then, fifteen minutes latter, she's squatting in a crying ball on the kitchen floor.

Hakuji turns off the stove. She's still crying. He moves the pan off the heat so her pork stops burning. Still crying. He brings her plate to the kitchen from the dining room, gingerly plating the intact bacon. He squats next to the weird demon and pushes breakfast forward like an offering for a goddess. Or a food bowl for a dog. At this point, Hakuji's not sure if you're powerful or pathetic.

"You should—uh, food's getting cold."

You look up at him, sniff, and cry harder. But you eat through the tears streaming down your face, stabbing the bacon and eggs with the fork in their plate on the floor.

"What happened," Hakuji offers when your sniffling grows quieter.

You try to speak. Hiccups come out instead. 

"I miss someone," you admit a moment later, turned away to stare at the ground.

Hakuji hesitates, shuffles a step closer, and pats your head. 

"I miss someone, too."

Koyuki said he could afford to be more vulnerable. It makes him less intimidating, especially to women and children.

"Where are they?" you ask, sniffling.

He hesitates.

"She passed away, long ago."

You look at him for the first time since you started crying. Slowly, the fear starts to clear away from your eyes. Hakuji watches as you finally start to see him as a person.

Koyuki was right. But isn't she always?

"I'm sorry," you bow your head like you're offering an apology with your condolences.

"Yeah," Hakuji looks down. "Me too."

You get up from the floor and finish the meal in silence. The food's getting cold.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you talk to distract yourself from the frankly unappetizing eggs.

Hakuji wants to say no. Koyuki's disapproving expression comes instantly to mind. The memory makes him smile to himself. 

Recollection come with hurt, shame, and faint anger at the world, even after all these years. But the memories themselves are all light and warmness. Hakuji likes to keep them close to his heart, especially after they've been out of his reach, all these years.

He can't bring himself to speak about the rival dojo. But slowly, he tells you about Koyuki, and Keizo. 

After, you tell him about Luigi, who became Toshiro, grounding yourself in old memories that you finished processing long ago. You've stopped crying. That's a good sign.

"Why didn't you marry him?" Hakuji asks about Toshiro.

"We're different people, now," you shrug. "He married a lovely woman. Her name's Mimi," you remember aloud dancing with her, the evening before Rengoku's departure.

Hakuji hums, nodding.

"The Italian man, you didn't really love him."

"Excuse me?" you smile, your eyes frosty.

Hakuji shrugs, "If he really loved you, he'd come back to you. You wouldn't be over him this easy."

Luigi did come back to you, in a way. You still think of him when you try a good risotto, when you source Veneto wines, when Toshiro smiles a certain way in a certain light. But you won't argue with Hakuji, not when he's just recovered his memories and still in love with his fiancée of centuries ago.

His doubts are nothing you haven't considered yourself, in the centuries after Luigi's passing. Who could ask someone he loves to kill him? But what you and he had—if it wasn't love, what is love, then?

You've done your share of falling, the centuries before Luigi. Graziana rarely goes without a lover, or lovers. Manjeok met Imani in the 17th century and has been with her ever since, but they're life partners rather than lovers. Yan's biology is far too young for romantic interests. 

Through your experience and that of the other immortals, you've come to suspect, in the end, that love is a human notion. Despite all your years, you're not convinced that love persists through death. Even in life, people grow and change after decades, much less centuries. 

You're not human. You've filled your life with other forms of affection. It's easier to be happy when you don't spend all your hours wondering and wanting.

Hakuji picks at his nails.

"You think they'll reincarnate, too?"

You wish you could be reassuring about the people he loved. But you don't know what death is like. You've never been.

"People say that regrets make souls linger on earth. I think the people who loved you would've worried about you, when you were a demon. Now? I don't know."

After breakfast, you do the dishes. When you leave the kitchen, you find Hakuji with his eyes closed and his hands together in prayer.

You look away respectfully. You respect people, though sometimes, you can't imagine what gods you'd believe in.

..........

"I can kill you," you offer as the dishes are drying. 

It's already been a long day, and it's still morning. You've made your usual coffee doubly strong. Hakuji's determinedly drinking his own cup. 

You don't think he likes it. It's either some sort of masculine or self-hating masochism, or he's just determined not to waste food. You offer him creamer and sugar, but he scowls like you were insulting him with the option.

"Why?" Hakuji asks.

You offered to kill him with no killing intent. Instead, you fidget with the spoon in your coffee like you're uncomfortable with the suggestion. You'd rather not kill him, he's sure.

"I believe in giving people choices," you reply firmly, your hands closing around the coffee cup.

You say it so easily, like it's obvious. Hakuji stares. He wonders what might've happened two hundred years ago, if he met you instead of Kibutsuji.

"What?" you ask at his incredulity. Hakuji rolls his eyes like he can't believe you. But gradually, as the coffee levels drain in your mugs, he tells you about how he became a demon.

You cough, all the blood falling out of your face when he describes Muzan shoving a hand into his face. For a moment, Hakuji thinks you might throw up. You walk to the sink and bow over it for a full minute before you return to the dining table. Hakuji keeps his descriptions less graphic from then on. He also looks away from you, unable to face your disgust.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," you insist when you realize he's ashamed of his past. Hakuji snorts. You've barely recovered from your disgust at him, and you're already trying to reassure him. Women.

You stir your coffee until you finally feel well enough to take another, tiny sip.

"Kibutsuji was always a little brat," you mutter at the table. "Couldn't be much else, physically helpless as he was. It's just like him to take advantage of a teenager in emotional distress."

Hakuji snorts. Ridiculous, someone like you calling Kibutsuji pathetic.

If he focuses on your arrogance, he doesn't have to think about his own weakness. He doesn't like it, being described as a teenager in emotional distress. You make him sound so weak.

"Pretty sure I'm still going to hell," he scoffs.

You pause. You're thinking of something diplomatic to say. He can tell.

"Many religions believe in forgiveness," you offer.

"Some don’t."

"Some religions believe in earning it," you agree.

Your gaze is evaluating instead of calculating. Hakuji finds himself straightening, tipping his chin up and glaring down at you in response to your assessment. You shake your head, standing from the dinner table. 

"Take your time deciding what you want to do with your life. I need at least two weeks to order—we'd need special ore, to make a blade that will—" you draw your hand across your throat.

He crosses his arms, leans back in his chair. It's the same pose, but where Rengoku looks reliable, Hakuji looks like a hooligan.

"I'm two hundred years old, two more weeks' nothing," he scoffs.

You have to smile. Hakuji reminds you a little of Yan, like a two-hundred-year-old teenager.

You hum, "It's good to talk with another old person." 

Hakuji looks you up and down, his gaze equally evaluating.

"The way you talk—you're older than Muzan?"

"I don't know. I became a demon—or whatever—earlier."

"Huh."

He doesn't ask. You explain your history anyways. Since he's one of you now, he deserves to know.

"How are you so soft?" Hakuji demands after, flexing his bicep and pointing at the muscle. "What have you been doing these thousand years?"

You look at your garden, remember your phone calls, and think of Japanese child protection laws. 

Well, you wanted to know if Kibutsuji and his demons have meetings.

..........

Kibutsuji and his demons do have meetings. Hakuji gives you the abbreviated minutes of his last meeting with the Upper Moons and Kibutsuji, and you don't know where to laugh like a madwoman or curl up on the ground and cry. You settle for smiling politely and nodding while Hakuji talks, increasingly excited as he realizes he can say whatever he wants whenever he wants. 

Muzan's blood doesn't influence him anymore. When he stops talking, he doesn't feel your blood compelling him to talk, either. Instead, you nod politely, ask questions, and don't ask when he won't answer. It's incredibly strange, having boundaries and not having to defend them with violence.

The phone rings. You excuse yourself, getting up before the repairman can call for you. In the study, you can hear Rengoku asking for you through the speaker. You tap Mr. Caster's shoulder, holding your hand out for the phone.

"One moment, ma'am. I just need to clean up here—"

"No need. I'll handle it. Thanks for your help, Mr. Caster. There's a check and tip for you on the dining table on your way out."

You nod at Hakuji, who's followed you to the door of the study. He escorts the repairman out, though he can't understand a word of what the white man says. Meanwhile, you answer the phone.

"Mosh—"

"Are you all right!" Rengoku yells in Japanese as soon as he hears your voice.

"I'm fine. Akaza told you that he doesn't hurt women, right? He wouldn't hurt me."

"What if Muzan gets to you through Akaza!" Rengoku asks. You purse your lips.

If Akaza doesn't hurt women, then this morning, when he pulled out the phone cords and nearly strangled you—that was Kibutsuji trying to kill you. You don't know if Kibutsuji's cells can reconnect to the host from outside his body and half the world away.

"I'm confident that Akaza no longer poses a threat to me. Kibutsuji may be aware of my location now. However, even if he were to come to Chicago, visa applications and flight scheduling will take at least a week. If he travels by ship, it'll be a month—"

"Will you come to Japan!" Rengoku asks. "I have spoken to oyakata-sama. I called Toshiro-san when I could not reach you. He can ready passports and visas. We will send a plane—"

Rengoku adjusts his hold on the telephone receiver.

"Let us protect you!" he says. And then, more softly, "I would like to protect you."

It's early afternoon for you, so past midnight for him. Despite a grueling battle to defeat Akaza, Rengoku stayed awake to arrange your travel.

You cover your mouth. You can feel his earnestness, even through the static and halfway around the globe. He's so kind, it takes your breath away.

You don't reply until you can trust your voice again.

"Please don't worry, Rengoku-san. Hakuji-san should be free from Muzan's control—"

"Who is that!"

You explain Akaza returning to Hakuji after expelling Muzan's blood.

"He looks human now, except he has blue eyes and pink eyelashes," you explain, glancing up as the man in question appears in your window. Instead of climbing up the stairs like a normal person, Hakuji apparently waited until the phone repairman left, and then vaulted from the ground floor into the window of your study. 

"He is with you!"

Hakuji nods in time with you, hearing everything Rengoku says because of the flame hashira's volume.

"I'll keep him with me to make sure he won't hurt anyone."

“I don’t think—”

Hakuji darts forward, snatching your phone before you see him move.

"Rengoku-san, you don’t need to worry about her. I plan to off myself as soon as possible." 

You scramble to take the phone back. Hakuji scoops the body of the machine up under his arm and begins jumping about the study like an oversized spider. He has to be breaking a dozen speed limits, and he's not even driving.

"Give that back!" you yell. Hakuji barely looks at you.

"Make her return to Japan," he adds with a glance at you. "She's weak. If Kibutsuji gets to her—"

You pull the telephone connection out of the wall. Hakuji stares between you and the phone receiver. You hold up the end of the telephone cord. You'll snap it if he tries anything. You know how to fix a broken telephone cord. He doesn't.

"You're weak," Hakuji declares like he's not the one holding the useless phone. "You may not have any idea how powerful Muzan is, but Rengoku and I've fought the kizuki. You can't protect yourself, and you're immune to sunlight. If Kibutsuji gets you—"

"Kibutsuji can try," you cut in. "My allies will get me a list of all the individuals leaving Japan within the day. I can skip a dozen countries by the time his ass gets to Chicago.”

Hakuji sneers, “Running with your tail between your legs?”

"What I do is none of your business.”

You’re tired of men gifted with physical advantages discounting your abilities and courage. 

“Hakuji-san, not once have I tried to dissuade you from wanting to kill yourself. I respected your choices, and I deserve the same consideration. You will not speak to Rengoku-san as if I am not the master of my own future, especially when you have little idea what I'm capable of.”

"Tell me, then," he smirks, like he's talking down to a child.

“Do you know what a visa is?”

“What?"

“It’s the twentieth century. International law governs travel between countries. Kibutsuji needs to apply for a passport if he doesn’t have one, apply for a visa, interview, purchase a boat—or plane—ticket…”

You count the steps off on your fingers. Hakuji’s eyes glaze over, like yours had when he spoke of martial arts and killing intent.

"Do you know where you are?" you ask Hakuji.

Hakuji looks around your house, at the marble stonework and Western architecture.

"England?" he guesses. 

You sigh.

"My point is, you are good at fighting. I have other skills.”

“You can't kill Muzan with paperwork," Hakuji snorts. 

You smile, rubbing your forearm under your sleeve.

He wouldn't have thought you'd stand a chance against Akaza, either. Then, you shoved Muzan's influence right out of him.

..........

After he jumps out the window, you plug the telephone back in. It rings immediately. 

“Akaza—Hakuji sounds different than when we fought! But—I still do not like him!”

Right now, you don’t either. From talking with Rengoku as if you don’t exist, to talking down to you, Hakuji’s pushed many of your buttons in the last five minutes. Not to mention how Akaza nearly murdered Rengoku.

You remind yourself that Hakuji isn’t Akaza. He meant well, thinking of your safety. Besides, the last time the young man was himself, it was two hundred years ago. His era had very different ideas on women’s abilities and independence. 

You put aside your feelings and make your case for Hakuji. Unlike Hakuji, Rengoku listens. It’s difficult, describing Hakuji’s past in a way that’s illuminating without sacrificing his privacy. You limit the information you share to the basic: Hakuji did not choose to become a demon. He demonstrates remorse for Akaza’s behavior. Without Muzan’s influence, he hasn’t harmed anyone or show any desire to do so.

“I do not like it, him staying with you!” Rengoku shouts. “But—if you believe him, I trust your judgement! And I will say so in my report to oyakata-sama!”

You carry his trust gingerly, tucking it in a place close to your heart.

“Will you consider returning to Japan!" Rengoku asks. The line goes into a rare silence as he awaits your answer.

"Tomorrow," you promise. "I’ll consider it tomorrow. I've—a meeting. Tonight."

He pauses.

"The Italian!"

"Capone was born in New York."

"I see!" he stops. You listen to the static. "Can Senjuro call you tomorrow! I have a mission!"

"Of course. You know my Wednesday hours."

"I remember them!"

"Be safe on your mission tomorrow," you worry, when he has a mission so soon after battling Akaza. "Please get some sleep." 

"I will! Be safe, Kikuchi-san!" 

..........

An hour later, your phone rings again. You pick up to two girls’ voices.

“Is this the residence of Miss Kikuchi?"

"This is she. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"My name is Nichika."

"My name is Hinaki."

"We are calling from the Ubuyashiki residence, to inquire if you require assistance dispatching the Upper Rank Three demon."

You purse your lips, displeased within three sentences. Ubuyashiki didn’t even bother to call you himself? He sent his kids? Who’s running the Demon Slayer Corps here, him or his children?

"I understand Rengoku-san informed you—Hakuji-san is no longer a demon."

"The flame hashira has mentioned the demon’s transformation."

"I have no plans to execute Hakuji-san unless he requests it of me. What he does with his life is his choice. If your father has a problem with this, he can speak to me himself."

There's a pause from the other side of the line.

"Our father is of delicate health," one of the girls replies.

"If he's not well enough to speak to me, then Ubuyashiki-san is in no condition to make decisions about executions." 

Another pause, with the sound of two soft voices speaking to each other.

"One moment, please, Kikuchi-san," Hinaki murmurs softly into the speaker, while Nichika goes to get her father. 

You wait, holding the phone to your shoulder so your hands can return to reviewing the papers you'll be presenting to Capone later today. Ten minutes later, you hear a cough, and then a new voice on the other side of the line.

You frown. There's something with Ubuyashiki Kagaya's voice. It's very calm, but there's something else, something more than calmness. You can't put your finger on it with the distance and the static.

"Kikuchi-san. I understand that you have transformed the Upper Rank Three demon with your blood. But, Akaza or Hakuji, he remains responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of men."

Something about Ubuyashiki's voice makes you snap. Maybe it's the way he uses Japanese, with the word choice and sentence structures of old nobility. Or maybe it's the quiet assurance of his voice, which you find unbearably condescending.

"Should I commit seppuku, then?" you purr into the receiver. "After all, I've also killed tens of thousands of men."

Ubuyashiki coughs, "Your situation is different, Kikuchi-san."

"Right," you agree. "The Demon Slayers Corps cannot afford to have me die."

"This is also true.”

"Kibutsuji forcibly turned Hakuji-san. For the last two centuries, Kibutsuji's blood influenced Hakuji’s memories, his personality, and his behavior, transforming him into Akaza."

"Kamado Nezuko resisted Kibutsuji's blood, as did Tamayo-san."

"The ability to resist mind-altering substances is not an indication of moral character. I should know." 

If purity of character improved drug resistance, other children should have survived the doctor's experiments, not you. You were certainly not the most kind or deserving of your peers. In the world where you grew up, kindness is rarely conducive for survival.

"Ubuyashiki-san, I understand my decision might put you in a difficult position as the Demon Slayers' leader. You may tell your organization that Hakuji-san is my responsibility."

"I see. Will you vouch on pain of death that he will not harm humans?"

You laugh, "No. 

“People make mistakes. It’s a part of living. Nobody deserves to die for refusing to kill others."

Ubuyashiki pauses. His tone remains even. Somehow, you find that unerring calmness more annoying than anything.

"As demon slayers, we take responsibility for the people who die as a result of our choices."

"Aren’t you glad I'm not a demon slayer? 

“As a leader, you should know better than asking your allies to die for honest mistakes. Especially when you would not do the same," you add, thinking of the men, women, and children who must have sacrificed their lives at Ubuyashiki’s order. 

You wait ten seconds for a reply. When none is forthcoming, you sigh.

“It’s late, Ubuyashiki-san. Please get some rest for your health.” 

Chapter Text

Hakuji declines to getting tattoos removed for fear that his fiancée won't recognize him in the afterlife. In the privacy of your booth in the Hotel DeJonghe's dining room, you wind back one of your sleeves. Hakuji stares at the layers on layers of scars.

"I haven't tried to get them removed, either," you admit.

He unwinds his own sleeve, putting his arm on the table next to yours so the stripes of his tattos and your scars line up.

"We match," he says.

"You think?" you grin.

You haven't had a fiancé or fiancée for a long time. You don't think you'll ever be proud of your scars like some people are. But you've learned to live with them, with what people did to you, and who you had been. 

You can be proud of that, living.

..........

After dinner, you give Hakuji the briefcase with the papers for Capone and your necessities. David drops you off in downtown Chicago, where you call a cab to the Drake Hotel because you don't want Torrio's people to know your drivers.

You're displeased but not surprised when the Outfit sends runners to escort you to a hotel room.

"Don't kill anyone," you remind Hakuji in soft Japanese. "Don't start anything."

He notes your specific choice of words: it's not 'Don't assault anyone' or 'Don't hurt anyone,' just 'Don't kill anyone.' You asked him about not starting things, but you said nothing about not ending them.

Hakuji nods. You proceed together to the hotel room.

The runner asks your bodyguard to remain at the door. He tries to bodily block Hakuji from entering. Hakuji shoves past the taller man.

The hotel room's otherwise full of guns and men with guns. None of them move from their places. There's nowhere for you to sit, except in their laps or the tiny line of space on the loveseat beside Capone.

"Hello, Kiku," Capone grins.

He's wearing lime green today, with too many rings on his fingers. Capone makes a point of being the best-dressed in any room. In contrast, his boss Torrio wears a plain somber suit, seated in his own armchair. He leisurely folds up the newspaper he was reading.

Hakuji cracks his knuckles. The gunmen don't even look up from their weapons. Hakuji grins, his eyes a little wild.

You frown, taking the briefcase from him. 

"Hakuji-san, would you bring two chairs?" you point with your thumb to the hallway.

He points at Torrio's armchair.

"How about that one?" he drawls. "You like his chair?" 

Torrio frowns at Hakuji's pointing and your exchange in Japanese.

"Two chairs from the hallway, please," you insist. "Don't start anything, remember?"

"Fucking cowards," he hisses. "Ganging up on a girl."

"Hakuji," you put on your mom voice. "Hallway. Chairs. Now."

He scowls.

"I hope you know what you're doing."

"Oh," you smile. "I do."

You smile like a shark, with teeth. The expression's not at all like Koyuki, or Keizo. It has bite. Hakuji leaves.

When the hotel door shuts behind him, you hook the toe of your foot under the edge of the coffee table and kick upwards. One end of the coffee table raises. The guns and magazines on top clatter to the ground. The room fills with cursing in English and Italian. You set the table back and take a seat on it, opening the briefcase in your lap.

"Ay, this one is fiesty," Torrio calls to Capone in Italian.

"I'm glad you noticed," you reply in perfect Italian, your Florentine accent a little dated. Torrio's eyebrows go into his forehead.

Capone rises from the loveseat and plops himself down on the coffee table beside you, close enough your hips brush.

Strike one.

"I didn't know you spoke Italian, doll."

He presses too close. The coffee table creaks under his weight. You hold your ground.

"There's a lot you don't know," you reply, not looking up from your papers. You present Torrio and Capone each with a copy of your contract.

Capone makes a point of taking the papers in such a way that your hands brush.

Strike two.

You walk through the terms of your supplying the Chicago Outfit. You're not even halfway through the third bullet when Capone reaches for your leg, his open palm about to come down over your thighs.

Strike three.

You grab the back of his head and slam his face into the carpet. Hakuji kicks the hotel room door open, hauling two armchairs. The gunmen in the room raise their weapons, each and every one pointed at you.

Hakuji throws the armchairs. You snap the briefcase closed and brace yourself for the impact of bullets. 

No gunshots sound.

When the dust settles, a half dozen gangsters lie unconscious on the hotel room's floor. The remaining few look down at their empty hands, then up at Hakuji, who holds the last hot gun like he has never used a gun in his life. 

No matter. His fingers close around the rifle barrel and body. The veins in the back of his hands bulge. The metal creaks, the gun warping and crumpling into a ball of metal in his hands.

A man whimpers. The hotel room fills with the smell of urine.

"Out," you point with your thumb towards the door of the hotel room. "Darsela a gambe."

The conscious gangsters scram, dragging their unconscious peers along. You pick your way through the chaos, rearranging the intact chairs in the wrecked living room.

One of Hakuji's armchairs remains intact. He can have that, since he brought it over. You want Torrio's armchair. It looks comfortable. That leaves Torrio and Capone to squeeze into the loveseat, Torrio pressed into the corner by Capone's bulk. Capone makes himself small to give his boss room.

You make yourself comfortable in the armchair, tossing aside the ruined copies of your contract. This is why you brought a bullet-proof briefcase. You take out four extra copies, one for Hakuji, so everyone matches. 

Hakuji glares at the English text like it's a personal insult.

"You don't have to read it," you tell him in Japanese, "just hold it like you know what you're doing."

Hakuji pretends to read the contract, except he's holding it upside down. You sigh.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Capone moving. He withdraws a silver gun from its holster on the side facing you, his body blocking the weapon from Hakuji's view. Hakuji stirs, brows knitting at Capone's killing intent. 

You grab Hakuji's arm and shake your head, stopping him. His hesitation gives Capone enough time. The bullet blows through your brain. 

"Uppity chink bitch," Capone snarls, but you heal just as fast as a bullet can cut a path. The remaining humans in the room watch in muted horror as your face reforms around the bullet wound, your smile unchanging.

You clear your throat once your vocal cords rebuild.

"I'm Japanese, actually."

Then, you wrench Capone's arm up from his side, cough up his bullet, and put the deformed metal in his open hand. When he sits in still, stunned silence, you fold his fingers closed around the spent slug, patting his hand.

"You can have that back. Now," you smile at the leaders of the Chicago Outfit, neatening the stack of papers in your lap, "shall we discuss this like civil people?"

..........

You're quite pleased with the outcome of your little negotiation. The Chicago Outfit concedes to an exceedingly modest cut as your distributors. Most of the revenue will be donated in their name, to fund schools on the South Side. In turn, you concede to a slightly slimmer margin, with most of your revenues to be funneled towards your charities.

Fear makes men more efficient. Your contracts are signed, the logistics of your regular financial updates set before the hour. You're out before the Drake employees bring in room service.

..........

"You heal like an upper rank."

In your home, Hakuji pokes suspiciously at his ice cream, unused to 20th century temperature-control technology. You cover your bowl with a healthy dose of grenadine syrup, maraschino cherries, and finally Amontillado sherry. Once you've returned home, you fulfilled your promise to show Hakuji the shipment from Spain, with ice cream as a treat for good behavior. 

"I'm not surprised," you hum through a bite of ice cream. Healing takes energy, after all. It's easier to get energy from food than from eating people, because you can buy food and food doesn't try to kill you.

Hakuji pushes the ice cream to you, taking a straight shot of sherry.

"It's not just what you eat," he disagrees. "I ate less people than some of Muzan's upper rank because I only ate men. But I was stronger. You could be strong."

You add his ice cream to your serving. You just did a lot of healing. You need the calories. And more sherry. 

"To be honest. I don't understand why strength is so important to you," you tell Hakuji between bites.

"I wanted to protect people," he says. He takes another drink. "It was a long time ago."

"Rengoku-san is like that."

He should be on his mission now. You hope he's okay. Hakuji sighs, looking at the top of your head like he wants to ruffle your hair. You lean back, out of reach.

"Rengoku protects everyone. I let you get shot."

"I wanted to get shot."

You couldn't have Hakuji carry your meeting when you don't know how long he'll be around. The extra muscle's nice, but you had to establish that you're the force to be reckoned with, not him.

You explain this to Hakuji. Torrio and Capone must fear you, not just him. Now, the Chicago Outfit will think twice before violating the terms of your contract, whatever Hakuji chooses to do with his life. They'll take a cut and ensure their businesses deliver quality alcohol, none of that bathtub gin that makes people sick. They won't threaten your existing customers, and they'll limit violence when possible.

It's not so much protection as laying down ground rules. But your rules will foster the growth of a market that already provides for tens of thousands of people, including minorities and immigrants. 

"I'm not very good at fighting," you conclude. "But I think there's more than one way to skin a cat."

Hakuji raises an eyebrow that makes you certain the expression doesn't transliterate. You try again.

"I think there are many ways to help people, besides protecting them with your strength. For example, you could tell me more about Japan's demons."

..........

Akaza had no interest except getting stronger. Hakuji doesn't have much organized knowledge about Muzan's demons. However, he has an excellent memory. You take notes on everything from the language and insignias of Douma's cult, to the locale of Muzan's meeting places.

Hakuji watches you mark up the map of Tokyo in your study. Like you, it looks harmless. It's just sheets of paper marker with colorful pens and shiny pushpins. But when he asks, you pinpoint Gyutaro's brothel. You've circled the art galleries that sell Gyokko's pots. Scattered around the city, you noted a dozen locations as possible residences for Muzan.

You shrug when he asks. Hakuji's knowledge helped tremendously. Beside that, your information's partly tracing money and business, partly the Demon Slayers' information collection networks, and partly who you are.

"I'm not strong like you," you tell Hakuji. "Instead, I got very good at hiding."

As a demon, Muzan's viscerally terrifying with his violent temper and inhuman forms. You remind Hakuji more of the boy with the ichimatsu-checkered haori, who used flame breathing like a dance, his movements harder to predict because they were void of killing intent. You're quiet. Unremarkable. Inevitable, perhaps.

When Hakuji was a kid, before his father got sick, they went together to the seashore and caught crabs for food. Otou-san always boiled the crabs in cold water. He taught Hakuji to heat the water gradually, so the crabs won't escape. By the time they noticed the heat, they're dead.

Chapter Text

Senjuro calls first thing the next morning, just past 8AM. You put your coffee down to hold the telephone receiver with your shoulder.

"Hello?"

"Is this the Kikuchi residence?" the caller asks in English, his deep voice contrasting the child's intonation. You switch to Japanese.

"Konbanwa, Senjuro-kun. How are you?"

"I'm well! Aniue is away on a mission. I wanted to make sure you're all right."

"Thank you for checking in. I'm doing well."

You pause. Last night plays through your mind, from wrecking the hotel room at the Drake, to terrorizing the Chicago Outfit into non-violence. You clear your throat.

"Hakuji-san has been—helping—with my business. Without Muzan's influence, he has remained peaceable unless provoked, with men in addition to not harming women. Would you inform Rengoku-san on his return? I wouldn't want him to worry."

Senjuro ask a few more questions, seeming to read from a list. He promises to relay your thoughts once Rengoku returns. You thank him before asking the boy about his school and classes.

Senjuro tells you about his favorite books and teachers. You hear the rustling of paper, as if he's referring to Rengoku's list again.

"Kikuchi-san, will you come to Japan?"

"Ah—"

You clutch at the front of your blouse as if you've been struck through the heart. Thoughtful, well-mannered children might well be your biggest weakness.

"I am considering it, Senjuro-kun," you solemnly promise.

"I would like to meet you," Senjuro says. He pauses, "Aniue misses you, I think. He often thinks of you."

You stare out your window, at the the patch of grass under the shade of your pine trees where Rengoku used to train. 

"I miss him, too," you admit.

..........

After Senjuro, various voices offer their opinions on your returning to Japan.

Manjeok agrees with Rengoku—even if Kibutsuji might not be aware of your existence, you should seek Japan's Demon Slayers for security. Yan wants you close. China, or even Korea is preferable, obviously. But Japan is fine. Better than the West, anyhow. Graziana calls and talks for hours, swooning over oriental fashion, Mulberry silk, and Japanese prints.

Your employees chime in with their thoughts. As a Japanese American and not an American Born Japanese like her husband Toshiro, Mimi advocates for you to visit the homeland at least once, for heritage. Annie, Amane, Rosie, and Rivera ask if you'll go out of pure self interest—they know that wherever you go, they get souvenirs. 

You complain to Patricia, who smiles like she knows something you don't. That smile rubbed off on her from Hakuji, who seems to like her best of all your staff though they've never spoken more than sentence fragments to each other.

A week after Hakuji's arrival, you finally receive a response from the Panchen Lama regarding your inquiries about Japan's demons and their physiology. The envelope looks like it's been through hell and high water. The letter includes nothing except a response from the Panchen office, indicating that the Panchen requests you stop by Tibet on your way back to Japan.

You're not sure if this message is your letter's miscommunication or the Panchen's prescience. But the sense of inevitability begins settling in on your first read. You don't know how, but you get a nagging feeling that you will be forced back to Japan.

..........

You begin organizing your affairs in Chicago, just in case. Your local projects are handed off to Toshiro, Walsh, or other business partners. Hakuji helps you organize seeds and take cuttings from your garden. Your assets are sold or given away to local families. 

Simultaneously, you plan to stay. Collating information from your friends in the state department and overseas, you determine that Kibutsuji has no visa, visa applications, or extralegal travel arrangements in the works. There remains the possibility of his using a pseudonym or the infinity castle that Hakuji describes, so your international contacts keep an eye on unexplained deaths, disappearances, and eaten people. 

The Demon Slayers report no known changes in Kibutsuji's activities. You're fairly confident that he remains in Japan and unaware of your existence, but you're concerned about the interest he has displayed in Rengoku for surviving fatal injuries, inhuman healing, and walking in the sun. 

To avoid any more chances of Kibutsuji connecting the dots, you keep Hakuji on an information diet. Though you also want him to experience the world, you focus on less iconic, well-known landmarks in Chicago. Instead of the Magnificent Mile and Comiskey Park, you hike nature trails and go fishing. 

Hakuji seems content with your approach. He's less curious about the world like Rengoku, more lost in his own memories of the past two centuries. The former demon likes to be left alone, and you respect that.

..........

Since your conversation about respecting each other's choices, Hakuji has remained determinedly silent on your potential return to Japan. You're the first to cave instead. On a regular Tuesday outing to check on your speaks, you're three drinks in, tipsy enough to slam the copper mug on the counter and propose a trade:

"You get to convince me to go to Japan. I get to convince you not to die."

Hakuji considers your offer.

"I also get to train you," he counters. 

You groan, "I already train an hour a day." 

Before he left for Japan, Rengoku made you promise him that. You couldn't live with yourself if you lied to Rengoku.

"Fighting is not one of your strengths, Kikuchi. That regimen's too hard for you. Shorten it to the first half hour. I'll train you after."

"But I have to take care of my garden. The half you killed," you remind Hakuji.

Your blood apparently disabled the 'blood demon art' he had as one of Muzan's demons. But within weeks, Hakuji developed his own breathing style. You're not skilled enough to perceive 'Ice Breathing,' but you definitely noticed when half your garden died from frost.

"I'll take care of your garden," Hakuji counters. "One hour training with me, on top of a half-hour doing your old exercises. You get to convince me not to die, and I get to convince you on Japan. Deal?"

He drives a hard bargain. But, really? He's a nice kid if a little rough around the edges. You'd probably agree to almost anything for a chance that he'd want to live.

"Deal," you agree, clinking glasses. Rengoku better be proud of you for all this exercise. Ugh.

..........

Rengoku is concerned. But, he's concerned about anything to do with the former demon. 

"It is too easy!" he asserts of Hakuji's training regimen. "I want you to be better prepared, quickly!" Rengoku gives a long list of criticisms that sound fair to you. 

Hakuji has a refutation for every comment. You're not sure if you should be happy, worried for your well-being, or both when the demon slayer and former demon have their first extended civil conversation over your fitness regimen.

After, most of Hakuji's proposal remains unchanged.

"I do not like him!" Rengoku concludes, "But he makes good points!"

Hakuji hears through the phone call. Such is Rengoku's volume. The former demon rolls his eyes. 

"He's a demon slayer, but I ran a dojo," Hakuji drawls smugly. "I can teach."

..........

To his credit, Hakuji is a skilled teacher. He observes your movements with an expert eye and makes insightful corrections. You can feel your form improving even more than when you'd trained with Rengoku. 

Against his credit, Hakuji's motivational strategy is pure negative reinforcement. After the third backhanded compliment, you starfish on the ground and refuse to move. He scowls, going from passive-aggressive to straight-up aggressive.

"You disgust me," he drawls over your prone body. "At this rate, Muzan will wipe you and your ilk off the face of the earth. And you'll deserve it. The laws of nature dictate that the weak will be eliminated."

You roll over and make yourself comfortable in the sand. Hakuji grabs you by the shoulders and hauls you up. You ragdoll, making things as difficult as possible for him.

"Would it kill you to be nice?" you retort as he shoves you limp torso up again. "You know I'm trying. I know I'm bad at this. How does it help, making me feel bad on top of everything?"

Hakuji makes a thoughtful sound that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. He circles you like a panther, footsteps light and elegant in the sand. Then, he crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"You can do better!" he shouts, eyes wide, staring directly over your shoulder. "I believe in you! Let's try that again, Kiku-san!"

You leap to your feet, scrambling away from Hakuji. He grins like a cat with the cream.

"Is that more motivating for you, Kiku-san?" he purrs, leaning too close to your face.

"Rengoku-san does not call me that," you hiss, your cheeks burning. Hakuji hums like he's filing the information away for later. 

"But it's not—I'm not—I've a valid preference," you defend yourself. "You're not going to motivate anybody being mean, okay?"

Hakuji nods, "Point taken." He inhales. You can practically see him remembering to think before he speaks.

"Your posture has improved," he admits. "But you're still unsteady on the balls of your feet. Ground your stance," he demonstrates. You copy him, keeping your feet flat against the ground. "That's better. But you must keep your balance, and return to it..."

..........

You improve at hand-to-hand combat. Hakuji improves at positive reinforcement. He also begins pacing your garden restlessly between your and his own training sessions, however. You decide he needs another outlet besides your weekend outings.

As an adult, Toshiro volunteers at the South Side Home for Wayward Boys where you'd first met him when he was a teenager. The kids there respect him as one of their own. But Toshiro has a day job, and the teenagers at the Home have gotten rowdier since the tough old lady teacher retired.

You take Hakuji for a trial run Thursday. While you meet with the Board of Directors about how they'll spend their Chicago Outfit money, he walks in on a dozen boys surrounding two who circle each other like boxers. At the adults arrival, they grunt and turn their backs.

Hakuji doesn't speak a lick of English. But he cracks his knuckles and talks with his fists. By the time you return, the boys have been roped into releasing their energy via an impromptu martial arts lesson. The Japanese-American of the group translates while Hakuji walks between the lines of training boys, correcting postures and doing demonstrations.

"Would you like to come back every Thursday?" you ask him after. "David can bring you."

"You should join," Hakuji says. "Those kids are more talented than you can ever hope to be."

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Hakuji-san, what did we say about creating motivation?"

"Motivation?" Hakuji snorts. "I've been training you for two weeks, but you've less killing intent than those kids."

"I don't want them to kill people. That's not why I asked you here. I want the boys to be able to protect themselves and others, and I think you can teach them that."

Hakuji hums, his eyes narrowed at you, his expression thoughtful.

..........

You've seen Hakuji's ability to twist words and make them suit his purposes, so your persuasion is less about argument, more about showing him the 20th century. From your own businesses to the wayward youth of Chicago's south side, there are many things in the world living for, and many people who someone like him can protect.

"Why would I go back to Japan?" you ask back. "I like America. Japan has been nothing but cruel to me. I haven't been there in a thousand years."

"You're scared."

You scoff at the juvenile accusation.

"I am. So?"

"I'll go with you, if that helps."

You lean back, your eyes wide and alarmed.

"Hakuji-san, that's a horrible idea. The demon slayers will kill you."

Chapter Text

..........

Once the plane is reserved, you call the demon slayer corps and send snail mail for the Panchen. Thanks to his prescience, you'll be able leave Chicago in a week. In the meantime, you must finish closing your affairs, and pick a new name for a new country.

You didn't expect you'll need a new pseudonym this decade, but you change names every time you move or after half a century passes, whichever one comes first. When you mention your conundrum, Graziana suggests you run a poll among the immortals. 

The week before your departure, first name suggestions filter in from around the world via mail, fax, and crow. Hakuji puts down 'Kiku,' borrowing the chrysanthemum character from your current last name. Eagle One drops off Rengoku's agreement. For three days, the former demon and demon slayer are the only votes for 'Kiku.' 

Then, Yan gets ahold of their suggestion. The next day, fax machines around the world start printing ten-page essays on the symbolism of chrysanthemums, from their strength as the last flower of autumn, to their nobility as the flower of emperors. The essays are admittedly well-researched and beautifully written, but you ask Yan to stop killing trees.

The spam mail stops, but the contest for your new first name becomes a fiasco nevertheless. There are factions. Someone employed scholars of seven countries to show up at the doors of their resident immortals and read translations of Yan's chrysanthemum essays. Ishaan descends Mount Everest to call you from the Nepal base camp and complain about the mountaineer who yelled 'Kiku' at him on the summit. As Toshiro drafts contest rules about harassment and solicitation, you learn that someone started a betting pool for the winning name. The prizes include a million dollars, a lost Raphael sketch, and an estate in Liverpool.

At your insistence, the assets are donated to charities in their respective countries, except for a few thousand, which Yan uses to put up celebratory billboards. The day before your departure, you know 'Kiku' won because Patricia mentions that all the billboards on her drive to your house have all been replaced by pictures of your new name spelled out in chrysanthemums.

"You don't like it," Hakuji notes as you brew the flower in tea for everyone in your house.

"No, I don't like emperors."

Chrysanthemums are the symbol of the imperial family—the seat of the emperor is the chrysanthemum throne—that has ruled Japan since before you were born. Until Hideyoshi abolished the official slave system in the late 16th century, you technically belonged to them.

You're not so different from Hakuji with his tattoos. Your first theft was your freedom.

"It's hot."

Hakuji tries a sip of the tea and drops it, his lip quickly healing the burn. 

"I used to believe the emperor was a god," he scowls.

"Are you religious?"

"If there's a god, he ain't in Japan."

You smile, a little bitter. Hakuji's quick. You took longer to believe that the people who you thought of as gods were only men who failed you, that gods and monsters were only stories your masters told to keep you obedient.

In the end, a flower is a flower. Chrysanthemums are not only beautiful. They also grow wildly like weeds, with the strength to bloom despite the autumn cold and the winter frost. The petals are useful for tea, perfume, and herbal medicine.

Chrysanthemums are associated with the Emperor of Japan, but every century makes its own mythology. Maybe it's time for one of your own writing.

"I like Kiku. I think I'll keep it."

"Good," Hakuji offers one of his rare, honest smiles. "It suits you."

..........

Unlike Rengoku, you have a visa. You get to leave Chicago at a reasonable hour in the afternoon. After you lock up, sealing the house and setting up security cameras in case anyone else appears in the living room, Toshiro and Mimi host your departure party at their townhouse.

The morning party runs past lunch, the friends you've made over the decades coming to bid goodbye with gifts and well-wishes. Toshiro and Mimi play host to restauranteurs from the Loop, bureaucrats from City Hall, businessmen from the Magnificent Mile, professors at the Universities, children and former children from the South Side. It's overwhelming, the realization of how many people you've built relationships with during your time in Chicago.

Mimi makes an excuse and ushers you into a quiet room when it becomes too much. You cry. A lot. Leaving never gets easier. Despite all your years, you've never found a good way to say goodbye. 

You miss Rengoku, quite suddenly. He's good with people, not with your practiced skill, but with a natural energy that inspires others.

You'll see him soon.

By the time you dry your eyes and go downstairs, Annie, Amane, and Patricia's kids are regretting their hurry to send you off. Patricia herds the kids and young women away before you're all drowned in tears. Merri gets you distracted with teasing about cute Japanese boys. You roll your eyes and sic her on Hakuji, who blushes as pink as his lashes while you bid goodbye to Mrs. and Mr. Walsh.

After your guests depart, Toshiro drives you to the airfield. Your luggage has already been loaded on the plane. You hug your ex-secretary and his wife goodbye. Mimi promises to visit. You ask if she'll bring their future kids. She winks, stuffing a dinner bento your bag.

Finally, you're alone in the jet with a few bags and too many thoughts, salting Mimi's rice with tears. 

From the plane, buildings you recognize become toy-size models, then dots. You close your eyes and thank the city that has been your home for half a century. Then, you take a deep breath for Tibet.

..........

The plane lands too soon. Tibet's so high up in the sky, so close to the roof of the world. The landing wheels bump across the airfield though you've barely descended from the clouds.

The plane stops. The door opens. You inhale the sharp, cold air of the highlands. Before attendants can roll a ramp up, you've leapt to the ground. The pilot waves as you point towards the gold dot on the edge of the airfield, shouting that you'll be right back.

As you approach, the gold dot becomes a brocade parasol. The crisp, cold air warms with the scent of incense and milk tea. Attendants in fur robes approach you with white khata on their arms.

You squint against the too-close sunshine, searching for the figure of the Panchen. He should be wearing gold—

Oh my god, you think. He's tiny.

As a bodhisattva or living god, the Panchen Lama returns to earth despite attaining nirvana, reincarnating after death so he can guide mortals towards enlightenment.

Since you were introduced by the Dalai Lama in the late 1500's, you've met three different reincarnations of the Panchen. Though you were older, the Panchen's incarnations have alwayed looked older than you, as middle aged or old men. And the Panchen always held that over you, sometimes literally, if his incarnation was also taller.

Now, you finally have the upper hand. The child on the traveling throne can't be older than ten. His eyes widen in alarm at your grin. 

"I--I knew you would do thi-th," the Panchen says, pulling your hair with little fists. You put him down, squeezing his ruddy little cheeks. Good heavens, the kid lisps.

"Aren't you just the most darling little boy," you coo at the living god.

"Just wait—wait 'til I grow up!" the Panchen yells, making little grabby hands at your hair. "I'm gonna--gonna pat your head until you go bald!"

"I don't age," you grin. "You'll go bald before I do."

The Panchen scoffs, crossing his little arms. It's adorable.

"I'm a monk. I'm always bald. Throw me again," he demands, reaching up for you with both arms.

You raise an eyebrow.

"Th-throw me again, and I won't pat your head. Not until my next life," he bargains.

"Deal," you shake his pudgy little hand, and toss the kid laughing into the air. After, you adjust his gold robes and run back to the palace together.

..........

The Panchen's attendants look on you with infinite suspicion when you return. You grin, dauntless as you set down the living god. No one wants to drape you in khata anymore, so the Panchen does it himself. You bow low so he can reach your neck, and he pats down the silk scarf around your shoulders.

You offer gifts for his office, and sneak the Panchen a small carrot cake. The attendants pour you salted milk tea in silver cups. You drink deeply, the scent of incense mixing with the savory milk on your tongue.

The Panchen Lama unfolds your letter from months ago, when you'd first met Rengoku and learned of Japan's demons. 

"We have met demon-th," the child lisps. "Not like them. But we have delivered other de-month to hell."

The Panchen's attendants bring monastery records. You compare Japan's demons with the Panchen's experiences of monsters and corrupt souls. He supplements your scientific knowledge of weapons and poisons with thoughts on the spiritual qualities of sunlight, wisteria, and demons. You're not enough of an expert on Buddhism or spirituality to do much besides absorb his teachings, but you take notes, grateful for another perspective with which you can understand your opponent and yourself.

The Panchen's theory is that demons reflect their creators. Power and control matters to Kibutsuji, so his demons derive power from devouring human souls.

Unlike Kibutsuji, there's something about you or your lineage that prevents the enslavement of souls to generate blood demon arts. Hakuji lost access to his blood demon arts once you forced Kibutsuji's blood out of him. Freedom and choice matters to you, so even if you eat people, their souls don't stick. Therefore, you're useless except for regeneration. You've your own soul, and that's it.

"I do not think you are a demon," the Panchen concludes. "If you seek enlightenment, returning to your homeland will be a final te-tetht." 

The Panchen takes a deep breath. He meets your eyes. Then, something changes. 

"Desire is the root of all suffering," the Panchen Lama says, his lisp gone, his voice filling the thin highland air and echoing between mountains.

"You are less susceptible to hatred than love."

All about you, attendants fall to their knees. The child begins to glow gold like his robes. Men press their foreheads to the ground, prostrating in the face of divinity.

"Do not fall," the Panchen Lama commands you. His voice reverberates between the mountains, steering the rainbow of prayer flags strung across their peaks.

You have lived for a thousand years and never experienced anything like this. Your breath stalls, not because of the thin highland air. The Panchen's prophecy rings through your bones.

It is nothing you did not know.

Desire is the root of all suffering. This is the core tenant of buddhist philosophy. Living gods like the Panchen have attained enlightenment by ascending beyond desire.

A demon is the opposite of a god. It follows that Kibutsuji and his demons became what they are through excess, by wanting too much. You remember even now how badly the sick young man wanted to live.

You're not like him. Towards the end of your days, all you remember feeling was tired. When you slept, you did not expect to wake up at all, much less in a grave of your peers.

It frightens you, the possibility that desire is all that separates you from Kibutsuji.

You are less susceptible to hatred than love, the Panchen said. He's right, you know. You want too many things, from medical-grade bourbon to child labor laws.

The boy in golden robes blinks as if returning to himself. He pats around his head. The golden glow fades.

"When do you leave?" the Panchen asks you in his child's tone.

You wet dry lips, remembering how to breathe.

"Today. I'd like to be in Japan before evening, Your Holiness." 

The Panchen huffs, crossing his little arms.

"You are tho bu-bithy, for t-thomeone with all the time in the world." 

The Panchen waves an attendant over.

"We prepared a gift for you."

From a woolen bed set into a wooden box, the Panchen lifts a necklace. Beads in Chinese coral and Afghan lapis surround a charm of Tibetan silver enscribed with mantra on one side, carved with the buddha on the other.

You approach the dais at his gesture, bowing until the child can reach over your head. He drops first a gold woolen khata, and then the necklace over your shoulders. The Panchen pats down the wool before putting together the palms of his little hands.

"For your protection," the Panchen says. "Namo'mitāyuṣe buddhāya."

In the familiar mantra, you hear the echo of Panchen incarnations long dead. Their bodies are entombed in the stupas of Tashilhunpo, but their soul is with you, inhabiting this young child who lisps and likes to be tossed into the sky.

You don't believe in gods, but you believe in people, so you close your eyes and press your hands together, bowing to this child and the memory of all the incarnations whom you have known in their centuries.

"Namo'mitāyuṣe buddhāya. Thank you, my friend."

..........

The child Panchen follows you to the plane, curiously examining the landing gear and aluminum frame. His attendants pass you another box of food for the journey. After, the Panchen has the taller man rap a knuckle against the aircraft wing, which echoes hollowly. 

As you prepare for take-off, the pilot informs the group how far they should stand.

"Goodbye—" the Panchen pauses. "What is your name this century?" he shouts after the airfield workers shut the plane's door.

"Kiku," you shout back. "Japanese, for chrysanthemums!"

"Chrysanthemums! ...Like you!" you hear before the plane engine drowns out the sounds of the Panchen's voice. Then, the plane's moving, the wheels clearing the ground.

..........

It'll be night in Japan once you arrive. You try to stay awake--keeping to your schedule in the destination time zone will help you adjust to the time difference. But you've been awake for a half-day in Chicago, the meeting with Panchen, and the sixteen hour flight. You doze off somewhere on the last leg of your journey.

You miss the sunset from the sky, the clouds breaking, the city peeking through, Mount Fuji familiar from postcards if not your memories, but alien also, for all the new buildings that have sprang up in the sprawling city of Tokyo.

The plane wheels hit the ground. You're rocked awake, blinking blearily as your eyes adjust to the lights in the airplane interior. The plane vibrates, taxing slowly before it comes to a stop. You hear ground crews shouting directions in modern Japanese, the sounds of your native language familiar yet foreign after so long.

The plane stops. You unstrap yourself from the seat, stretching. Rengoku should be waiting for you in the passenger pickup area. Spotting him would be easy enough. But where is passenger pick-up, again? You should check your map—

The door of the passenger compartment opens. A blur of brown and white speeds into the plane. Rengoku stops a hands-breadth from you. He's in uniform. You stare into brightly burning eyes, the familiar scent of pine and frankincense settling over you both.

"Oh," you breathe. "Hello."

Rengoku's too close. His eyes stare straight into you, seeming to glow like the lights in the airplane compartment. Remembering his intensity is nothing like experiencing it. You wonder if he can hear your heart beat fast.

"May I hug you!" he shouts, and his volume is just like you remember. You laugh and walk into him, resting your arms around his shoulders. 

Rengoku's arms come around your waist, adjusting until he finds the right spot. You hold him. He sighs, relaxing into you.

"I missed you," he tells the top of your head. 

You yawn against him, humming.

"I missed you, too."

You feel like you're forgetting something important, but you're very tired and he's very warm.

..........

The airfield security's a little miffed over how Rengoku ran through them.

"I apologize!" Rengoku bows for the third time. "I was eager to see my friend!" he beams at you.

The security grumbles about sending you and Rengoku to await the decision of their superiors. You smile over the bags under your eyes. You agree completely—if you were their boss, you would be concerned about how your staff allowed a civilian past multiple lines of airport security. You would be happy to stay and help his superiors identify and address the defects in his patrol techniques.

The airfield patrolmen share a glance. They become polite rather suddenly. You're breezed through the rest of security with unprecedented speed.

..........

Until you buy a house, you have three options for residence in Tokyo that's really only one option. You have a bad history with medical research facilities built into traditional Japanese estates, so the Butterfly Estate's out of the question. You don't like the idea of staying in the Ubuyashiki Estate, where no one except the demon slayers would know your location. Besides, Rengoku insists that your staying with him would only be fair, since you had hosted him in America.

Your situations aren't identical, however. Rengoku's arrival was unexpected. As a planned guest, you have to learn Japanese manners for a Japanese host family. 

"Would you give me a moment?"

You stop by the first restroom in the airfield. Though you're away from the city proper, your travel clothes are already drawing stares from the airfield staff. 

"Of course! Take your time!"

While Rengoku waits with your luggage, you splash your face with cold water, changing from shirt and trousers into the first kimono you wore in centuries. 

Before you left Tokyo, Mimi had demonstrated how to put on Japanese women's clothes, having you practice with your new clothes and her accessories until she was confident you could dress yourself. Then, you memorized her reader on the types of kimono and yukata for each occasion.

You put those skills to work now. As you pin your hair with the kanzashi Rengoku gave you, you turn in the mirror, marveling at how odd it is to see yourself dressed like a Japanese lady. No time like now to see how much Japanese etiquette you've gotten right.

You take a deep breath and leave the bathroom.

Rengoku stares.

"Pretty!" he yells, startling three pilots heading to their aircrafts.

As your cheeks flush, the Panchen's voice rings in your mind.

Desire is the root of all suffering.

You are less susceptible to hatred than love.

Do not fall.

..........

"I like Kiku!" Rengoku declares on your way to the Rengoku estate. 

You're sitting together in the backseat of the hired car, one piece of your luggage stashed in the trunk. Once you decided to stay at the Rengoku estate, most of your belongings had been shipped separately, to arrive at their home in the next few days.

You blink, startled out of your sleepiness at the unexpected confession. Rengoku flushes.

"Chrysanthemums! They remind me of you! Kiku is a good name! But what will your last name be, if your first name is Kiku now?"

You grin. Kiku Kikuchi would be an odd name. 

"Here," you fish in your traveling bag, finding the miniature flask of perfume. It's a sampler—before you left Chicago, you and Yan just finalized the design for the travel-sized edition of the wisteria scent.

You turn the glass crystal bottle to the catch the light of sunset on the characters for wisteria fields, "Fujiwara."

"My new family name."

"Fujiwara Kiku," Rengoku nods. "I will remember it!"

..........

In many ways, the Fujiwara name was never your choice.

For naming your perfume line, Beaux recommended a Romanization of a Japanese family name. 'Fujiwara' evokes a powerful family from Japan's Heian era. Their name holds the character for wisteria, like the main ingredient of your perfume.

You accepted Beaux's proposal, skipping his paragraphs on Oriental mystique and the history of the Fujiwara family. You know the name better than any given to you by the parents you cannot remember. Fujiwara was the name of your masters, and the family that owned you. 

You're covering Tokyo now. In a year, your associates will distribute the Fujiwara perfume across Europe and North America. In a decade, you'll cultivate demand around the world. In a century, the globe will remember Fujiwara not as a family that ruled Japan forever ago, but as the name of your perfume.

A thousand years have passed since you were the girl who ran from Kyoto. As the car approaches Tokyo, the capital of your homeland blooms in flowers of violet, pink, white, and blue. Wisteria scents saturate the air. 

All your masters are dead, so you take their name and make it yours.

Chapter Text

Before you arrive at his home, Rengoku stops the car, enters a wagashi store, and returns with a box that he unwraps and offers you with both hands.

"When you arrive, please present this to my father!" 

You examine the beautifully packaged set of handmade sweets. In your crash-course on Japanese ettiquette, Amane mentioned the custom of temiyage, gifts that you bring to individuals or a family to say thanks, for hosting you in their home, for example.

"But Rengoku-san, aren't I supposed to buy the temiyage?"

"You are not Japanese!"

He prepared in case you weren't familiar with their customs. You find the ornate box of chocolates you had made and individually packaged for this purpose. Thank the Lord for Mimi, Amane, and their knowledge of Japanese customs.

"You brought temiyage!"

"I wanted to make a good impression on my host family."

"Here!" Rengoku helps you unwrap the bag of chocolates. "Do not hide your heart!" 

You set the unwrapped box of chocolate on your lap, then hold up the box of wagashi that Rengoku ordered.

"What should we do with this?"

"I would like to save the uguisu mochi for Senjuro!" Rengoku pauses, considering the rest of the sweets. "Are you hungry!"

You've only had two meals today, so you happily make your way through the wagashi while describing the etiquette Amane had you memorize during your last week in Chicago. Rengoku nods along, correcting you as needed, your new co-conspirator in getting along in this country.

..........

Two familiar figures wait in the courtyard when you arrive at the Rengoku estate.

"Mum Pond!" Eagle One screeches. Without waiting for your acknowledgement, he flies away, Eagle Two following.

"Your crows arrived yesterday! They are roosting in our aviary," Rengoku gestures to the back of their estate as his father and brother emerge from the interior, taking the place of the crows.

You've never seen such a strong family resemblance. Rengoku's father looks like a shorter, older version of him with frown lines. Senjuro is Rengoku but small, with a perpetually worried expression. You want to squeeze his cheeks and brush his tiny fluffy eyebrows.

Rengoku bows his head, greeting his family.

"Father, Senjuro! Fujiwara-san took care of me while I was in America! Please take care of her!"

You mimic his bow, putting your Japanese etiquette in motion and stopping your internal screeching over Rengoku's (tiny, adorable, baby) brother.

Bowing is a common display of respect and politeness in Japan, apparently. Before you left, Mimi said, "when in doubt, bow." 

"It is nice to meet Rengoku-san's family," you recite. "Please take care of me."

Senjuro smiles anxiously at you. His father offers a vaguely affirmative grunt. You and the brothers follow their parent towards the house.

Rengoku walks beside you. You glance at him, confirming that you executed your greeting correctly. He nods once. You exhale.

After you remove your shoes and step over the threshold, you offer Rengoku's father the box of chocolates, bowing again from inside their home.

"Thank you for inviting me to your home," you recite as you rehearsed. "Please accept this token of my gratitude for the trouble."

The words sound wooden to your own ears. Your hosts must hear the script in your speech. Shinjuro stares at the box, then back at you before accepting with both hands. He also bows a little.

Wow, Mimi was right. Bowing is a thing here.

"It's no trouble," Shinjuro replies gruffly, the standard response as stiff as your thanks. "Our home is your home."

Then, you're at a loss for replies, having reached the end of your canned dialogue for the occasion. Rengoku's father glances down at the chocolates from the corner of his eye, as if he's not sure what he should be doing with it. Rengoku keeps smiling, and you realize:

Rengoku being Rengoku, he probably memorized etiquette procedures without internalizing them. His father isn't odd in the same way, but the way he's acting, you'd bet that Rengoku's late mother managed their family's social relationships. Meanwhile, you're a clueless American in Japan. 

There are three adults here, and none of you know what you're doing.

"Fujiwara-san, have you eaten?" Senjuro finally asks, saving you all from awkward silence. You'd hug him, but that would be wildly inappropriate.

You've only had two meals in the last 20 hours, and Rengoku's wagashi woke up your starving stomach. However, Japanese manners. You bow for the third time in as many minutes.

"It's late, I wouldn't want to trouble you."

"It's no trouble," Senjuro insists, his upwards eyebrows making his smile look anxious. "You were traveling!"

The kid goes to the kitchen, emerging with a tray of freshly baked biscuits. It's not enough food to be filling, but you're grateful for the gesture. 

The four of you take seats around the chabudai. Rengoku carries the conversation. Senjuro redirects it when Rengoku falls silent. Their father offers the occasional interjection. You nod along. The food consumes more of your attention than the conversation. Did Senjuro make these himself? The biscuits are more delicious than just your hunger talking. You're distracted from the conversation by having to remind yourself—eat in small, measured bites, like somebody with manners.

Eventually, Shinjuro excuses himself. After their father goes to bed, Rengoku reaches into the pockets of his uniform. He emerges with the dozen uguisu mochi, each in their own packets.

"We did not need the wagashi because Fujiwara-san brought chocolates!"

Rengoku speaks as if he expects Senjuro to be familiar with the box of desserts that you've already eaten. Senjuro nods as if he knew about the wagashi. You're touched that a teenager you've never met still understood your lack of familiarity about Japanese manners, and your wanting to make a good impression. Senjuro is an impressively thoughtful child.

Your stomach growls.

The boy immediately offers you all the mochi with his anxious smile. He's an angel. You shake your head.

"No, thank you. I've eaten many wagashi already, and I want you to have these."

You couldn't take candy from a child. But your stomach rumbles, displeased with the choice. You give in.

"Can I find food nearby? I haven't eaten dinner yet, since I was flying. The snacks were delicious, but I'd like something more filling."

Rengoku shoots up from his seat. You and Senjuro look at him, and then at each other. Senjuro smiles apologetically. You grin.

"Please accept my apologies as your host!" Rengoku shouts. "I should have realized you were hungry! I could crawl into the ground from embarrassment! Come with me, to dinner!"

He helps you up. You offer your hand to Senjuro.

"Would you like to come, Senjuro-kun? For a snack?"

Senjuro shakes his head.

"Perhaps next time, Fujiwara-san. I have school tomorrow. It was nice to meet you," he bows. "Please treat me well."

Senjuro begins gathering your napkins and the empty biscuit tray. You and Rengoku send him off to bed, Rengoku taking care of the dishes while you clean and store the chabudai following his instructions. In the study, Senjuro packs his books and lays out his clothes for school tomorrow before bidding you both goodnight. 

You wave to the boy, holding back tears. Senjuro's such a kind, polite, responsible child. If only you'd met, oh, sixty years earlier? You could point Yan at him and say, "Look at Senjuro. Make friends with Senjuro. Be like Senjuro."

On second thought, it's probably good that you didn't meet Senjuro earlier. Yan'd hate him. Senjuro's perfect.

..........

Rengoku stops at the entrance of the estate. He holds out his arms. 

"I could carry you! It would be faster!"

You smile. You're missing a meal, not starving of hunger.

"I'm hungry, not dying, Rengoku-san."

He leans close, examining you with bright owl eyes.

"You look a little wane!"

You tsk at him, "Rengoku-san, you should never tell a woman that she looks tired."

He considers your point before nodding like he's added it to some memorized list of etiquette rules that must be followed despite their inexplicability.

"Understood! I will remember that!"

Outside the estate, Rengoku leads you down the right street. The familiar scent of your wisteria perfume drifts through the evening. You're surprised by all the civilians outside in the darkness, but you don't get a chance to ask between everyone greeting Rengoku as they pass. He introduces you like he knows everyone in this neighborhood.

After meeting a half-dozen people, you wave vaguely at the darkness. 

"Is there no curfew?" 

"That is correct!"

"Is that safe?"

Rengoku's gaze sears through the darkness. You didn't mention demons since there are civilians nearby, and the demon slayers are an unrecognized organization. He inclines his head like he understands.

"We keep everyone safe! That is our duty! No one should have to live in fear!"

People wear different clothes and speak in different sounds, but Tokyo now isn't so different from the nighttime noise and bustle of Chicago. Despite your doubts about the demon slayer corps, they've protected Tokyo well, though you suspect civilians know Rengoku's purpose better than they let on.

Earlier with his father and brother, Rengoku had said that he will be patrolling his region later in the evening. He's already dressed in his uniform, which includes a sword despite the Haitō Edict. But all his neighbors ignored the illegal weapon.

Rengoku clears his throat.

"How do you say—'Penny for your thoughts'?" he enunciates carefully in English rusty with disuse.

You're pondering a tactical question: would educating Japan about demons eliminate the treat of Kibutsuji, so no one has to worry about or be threatened by demons every again? Then, there's the moral question: does any person or organization have the right to keep that knowledge to themselves, even to preserve others' peace of mind? Is it fair to demon slayers, to make them bear the weight of that knowledge in secret?

"I'd have wanted to know about demons, even if I'm a civilian."

"I told you! You decided to come to us!" 

You pause.

"About that—"

You explain the terms of your agreement with Hakuji. Rengoku blinks.

"I don't know whether I should reprimand him or thank him!"

Hakuji would find that hilarious. You should call him tomorrow.

You file away that thought alongside the thought that you should ask Ubuyashiki about educating civilians on demons.

..........

Fifteen minutes away from the Rengoku Estate, you and Rengoku stop in the midst of a row of restaurants. Rengoku waves at the restaurant plaque. Your stomach rumbles as you inhale the scent of oil and batter.

"Americans like fried food!" Rengoku declares with the confidence of someone who's decidedly not American.

Inside, there are no menus. The restaurant counter displays an assortment of fried seafood and vegetables alongside bowls of ramen. The names of the foods are written on wooden boards nailed to the restaurant wall behind the counter. You can't make heads or tails of which names match which dishes. 'Two-eight'? What's a nihachi? 

"Pick what you want!" Kyojuro waves at the foods displayed on the counter.

You point at the noodles and tempura. Kyojuro repeats your selection back to you with their Japanese names. Apparently, 'two-eight' refers to soba noodles. 

You stare at the line of customers shouting orders across the counter and gulp, rehearsing your order in your head: Tempura nihachi, ebi, kabocha, shiitake...

"I can order!" Rengoku offers.

"I want to try it myself. But, ah—would you go first?"

Rengoku nods, stepping into line. He shouts the order with his usual volume, his voice carrying above the noise of the diners. You mimic him, pointing at the food and leaning on your opera training to make your voice carry.

"Well done!" Rengoku praises after you leave the counter. You laugh, shaking off the nerves.

..........

After the food's served, you stare at the shrimp tempura, then at Rengoku's hair. What did he say about inheriting the color from an ancestor who liked tempura too much?

"If I eat here often, will I get hair like yours?"

Rengoku looks up from his second bowl of noodles—less than usual, since it's a late night snack.

"I do not think so! You do not eat enough!"

..........

"Do people confuse you with your father?" you ask Rengoku on the walk back to his home. Not that he and his father act much alike, despite their physical resemblance. "Because you are Rengoku-san, and he is Rengoku-san..."

"We are sometimes mistaken for each other!" Rengoku looks at you, then forward, away from you. "You can call me by my given name!"

You wet your lips.

"Kyojuro-san?"

Rengoku—Kyojuro, rather—smiles until his eyes close.

"Yes! May I also call you by your first name!"

"Of course."

"Kiku-san!"

"Hai?"

..........

Deeper in the evening, the streets have cleared as civilians return home to sleep. A woman wearing a medical mask stands under a streetlamp. She steps forward as you pass, but Kyojuro pays her no mind.

"In the battle with Akaza, I developed a blood demon art," he tells you with his usual volume. "Try to hit me!"

You wait until the masked woman disappears in the distance. In an empty street, you widen your legs into a stable stance before punching, following through the hit with your shoulders, and then your torso. Kyojuro smiles approvingly at your form.

A hand-breath away from him, your fist stops, hitting something hard. Blue fire flows from the point of contact outwards, sketching the shape of a shield around Kyojuro. You shake out your hand, the flat of your knuckles feeling hot from the impact.

"It is called Lapis Fire!" Kyojuro exclaims, his volume restored.

"Ruka. Like your mother," you remember.

Kyojuro looks at you, then away.

"I have not told Father yet," he speaks more softly than usual. "My mother, I hope she will forgive me."

A shield called 'Ruka' feels fitting. Kyojuro's mother said it's his duty to protect the weak. A mother would want to protect her child. But the blue fire is also a blood demon art created by the heir to a long line of demon slayers.

You don't know what to tell Kyojuro. Night in Japan is morning in Chicago, so you've been awake for a day and a half by now. 

Before you know what to tell him, you're re-entering the Rengoku estate together. You yawn. A woman sits on the engawa, regarding you with curiosity behind a serious expression. She has eyes as red as blood.

"Kyojuro-san, did your mother have red eyes?"

"She did! How did you know!"

When you look at Kyojuro, you see the severe expression of the red-eyed woman inherited in the downward angle of his eyebrows, the intensity of his gaze. When you turn back to the engawa, the woman's gone.

"I don't know," you tell Kyojuro, unable to explain what you saw.

..........

Are ghosts real? If so, shouldn't you have met some by now, or known people who have seen them? You're a thousand years old, for heaven's sake.

Have other immortals met ghosts? Does the Panchen see ghosts? Did he just never tell you, despite having known you for seven lifetimes?

Then again, "hello, I see dead people" isn't a topic you can imagine in a typical conversation. You'll have to write the Panchen and wait for a response. In the meantime, Kyojuro stands politely, just outside the threshold to your room. He waves at the crates stacked neatly against the wall.

"Here are your things! I can help you unpack this weekend! Tomorrow, a demon slayer will escort you to Oyakata-sama's Estate! I will walk Senjuro to school, then meet you at the Estate!"

You nod, having planned to meet the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps, then the other hashira on your arrival.

"Be safe on patrol tonight, hmm?"

Kyojuro nods, "The streets have been quieter these months, with all your wisteria products!"

"I'm glad."

"Good night!"

He bows, very polite. You smile.

"Good night, Kyojuro-san."

Chapter Text

Despite your exhaustion, you're woken early by an internal clock still on Chicago time. The Tokyo sky's dark, the birds silent in sleep, so you keep to your room.

Besides the bag you brought on the plane with you, crates of your belongings had been sent ahead to Tokyo. Rengoku had offered to keep them until you buy a house. In the meantime, you sort through the crates, finding your necessities for today: clothes, toiletries, notes for your meeting with Ubuyashiki, Hakuji's information on Japan's demons...

You examine the notes again, checking that it includes everything you want to cover before you wash and dress for the day. Then, you grab everything else you plan to need: another box of chocolates for the temiyage, a bundle of handkerchiefs for the hashira meeting, and guns.

You're not going into a mysterious Japanese estate in an unknown location unarmed. Besides, Kagaya didn't ask you to not bring weapons.

..........

Kyojuro's father wakes first. You snap the silencer on your Beretta and catch him on his way out of the estate.

"Good morning, Rengoku-san!"

Shinjuro stops, surprised anyone's awake at this hour.

"Good morning. Fujiwara-san."

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, if you're busy?"

"I'm getting food. Kyojuro says you eat okayu."

Okayu is like rice porridge, you remember and nod.

"I can eat okayu. Could I help you bring the food back?"

Considering how much Kyojuro usually eats, breakfast probably has to be hauled back in a bucket. Especially if his father and brother eat like him. It's only right that you offer to help.

"That won't be necessary."

"All right. Before you go, I was wondering if there was a place I could test fire guns? My weapons were shipped over from America, and I want to ensure they work properly after the travel.ing"

Shinjuro gives you directions to the Rengoku training grounds. You confirm that with the distance, the noise wouldn't disturb Senjuro and Kyojuro.

"They should be awake by the time you arrive," Shinjuro pauses, regarding you with an expression you can't read. Unlike Kyojuro, he meets your eyes. "Kyojuro killed a demon who used guns," Shinjuro says.

You blink at the change in subject. Kyojuro's father doesn't seem to be threatening you. You're not sure what he's getting at with that statement.

"Oh?" you prompt, fishing for more information.

"The demon was powerful. Kyojuro was promoted to hashira as a result of slaying it. Do you know what that means, becoming a hashira?"

"Hashira are the highest rank of demon slayers," you recall. "And being the Flame Hashira is a part of your family's legacy, is it not?"

Shinjuro nods stiffly. You think you understand now. The parents in Chicago's Japanese-American community are more upfront about it, but you've listened to many similar announcements about their children's achievements. No one ever says it directly—that would be rather proud—but they're proud of their children.

"You son would be happy that you remember his achievements."

Shinjuro nods once before leaving to get breakfast. Where he's roundabout and reticient, Kyojuro offers consistent (and loud) approval of Senjuro's and your efforts. Watching his father's retreating back, you're reminded of the children who surpassed their parents.

..........

The Rengoku Estate is bustling with action by the time you've finished testing your guns. Senjuro and Kyojuro have set out five bowls with utensils. A girl in the demon slayer uniform hovers nervously behind them, as if she doesn't know what to do with her hands.

She bows for the third time as you approach.

"...sorry to impose, hashira-sama. I don't want to trouble your family. And I was planning to eat later, anyways—"

"Nonsense!" Kyojuro booms. "We were preparing for breakfast anyways! There will be plenty of food for everyone! Kiku-san!"

"Yes?" you nod at everyone, especially the new arrival.

"This is Takahashi-san! She will be your escort to oyakata-sama's estate!"

"Takahashi-san, pleased to make your acquaintance," you bow. "Please take care of me."

"Please take care of me!" Takahashi bows quickly, and then again. "I'm so sorry to impose, Onjin-sama! I should have eaten beforehand!"

"Please call me Fujiwara. After all, I'm also a guest imposing on the Rengoku family's hospitality."

"You are not imposing!" Kyojuro calls from the kitchen.

"Let's impose together," you whisper to Takahashi, grinning.

"Not imposing!" Kyojuro shouts again.

You grab the chopsticks from Senjuro as he passes, giving the bundle to Takahashi so she has something to do with her hands. As she sets out the chopsticks, you help Senjuro lay out stacks of dishes. By the time Shinjuro returns with the merchant hauling a cart of porridge and condiments, the four of you have the table all set up.

Takahashi bows again to Shinjuro, murmuring apologies while Kyojuro introduces her. Watching them from a distance, you note how the front of her uniform is held together with safety pins. No buttons seem to be stitched into the fabric.

"Young people have so much energy," the porridge seller laughs, Kyojuro and Senjuro openly excited about the food as he hauls his pots to the table.

"Too much energy," Shinjuro grumbles.

You laugh and refrain from mentioning your chronological age.

..........

Everyone shares a pot of porridge, except Kyojuro, who gets his own pot. You watch Senjuro take small, polite bites, Shinjuro eating slowly, watching his sons with quiet fondness while Kyojuro downs unholy volumes of food.

If not his father, did Kyojuro inherit his eating habits from his mother? Did Ruka also eat enough for ten? You can't picture a lady downing a pot's worth of porridge while shouting 'tasty.' But no one else in Kyojuro's family has the same habits.

"Did you sleep well, Kiku-san!"

At the use of your first name, Shinjuro looks at his son, then at you. You touch the left side of your mouth, where Kyojuro has a grain of rice on his face. He wipes it off.

"Thank you!"

"Mmm-hmm. I slept well, Kyojuro-san. Thank you for asking."

You didn't have high hopes for your first night staying in a traditional Japanese estate. But it feels different, being invited through the front door as a guest instead of carried in through the side door as a test subject. As the home of warriors, the Rengoku estate also feels different from the sterile, medicinal environment in the homes of Heian Japan's scholar-doctors.

"I'm glad!"

Takahashi is second to clean her bowl. The young woman stares at the remaining porridge. You hold out your hand to fill her bowl.

"Thank you, Onjin—um. Fujiwara-sama."

"Fujiwara-san is fine. In America, we call everyone by their first names, you know?"

Takahashi stares at you with enormous, terrified eyes.

"You don't have to," you add quickly. "Fujiwara-san is fine. I call everyone the same thing. It's easier not having to remember titles, don't you think? Which toppings would you like, Takahashi-san?"

"Anything is fine," Takahashi demurs.

"What about the scallions and salmon?" Senjuro suggests, remembering Takahashi's preferences. You smile.

"Always observant, Senjuro-kun."

..........

After breakfast, Kyojuro takes Senjuro to school. Takahashi apologetically holds out a blindfold.

"I apologize, but Oyakata-sama's location must be kept secret."

You nod, having known the procedures for visiting Ubuyashiki from your phone calls. Takahashi blindfolds you and kneels, so you can latch onto her back. She takes your briefcase and the gift chocolate. Then, you're off.

Piggy-back ride is an odd transportation method. Very last-century. But the wind in your hair feels like you could be going faster than modern cars. The Demon Slayer Corps must be an extraordinary organization, if all its members have such incredible physical ability.

Soon, Takahashi sets you on your feet. With her permission, you remove the blindfold. She puts the chocolate and briefcase back in your hands, bowing.

"Takahashi-san, may I ask—why is your blouse pinned together?"

Takahashi glances down. She blushes.

"The female demon slayer uniform is open at the front."

"Isn't that a safety hazard?"

The young woman smiles helplessly.

"I had the same question, but—" she shrugs. You frown.

"If your uniform is not replaced in a week, ask for me at the Rengoku Estate. If you prefer, you can tell the family that I asked another woman to show me around Tokyo."

..........

You dislike the Ubuyashiki Estate. The attendants here are too polite, dropping their gazes, apologizing, and bowing ceaselessly. The atmosphere reminds you of Kyoto nobles' estates in the worst way. You find your shoulders stiffening as you settle into the meeting room, opening your briefcase to add a note about the female demon slayer uniforms.

The layout of Ubuyashiki's meeting room is not unlike a western boardroom, with no tables and seating mats instead of chairs. There are nine spots for the hashira, five against one wall and and four lining the opposite wall. Between the rows of seats, at the head of the room, Ubuyashiki has a seating mat to himself, flanked by two smaller mats for his kids. You have a spot beside him, as Ubuyashiki's guest.

The strict hierarchy of the seating scheme bothers you, so you ignore it. Instead of taking a seat, you set your briefcase down and lean against the wall. When Ubuyashiki's kids announce his arrival, you push off and approach, holding out the chocolates.

"It's nice to meet you in person, Ubuyashiki-san—"

"I am pleased to meet you—" Ubuyashiki begins. You don't process the rest of the greeting, because his voice washes over you like anesthetic. The stiffness falls out of your shoulders, your muscles relaxing against your will like you've been drugged.

You lurch to your feet, setting the chocolates on the tatami with a clack.

"Excuse me," you back away. "The—the bathroom?"

One of Ubuyashiki's daughters step forward.

Then, you're in the last stall of a restroom in the Ubuyashiki manner. Maybe Kanta gave you directions, or led you here. You know you can't teleport. Time must have passed, but the sky looks much the same and you're not entirely aware of how you got here, or what happened between Ubuyashiki speaking and now.

"Red or blue toilet paper?" a voice asks from outside the stall.

You blink. Toilet paper? Colored toilet paper? You didn't know Japanese bathrooms offered that service.

"I'm good, thank you," you call. The sound of footsteps leave the bathroom. You tear some regular-colored toilet paper off the roll in the stall, dabbing the cold sweat off your forehead.

So. Ubuyashiki's voice is some sort of auditory anesthetic. Fear prickles the back of your neck. No one knows where you are. He can put you under with just his voice.

You squat close to the ground, taking deep breaths until your thoughts become rational again. Ubuyashiki is your ally. The location of his estate is unknown for his own safety, not to hide the bodies. Beside, Kyojuro's family knows where you are.

"Are you all right, Fujiwara-san?" Kanata calls from outside the restroom.

"Give me a moment!" you call back, making a plan.

In the best case scenario, Ubuyashiki can turn off that thing with his voice. In the worst case scenario, you leave and continue discussions through a medium where you can't be influenced by his voice. In the unimaginably bad, even-worse scenario, you have a gun.

You step out of the stall to straighten your kimono with your thoughts, setting ground rules for today. Follow your notes. Voice your pre-planned suggestions. Don't agree or disagree with anything while you're in Ubuyashiki's prescence, where you can be influenced by his voice. Leave anytime you feel you can't do the above.

Okay. Your reflection looks decent. You emerge from the bathroom.

"Kanata, your father's voice—" you pause, unsure how to describe what you experienced.

"The Soothing Voice."

"Yes, Soothing Voice," you nod. "Can he turn it off."

"I will make inquiries."

You wait outside the bathroom until Kanata comes to get you, because you really don't remember how you got here. When you return to the meeting room, Kagaya's voice prickles the hair on the back of your neck, but the anesthetic effect seems to be canceled out by your nerves. You present the chocolates to Ubuyashiki, officially introduce yourself to him, Kanata, and Kiriya, then start on your agenda for the day.

The tailor who designed the female demon slayer uniforms has been reassigned, but some legacy uniforms remain. Kanata makes a note, and Ubuyashiki promises to have the legacy uniforms replaced within the week.

Next on your agenda is informing Tokyo's civilians about demons. To avoid widespread panic, you propose a limited-scale information campaign targeting Tokyo's art world. Specifically, you want buyers know what they're supporting when they purchase the pots produced by the Upper Rank Five. The information hits two birds with one stone: seeing how civilians respond to information about demons, and cutting off Kibutsuji's income from art sales.

"Have you started this information campaign?" Ubuyashiki asks, as if he doesn't know the answer already.

"I have."

You've been collaborating for months now. The leader of the demon slayer corps is blind, not stupid. You're a woman who'd rather apologize than ask permission. The information campaign started as soon as you confirmed the pots' demon origin. While the demon slayer corps' are unrecognized, several demon-induced deaths are public knowledge, or even front-page news for their shocking gruesomeness. People rich enough to afford Gyokko's pots can also pay for good information to confirm the pottery's source.

"I've come to a point in my plans where I'd apprecite your organization's help. Most collectors are now eager to get rid of the pots made by the Upper Rank Five. The problem are the holdouts.

"Some collectors continue insisting that demons don't exist. A few believe in demons, but instead of being repulsed by evil, they're drawn to the pottery for its sinister history.

"I'm sure your organization can prove that these demons are quite real, and that evil is more than an aesthetic quality."

"We can arrange—an education trip," Ubuyashiki agrees softly. He describes a forest ringed in everblooming wisteria entrapping dozens of low-level demons, his voice gentle and soothing like you're not co-planning to kidnap a dozen rich art collectors and throw them in a demon-infested forest.

You thumb your lip. That sounds like a good plan for taking care of the remaining pot collectors. But—

"Why does the Demon Slayer Corps maintain a demon forest?"

Kagaya explains final selection to you.

"So, if you fail final selection—"

"You die," Kagaya finishes, soft-spoken as ever.

"But if you fail slaying demons..."

"You also die. For the most part."

That makes no sense. Final exams are supposed to be a controlled, low-stakes environment where the consequence for failure isn't death. If they're dying anyways, would-be demon slayers could at least contribute to killing dangerous demons, instead of being needlessly murdered by quarantined demons.

"Almost everyone survives final selection, right?" you ask desperately.

"Regrettably, Seventy percent of examinees die."

You open, then close your mouth, speechless.

"The realities of our world might seem brutal to you," Kagaya agrees. "But many people have lost everything to demons. Though I offer for them to return to civilian life, my wonderful children accept the risks of demon slaying because they want nothing more than to avenge the people they loved, and to ensure a better world."

They're children. Once everyone they love is dead, what do they have left except the demon slayers? Of course they want to avenge the people they loved and contribute to such a lofty cause.

"I'd like to start a school for the demon slayers," you transition smoothly to the third item on your agenda. "As you say, the demon slayer corps offers for the victims of demon killings to return to civilian life. Young kids who lost their families should be equipped for adulthood with reading, writing, arithmetic, and financial skills. Demon Slayers might also prepare for retirement, or a world without demons." And perhaps learning that they have other options will make them choose a less lethal career path.

"I will consider your proposal. While education is important, I would not want my children to learn at the expense of their demon slaying skills and safety."

Like you'd wait for him to consider. The mist hashira has English tutors, so you know it can be done. You're gonna figure out the right way to do it, and herd the demon slayer kids like cats to your schoolhouse, regardless of what Ubuyashiki thinks.

"Thank you, Ubuyashiki-san. Those are all my agenda items for today, besides the information I've gathered on Tokyo's demons from my sources."

Ubuyashiki inclines his head.

"Before you present your findings to the hashira, I would like for you to spar with a hashira of your choice. You are not a demon slayer. My children must assess your ability to defend yourself and need for protection in the event of attack by Muzan."

Ubuyashiki said nothing about this in your calls preparing for this meeting. You brought yout gun, but—you glance down at your semi-formal kimono.

"I was not aware I should be prepared to fight today."

"Demons will not give you the courtesy of preparing for battle."

Ubuyashiki's right. You agree, despite the sinking feeling in your gut.

..........

You use the restroom—for real this time—before the hashira meeting. Then, you wait for the hashira to arrive, first confirming that Kiriya and Kanata will introduce you as Fujiwara-san rather than something uncomfortably formal like onjin or sponsor-sama, then walking the Ubuyashiki's through your notes for the hashira.

Then, in the blissful absence of Kagaya's soothing voice, you double-check the Beretta before rehearsing your notes on Tokyo's demons. Most of the information is from Hakuji's recollection, verified by Manjeok and your investigators in Tokyo when possible, though you're sure the demon slayers will undertake their own fact-finding missions.

Then, the first hashira arrives. He kneels. As Kiriya introduces you and the Water Hashira, the hair on the back of your neck rises on end. You remind yourself this isn't a retainer greeting his lord in old Japan.

"Demon," Tomioka says, staring at you with dead blue eyes.

Your shoulders tense again.

But the water hashira doesn't act hostile after calling you a demon. Ubuyashiki explains how Tomioka vouched for the demon Nezuko with his life. The water hashira continues staring impassively at you, and you realize that Tomioka doesn't hate you. He's just—there's awkward, like Rengoku's father. Then, there's Tomioka, who might be the first person you've met who has negative, even less than zero social skills.

There's awkward, then there's the ability to say the worst thing possible in any social situation. "Demon" sounds bad, but for Tomioka, it seems to be less an insult or expression of hostility, more a statement of fact. He believes you to be a demon.

You have no idea how he feels about that fact, so you put on your Japanese manners, smile, and bow.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Tomoika-san. Please take care of me."

Tomioka nods once before taking the furthest seat from you. Maybe he hates you.

..........

The insect hashira arrives next.

"Ara-ara," Kocho smiles after kneeling and greeting Ubuyashiki and his children. "Fujiwara-san, you are smaller than I expected."

She bows but manages to make a respectful pose look mocking.

You're smaller than she expected? That's rich, coming from a woman who must be even shorter than you. You hold tight to your manners and smile back at the insect hashira.

"I get that a lot, Kocho-san. As you might be familiar with yourself."

Kocho laughs. You're not sure if she means it. Her calm, polite, easygoing demeanor contrasts the intensity with which she approached her work when collaborating with you. You can't help but wonder what she's covering up with the persona that resembles the nice Japanese manners you've put on for this meeting.

The insect hashira takes the seat besides the water hashira. Kocho says something laughingly to Tomioka, who responds without changing his expression. You're reminded of a schoolgirl teasing a stoic classmate.

..........

Next, two white-haired men arrive together. One is very tall. The other wears his shirt open, revealing many scars. You frown. But he has buttons, unlike Takahashi-san, so you don't need to get on Ubuyashiki about firing another tailor.

Kiriya introduces the wind and sound hashira. Shinazugawa ignores your self-introduction.

"You're the demon harboring the Upper Rank Three," he snarls.

"You are mistaken. As your insect hashira determined, my biology is different from that of Japan's demons. As I have repeatedly informed your organization, the Upper Rank Three demon no longer exists, unless Kibutsuji Muzan instated a replacement."

You look to Ubuyashiki for confirmation. The leader of the demon slayers inclines his head.

"Be at ease, my child," he tells Shinazugawa. His Soothing Voice washes over the meeting room. Goosebumps rise on your neck.

The wind hashira bows to Ubuyashiki, ignoring you. After he rises, Shinazugawa takes a seat away from the water hashira, on the opposite side of the room. He nods in greeting to Kocho.

"For an American demon, you don't look very flamboyant," Uzui says.

You take in his gold armbands, bedazzled headband, and sleeveless uniform. Did he bully the tailors into custom-tailoring his top? If Ubuyashiki can't swing it fast enough, maybe the sound hashira could help women demon slayers wrangle new uniforms out of their tailoring department.

"I'm not exactly American," you correct. Besides your bedazzled flapper dresses in Chicago, you had fur robes for Great Yuan, silk skirts for Goryeo, and powdered wigs for France. But Uzui's right. Your fashion choices are rarely flamboyant for their times. "I like to live quietly, Uzui-san. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Please take care of me." You bow.

You're surprised when the flamboyant hashira becomes the first to return your polite greeting. Uzui bows back, the formal pose a contrast to his flashy outfit until he also points finger guns at you.

"We've heard a lot about you, Fujiwara-san. Good to meet the woman herself."

..........

When she arrives, Kanroji makes the strongest impression yet. The young woman practically skips into the meeting room. She says hello to everyone, kneels, then springs to her feet and bows to you. You get an eyeful of skin from her open shirt.

Oh, boy. If he hadn't been reassigned already, you'd kick the ass of the tailor who designed the female demon uniorms.

"Ahh! Kikuchi-san!" the love hashira cheers. "I'm so, so excited to finally meet you!"

You stand as well, readying to bow, but Kanroji pulls you to her chest in an embrace. With incredible ease, she picks you up and swings you around. You hold on for dear life, feeling the uncomfortable prickle of eyes narrowed on your back.

As Ubuyashiki introduces the two hashira, you meet the mismatched eyes of Iguro Obanai. He wears a snake like a scarf.

So. This is what Hakuji meant by killing intent. The snake hashira's enshrouded in it until Kanroji pulls him to a seat beside her, taking the mat closest to you herself. When she takes his arm, Iguro flushes beneath his bandages.

"Kiku-san, did you know that Iguro-san is a poet?" Kanroji tells you. "We should have a writing session together! Hmm, for you it would be a translation session, I suppose. We can do it at my house! You can try the tenshi-cake you sent me, too. The cooper bowl—like I told you, it works so well!"

Then, the love hashira explains her baking project to the snake hashira. As soon as her attention turns to him, Iguro's killing intent vanishes. You're stunned by the sudden change. He—he just—he turned it off, like a light switch.

..........

Kyojuro arrives next. Kiriya begins to introduce him. Ubuyashiki holds up a hand.

"You are familiar with the flame hashira," Ubuyashiki tells you, smiling.

"Yes," you bow. "Please continue to take care of me, Rengoku-san."

"I will, Ki—Fujiwara-san!" Kyojuro corrects himself, since you're in a formal setting.

You smile at each other. Kyojuro glances toward the seat beside you, but Kanroji already occupies the position. The love hashira waves as he approaches.

"How is Senjuro-kun?" she asks as Kyojuro sits on Iguro's other side. "Fujiwara-san said you brought him to school. I haven't seen your brother in so long, Rengoku-san!"

"You are always welcome to visit!" Kyojuro shouts. "You too, Iguro-san!"

..........

You look up at the stone hashira. You keep looking up. Good Lord. And you thought Uzui was tall.

While Kiriya introduces Himejima, you're trying not to stare at how the hashira's head nearly scrapes the ceiling of the meeting room. Getting around indoors must be so inconvienient for him. You half-expect the room to shake when Himejima kneels.

"An American demon, aiding our demon slayer corps," Himejima sniffs, clasping his hands together. "Namu amidabutsu. I am so moved."

Tears stream down his face. You fumble in your obi, offering him a handkerchief. If he's blind, can he sense your hand?

"Would—would you like a hanky?" you ask, just to be sure. Himejima accepts, somehow aware his surroundings.

"You are so thoughtful, Fujiwara-san," he says, crying harder. You inhale. You're going to need bigger handkerchiefs.

Himejima takes the seat to Ubuyakashi's left. The seat seems to have been left open for the strongest demon slayer.

The stone hashira hovers over the leader of the demon slayers, like a buddha guardian.

..........

A child walks past the meeting room. He's led back by one of the Ubuyashiki servants, who bows deeply and calls him hashira-sama.

The mist hashira is fourteen, Kyojuro told you. He didn't say that the boy is absolutely adorable.

"Am I late?" the mist hashira asks the air. You nearly miss Kiriya's introduction through the inarticulate screaming in your head. Muichiro has this lost expression that makes you simultaneously worried and want to hold him tightly until he looks less forlorn.

"You're right on time, my child."

Tokito kneels procedurally before Ubuyashiki. Kiriya introduces the hashira. Ubuyashiki introduces you. Muichiro's eyes slide over your face, tracing the subtle dragonfly patterns on your kimono.

"It's nice to meet you," you lean forward, catching the boy's seafoam eyes. "My name is Fujiwara, like wisteria."

"Wisteria," Muichiro echoes. "Hmm."

He wanders to the mat of the last open seat. Still adorable. You sigh inwardly. If this is the boy's attention span, you're confident his tutors wrote his English letters.

..........

Ubuyashiki explains his intention to have you spar one of the hashira. Twin clouds of killing intent rise to fill the room, originating from Shinazugawa and Iguro.

"Who would you prefer to spar with, Fujiwara-san?" Ubuyashiki prompts.

Mitsuri smiles encouragingly, Kyojuro hopefully, while Gyomei recites the nembutsu. You're not fighting them, or anyone you know. Theoretically, sparring with acquaintances or friends should be normal for the demon slayers. But you're not a demon slayer. You'd feel awkward challenging someone you know in non-combat contexts to a duel. While Kyojuro wouldn't mind, you've sparred before. You know his style and the other hashira know that. You don't want your allies to feel you're picking the easy way out.

Eliminating the people you know leaves the mist, wind, and snake hashira. Muichiro is adorable and a child. Granted, a child who could probably kick your ass seven ways to Sunday, but you're not fighting children, which leaves Shinazugawa or Iguro. The wind and snake hashira stare at you with a bloodthirsty grin and a mismatched glare.

Between the two, Shinazugawa feels slightly less murderous. He has generalized hostility—towards demons, perhaps?—whereas Iguro seems to both hate demons and specifically want you dead.

You don't know if the snake hashira uses poison, and would rather not have a second mind-altering experience today, so Shinazugawa it is.

A terrible idea? Probably. You remind yourself of your indestructibility, stand, and walk up to the wind hashira.

"Shinazugawa-san, please teach me—"

You never finish your sentence. Shinazugawa leaps to his feet, draws his sword, and cuts himself with it. You watch the blade bite into his arm, slicing through hard scar tissue. His arms have so many scars, almost—like yours? You barely register the scent of blood and— A nice steak?—before your stomach revolts.

Nevermind Ubuyashiki's best laid plans. You never attempt to fight the hashira, draw your gun, or even make it to the manor training grounds. Instead, you take one look at Shinazugawa's cut, bleeding arm, and vomit all over his shoes.

Chapter Text

You stare at the wood paneled ceiling. Panic closes your throat. You're not supposed to be here. You ran away—

"Kiku-san!"

You shut your eyes and make your muscles relax. Playing dead makes the doctors ignore you, sometimes. Then, your brain catches up with your instincts.

When you open your eyes, Kyojuro's bright gaze has come to rest softly somewhere around your nose. You focus on his pale pupils and exhale, remembering yourself.

This is a traditional Japanese estate, yes. But you're in the 20th century, among allies. Outside, you can hear Kanroji's worried voice and Shinazugawa shouting. 

Right, Shinazugawa. Your allies also stab themselves and want to kill you. You sigh. It's still morning, but you're already exhausted.

Kyojuro helps you sit up from beside the futon. Kocho watches your interaction from across the room. You lean into the flame hashira, oblivious to her presence.

"Would you like tea!" Kyojuro asks, pouring a cup while his other arm supports your back.

"Mmmm," you nod weakly, reaching for the cup. Your hands tremble.

Kyojuro catches you before you can slosh tea onto the blanket covering your lap. He brings the teacup to your lips, gently supporting your head with his other hand. The insect hashira slips out of the room before you can notice her presence.

..........

You tap Kyojuro's leg when you've had enough to drink. He trades the teacup for a towel, dabbing at your face and then your front. You stare down at the vomit spotting your kimono.

Objectively, you've had worse. People have seen you drugged to madness, collapsed in a pool of your own blood, and literally dying. You should be able to laugh off a little vomit, saunter out, and flip Shinazugawa the bird.

You didn't want to meet Kyojuro's coworkers like this.

"I'm sorry," you inhale, your hands fisting in the blanket. You smile weakly. "I didn't mean to embarrass—"

"You did nothing wrong!"

He sets aside the towel, his expression serious.

"I am the one who should apologize! I should have stopped the fight sooner, knowing Shinazugawa's fighting style and your history! I failed to protect you!"

You could bite your tongue through violence, open hostility, and Ubuyashiki's soothing voice. You've always clawed your way up from the dirt, brushed yourself off, and kept going on your own, after all.

It's stranger to wake up in a clean, quiet room with someone determined to keep you safe. Your lower lip trembles. Of all things, it's kindness that finally breaks you.

..........

You're disgusting, but Kyojuro holds you anyways. After, you sip slowly at tea, recovering use of your arms. He fills you in on what happened after you passed out.

Apparently, your vomiting nearly started a chain reaction. Ubuyashiki turned quite green. Himejima carried oyakata-sama and his children outside for fresh air. Kanroji held back Shinazugawa, while Uzui complained that you're not very flamboyant—"It is not true! You are the most flamboyant woman I know!"—while Tokito wandered outside, following a bird...

You wipe your eyes, finding yourself laughing at the mental image: Ubuyashiki green under his purple scar, Himejima carrying three people under his massive arms, Kanroji holding back Shinazugawa, Uzui commentating, while you lie unconscious somewhere in the tatami room.

"You were not lying on the ground! I carried you here! What is so funny!"

You cover your mouth. What was it Graziana told you, once? Me falling on my face is a tragedy for me, but a comedy for you?

"Distance helps me look at the past with a different perspective. I was nervous about my first meeting with your coworkers."

You expected monsters set on killing you, but instead you met nine differently energetic young people. They're strong, odd, and opinionated, some against you, but they're also teenagers and twenty-something's figuring out how to make their way in the world. With distance, you can understand why they view the world like they do.

"Looking back now, I don't know why I was so nervous. Your coworkers are all well-meaning, energetic young people, I think."

"They are! Even Shinazugawa-san! I promise! Did you know! He also assaulted me, the first time we met!"

"Excuse me!?"

..........

Kocho raps against the door, her voice filtering inside with the knocking sounds.

"I have a change of clothes for Fujiwara-san."

"Thank you, Kocho-san."

The insect hashira hums. Kyojuro hovers beside you. She glances down at his stained uniform jacket.

"Rengoku-san, Ubuyashiki-san should have more uniforms in your size."

Kyojuro looks down at his jacket and bows. 

"I will change! Please take care of her!"

Kocho glances at Kyojuro's hand on your shoulder before he goes. She does not comment on it, handing you a folded kimono instead. You unfold the patterned silk, squinting at the cut.

"Would you like help dressing, Fujiwara-san?"

You think you know how to put on this type of kimono. But it couldn't hurt to have help.

"I would appreciate your help, Kocho-san."

You explain yourself as you dress. Kocho observes and advises, but you do everything yourself because you want to learn and need the practice.

"Kocho-san, why did the wind hashira cut himself?" you ask as you retie the obi.

"Shinazugawa-san's blood confuses Japanese demons."

The insect hashira hums, gesturing for you to turn so she can examine your handiwork.

"Perhaps you're not susceptible to the same temptations, Fujiwara-san?"

"Temptation?"

"Marechi blood smells delicious to demons. Well done."

You nod, patting down the wide fabric belt one last time. 

You do remember the scent of steak, right after Shinazugawa cut himself. The memory makes you grimace. Why does his blood smell like your favorite food?

"On the note of delicious things, do you have plans for dinner, Fujiwara-san?"

Kocho smiles, unreadable. The abrupt transition makes you suspicious.

"Why do you ask, Kocho-san?"

"May I treat you to dinner? There is an excellent tempura restaurant near Rengoku-san's home. I understand Americans like fried food..."

Your favorite food is actually a nice steak seared in French butter, topped with a balsamic reduction and scallions, oven-finished to medium-rare. But that smells exactly like Shinazugawa's blood, so maybe you need a new favorite food.

"You're too kind, Kocho-san."

"How about six o'clock in the evening today? I'll meet you at the restaurant."

Kocho wants something from you. The woman's too busy to eat out for the sake of getting dinner. But knowing her, she won't tell you what it is until she wants to. 

You sigh. Dinner with Kocho might be a trial, but at least dinner will mean your day's over. With how the morning's been going, you can't see it getting much worse.

Chapter Text

The hashira are assembled in a courtyard. At their staring, you think you might have dressed yourself wrong. Then, you realize they've never seen a demon in sunlight unless you count Kyojuro, one of their own. You turn, just to emphasize that you're not burning or whatever it is Japanese demons do in sunlight these days.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," you bow. As you bend, you notice Shinazugawa has new shoes. Sandals? Socks with sandals? 

"Ki—Fujiwara-san!" Kyojuro's beside you before you can blink. On your other side, Kanroji presses close.

"Are you all right, Fujiwara-san?" she examines you from all around.

"The fuck's wrong with you?" Shinazugawa demands, crossing his scarred arms.

"Shinazugawa-san! You are being very—"

You raise your voice, cutting off Kyojuro. Shinazugawa was talking to you, so you'll handle his question yourself.

"I have a debilitating fear of blades and sharp objects, Shinazugawa-san." 

The wind hashira sneers.

"Is there a problem?" you ask.

"Onjin-sama, my ass," the wind hashira snorts. "You're not a goddamn demon, just a spoiled little rich girl who's never suffered—"

"That is not true!" Kyojuro steps forward, as if to physically shield you from the wind hashira. 

"Oh, yeah?" Shinazugawa steps forward. You could choke on the testosterone in the air.

"Ah! Please don't fight!"

Kanroji hops between Kyojuro and Shinazugawa. Kocho begins talking Shinazugawa down. 

As you wait for the shouting match to end, you wind the borrowed kimono's sleeves to your shoulders.

Tomioka stares at your arms. Himejima begins to weep. Tokito remains as absentminded as ever, but Uzui and Iguro's gazes become analytical. Is it just you, or does a shadow of discomfort fall over Iguro's eyes?

Then, Kanroji notices.

"Oh, no," she covers her mouth, wincing with sympathy. "What happened?"

You shrug, crooking your head to the side. Kocho steps aside. Only Kyojuro remains between you and Shinazugawa.

"Let me handle this."

He glances at you and nods, moving to your side. You cross your arms and smile at the wind hashira. 

Only one of you could fight back against violence. Shinazugawa has scars, but you have scars.

"Tell me again what I do not know of suffering, Shinazugawa-san."

"The fuck happened to you?"

You do not respond.

History often forgets that the Mongol Empire was run by women as well as men. Genghis Khan and his sons married their daughters and sisters to foreign princes,  then sent the princes to war. Their husbands never returned, and the women ruled. 

When you were in Goryeo, you witnessed the arrival of the Yuan Imperial Princess Jeguk in Gaegyeong. Amidst ten days of festivities, a hundred carriages, and a thousand horses, the sixteen-year-old princess was the smallest member of her retinue. Yet she wore power as easily as the fox fur pelts tossed across her shoulders. She moved like she expected people to move for her. They moved, and the Mongol princess's influence persisted in Korea for hundreds of years.

You hear the clash of cymbals and the firecrackers from the festivities of that bright May day. You remember a red-cheeked girl as smiling and polite as she was undeniable. Then, you ignore Shinazugawa and turn to Himejima with self-possession that would do any princess justice.

"Himejima-san, would you direct me to my briefcase? I'm here today to share my information on the demons of Japan. We've been delayed long enough."

The Stone Hashira sniffs, dabbing at his eyes with the soaked handkerchief you gave him earlier.

"This way, Fujiwara-san."

"Thank you." 

You walk past Shinazugawa, stuffing another hanky into Himejima's hands.

..........

When you return indoors, Kiriya and his sisters are waiting in another clean tatami room. They've laid out the notes you've prepared for the hashira, one copy on each of the nine seating mats. Across from the hashira's seats, an empty seating mat has been reserved for you.

Kiriya leads his sisters in bowing.

"My father apologizes for his absence, Fujiwara-san. He has asked me and my sisters to attend this meeting and report to him."

You're horrified. Kiriya can't be older than ten. If his father can't sit through a meeting without retiring due to his health, how is the man running the demon slayer corps? It's not fair to Ubuyashiki's children or the demon slayers.

You add yet another note to your mental list of items to discuss with Ubuyashiki before having the demon slayers gather around. The formal seating arrangement is helpful for demonstrating hierarchy, but not much else. 

While Kiriya, Hinaki, and Nichika remain on your right, Kyojuro takes the seat to your left. Tokito kneels on his copy of the notes while Shinazugawa stares at the papers with anger that reminds you of Hakuji trying to learn English. Fortunately, you came prepared in case of illiterate hashira.

In the center of the circle, you lay out an illustration and a map of Tokyo. With the illustration, you describe the demons' ranking system and their internal politics, as remembered by Hakuji.

The snake hashira shakes his head when you pause.

"I can't trust a single world she's saying."

"She's harboring the Upper Moon Three," Shinazugawa agrees.

"You're right," you tell Iguro. "Though I trust Hakuji-san, the former upper moon, even he wouldn't trust his memory—Kibutsuji's blood has been known to affect people's minds, after all. This information should be taken as probable, useful information, but not absolute fact. I assume the demon slayers have your own systems for verifying intel."

The flamboyant hashira grins. When you were introduced, Kiriya said that Uzui was a former shinobi. He probably organizes their informants. You smile back, moving on to the map of Tokyo.

Kibutsuji is elusive, so you plan to start with taking out his support network of upper moons. Your information packets cover all the information you've collected from Hakuji, Manjeok, and your own business associates. You start with the Upper Moon Six, pointing to Yoshiwara. 

"Hakuji-san confirmed that the Upper Moon Six are two demon who masquerade as a courtesan in Yoshiwara. Based on the sales of my wisteria perfume, I believe they are in one of these three brothels." 

Uzui takes notes of the courtesan houses you circle—declaring that the flashy Entertainment District is his territory. You describe in detail what Hakuji remembers of his encounters with the twins, as well as what Akaza heard from Douma. Though Iguro still looks skeptical, he, Shinazugawa, and Tokito all lean in, paying attention as you cover the demon twins, their fighting techniques, and Hakuji's recommended countering strategies.

Most of the hashira take notes. Himejima's hands dwarf the pencil you brought. Kanroji dots her characters with hearts. Even Tokito doodles something in the margins. 

Shinazugawa holds the pencil like the other hashira, but he writes nothing. He scowls when he notices you looking at his packet.

"What're you looking at?"

In the first decades away from Japan, when you were on the run, you learned memorization techniques from other beggars. A few of you could read, and none of you could write. You compensated by memorizing everything.

You meet Shinazugawa's eyes.

"I think you have an impressive memory, Shinazugawa-san."

He rolls up his sleeves, "Oi, you makin' fun—"

"Fujiwara-san is correct!" Kyojuro shouts, "When we go on joint missions, I rely on Shinazugawa-san's memory for our reports! "

"That's right!" Kanroji joins in. "Shinazugawa-san, you never have to hear anything twice."

A few of the other hashira nod and murmur assent. Shinazugawa scowls harder, but he also flushes beneath the scowl, reddening like a lobster being boiled. 

In lieu of violence, you prefer killing people with kindness. Or at least making them feel like absolute assholes for being mean to you.

After sharing all you know about the twin demons, you go up the list, describing your plan to trap the Upper Rank Five. Hakuji recalls that Kibutsuji sold Gyokko's pots to collectors for a sizable profit. You plan on killing two birds with one stone, cutting off one of Kibutsuji's income sources, and eliminating the upper moon.

First, you've killed the market for Gyokko's pots by telling art collectors the truth: they're collecting 'art' created by a monster and funding their man-eating operations. Anyone with the money to afford Gyokko's pots had the resources to confirm your claims themselves. The few holdouts will benefit from a trip to the final selection forest, as Ubuyashiki agreed. 

Then, you're going to get all of Gyokko's collectors to ship their pots to a wisteria farm. Hakuji remembers Gyokko was attached to his art and could travel through his pots. You'll break all of his pots except one, which Kocho can fill with wisteria poison. Hopefully, the demon will try to emerge through the poisoned pot, into a crowd of prepared demon slayers...

..........

You don't know much about the Upper Rank Four or One yet besides their abilities—based on Hakuji-san's information, they seem to travel often. That leaves Upper Rank Two

"I understand Douma is a cult leader. There are—erm, uncomfortably many cults on the outskirts of Tokyo. Some of them move often, so I am still locating the Upper Moon Two."

You turn the page to battle tactics. You had to condense these. Hakuji narrated multiple ten-page How-To-Murder-Douma proposals. His guidebooks come with flowcharts. Apparently, Akaza spent a good deal of his two-hundred years fantasizing about murdering the younger demon.

"Oh, my," Kocho covers her mouth, smiling. "Someone has a grudge~"

A lot of people probably have a grudge against a man-eating demon, but that sort of snarky comment is probably inappropriate. 

"I didn't think the information was relevant to include here, but Hakuji-san recalls Akaza loathing the Upper Moon Two. Their personalities were—ah, incompatible? Akaza refused to eat women, where Douma apparently preferred women—"

Himejima begins to weep, murmuring the nembutsu. You hand him a third handkerchief. Kocho continues to smile, but killing intent starts to radiate from her.

"We are aware, Fujiwara-san," your papers twist in the force of her grip. "Would you kindly keep me informed on your search for the Upper Moon Two?"

"Of course," you smile, "I'm here to help keep the demon slayer corps informed, after all."

That's not what Kocho's asking, and you know it. But you can't promise she'll be the first to know when you find Douma. Hakuji called first dibs.

..........

The snake hashira flaps his oversized sleeves. The motion would be cute on a child, but he's a twenty-one year old man who wants you dead. 

"So, you think you know how to locate only two of the six Upper Moons. We must still confirm the locations or slay the demons. And you still refuse to reveal the location of the former—as you say—Upper Moon Three."

You may not be prepared to fight the hashira, but you've spent more hours of your life running meetings than any of these young people have spent on earth. Iguro's still a few centuries too young to debate you. You meet mismatched eyes and hold up five fingers.

"One, I have revealed the location of the former Upper Moon Three. He no longer exists.

"Two, I am a civilian, not a demon slayer. Demon slaying is your job.

"Three, before me, you still had to confirm intel and slay demons.

"Four, I arrived in Japan yesterday. Being on the same side of the globe usually helps with information gathering.

"Five, you seem concerned about the extent or usefulness of my support to the demon slayer corps."

You drop a two inch binder in front of the snake hashira. Amane—your Amane, not Ubuyashiki Amane—said it would be in bad taste to start with the binder, or end with it, or bring it up at any point without being prompted. Japanese people are very humble.

You're not Japanese.

"I have documented all my activities on behalf of the demon slayer corps, including locating two Upper Moons, eliminating one, and importing most of the wisteria products protecting your city. My team and I did all this within the last three months, Iguro-san. I would ask what you have done this century, but I did my research beforehand and know how to trust my allies."

..........

You get better questions after the snake hashira. Your notes on the upper moons were fairly complete, but the pillars have questions about the other demons that Hakuji described. Uzui's concerned about Kibutsuji's access to an "infinity castle," which could shield him or his demons despite what you know about their locations. You move the infinity castle demon up your priority list, since eliminating her will lower all the other demons' defenses.

Kyojuro brings up the possibility of Kibutsuji replacing eliminated upper moons.

"I had the same concern," you sigh. "It does sound like Kibutsuji only finds people at an upper moon level every few centuries, but we can't rely on that. That's why Manjeok suggests that we maintain secrecy as much as possible and eliminate the upper moons quickly, one after another, as soon as we start."

The hashira grow quiet. With Akaza's disappearance, the countdown's started. Kibutsuji must be looking for answers already. You're going after Gyokko, Daki, and Gyutaro next. It's only a matter of time before he figures out that you're hunting the upper moons. Then, it'll be a short path to Kibutsuji finding out how you're hunting the upper moons. Then, you lose your tactical advantage.

"I know Kibutsuji's pretty short tempered—" you start.

"How the fuck do you know what Muzan's like?"

"We were contemporaries," you tell Shinazugawa. "Knowing Kibutsuji, I'm hoping that losing many upper moons in a row will cause tactical mistakes."

The hashira stare expectantly at you. You shake your head. That's all you've got.

"So," Iguro drawls, "you don't have a plan to kill Kibutsuji." 

"Right. Hakuji-san doesn't know the extent of Kibutsuji's abilities. The best I've got is giving you what I know, and taking out upper moons until Kibutsuji shows more of his cards."

"That's a shitty plan."

"I agree," you sigh, and Shinazugawa looks like he might die from the shock of you agreeing with him. 

Uzui traces the map of Tokyo with one hand, flipping through your notes with the other.

"I don't have a better plan," he agrees after a silence. "Let's confirm what Fujiwara-san said, then lean on the tactical advantage while we have it. Yoshiwara's my territory. I'll find the Upper Moon Six's location. Kocho-san, you help Fujiwara-san poison the Upper Moon Five."

"One moment," Kocho holds up an elegant index finger. "I have a suggestion, Uzui-san. We might be able find out more about Muzan's abilities sooner. After all, we have the originator of another demon line with us. Isn't that right, Fujiwara-san?"

You know what she is trying to say. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Kyojuro speaks up first.

"She is not Muzan! I do not like your tone, Kocho-san!"

Kocho laughs lightly, patting your arm.

"Let's discuss this at dinner," she tells you.

Boy, are you not looking forward to dinner. Even less do you want to deal with Kocho alone, while trying to kill a Japanese demon.

"Would the demon slayer corps be able to send another hashira to deal with Gyokko, in addition to Kocho-san and myself? He's the Upper Moon Five, and I'm a non-combatant..."

Uzui scans the circle of hashira. 

Please, not Shinazugawa, you think to yourself. Or Iguro. Or...

"Tokito-san. Tokito-san?" 

Kanroji nudges Tokito. The youngest hashira blinks at Uzui.

"Huh?"

"You're fighting the Upper Moon Five with Kocho."

"Oh. Okay," Tokito stares back up at the sky. "Nii, what's the name of those clouds again?"

"It looks like an Akita dog!"

Kocho covers her smile, "I think Tokito-san meant the type of cloud, not it's shape, Rengoku-san."

"It's cirrus," Tomioka answers while Himejima weeps into your last handkerchief, muttering something about the curiosity of children.

Lord have mercy, you think. We're all doomed.

.........

Uzui makes his way around the circle, assigning tasks to each of the hashira. He'll manage information gathering in Yoshiwara. Kocho and Tokito are responsible for Gyokko. Sanemi is tasked with infiltrating the Infinity Castle. The other hashira have previous commitments. 

Uzui confirms the assignments with Kiriya. The child nods.

"Stay un-flamboyant," Uzui tells you after he goes through the hashira.

"You've got it," you return his finger guns. 

"Kyaaa, she's so cute," Kanroji squeals, holding her face. You blush. Iguro glowers.

"This is true!" Kyojuro shouts.

Good Lord, you can crawl into a hole and die now.

"Ubuyashiki-san, may I escort Fujiwara-san to her next destination!"

You watch the young boy focus, thinking.

"Would you be amenable, Fujiwara-san?" Kiriya asks you.

You're not a hashira under his father's command. By asking you, the boy's recognizing you as his father's equal. Your heart aches, considering what an eight year old child must have gone through to understand these social nuances at his age. The Ubuyashiki children don't have childhoods.

"I would like for Shinazugawa-san to be my escort, Ubuyashiki-san."

"Oi, what's your problem?" 

You meet Shinazugawa's glare.

"If I'm to collaborate with the demon slayer corps, I must be able to trust the demon slayer corps, not just Rengoku-san."

Would you prefer to have Kyojuro as your escort? Yes. But sometimes what you want is different from the right decision. You're not here to be comfortable. You're here to make the hashira pay attention. You've handled Kocho and Iguro's passive aggressiveness. Now, you need to prove you're not scared of men like Shinazugawa.

..........

Shinazugawa throws a blindfold in your face.

"Put it on."

You pat the cloth flat over your eyes and tie it around your head, wondering if Shinazugawa will check. He's aggressive but not stupid, so he should check. Unless he trusts you—

"Where're you going?"

"Um," you recite the address of the realtor in downtown Tokyo. Then, you yelp, because Shinazugawa throws you over his shoulder.

Oh, lordy. He's the wind hashira. That means he's fast, doesn't it? You should've thought of that. Your stomach turns. You think you're going to throw up. Again—

Shinazugawa drops you—you don't know how long after. Less than ten minutes? It went by very quickly. You keep bad track of time when you're sick.

You try not to gag, leaning on the nearest building for balance. Since you gave Himejima all your hankies, you have to dab at your eyes with the sleeves of the borrowed kimono.

Shinazugawa's antics are childish. You know that. His default aggression isn't so different from Hakuji. But recognizing Shinazugawa's behavior doesn't help the bottom dropping out of your stomach. Being thrown around like a sack of flour makes you feel disgustingly helpless.

By the time you dry your eyes, recover your balance, and turn back, the street's empty. Shinazugawa's gone.

..........

Like everything else today, shopping for houses goes horribly. Your realtor refers you to a realtor, who refers you a third realtor before you understand: they don't want to sell you a house, not just because you're American, but because you're also an apparently young and definitely unmarried woman of indeterminate lineage.

Tokyo is prime real estate. Most landowners here are kazoku, former nobility like Ubuyashiki's lineage, or shizuko, warrior families like the Rengoku's. Tokyo's old money doesn't want a foreign merchant as their neighbor. All the money in the world doesn't matter if the people who own the titles won't sell them to you.

The realtors walk you through a chain of appeals, recommending that you first rediscover and find proof of your real Japanese heritage and family's registration. Your brand may be successful internationally, but claiming the exalted Fujiwara name isn't doing you any favors in Japan, you see.

"That won't be possible," you tell the man, who is wearing a Western suit. It's from one of Yan's new fashion labels. The fabric smells vaguely of wisteria that makes you want to sneeze.

The realtor tsks, doubtlessly assuming that you're from a burakumin or lower class family, which—well, he's not exactly wrong. 

"In that case, you've two more options. You can marry into a registered Japanese family, or be adopted into one," the realtor offers in a tone suggesting that he finds neither option likely.

"Should those not work out, here are our rental properties—"

..........

You fax Toshiro and Hakuji, informing him that you are still alive after meeting the hashira. Toshiro receives your schedule for updating you on your Chicago businesses and calling Hakuji about the hashira's questions. Then, you drag yourself to dinner at the tempura place for the second time in as many days.

"Ara-ara, you look terrible, Fujiwara-san."

Kocho orders fills your cup with sake. You stare at the clear liquid. Is it poisoned?

You shrug, throwing the cup back. At this point, poisoned sake would be a fitting end to your day.

The alcohol burns. Kocho laughs, patting your back.

"I take it the housing search did not go well?"

You roll your eyes, counting off everything wrong about the housing market on your hands until you run out of fingers. Kocho nods along.

"My parents were merchants as well, I think they also experienced discrimination, which led to their constructing our own estate."

Great Yuan also looked down on merchants. Europe also discriminated against money lenders.

"What was that like in Japan?" you ask Kocho.

"I'm not sure. My parents passed when I was very young. More sake?"

You shake your head, "I've had enough, thanks."

Kyojuro would be worried if you returned smelling like alcohol.

Kocho sets the sake aside, "Will you rent an apartment, then?"

"No, I'm going to own a house," and maybe make it easier for others to achieve homeownership while you're at it. You add "housing access" to your mental list under "child protection laws" and "murder Kibutsuji." 

Kocho hums, "You would need to marry—"

"Or be adopted into a Japanese family. Preferably one with a high social status."

Kocho shakes her head.

"I'm not sure how things work in the United States, but adoptions in Japan are mostly of men, usually by families seeking male heirs. As a woman, your adoption would raise questions, especially if you were adopted into a kazoku family."

"Great," you stare longingly at the sake. "Time to find a fake husband."

"How about Rengoku-san?"

He would make a good husband, but as an actual husband, not a fake one. 

"He's too—distinctive," you wave at your hair, thinking of his bold, fiery colors. "And everyone in his neighborhood knows his family. They'd know if he were married, and be surprised if they didn't, you know?"

Besides, you'd feel bad about roping Kyojuro into your schemes. He's too earnest.

Kocho hums, evaluating you with thoughtful eyes over her smile.

"What would you like to eat?" she gestures at the food options set out on the counter.

You stare at the food, then Kocho's smile. Instead of being hungry, you feel like a pig being led to the slaughter. 

"First, let's talk about why I'm here, Kocho-san. What do you want from me?"

"How straightforward," Kocho laughs. "Please call me Shinobu."

"Shinobu-san."

Then, you wait.

"I would like additional samples of your blood. More volume would enable the Demon Slayer Corps to conduct experiments. We might be better equipped to defeat Kibutsuji or neutralize demons, as your blood has done with the Upper Moon Three."

"I would need to think about the terms of my agreement. What experiments do you propose conducting?"

"In the demon slayer corps, we also have a young man who gains blood demon art abilities by eating demons. His biology could help us understand your abilities."

"Did he consent to participating in your experiments?"

"Yes."

"Should I decide to proceed, I would like to meet him first."

You have Kocho's word, but you want to confirm the young man's consent for himself.

"I can arrange that," Kocho agrees, then describes the rest of her ideas for experiments, from making the demons that aid the demon slayer crops immune to sunlight and reducing their need for blood, to reducing their hostility and increasing their humanity. 

You nod along and agree to nothing. Kocho doesn't have soothing voice, but she has a way of making everything she says sound sensible and agreeable. She smiles like she's harmless, but so do you.

You want to go home.

Once she's made her requests, Kocho smiles and waves at a boy behind the restaurant counter. The restauranteurs bring out food as if on cue. Everything is packed and ready to go.

"I figured you might prefer to eat with Rengoku-san and his family. Did you know his tsuguko have returned early from their mission? Tomioka-san should also be staying with Rengoku-san this week."

She sends you on your way with enough people for twenty, and a comment that Tomioka-san likes the salmon daikon.

..........

When you return to the Rengoku estate, someone is screaming.

"I'm gonna bring you down!"

You stare, for a moment. Kyojuro calls one of his tsugoku boar-head. You expected—well, you did not expect a child wearing a literal taxidermied boar head instead of a shirt.

Boar-head chases a blond boy. At least yellow-boy isn't literally yellow.

"Boar assault!" Boar-head screams from the other side of the courtyard. You go to the only unoccupied child, a dark haired boy with a scar on his forehead.

"Excuse me, are Kyojuro—"

You blink. Kyojuro appeared as soon as you spoke, taking the boxes of packed food from your hands. Tomioka follows him out of the house, walking at a normal pace while Kyojuro waves at the three teenagers, two of whom are still screaming.

"Kiku-san, these are my tsuguko! Young Kamado, yellow boy, boar-head!"

You bow in turn to the scarred boy and the other teenagers, who jog over at Rengoku's booming voice.

"Rengoku-aniki!" 

"Who is she!"

"My name is Fujiwara," you pause.

Kyojuro wrote you about his new tsuguko. Young Kamado should be Kamado Tanjiro, whose sister Nezuko is the demon slayer who also happened to be a demon.

"You must be Kamado-kun," you move on to 'yellow-boy' and 'boar-head.' "Is your name yellow boy?"

"No! It's Agatsuma!"

"And I'm the king of the mountain!" boar-head yells.

So. Neither 'boar-head' nor 'king of the mountain,' none of which sound like actual names.

"His name is Hashibara," Kamado tells you. You smile.

"Thank you. Have you eaten, Kamado-kun, Agatsuma-kun, Hashibara-kun?" you wave at the boxes from the restaurant. "I brought—"

"Tempura!" Inosuke screams.

Chaos restarts, as if on cue. Tanjiro tries to shush Inosuke. Zenitsu wobbles as if he's about to faint from starvation. Kyojuro laughs.

"Are you hungry, Boar-Head! Come, Kiku-san! Tomioka-san, eat with us!"

Kyojuro strides to the dining area alongside you and Tomioka. Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke follow along like a trio of ducklings.

"Excuse me," Tanjiro tugs at your sleeve after you've helped Senjuro set up the dining table.

"Yes, Kamado-kun?"

"Is your name really Kiku-san?" Tanjiro whispers.

"Mmm-hmm."

Across the room, Zenitsu pouts.

"Rengoku-aniki, how come you get her name right?"

"What do you mean! All your names are correct! You are yellow boy, he is boar-head, this is young Kamado!"

As Zenitsu sputters, Shinjuro arrives in the dining room. Kyojuro's tsuguko quiet briefly at the elder Rengoku's arrival. Kyojuro's father nods at Tomioka, taking a seat between his son and the water hashira. 

Then, Inosuke grabs the tempura out of Zenitsu's tray.

"Oi, that was mine!"

Tanjiro tries to make Inosuke take off his mask to eat, use chopsticks, or at least stop eating with his hands. Senjuro offers Zenitsu more tempura. Kyojuro says something about boar-head being raised by wild boars. Tomoika nods sagely. Shinjuro starts eating. 

"Would you like some tempura, Fujiwara-san?"

"What's good?" you ask Senjuro, noting he hasn't eaten yet.

"Shrimp and lotus are my favorite—oh, thank you."

You put lotus root and tempura shrimp into his plate until Senjuro says it's enough. Then, you nab a piece of sweet potato and sit back to watch the chaos unfold across the dining table. The tsuguko act like a comedy trio playing out their skits at the corner of a normal family dinner, punctuated by shouts of 'umai!' from Kyojuro as he eats.

You join Senjuro, Shinjuro, and Tomioka, the group quietly tucking into dinner. Tempura is not your favorite, but you like the liveliness here. Moments like these, you think you might one day like Japan.

Chapter Text

When Tomioka picks at his food, you remember what Kocho said.

"Could you pass the salmon daikon?"

"The what?" Inosuke shouts at you.

"Salmon daikon!" Zenitsu yells at him.

"Salmon daikon? Like salmon tempura? I want—"

A new round of shouting starts on the tsuguko side of the table. The trio understands your request, Tanjiro secures the dish, and Kyojuro sends it over to Tomioka's side of the table.

Tomioka stares at the fish.

"Kocho-san said you enjoy salmon daikon."

"I'm not hungry," Tomioka says.

"You should eat!" Kyojuro pushes the dish closer to Tomioka. "Demon Slayers must keep up their energy!"

Tomioka picks at the food. Kyojuro continues talking cheerfully at him. The water hashira responds with one-word answers or not at all, but he eats the salmon daikon and even comes to look vaguely happy.

So, "I'm not hungry" was a statement of fact, not an indirect refusal of food. Tomioka doesn't seem to express himself through tone, suggestion, or connotation. You can take the literal meaning of his words, and nothing else.

You still don't know if he likes or hates you. But you can ask. He seems honest.

"Tomioka-san, do you dislike me?"

"You are a stranger to me."

"So, you don't know me well enough to make a decision either way?"

"You don't eat humans," he adds after several bites.

"I haven't in the last few centuries."

Tomioka doesn't respond. You've never met anyone so good at killing a conversation, and you know Manjeok.

Well, the hashira weren't selected for their social skills. Senjuro has more social ability in his pinky than most of the demon slayers you met today. Tomioka's not even the worst of the bunch.

The water hashira's standoffish, but not violently antisocial or constantly weeping. The worst he's done is say something unintentionally offensive, potentially rude, or just strange. That puts people off talking to him, which can be a useful skill, really.

On that thought, Tomioka is rather normal-looking, unlike all the men you've met in Japan. Though he has blue eyes, the Rengokus look like walking flames, Himejima is seven feet tall, Uzui is, well, flamboyant, Iguro has bicolor eyes over his bandage-mask. And Shinazugawa is Shinazugawa.

If you passed Tomioka on the street, you might mistake him for an ordinary person. On top of a relatively unremarkable appearance, Tomioka is also quiet and good at putting off people trying to ask questions. The water hashira is almost painfully forgettable, which is exactly what you need in a fake husband.

..........

After dinner, even the tsuguko's energy start to falter. Kyojuro herds them to bed on the opposite end of the estate as your bedroom.

Ubuyashiki asked you to avoid contact with Japanese demons, including Nezuko, until the demon slayers understand Kibutsuji's ability to conduct espionage through his blood. While you'd like to meet the younger Kamado, the security measures make sense. If Kibutsuji doesn't know of your existence yet, the last thing you want to do is enlighten him.

"I will return for you!" Kyojuro tells Senjuro as he departs.

"It's all right," Senjuro says, already starting to clearing the dining table.

Shinjuro shoos his younger son away.

"Go to bed."

Senjuro laughs, letting his father take the plates.

"Thank you, Father. Sorry for the trouble," he bows. "Good night, Father. Good night, Fujiwara-san, Tomioka-san."

You watch his little silhouette slip outside, quieter, smaller, and more alone than Kyojuro's tsuguko. 

"Excuse me," you put down the plates, running after the youngest son.

"Senjuro-kun, may I walk with you?"

"Of course, Fujiwara-san," Senjuro pauses. "May I show you to your room again? Or the bathroom?"

"I'm all right," you continue walking alongside the child. "I wanted to ask you how school went, since we sat apart at dinner today."

Senjuro smiles, very sweet, "Thank you for asking, Fujiwara-san. I am preparing for exams since the school year is ending. For English, practicing with you has helped—thank you! But, ah, my tutor says I need to do better with verb tenses. Some English verb tenses, we don't have them in Japanese."

You compare the two languages in your mind. Senjuro's right. Japanese has no future tense, for one. The East Asian language generally seem to rely more on aspect than on tense. 

"Do you want to practice with me this weekend?"

"I—I wi-ru practice?" Senjuro tries in English.

"That's correct. Well done."

You arrive at the door to his room. Senjuro opens the door for you, bowing politely.

"Please come in if you'd like. I apologize for the mess."

You look at the folded futon, the chair pushed into the desk, and the neat stacks of homework on the desk surface.

"My room back home is messier than yours."

Senjuro laughs. You reach out, then stop. Big gold eyes stare inquisitively at you.

"Can I touch your hair?" you ask.

"Ah? Sure?" Senjuro tips his head forward. 

You ruffle his hair. The texture is softer and thinner than Kyojuro's wild mane.

Senjuro offers you a seat at his desk. You kneel beside the desk. Senjuro kneels a polite distance across from you, waiting.

"I also wanted to ask you how your home life has been. I know Kyojuro's busy, especially now that he has his own tsuguko. I want to ensure you don't feel as though your family doesn't have time for you."

Senjuro bows, "You don't need to worry about me, Fujiwara-san. I know my brother supports me. Um—"

He pauses, his smile growing anxious.

"Take your time," you wait patiently, sitting back on your heels.

"Excuse me! May I come in!"

Before Senjuro finishes his thought, Kyojuro knocks on the doorframe.

"Aniue!" Senjuro stands to greet his brother. 

"Hello, Kyojuro-san," you remain seated, greeting Kyojuro from besides Senjuro's homework. "I was asking about Senjuro-kun's home and school life. Have your tsuguko settled down?"

"They have not! They are very energetic!"

That explains the faint shouts of "pig assault" in the distance. 

Kyojuro takes a seat beside you, facing Senjuro's desk.

"How is your exam preparation!" he asks, staring unblinkingly at the desk.

Senjuro returns to show you both his work. While Kyojuro catches on faster to new information, you have more academic experience. He knows modern Japanese and history, but you're better with literature, languages, and mathematics.

"Good job!" Kyojuro pats Senjuro's shoulder while you finish reviewing his math problems. "You worked hard today! Sleep well in preparation for tomorrow!"

You return the homework to Senjuro's desk with markup, slipping away while Kyojuro puts his younger brother to bed.

..........

When you return to the drawing room, Shinjuro and Tomioka are sitting silently on the engawa, a good meter of distance between them. They seem to have cleaned up after dinner.

You bow and apologize for leaving, as is polite.

"It's fine," Shinjuro grumbles. 

Tomioka stares expressionlessly at the sunset. Shinjuro glares at his tea as though wishing it were alcohol. In the absence of Senjuro, Kyojuro, and his tsuguko, the conversation crawls into its grave.

"How was your day?" you ask, holding the conversation back from yomi.

"Unremarkable," Tomioka says.

"Sober," Shinjuro says.

The conversation flops back into its grave.

Well, you tried. The conversation can enjoy its afterlife. You pour yourself a cup of tea and settle on the engawa beside Tomioka, wondering how you go about asking someone to be your fake husband.

..........

Kyojuro takes the teapot when he arrives.

"Have some tea, Tomioka-san!" Kyojuro puts a fresh cup in Tomioka's hands. Tomioka sips automatically at the tea.

Tomioka Giyuu is like a houseplant. He doesn't seem very good at taking care of himself. From your conversation with Kocho at the tempura place, you're pretty sure that Kocho and Rengoku pass the water hashira between their estates. Perhaps Ubuyashiki and the other hashira also alternate to keep him fed, watered, and exposed to sunlight? In return, the water hashira stays alive, sits pretty, and slays demons, like the human version of wisteria.

"More tea, Father! Fujiwara-san?"

"Ah, thank you," you give Kyojuro your tea cup. 

Shinjuro throws the rest of his cup back, "I'm off to sleep."

Kyojuro bows, "Understood, Father! Good night, Father!"

Shinjuro pats his son's head as he passes.

Kyojuro freezes.

You give him a moment before you touch his arm. Shinjuro's silhouette grows small down the hallway.

"You okay?"

Kyojuro inhales.

"Yes!" he shouts with such volume, you feel the room shake.

Kyojuro pats your hand before you sit on either side of Giyuu. You take a sip of tea and inhale. 

Here goes your grand plan for homeownership in Japan. 

"Nii, Tomioka-san, do you have any experience with undercover work?"

"No."

Houseplant, you remind yourself. Houseplants don't do subtlety. Be blunt, like a baseball bat to the face.

"I need a fake husband," you say.

"I see," Tomioka says.

"What!" Kyojuro says.

..........

"Marriage is not a legal convenience! You should marry someone you like!"

"Kyojuro-san, I've been married a dozen times, sometimes to people who did not exist. In my country, women could not own land until last century. Very few have the luxury of marrying people we like—"

"Do you dislike me?" Tomioka asks.

"Um," you blink, then frown. "Of course not. I wouldn't ask to fake-marry you if I disliked you. It wouldn't be believable—"

"You like men who are hard-working and soft-spoken!"

"Excuse me, Kyojuro-san?" how did the topic get to the type of men that you like? "We were discussing my plan to buy a house—"

"Tomorrow!"

You blink.

"Tomorrow, I will bring you to the house-sellers of Sakurashinmachi!" Kyojuro declares. "I am confident the business-people in my territory are not so prejudiced against women!"

Well. Trying one more realtor can't hurt. 

"All right. Tomioka-san, may I reach out to you in case—"

"There will be no problems! I am certain of it!"

"Kyojuro-san, please let me finish. Tomioka-san, may I have your contact information?"

"Yes."

"What is it?" you prompt after a pause.

"I have a crow," Tomioka pauses. "He is very old."

"Tomioka-san will be staying with my tsuguko this week!"

Right, this week's Kyojuro's turn with Tomioka. You'll be able to find him in the Rengoku estate. You nod.

Eventually, you'll figure out the demon slayers' whole crow-postal system. But not today.

"Are you my friend?" Tomioka asks you.

At this point, you're not pretending to understand how his mind works. Tomioka asks questions, you give answers. 

Are you his friend, though? You met him less than a day ago. He didn't try to kill you or express desire to harm you, but you've spoken less than a hundred words to each other. 

You also did technically just propose to him, so—

"I'm sure we can become friends, Tomioka-san."

The water hashira nods seriously, "I am not disliked," he tells himself.

..........

Tomioka leaves without preambles or goodbyes. You assume he went to sleep. 

"I am disappointed in you, Kiku-san!"

Kyojuro looks straight at you, arms crossed, unsmiling. 

"It is the twentieth century! Today! Marriage is more than an arrangement of mutual benefit! Perhaps Tomioka-san did not know better! But I expected better of you!"

You're tired. A lot of people expect a lot of things from you, apparently. Kocho expected you'd be taller. Uzui expected you to be more flamboyant. Shinazugawa expected you to, what, go at him with a knife and fork? 

"I'm not responsible for your expectations, Kyojuro-san."

"That is not—" Kyojuro pauses. His fingers tighten their grip around his arms. "You make a fair point! You are not responsible for my expectations. But you deserve someone who loves you! Tomioka-san deserves better than marriage for your convenience! I am concerned that you approach marriage with such frivolousness, Kiku-san!"

Frivolous? Please. For centuries, marriage has been a strategy for political alliance, international relations, and personal benefit. Marrying for love without consideration of the consequences—that's the frivolous choice. 

You're not a frivolous woman. Should Tomioka be willing, you would ensure your "marriage" comes with no long-term legal or person ramifications for him. Only then would you continue with the course of action.

Kyojuro stares past your shoulder, waiting for your response, but you've spent the whole day justifying everything from your appearance to your existence. You're done explaining yourself today.

"Thank you for your concern. I'm going to sleep."

"I will escort you to your room!"

"No, thanks."

Kyojuro's bright gaze scans over your features and posture.

"You are upset!"

You laugh once, harshly.

"Did I upset you! Please speak up if you disagree with me! I will consider your reasoning!"

"Kyojuro-san."

"Yes!"

"I've done a lot of explaining today. I'm tired. I'd like to be alone."

He watches you leave, wondering what he did wrong. 

The specter of a red-eyed woman watches you both, frowning.

..........

"Good morning!" 

When you open your bedroom door, Kyojuro is smiling fixedly at the point over your shoulder. Is it already your third day in Japan? Where did the time go?

You blink sleep out of your eyes to notice Kyojuro's arms crossed over his chest, his pose formal like the first time you met.

He bows deeply, "I apologize for yesterday! You faced many difficulties! You deserved rest!"

You bow back, "I was also short with you, but I had been tired and frustrated with how my day had gone, not with you. I can explain my thoughts on marriage now, if you want to listen."

"I do!"

As Kyojuro walks you to the realtor, you go through the history of marriage, from the Yuan Dynasty to the Roarin' Twenties. You've hired, manufactured, or became your own husband so you can hold legal rights in civil society because governments treat women as second-class citizens. Moreover, for any gender, marriage has always been a matter of alliance and mutual benefit.

"Historically, marriages weren't between lovers, but between families—"

"It is the twentieth century now!"

"Right. People marry for love now. But as I was saying—marrying for practical reasons isn't frivolous. I would be responsible with Tomioka, ensuring that he's taken care of, and that the marriage doesn't have legal repercussions. Should he fall in love with someone else—"

"What if he falls in love with you! Or you fall in love with him!"

"Um..."

Tomioka is, like, a houseplant? You like houseplants, but not that way?

"He's not my type?"

"You do not sound very confident!"

"No, I'm quite confident."

Bright eyes scan your face. Kyojuro nods once to himself. 

"I understand! People used to marry for practical reasons, but we are in the twentieth century! You should not have to marry for practical reasons anymore! If you had a house, you would not have to marry Tomioka-san!"

Kyojuro herds you towards the Sakurashinmachi business district with renewed determination.

..........

The realtor's office isn't open. None of the businesses on the street are open at the crack of dawn. All the retailers are in the process of setting up, but Kyojuro bangs through the house-seller's front door with his usual aplomb.

"Good morning!" he booms. The entire office looks up from their breakfast. One young man wipes rice off the corner of his mouth.

For a moment, the office is silent. Then, the most senior-looking man in the office stands, walking to you from the back of the room. He bows to Kyojuro.

"Rengoku-sama—"

The house seller glances uncertainly at you. Kyojuro touches your shoulder briefly, then quickly withdraws his hand.

"This is my friend Fujiwara-san! Please help her find a home today! I will leave her in your care!"

Kyojuro bows to the house-sellers. You reach for your calendar to make an appointment with the realtors. Instead of asking you to return later, you're ushered into the senior house seller's office. As Kyojuro goes to work, you page through the catalog of home descriptions, the house-seller noting your preferences. 

None of the homes in Sakurashinmachi are to your liking, having been designed as multi-generational family residences. You don't need a complex with multiple buildings like the Rengoku estate. Instead, the realtor clears his schedule for tomorrow so you can look at parcels of land.

That was—easy? You leave the realtor's office in a daze, dumbstruck at how Kyojuro shoved you through their approval process. Knowing that he's bushi doesn't hit quite like witnessing first-hand the warrior class privilege of Japan.

..........

You review paperwork for the rest of your day. Hakuji is somewhere in South America as a part of your agreement—you want him to see the beauty in the world—so Toshi arranges for you to call next week. Meanwhile, Kocho is nothing if not efficient—the abstracts for her proposed experiments have already arrived via crow-post. 

The Ubuyashiki estate has also sent you mail, requesting your guns' make and model for nichirin bullets. Ubuyashiki's children have written an additional list of requests, including that you don't leave the Rengoku estate at night without an escort. Apparently, the hashira had a meeting after they met you. Half of them seem worried you'll get kidnapped by the next person with a kitchen knife, while the other half can't wait to see it happen.

The requests are an inconvenient temporary measure for your safety, so you send over your agreement with the specifications for your bullets. Then, you read Kocho's abstracts and go on a walk to think about her proposals.

As you hike the forest behind the Rengoku estate, Eagle Two comes to sit on your head. The crow's sense of balance isn't great, so you end up carrying the scarred bird like a infant.

"That's a big crow," Shinjuro observes when you return to his estate. 

"She's American."

Shinjuro holds two stacks of bento boxes for dinner. You put Eagle Two on the ground so you can help with the boxes, but Shinjuro brushes you off. 

Eagle Two totters drunkenly to her aviary. The bento boxes fill a disproportionate fraction of their dining room. In the last two days, the Rengoku family and their guests have gone through so many bento boxes, you could probably heat the estate for a day in winter if you burned the remaining wood containers.

"Rengoku-san, would you consider employing staff for your estate?" 

"Few private cooks are prepared for our volume. Kyojuro eats a lot."

"I--ah, I noticed. What about restauranteurs?"

"That's an idea," Shinjuro pauses, thinking. "We may know someone."

..........

The tsuguko are doing their post-mission medical tests and recovery training at Kocho's estate. Tomioka and Kyojuro are away on missions. No one else knows languages like you anyways, so you help Senjuro with his English homework when he returns from school. 

You finish the writing exercise before Senjuro tells you what he did not have the chance to say, yesterday.

"Fujiwara-san," the younger brother looks around anxiously. He leans close, his deep voice going softer than usual. "Fujiwara-san, I'm worried for aniue. Aniue hasn't slept in days. I know you are immortal, but—is it normal, for you to live like this?"

You pause, remembering. 

Kyojuro was on patrol last night and the night before. You don't know when he slept. And he was also awake before you both days.

"Not sleeping isn't normal, Senjuro-kun. I sleep, right?"

"Yes. I noticed! So, I was worried. I have been reminding aniue, but I can't always stay up on school nights..."

Senjuro trails off, looking at you hopefully with those enormous eyes.

"I'll talk to Kyojuro-san, especially on school nights," you bow. "Thank you for sharing this with me."

"Thank you! Fujiwara-san."

You nod, "If you don't mind, I have a question for you as well, Senjuro-kun."

"Of course?"

"How little were you sleeping, that you're aware of Kyojuro-san's schedule?"

Like his older brother, Senjuro has also consistently been awake before you. He goes to bed early, but he can't be sleeping that early if he's aware of Kyojuro's bedtimes.

Senjuro doesn't answer, smiling anxiously. You sigh. 

"I don't want to overstep as a guest in your home, Senjuro-kun. But I also want to help, especially when you and your brother are doing so much. 

"Taking care of your estate and all the chores is hard work, too. Kyojuro-san should sleep more, but you should also have more time for yourself and your schoolwork. I know your father is looking to hire staff. But I'm also a freeloader in your house. You should make me work for the rent I'm not paying, m'kay?" 

You smile. Senjuro laughs. You ruffle his hair.

..........

Tomioka is still out—the crow says he won't return until tomorrow, so dinner is once more you and the Rengoku family.

"How was your housing search!" Kyojuro shouts, already halfway through his first bento box.

"The houses available weren't suitable, so Sato-san and I will be looking at buying land for construction tomorrow."

"I see! What sort of land do you want!"

"I'm not particular. Some trees and a water source would be nice, but not necessary. I'd like enough space for myself and—maybe ten guests?" 

"What about the forest in the back?" Shinjuro asks, pointing to the area behind his estate.

You'd thought about it, when you were walking outside with Eagle Two today. Staying close to the Rengoku estate would be safe, if you knew how to ask.

Amane and Mimi didn't have such specific guidance, but asking a family to sell you a piece of their probably-ancestral lands probably breaks at least a dozen etiquette rules.

However, you did learn gift-receipt etiquette rules. You have to refuse at least twice. Maybe three times?

"I would not want to impose."

"It's fine," Shinjuro replies. You open your mouth, searching for another reasonable-sounding refusal that doesn't repeat yourself.

"Stop being so polite. You took care of my son. We'll take care of you." 

Shinjuro glares at you. You swallow your refusal, nodding.

"Thank you, Rengoku-san."

"The house seller can help you with the new construction!" Kyojuro suggests. Shinjuro nods. "It is decided, then! You need not marry Tomioka-san!"

Shinjuro chokes on rice.

"You were going to marry Tomioka for his estate?" he demands.

"Tomioka has an estate?" you ask.

You'd thought of Tomioka as a homeless houseplant—er, person. But Tomioka is an adult, and a high-ranking member of the Demon Slayer Corps. He can, hypothetically, afford property. And he's not an actual houseplant, so he probably isn't homeless?

You wonder what Tomioka's estate looks like. Maybe an empty showroom house with a nice sunny window? But—

"I wasn't planning on marrying Tomioka for his estate—" and you explain your far more convoluted plan to achieve home ownership in Japan. 

Shinjuro's scraggly eyebrow raises higher and higher.

"You do realize it would be easier to marry Tomioka for his estate," he asks, after.

"Father!"

"She could also marry you," Shinjuro tells Kyojuro.

Senjuro coughs. You snort tea up your nose. Kyojuro keeps smiling, though his face turns red from the collar of his uniform to the roots of his hair. 

Shinjuro continues, his poker face impeccable.

"Kyojuro, the bento sellers you met before the demon train—remind me of their bento stall's location." 

"Yes, Father!"

Kyojuro shouts directions, his face still as red as the tips of his hair. Shinjuro nods along nonchalantly like he didn't just suggest you marry his eldest son. You only spot an amused little grin at the end of dinner, as he leaves the table.

..........

Shinjuro cleans up, sending Senjuro to do homework and Kyojuro to show you the land behind the Rengoku estate. As you leave the estate gate, Kyojuro bows deeply, as if in apology.

"My father was funny, when he was younger!"

You smile to yourself. Everyone had been young once. You were feral. Mr. Walsh was dashing, and Toshiro had been a delinquent. 

"Was your mother the serious parent?" you ask, remembering the stern expression of the red-eyed woman.

"My mother was the strict one! My father made her laugh!"

Looking back at the entrance to the Rengoku estate, you can picture them: the young couple, Shinjuro and Ruka. Kyojuro, then Senjuro. Then, the family loses its members, one by one, Ruka to illness, Shinjuro to alcoholism—

When Kyojuro arrived in your living room, he'd been collapsed like a puppet. The hole in his chest had destroyed his spine. You'd been certain he was dead.

You hate to imagine Senjuro with his anxious smile and fuzzy brows, all by himself under the enormous estate gate.

"What is the matter!"

"Your family," you swallow. "I wish things could have been different."

Kyojuro marches toward the sunset, straight ahead.

"It is no use wallowing in grief! Time will not stop for us! We must grit our teeth and move forward! Set our hearts ablaze!"

He smiles with determination. The last sunshine lights him, the tips of his hair waving in the wind like a living flame. 

But fire burns out.

"When was the last time you slept, Kyojuro-san?"

He pauses.

"Total concentration breathing enables longer durations of wakefulness!"

Kyojuro looks straight forward, marching toward the next boundary on the estate grounds. You grab him by the haori-cape, holding on until he turns.

"I'm worried about you. Mr. Blazing Heart. You have to rest. Without fuel, fire burns out—"

"Worry not! Senjuro makes delicious meals! There are many tasty restaurants—"

"Let me take care of you."

There's a metaphor there, something about tending a fire. You lose it in the way Kyojuro's gaze scans your features before settling on your hand in his haori. He unfolds your hand from the fabric, enclosing your smaller hand between his calloused palms.

"Let me protect you!" he shouts at your hands. "You should not be subject to assault by my peers! Or experiments by Kocho-san! Kaname said she sent her crow!"

You sigh, squeezing his hand.

"I was going to ask you. Will you go to her estate with me?" 

"I will request the day off, that I may accompany you to the Butterfly Estate!"

You hum, "You protect me, I take care of you. Deal?"

You free your hand to offer him a handshake. Kyojuro shakes your hand, then keeps it. He pats the back of your hand with the hand not holding yours.

"It grows dark! I would not want you to fall!"

Kyojuro draws you close. You wonder if the Panchen's warning came too late. Perhaps you've already fallen.

..........

That night, the red-eyed woman appears in your room.

"Hello," Ruka says.

"Hello," you stand. How do you greet a ghost?

You bow, then recite your polite Japanese self-introduction. 

"My name is Fujiwara. It is nice to meet you. Thank you for having me in your home. Please take care of me."

Do ghosts accept chocolate?

Ruka smiles, maybe amused. Her eyes are hard to read.

"You weren't so formal when you proposed to the water hashira," she says.

"It was an informal proposal. Proposal, as in agreement to collaborate," you add. "I'd propose marriage later, but it didn't come to that."

"You are a liar, cheat, and criminal."

Ruka describes you with words you've used to describe yourself to Kyojuro in Chicago. Either the spirits of the dead are omniscient, or she's been with her son the whole time.

"Yes," you agree.

The spirit gestures to the tatami.

"Sit."

You nod. Ruka folds into a seat across from you in perfect seiza. Then, she tells you of girlhood during the Meiji restoration. While you were funding labor unions and assassinating segregationists, Ruka was studying Confucian classics and flower arrangement. Whoops.

"You're everything I was taught not to be," Ruka sighs. "But you've taken good care of my family."

You blink at the turn in the conversation.

"You're good people who ran into unfortunate circumstances, you finally offer. Even if we disagree, I want your family to do well."

Ruka bows, "Please continue to take care of them."

"That's—that's a lot of responsibility, Rengoku-san. You're their wife or mother."

Ruka's gaze softens, growing distant.

"The dead can't interact with the living. I've tried, Fujiwara-san."

"But I'm not dead?"

"You're different." 

Ruka draws you forward. When the spirit kisses your forehead, you experience a burst of warmth and a rush of memories. Tear trail down your cheeks.

The spirit fades, bowing deeply to you. 

Chapter Text

You wake to arguing in hushed voices. The pitches and cadences of speech are unfamiliar, despite everyone you've met since arriving at the Rengoku estate. 

You take up the gun kept beside your pillow, padding closer to listen beside the door.

"...Cannot simply walk in an unmarried young woman's room, even if she's a foreigner."

That sounds harmless enough, as does the accented voice of the older woman speaking. The poses of the silhouettes outside aren't aggressive, or lurking. You open the door.

A young man bows apologetically to the elderly woman speaking. A row of people stand behind them, just outside your door. They're dressed in clothes from all periods of Japanese history.

Now that you know what to look for, you squint and move your head. Yup, all of them are translucent in the morning sunshine.

"Good morning," you pause. How does one address a gathering of spirits? "May I help you?"

The other spirits in line glance at the elderly woman, who bows to you. Though she moves stiffly and is dressed in nightclothes, you can still see the grace that had once been a part of her carriage. A former noblewoman, then.

"Please grant us pardon for disturbing your rest, Butsuda-sama," the woman bows again. "The lingering spirits in the region, we felt Rengoku Ruka-san pass on yesterday night. We have also come to request relief from Your Holiness."

You shuffle your feet, uncomfortable at being addressed like the Panchen.

"My name is Fujiwara," you bow. "I'm not religious, so I'm not sure how I can help you—all of you," you glance down the line of maybe two dozen spirits, "pass on."

"We understand that Your Holiness is the gate to the afterlife. Come here, Hayashi-kun."

The spirit of the young man reaches for you. He kisses the back of your hand. As with Ruka, you experience a rush of memories that fades into the conviction. This time, you're certain that you must erect a grave for a Hayashi Hikaru in the Nasu area of the Tochigi Prefecture.

The elderly woman waves the next spirit forward. You stop the middle-aged man while he's reaching for your hand.

"Mister, ma'am, ladies and gentlemen—I'm guessing your passing on, it has to do with—you have to physically touch me?"

Yesterday, Ruka kissed your forehead before she disappeared. Today, the young man who vanished kissed your hand. You're hoping they're not all expecting to kiss you like you're the Pope, or something.

The gathering of spirit pauses awkwardly.

"Does it displease Your Holiness—"

"That's right," another young man shouts from the back of the line, cutting off the old noblewoman. "We gotta go through you, Fujiwara-san! You're the gate!"

"So, a handshake—"

"Would be highly inappropriate—" the old noblewoman begins, but the other spirits murmur over her. The middle-aged man next in line offers you his hand, palm curled for a handshake.

You hold up a finger. 

"One moment, sir."

In a notepad from your luggage, you record the details from the last spirits: Rengoku Ruka's requests for her family, Hayashi Hikaru's wanting a gravestone...

From there, you start a chart with spaces for the spirits' names, any identifying details they might remember, and their last requests. Then, you're in business. You put your hands together.

"Here's how we're doing this," you tell the spirits of Tokyo lined up outside your bedroom. "Until it proves ineffective, I'm going to shake hands with each of you."

You grasp your own hands, demonstrating a handshake for people from pre-handshake periods. Most of the spirits nod in understanding, though the old noblewoman scowls, muttering something about foreign women Butsuda.

You clear your throat, waiting for her to finish. The lady falls silent, bowing. You tap your notepad with the pen.

"Before we shake hands, please telling me what you can remember about your past and why your spirits linger on earth. I seem to receive some of your memories or desires when you pass on, but I'm not risking getting any last requests wrong. Any questions?"

The spirits ask questions. Then, you shake hands.

..........

You miss Toshi—you're going to need another assistant for Japan, especially if you're handling the last requests of departed souls now. It hasn't been a week since you arrived, and you've already a whole new to-do list. From prosecuting cold cases to hunting down old demons, the ghosts' requests are more than you can do yourself while supporting the demon slayers and settling down in Japan. And it's not even breakfast time.

You do what you can, in the meantime. On behalf of Ruka, you write letters, unfamiliar ideas and sentence structures coming to you as if dictated by another mind. The text settles on the page from your hand, but not in your script. After, your head aches.

You fold up the letters for Shinjuro, Kyojuro, and Senjuro, trying not to think much about their contents. Ruka's wishes don't necessarily agree with you, but the letters aren't a space for your thoughts, preferences, or opinions. You're just the messenger, and you've too much on your plate already.

You set aside Ruka's letters, then fax the Panchen. After ten minutes, you find no way to say "I see dead people" that doesn't sound insane, so instead you send "please phone ASAP - Kiku" to the Tashilhunpo.

Then, you call Ubuyashiki.

..........

One of his daughters answers the phone, "Moshi-moshi?"

"Hello, may I speak to Ubuyashiki Kagaya-san?"

"He is unwell at the moment."

"Ubuyashiki Amane-san?"

"She is tending to father. May we help you?"

Probably not, but there's no harm in checking.

"Yesterday, I spoke to the spirit of the Flame Hashira's late mother. Today, I sent off—" you count from your list of last requests, "—the departed spirits of twenty-six other people from the Tokyo area. Would your family or the corps have any experience with talking to the dead?"

A silence. Then, "Excuse us, Fujiwara-san. One moment, please."

..........

"The ability to communicate with the dead might be the manifestation of your abilities as an American demon," Ubuyashiki Kagaya explains. "As you might know, Japanese demons grow stronger by eating humans. They do not derive the same benefits from animal flesh. One theory for the distinction is that humans have souls, that demons derive power not from flesh, but from the souls attached. Hence, Japanese demons are capable of blood demon arts."

"Kyo—Rengoku-san has never eaten humans, though he developed these—blood demon arts."

"My children have strong souls."

Kyojuro would have a strong soul. You just hate the idea of him using himself, body and soul, to fight demons. He's a person, not a weapon, but that's a problem for another time.

"I don't have demon powers," you flex your hands. When you were in Chicago, Hakuji had explained the concept of blood demon arts to you. He no longer had access to his powers after receiving your blood. Though you tried, you also seem to have no demon abilities, though your aversion to violence and drawing blood is likely no help to the development of demon fighting powers.

Other immortals don't have your aversions. While some have made awfully creative use of their immortality, Kyojuro's the only one you know to have abilities resembling Japanese demons' blood demon arts. Perhaps no one else has a soul like his?

"The qualities of your blood also differ from that of blood from Kibutsuji's demons," Ubuyashiki continues. "It follows that you would derive different abilities from different blood."

"With Rengoku-san being the exception."

"With Rengoku-san being the exception," Ubuyashiki agrees. "How went your conversation with his late mother?"

"That will remain between me and his late mother."

Ruka wished to give letters to her husband and children. The letters are in an envelope on your desk for Shinjuro to distribute per his wife's wishes. Ruka asked you to pass on the letters, not to distribute information or give your interpretation.

"Forgive my curiosity. I cannot help but wonder what she thought of you. Though you are close to their family, I understand the Rengoku wives' upbringing is quite different from yours..."

That rubs you the wrong way, Ubuyashiki describing the "Rengoku wives" as if they're a collective subsumed into their roles rather than individuals with their own thoughts, feelings, and experiences.

"Her name was Rengoku Ruka."

Ubuyashiki hums, "Yes. Rengoku Ruka-san, formerly Karahashi Ruka-san, a daughter of a Tosho House in the Sugawara Clan. A dutiful young woman of even, bordering on stoic temperament, though my father had not known of her health issues before her marriage. I imagine she would be—ah, surprised—by your friendship with her family..."

"Because I'm an American demon who smuggles alcohol for a living."

"Among other things."

"I do think I surprised her, among other things."

"A very diplomatic answer, Fujiwara-san."

"We are both very diplomatic people, Ubuyashiki-san."

Ubuyashiki laughs. The laughter devolves into a coughing fit.

"My children will draft a message to the Rengoku Estate describing the situation and your newfound abilities," he tells you after. "I would recommend that you pass on the message from Rengoku Ruka-san after our note has been read. It is not every day that one receives a letter from their late wife delivered through a woman like you."

"I appreciate the consideration."

You suspect Ruka had anticipated the same issue—her letter to Shinjuro starts with a paragraph that you don't understand. Though you can read the words and sentences, put together, they make no sense to you. Perhaps it's not quite a code, but a couple's private language.

"Don't work them too hard. They're kids," you add, thinking of the dutiful, tiny children's voices who answered the phone.

"We are not immortal like you, Fujiwara-san. My son has lived through one-third of his expected lifespan. As you might have noticed, I am near the end."

...........

As Ubuyashiki ends the call, you look up from the phone, into the pale grey eyes of the 3rd Panchen Lama, who died a decade ago.

"Tashi delek, Kiku-chan~" the old man chirps as you exhale a stream of cursing that's made pirates blush. The elderly monk only nods along. His spirit gives commentary on your cursing in five languages, either approving of the word choice or admonishing your Tibetan pronunciation. 

"It is very interesting language," the 3rd Panchen agrees, patting his ears, "but you are a bad influence for my tender young ears—"

"Fuck you," you mutter as his spirit shrinks from the tall old man into the shape of the child you met several days ago. The 4th Panchen blinks innocently up at you.

"But I have taken a vow of celibacy," he says, the child's voice ruined by his old-man intonation. You exhale. 

"How are you doing this?" you wave at the spirit. 

The boy smiles with big, guileless eyes.

"What is it that Westerners say? The good die young? Alas, yesterday, I died of," the Panchen pauses, thinking, "dysentery." He nods to himself. "I was about to depart for my reincarnation, but Tashilhunpo received your fax—"

You flatten your mouth into a thin line, unimpressed by his tall tales. The Panchen sighs when you aren't fooled. His body turns in a circle, translucent in the morning sunlight.

"I call it spirit throwing," the Panchen nods. "I am throwing my soul from Tashilhunpo to you. This young body has quite the short attention span, so I can't be long."

"Why did you throw your spirit here?"

"When my temple received your fax, I assumed you gained the ability to see spirits. You asked me to call because you can also see the souls of the dead who linger yet on earth, no? I recall gaining this ability as I approached enlightenment."

"I do see spirits, including yours," but more importantly, "What do you mean, I also see dead people? How long have you been seeing dead people?" 

"As the Panchen Lama, I am responsible for guiding souls to nirvana. This would be difficult, if I could not see the souls I am guiding."

"So you've always been able to see dead people?"

Shouldn't he have mentioned that at some point in your multi-century friendship? 'Hello, let me ruin your latest hairstyle. By the way, I see dead people, or some such.'

"I have had the ability for as long as we have known each other," the Panchen nods. "Why do you think I'm always mediating?"

"I thought you were meditating!"

"Meditation is easier to explain than assisting the souls of the dead."

That's fair. You make a mental reminder to not speak with spirits in public. You'd look like a madwoman.

"Ubuyashiki—his family runs Japan's demon slayer corps—he said that Japan's demons' abilities might be powered by human souls."

"He—" the Panchen shudders. "How despicable. To kill humans and entrap their immortal souls."

"Yeah," you wave at yourself and the Panchen's spirit. "I wanted to make sure—that's not what I'm doing, is it? That's not what this is?"

"Have you started eating humans again?"

"No," you make a face, thinking of Shinazugawa's bleeding arm.

"There you are, then. Your new abilities can't be powered by souls you haven't eaten," the Panchen nods to himself. "Even when you were eating humans, I doubt you held on to their souls."

His spirit reaches for your arm. He pinches—not your arm, but something in your arm. The Panchen's spirit pulls it out, examining the fabric of your soul.

"Nope, this is just your soul," he spreads your spirit on his hands. You feel the tugging, somehow. "No other souls here. You don't hold on to the souls of the people you've eaten, because you're not a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad, evil—"

"I get it."

"Mmmh," the Panchen nods, releasing your soul.

"So, where do my abilities come from, if not human souls?"

The spirit in the shape of a little boy holds up two fingers. 

"Two possibilities remain. One, your abilities are driven by your own soul—"

"I know someone like that, I think," you describe Kyojuro's abilities. The Panchen's eyes light up. He looks around the room, as if he can find Kyojuro. Then, his spirit splits into eight souls. 

Seven spirits walk through the walls of your room to search for Kyojuro in his estate. The last spirit remains to finish his explanation. 

"Personally, I find it unlikely that your abilities are driven by your own soul. Your soul is—not bad. Very average. Somewhat mediocre," the Panchen pinches another handful of soul, from your stomach this time. He nods to himself. "Which leaves the last possibility."

The Panchen counts down the last possibility on his fingers. He folds down his index finger, so the little boy's spirit is now flipping you off. Knowing him, there's a 50-50 chance—the Panchen is either getting back at you for the "fuck you" earlier, or completely oblivious to the meaning of the gesture.

"You are approaching enlightenment," the Panchen declares, clapping. "This advancement is essential to attaining nirvana, learning to see the world as it is, rather than subject to the limitations of our human flesh prisons."

You have no idea what's happening.

"I suspected this might happen once you returned to Japan. Nice work, Kiku-san! Continue your meditations—"

"I haven't meditated, uh, since my arrival?" Honestly, you meditate a lot less than you tell the Panchen...

"Well, everyone's path to enlightenment is different," the Panchen shrugs. "Keep doing whatever you were doing, I suppose. You might attain enlightenment."

"Don't I have to be dead for that?" When you've heard of people attaining nirvana, it was always something that happened after their death.

"You've died already, haven't you? During the beginning of your immortality. Your situation is rather strange. Maybe you need to die again," the Panchen nods to himself.

That's somewhat alarming. Death is an idea you haven't considered in a few centuries. But you've been around for a thousand years already. You've lived a good life.

The other seven versions of the Panchen's soul return to your room. Only one walks through the door to plop a bento on your table. The rest pass through the walls.

"The young man with the bright soul, he left for work. He bought food for everyone beforehand. There was a lot of food."

The Panchen's souls merge. He returns to his old-man form, which towers over you. Then, his left leg disappears below the knee.

"Ah," he examines his missing leg. "My young body's foot has fallen asleep." 

The leg flickers back into existence, the foot bare. The Panchen's spirit examines his foot, wiggling his big toe.

"Oho, did I die with toenail fungus?" 

His leg disappears again. The Panchen waves at you.

"It's my time. Goodbye, Kiku. Your new name is nice."

You sigh, waving back.

"It was nice to see Your Holiness's 3rd reincarnation again. Even if your last body was way too tall." You're not dignifying his "toenail fungus" comments with a response.

The Panchen laughs, "Wait until my young body grows up! In this life, my father was the eighth tallest man in Tibet! I am going to tower over—"

His spirit flickers, then vanishes.

..........

You eat breakfast outside, on the engawa of your room. According to the Panchen, your abilities aren't a blood demon art, but a consequence of approaching enlightenment.

You're not sure what that means. You don't feel particularly enlightened. When you go to the mirror, your reflection doesn't look any different. 

You've met living gods and holy men, but you're still the same young woman you've been all these years.

..........

Kamado is the only person outside when you leave your room. The boy tells you that Kyojuro left for work, while Shinjuro is dropping Senjuro off at school.

"You don't have school?"

"We work. We're demon slayers, Fujiwara-san."

You hum. The wind hashira has limited literacy. You wonder how many demon slayers are like Shinazugawa, and make a mental note to ask the about their education curriculum. They'll need to reintegrate into society after you're done with Kibutsuji.

Kamado glances towards the portion of the estate where his rooms are. You don't hear shouting, so you assume Agatsuma and Hashibara are still asleep. Kamado bows to you.

"Rengoku-aniki assigned us to escort you to the house sellers. I'll go wake the others—"

"No need," you point at the sun. "It's broad daylight." Corralling the others will take more time, and you're not explaining the a young man wearing a taxidermy boar head to the house sellers.

Kamado nods. He leads the way to the house sellers. Like Kyojuro, he greets the civilians who meet you on the way.

On a quiet stretch of road, the young man glances at you, then away when you smile towards him.

"Yes, Kamado-kun?"

"Can you cure my sister, Fujiwara-san?"

You shake your head, "I'm not a doctor. I'm sorry."

"That's not what I mean," Kamado says. "Rengoku-aniki said you turned the Upper Moon Three into—um, he's not a demon anymore."

You pause at the memory of turning Akaza into Hakuji.

"Did he tell you how I turned the Upper Moon Three?"

Kamado shakes his head. You sigh.

"Akaza bit me, threw up, and passed out. I think that's what happened—I fell unconscious, too, after he threw up, so there might be more to it..."

"Akaza bit you?"

"I wanted him to. I shoved my fist in his face. He was trying to kill me. It's hard to explain. What I'm trying to say is that un-demoning Akaza was very messy. I'm not sure how it would work a second time, and I wouldn't want to test it on your sister."

Kamado's expression shifts from concerned to disappointed, though the boy nods and tries to smile, ever the mature, responsible older sibling. He reminds you of Kyojuro.

"I understand that as a part of her experiments. Kocho-san is experimenting on demons who have given her the permission to further understand the effects of my blood on Japanese demons. I will ensure Kocho-san is looking into a cure, or other treatment for your sister."

Kamado's smile eases a little. 

"Thank you, Fujiwara-san."

"Not at all. Kocho-san is the one doing all the work."

"But you found the blue spiderlily, didn't you?"

"That was a long time ago. I had help. How could you tell?"

Kamado sniffs the air.

"You walk in the sun, and you smell like flowers. Incense, too."

You sniff your sleeve, but can't smell anything. Kamado must have a very sharp nose. Perhaps he can help with Yan's perfume productions.

..........

Tanjiro escorts you to the real estate office. The office walks you through the process of new construction, from signing the deed, to obtaining permits, to selecting builders. The office sends you off with paperworks and dates for the next steps.

The real estate agents also connect you with the owner of a wisteria farm just outside Tokyo. The family doesn't use telephones, so you send a letter inquiring as to whether the rent out the farm to host large events. The family might be more used to weddings and family gatherings than demon slayings, so you don't mention those details yet. Ubuyashiki still needs to persuade the remaining Gyokko pottery collectors to relinquish their pieces, after all.

While you're at the post, you also pick up mail from Manjeok and Yan, and dial the scheduled telephone call with Hakuji. You take a few minutes from him to figure out the telephone, then pass on the questions from the hashira. 

"What do you think of the demon slayers?" Hakuji asks after you transcribe his answers.

You sigh.

"I'd like to think they're well-meaning individuals, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions."

You describe children without childhoods, and teenagers sent to their deaths during final selection.

"Do they let just anyone in?" Hakuji asks of the Demon Slayer qualification trials.

"I believe so. Some candidates were trained by cultivators before, not that it seems to do much. I don't believe that's a requirement, though I'd have to confirm—"

"I could walk in, and kill all the demons."

You hum, "That's an idea, but I'd need to make sure the Demon Slayer Corps don't try to kill you after. The next final selection isn't until autumn—"

"I'll be back in Japan by autumn?"

"That is a possibility," you demur, making no promises. Hakuji sighs. You know he wants to build a grave for Koyuki and Keizo at the earliest opportunity possible, but you don't want to make promises you can't keep.

Besides, if you can figure out your 'hey-I-can-see-spirits' abilities quickly, you might be able to offer more than empty graves.

"How is Brasil?" you ask, changing the subject.

"This place has the biggest beetles I've ever seen," Hakuji says. In the background, you hear buzzing—is he holding a beetle up to the phone? "Down, Besuro. See, he's longer than my hand..." and Hakuji tells you about the local insects until the operator disconnects the call.

..........

You feel guilty after the reminder from the Panchen, so you meditate after you return to the Rengoku estate. Then, you feel guilty for not keeping up with your training the past days, so you go through the martial arts regime Hakuji and Kyojuro prescribed. 

You complete the first hour of exercises to find Rengoku Shinjuro staring at your forms with an expression equal parts concerned and horrified. He's holding mail with the tell-tale mark of crow talons along the sides. Ubuyashiki sent the message he promised, then. Good timing.

"Rengoku-san, I also have some letters for you. If you would give me a moment—"

"What are you doing?" he demands.

You glance down at your mussed shirt and trousers. Is it not obvious?

"I was training?"

"Are you trying to be a demon slayer?"

You laugh, then stop because your sides hurt.

"I dislike violence. And I'm terrified of blades," you stretch your left side, then your right. "We can't all be talented fighters descended from a long line of demon slayers like you and your son."

A shadow falls, then lifts from Shinjuro's expression. He sighs.

"You don't have to be the most talented to protect people," he replies. "You're more tense on your left side than your right. Try stretching like this."

Shinjuro's back pops as he bends. You grin, try to mimick his pose, and promptly discover that a middle-aged former-alcoholic is still more flexible than you. 

After, you give him Ruka's letters. 

..........

Manjeok's weapons research is coming along nicely. He expects to provide prototypes in time for your attempt at killing Gyokko. In your response, you copy Ubuyashiki and provide dates and receipt addresses for the anti-demon weaponary.

While reviewing Yan's business reports, you realize they have quite a few contacts in Yoshiwara, which is apparently one of Tokyo's fashion centers. As you figure out how to connect them with Uzui for his demon-hunting in the region, Shinjuro walks past your window, heading for the kitchen.

Yan would probably like Uzui. They've always liked tall people, for some reason. Uzui should like Yan, too. They're very flamboyant, among other things...

Then, your brain processes Shinjuro's exhausted expression as he passed your window. You just gave the man letters dictated by his late wife. A recently recovering—recovered?—alcoholic was heading for his kitchen after reading letters from his late wife.

You speed walk to the kitchen. Shinjuro looks up at your appearance. He's holding a kettle, not a bottle of sake.

"What?" he asks you.

"Um," you pause, scrambling. You point at his kettle. "May I have some tea?" 

"Find your own cup." 

Shinjuro turns his back to you, putting on the water-filled kettle, then lighting the stove under it. 

You have no idea where they keep cups. This isn't your kitchen. The Rengoku kitchen isn't even a western kitchen. 

You make a fair attempt, checking five bins and cabinets before Shinjuro sighs and brings out a second cup from a connected storage area.

"Ah. Thank you."

Shinjuro grunts. The kettle whistles. You settle for an extremely awkward cup of tea on the engawa. 

"My wife said you're an alcohol smuggler," Shinjuro says, after a silence.

You look at your tea. Yup, you wrote that on the letter for Shinjuro. You respected the wishes of a dead lady and screwed yourself.

"Yup," you inhale. If he's asking hard questions, so are you. "Do you drink, Rengoku-san?"

Shinjuro glares. You keep your smile light and casual.

"Not anymore," he grumbles. "Senjuro and the Kamado boy threw out my sake."

Oho. Good for them. Shinjuro sighs.

As he refills his teacup, you can't help but remember Ruka's letter. The beginning was a scolding combined with a to-do list: Ruka would ensure he doesn't drink again, dress Kyojuro in the Flame Hashira haori, and hire staff so Senjuro can do homework instead of housework. But she's dead, so Shinjuro better do the job.

The lady doesn't pull her verbal punches. Ruka also doesn't blame Shinjuro, despite everything. If they were reincarnated, she would like to be his wife again.

You try not to think about that part of the letter. It feels too much like intruding on something private.

It would have reminded you of Luigi, once.

Shinjuro points to a cherry tree in the center of his yard.

"We planted that together," he says. "She liked flowers. I'm glad she—her spirit—got to see it bloom."

He sighs, but he smiles, too. You recognize that smile. It's not entirely happy, but it's a start.

..........

The Rengoku Estate is filled with trees. Some might have always grown on the property. Others are clearly transplants, like the elegant thunderhead pine in what might have once been a rock garden between Kyojuro and Senjuro's rooms. 

As you finish your tea, you imagine all the people who might have planted these trees, from Ruka, who liked flowers, to the long-dead ancestor who turned the family's hair shrimp-colored with a love of tempura. Instead of trees, the courtyard fills with ghosts you cannot see. 

People carry the memories of the dead in their hearts, and this is what it's like, living.

..........

Taisho Rumor:
You know Shinjuro might've heard "thousand year old American lady" from Kyojuro and expected reader to be a cute little old grandma.

Chapter Text

Uzui takes a shine to Yan, who is admittedly much more flamboyant than you. They support the hashira's information gathering in Yoshiwara with their business contacts. You occasionally put on a suit and a short wig to play the part of Yan's Tokyo representative, but your attention is focused on hunting the Upper Moon Five. 

Your plan depends on the demon potter being arrogant and rather short-tempered, all traits which Hakuji ascribe to Gyokko, but you don't quite believe the plan will work. It seems too easy. A trip to the accursed final selection forest with Shinazugawa or Iguro "convinced" the holdout Gyokko collectors to "donate" their pieces. From there, it's a simple matter of collecting all of Gyokko's pots, shattering all except one, and waiting for a furious demon to come through. 

You're not sure your plan will work. But it's worth a try. After temporarily evacuating the farm's owners, you have the collectors drop off their Gyokko's pots on a single sunny afternoon. While Tokito watches clouds, Shinobu shatters the pottery with somewhat alarming viciousness. Kanzaki and three young girls help her fill the last pot with wisteria poison. They watch curiously as you set up Manjeok's automatic anti-demon weapons around the pot.

"Would you drop off the girls at the Butterfly Estate on your way home?" Shinobu asks.

You nod, checking the anchoring on the last rocket launcher.

"Does Ubuyashiki have medical support for you and Tokito-san?" 

"Kakushi are stationed nearby."

"Good, good."

You leave bento boxes for the hashira, Shinjuro having hired former bento-sellers to cook for the Rengoku estate. Then, you drop the girls off at the nearest wisteria mansion and drive home to wait for updates.

..........

Usually, you execute assassinations yourself. You know you'd be a capture target and outmatched by Japan's demons, but knowing doesn't make sitting and waiting any less nerve-wrecking. Though Fuku's cooking is delicious as always, you have no appetite.

You leave the table early to pace the courtyard. After dinner, Kyojuro joins you. His tsuguko follow, so a tail of four people follows your pacing. It would be comical if you weren't so anxious.

As Hashibara declares that he can pace faster than any of you and starts running, Eagle One lands. You hand over the grapes. The crow caws, pleased with his food.

"Well?" you ask.

"Upper Moon Five has been eliminated!"

..........

Kamado and Agatsuma stare in silent shock. Hashibara attempts to simultaneously interrogate and devour Eagle One. Kyojuro pats your back.

"Well done!"

"Not at all," you catch Eagle One, shielding the crow from Hashibara. "Shinobu-san and Tokito-san did all the work—"

"That is not true! You were instrumental in their success!"

Kyojuro describes your organization from the perspective of combat strategy, using the elimination of the Upper Rank Five as a lesson in enraging and surprising your opponent, as well as the significance of pre-combat intelligence. He makes you sound like a professional tactician. Then again, business takes tactics. 

Kamado nods along, asking questions. Agatsuma hides a yawn behind his hand, while Hashibara points at you and yells.

"She helped eliminate an upper moon?"

"She helped eliminate the Upper Moon Five!"

"Weren't you listening?" Kamado asks Hashibara, who turns to you.

"You don't look that strong. Fight me!"

You duck behind Kyojuro, "No, thank you—" 

"Yeah, boar head! Fujiwara-san is a gentle, sweet lady—"

You peer out from behind Kyojuro's shoulder to frown at Zenitsu.

"Agatsuma-kun, that isn't—"

"Ladies can fight! Like the butterfly lady, Shinobi—" 

"Her name is Shinobu-san!" Kamado tells Hashibara.

Meanwhile, Kyojuro forges on with the explanation of strategy for his tsuguko. You turn to Eagle One, who caws in protest as you squeeze his fluffy body. 

"Were there any injuries?"

Eagle One crooks his head at you. He stares at the plate of grapes. You push the grapes over. The crow eats before answering.

"Long hair! Green tips!"

"He's recovering? At the Butterfly Estate?"

Eagle One nods.

"Will you ask what he likes to eat?" you request. You're due at the Estate tomorrow so Shinobu can draw blood for her experiments. Perhaps you can bring Tokito some candies or snacks.

"I like meat!" Eagle One calls. You promise to have meat ready, then release the crow further into the estate, away from Hashibara's reach. 

..........

Saturday morning finds you and Kyojuro at the wisteria farm. Besides the mess of broken pottery from yesterday, there's a several-hundred square-meter space of uprooted trees, singed earth, and craters in the ground. You disable Manjeok's weaponry before the kakushi go to work, restoring the farm to be presentable if not original condition before the farmers arrive for inspection.

Kyojuro helps with the heavy lifting, despite your protests that today is his day off. 

"You are also helping! Exercise clears the mind! We will be done sooner this way!"

Kyojuro and the other demon slayers present fill the crates in the earth. You load crates for trash, weapons to return to the Rengoku Estate, or failures to ship back to Seoul. The kakushi move trees, salvaging wisteria from the destruction and planting pre-prepared saplings over the damage. In a few weeks, the evidence of a battlefield will have disappeared under new growth.

..........

You finish in time to visit a small open-market beside the Butterfly Estate. Tokito was unconscious when Eagle One arrived, so you and Kyojuro guess at a suitable get-well-soon gift for the young hashira. In a home-goods fabrics store, he finds a pillow cover with cloud-or-mist patterns. You find a suitably fluffy pillow to fit in the cover.

Kyojuro holds the pillowcase open while you stuff the pillow into the cover. The lady running the store packs the gift away. After, Kyojuro pats the covered pillow in its bag.

"Some demon slayers say Tokito-san's head is in the clouds! Now it will be on the clouds as well!"

..........

Tokito tears open the gift packaging. He contemplates the pillow, then gives it a squeeze. He grimaces, the movement tugging at wounds covered by the bandages over his chest. As he turns the pillow in his arms, changing the angle to squeeze the pillow again, Kyojuro approaches the child in the hospital bed.

"Tokito-san! You are more talented than I was at your age! Your accomplishments are considerable! Take care of yourself, recover well! Afterwards, keep up the remarkable work!"

"Owl," he mumbles to himself, turning back to the pillow. "Hoot. Hoot."

On the windowsill, a crow with disturbingly long lashes preened at Kyojuro's compliments of Tokito. After Tiokito opened the pillow, she flew to his lap. Tokito sets her atop the pillow, carefully petting the crow.

While Kyojuro continues talking at the Mist Hashira, you lean against the doorframe, thinking. You know the demon slayers have their kakushi and medical staff based in Shinobu's estate, but it doesn't seem like enough. 

Kyojuro doesn't seem alarmed or even surprised to find Tokito covered in bandages. The staff at the butterfly estate seem to expect that Tokito will be in convalescence for at least a month, if not more.

Earlier this summer, Kyojuro had a hole punched through his chest by the Upper Moon Three. Tokito is your second reminder that despite their strength, the hashira are still humans standing against unimaginable violence.

You don't want a third reminder. Your preparation against Gyokko was enough to eliminate the Upper Moon, but insufficient in terms of protecting the demon slayers involved. While Manjeok is refining the anti-demon weaponary, you wonder if you can find a few cards in your sleeves for protecting humans as well as assassinating demons.

"...met my friend Kiku-san!"

Ah, that's your cue. Kyojuro concludes his monologue, blinking expectantly at you. You push off the wall to find Tokito still focused on his crow. Did everything Kyojuro said go "woosh" over his head?

"Tokito-san? Tokito-san!" the Mist Hashira finally glances at you. His crow caws in annoyance. "What is your favorite food? And your crow's?"

"Simmered radish. With sweet miso, for the sauce—"

Ginko caws something about keeping up her figure. You think that means "no food, thank you." Maybe you can bring a few pretty trinkets.

"Who are you?" Tokito asks.

You smile politely and repeat the memorized Japanese self-introduction.

..........

After you visit Tokito, a girl escorts you to a separate room for the blood drawing. She introduces herself as Kanzaki Aoi. Shinobu is resting after a sleepless night fighting the Upper Moon, but she left instructions for your care. 

Kanzaki appears around the same age as Kyojuro's tsugukos. Shinobu might have intentially chosen a child to work with you, so you would feel less threatened. Kanzaki's strict expression reminds you of children who learned to act older than they are because they've seen more than they should, so you do your best to be a mature adult despite everything.

Things are different now, you remind yourself. You came here by your own choice. The doctors of the 20th century have hollow hypodermic needles instead of scalpels and acupuncture needles and herbs in clay jars.

The Butterfly Estate still smells of medicines and antiseptics once you close your eyes. 

Kyojuro takes your hand. You don't know if you reached for him—you stopped thinking when the needle stuck in your other arm.

He pats the back of your hand. You focus on the steady rhythm and the sound of his voice. He is—analyzing the techniques of his favorite sumo wrestler?

"Perhaps we can attend a match together this July! You would like the lively atmosphere!"

Kyojuro chatters cheerfully about the upcoming autumn season until Kanzaki bows, stepping away from you.

You stare at your bandaged arm, blinking. Perhaps you thank her, perhaps Kyojuro was the one who spoke.

When the young medic leaves, you turn your face into Kyojuro's shoulder and inhale. Under the medical scent of the Butterfly Estate, he still smells like pine and sandalwood.

The hand patting yours moves to your head. 

"I am here! You are safe!"

Kyojuro strokes your hair, then runs his fingers through the strands. You hold to his kimono, less used to its texture than the stiffer fabric of his uniform jacket. The nagagi is softer, more comfortable. You fall asleep to his fingers combing gently through your hair.

..........

"The other patients are ready for you."

You wake with a start. Kanzaki's silhouette stands outside the door. 

"How long was I asleep?"

"Ten minutes or so! Do you feel better!"

"I do," you open the door. Kanzaki leads you and Kyojuro to the other patients. You wake slowly, eventually realizing that his arm is still braced around you.

"I apologize for falling asleep on you, though," you pat his arm, standing under your own power.

"I do not mind!"

Kanzaki introduces the first subject of Shinobu's experiments. The Japanese demon is named Yushiro. Since he was created by another demon who had broken free from Kibutsuji's influence, Shinobu and Ubuyashiki are confident you can interact without fear of exposing yourself. Shinobu and her collaborators both hope that experimenting on Japanese demons with your blood might help elucidate the effect of your blood on Kibutsuji's bloodline.

"Do you know how long I've been waiting?" the green haired demon demands as you appear in his doorway. You blink at the hostility, then recover your wits, grabbing Kyojuro's arm before he can step forward.

"It's been long enough that I would not want to waste more of your time. Let's proceed with my questions. How old are you, Yushiro-san?"

He scoffs, "I stopped counting after two hundred."

"Biologically?"

"None of your business. What's with all these questions, Kanzaki?"

"I do not like your tone, demon! You are being very rude to this young lady! And my friend!"

"Rengoku-sama—"

"Kyojuro—"

"Are you biologically 21 or older, Yushiro-san?"

"Yes," Yushiro scowls, his voice impatient. "Are we done now?"

"Fujiwara-san has one more question!"

You take Kyojuro's arm again, holding on this time. He steps back reluctantly when you pull.

"Yushiro-san, do you consent to experimentation by Kocho Shinobu-san and her estate?"

"Yes, but Tamayo-sama is the far superior physician—"

Kyojuro starts to speak. You squeeze his arm. At this rate, the frown lines are going to stick in Kanzaki's face, and the Butterfly Estate experiments are never starting. You nod at Kanzaki, pulling Kyojuro out of the room so the young medic can continue.

Yushiro's aggressive, but aggression is a reassuring personality trait here. He has some experience with medicine, too. If he's not happy with Shinobu's experiments, he won't have a problem saying no.

.........

You take an involuntary step back when you see the next subject. The young man is the spitting image of Shinazugawa Sanemi, except he has partially-shaved dark hair instead of white hair. On a closer look, this "Shinazugawa-kun" has also replaced the wind hashira's aggression with a lanky teenager's awkwardness.

"How old are you, Shinazugawa-kun?" you ask the kid. He can't be much older than Kyojuro's tsuguko.

"I'm sixteen," his gaze shifts to Kyojuro, then back to you. "Ma'am."

"Fujiwara-san is fine, Shinazugawa-kun. Is your parent or guardian available?"

"They're dead. Fujiwara-san."

"I'm sorry about that, Shinazugawa-kun." Kyojuro bows.

"Please accept our condolences!" 

"How about older siblings?" you ask.

Shinazugawa Genya stares at his knees.

"You have the same determined gaze as the wind hashira, whose last name is Shinazugawa! Are you—"

Genya stands. Kyojuro follows, getting between the teenager and the exit to the room. Genya steps left. Kyojuro moves left, too. Genya steps right. Kyojuro blocks him again, moving twice as fast.

"Are you Shinazugawa Sanemi's younger brother!" Kyojuro shouts as he and Genya perform their strange dance.

Genya scowls, reaching towards his waist. You blink. Then, Genya's disarmed, the gun across the room and set beside you.

"Demon Slayers are prohibited from harming each other! Himejima-san should have instructed you!"

Genya looks just like Sanemi when he scowls, but on him, the expression's less angry, more uncertain.

"Running away does not resolve conflict! Neither does violence!"

Kyojuro holds to Genya's arms until the teenager relaxes.

"Sorry," Genya kneels, bowing to Kyojuro. "It's my fault, not Himejima-sama's problem."

"Admitting fault is the first step to making corrections! You are young! Continue working to improve yourself!"

"I—yeah, I'll try."

Genya returns to his seat, avoiding your gaze.

"I'm sorry," he repeats in your direction. You smile gently.

"If you don't want to participate in the Butterfly Estate experiments, you're free to go—"

"That ain't what I want! I want to help with the research—"

Kyojuro tenses at the outburst. Genya makes himself relax.

"I'm fine, ma—Fujiwara. Fujiwara-san. Can we continue? Please?"

You recall what Kyojuro said about Himejima-san's instructing Genya.

"Did the Stone Hashira—did Himejima-san ask you to come here?"

"Yeah."

"Did he ask you to participate in the experiments?"

"No, ma'a—Fujiwara-san. He just—he said Kocho-sama wanted to see me."

"I see. Shinobu-san told you about what the experiments entail?" Genya shuffles on his feet, but nods. "You understand that you don't have to subject yourself to these experiments? Your position as a demon slayer is not influenced by your participation or refusal to participate, and you can stop your participation at any time."

"Yeah, Kocho-sama told me."

"Good. Shinazugawa-kun, do you consent to treatment?"

"Yeah. Can—can we start now? Please"

You point outside Genya's room.

"I'll leave that to yours and the Estate's decision. Rengoku-san and I will be outside," you bow, Kyojuro rising with you. "Please call if you need anything, Shinazugawa-kun."

..........

On the engawa outside Shinazugawa Genya's room, a young girl provides you with pen and paper to leave a note for the sleeping Insect Pillar. You ask about treatment for Nezuko as you promised Kamado, and inquire about whether doctors from abroad might prove useful to the demon slayers' cause.

Kyojuro waits politely until you pass the note to Terauchi. Once you're alone, he shuffles closer, speaking to you in a stage whisper.

"I believe Shinazugawa-kun is estranged from Shinazugawa-san!"

"Mmm-hmm. Do you know why that might be?"

"I have no idea! Himejima-san might know! He is a very perceptive man."

Kyojuro pauses, thinking. His smile takes on a shape that you've come to recognize as concern mixed with disapproval. 

"I do not think it is right! Brothers should support each other. There is no conflict that cannot be resolved! But it is not my place to interfere with Shinazugawa-san's family matters!"

You smile. Kyojuro is a nice young man. You? Not so much.

"I know that expression! You are planning something!"

You hum, "Kyojuro-san, as the Flame Hashira, it's only right that you take your juniors to lunch, hmm?"

"Certainly! Though Yellow Boy and young Kamaboko rarely eat as much as they should!"

"Perhaps Shinazugawa-kun might do better?"

"He has more muscle mass to support!"

..........

Shinazugawa Genya leaves the room, rolling down his sleeves. You steer Kyojuro by the elbow, making a show of walking towards the estate exit and running into his path.

"Ah, Shinazugawa-kun. Rengoku-san and I were just going to lunch, but I'm new to the area. Would you know of any good restaurants nearby?"

Genya stares warily at you. He ducks, scratching the back of his head.

"I don't really go to restaurants. Sorry."

"Young people should try new things! There is no better time than the present!"

As he's speaking, Kyojuro flash-steps to the other side of Genya. With him sandwiched between you both, you find one of the Butterfly Estate staff for directions, then corral Genya into a nearby restaurant.

..........

Genya shirks as soon as you enter the yakitori-ya, an unlikely wallflower. You recall the overwhelming confusion you experienced at the tempura place by the Rengoku Estate. Kyojuro steers you both to a quiet corner of the bar, then explains the ordering process to Genya.

You point to Kyojuro before Genya can worry about money. "He's paying. Order whatever you want."

"Certainly! You are a growing young man!"

Genya lays flat the hand reaching for his pocket. He glances at the food displays, then back at you and Kyojuro.

"Anything's fine," he says, slouching as if that will make himself smaller.

One of the staff yell at you for orders.

"Three of everything! Thank you!" Kyojuro shouts back. You tell him the dishes where Genya's gaze lingered. "We will also have an additional five skewers of the tsukune, negima, sunagimo, and satsumaimo! And five slices of watermelon!"

"Don't worry, the hashira have unlimited salaries," you tell Genya at his expression.

"That's not—I don't want to waste food."

"Oh," you glance toward the display again, checking the size of the chicken skewers. "No need to worry. Kyojuro-san might want seconds, though."

..........

As you eat, Genya's stare switches between Kyojuro inhaling the yakitori while shouting and your eating. He looks as if he's not sure what should terrify him more—the Flame Hashira's appetite and table manners, or a demon eating normal food. 

Instead of making him more nervous, you engage him in idle chatter: about the food, training with the Stone Hashira, and demon slayer work. When you've finished eating, Genya finally perks up enough to ask a question of his own as Kyojuro waits on more food.

"Fujiwara-san," Genya whispers. "Are you really a demon?"

"I'm told that I'm an American demon."

You wait. When no other questions seem to be forthcoming, you nod at the weapon concealed under Genya's tunic. 

"Is your gun custom-made?"

"Yeah. It's nichirin steel."

You blink.

"Are they—is Ubuyashiki-san expecting you to beat demons to death with a gun?"

"I don't know," Genya's worried expression reminds you of Senjuro. "I haven't tried that. Do you think I should?" 

"I don't know. I only requested nichirin bullets."

Kyojuro returns with three more trays of food, offering one to Genya.

"Fujiwara-san fights with guns! Like you!"

Genya waves both his hands no. You refuse the second tray of food. 

"Nichirin bullets?" Genya asks you as Kyojuro starts eating. "You're a demon slayer?"

"No, I'm American."

"Huh," Genya pauses.

"Yes?"

"Do you have a—" he raises his arms, making them jerk as if from the recoil of a machine gun.

"We call them Tommy guns. I have several. Would you like to try them out?"

You glance at Kyojuro, who nods in the midst of chewing.

"You are welcome to visit the Rengoku Estate, young Shinazugawa! Umai! My tsuguko are around your age! Have you met young Kamaboko, Boar-Head, and—Umai!—the Yellow Boy!" 

At Genya's confused expression, you recite the tsuguko's actual names. Genya evades your gaze after. Before he can change his mind, you ask his availability and set a date for his next visit to the Rengoku Estate.

You feel a little bad, like you're kidnapping or stealing Shinazugawa Sanemi's younger brother. But Genya is such a nice kid beneath the rough exterior. You admire the courage to fight despite having no talent for breathing styles like you, and he's clever too. Once you get him to talk a little, Genya offers thoughtful analysis of Himejima's strengths and weaknesses as a teacher. 

"You are intelligent!" Kyojuro shouts, already through one tray of food. "Learn to communicate with your words! Not your fists!"

You hum. If Shinazugawa doesn't take care of his family, plenty of people can fill in.

..........

In the days after the killing of Gyokko, souls assemble at the Rengoku Estate. There are so many. You spend days shaking hands, the sending-off of all the souls taking a toll.

There is also a hashira meeting. You are not a hashira and you dislike meetings, so you ignore Ubuyashiki's invitation to shake more spiritual hands.

"Might you send a representative!" Kyojuro declares as he prepares to leave for the manor.

You ask the next spirit in line to wait. Eagle Two is home in the Rengoku aviary, so you hand her to Kyojuro.

"Could you keep her with you? She gets lost in Tokyo."

Eagle Two isn't very good with directions. As a messenger crow, she's essentially useless in Japan.

Kyojuro accepts the crow, carrying her like a thin black chicken in his arms. He pets Eagle Two, who snuggles into his chest. 

You sigh. Both the American crows seem to prefer him. Well. You finish your tea, returning to the waiting spirit.

..........

At the hashira meeting, Tokito was absent due to his injuries, so Kocho reported on the elimination of the Upper Rank Five. The hashira also examined Manjeok's weapons prototypes, with several ordering weaponry for their teams. 

Kyojuro describes the meeting. Once he returned, you retired from sending off souls for the day. He set Eagle Two on the ground so she could waddle to you, looking very self-satisfied with the envelope in her beak despite having been carried to the Ubuyashiki Estate and back by Kyojuro.

You thank him as you open the courtesy copy of the hashira meeting notes. The handwriting looks like an adult rather than the usual child's script. Did Ubuyashiki actually hire staff? You should hire staff.

"Uzui-san wondered if you were more flamboyant than you looked! Your friends are very flamboyant!" Kyojuro recalls the meeting as you read the notes. "Several hashira were also indignant at your involvement in the elimination of the Upper Rank Five! Obanai-san asked why you did not prevent injuries to Tokito-san! I said the question was unfair! You are not a medic!"

"But I was one of the strategists. I might have prepared better support and logistics. I'm working on that," you nod. "It accept the criticism."

Kyojuro nods, "Shinazugawa-san asked—I apologize for my language!—How the hell did she help kill a demon! Was what I believed he wanted to say! He did not complete his sentence. Eagle Two assaulted Shinazugawa-san! Her talons are very sharp!"

You continue reviewing the estate staff's notes. Apparently, Eagle Two assaulted Shinazugawa, Shinazugawa grabbed her, then she shat all over his hands.

You do not condone violence or assault with bodily fluids. You do give Eagle Two extra peanuts.

"Kanroji-san says you are clever—" Kyojuro mimics Kanroji's voice with somewhat alarming accuracy. "Himejima-san wept! Tomioka-san was present!"

After their meeting, the hashira proceeded to the Butterfly Estate, where Tokito was awake to partake of lunch, including the simmered radish with the sweet miso sauce.

..........

In the weeks that follow the death of the Upper Moon Five, you come to visit the Butterfly Estate regularly. Kyojuro continues accompanying you to blood drawings, though sometimes you go by yourself to meet Shinobu or Genya.

The Insect Hashira accepts support from you and your European friends on medical coordination for the demon slayers. Genya doesn't ask, but you make yourself available when he's injured or helping with Shinobu's experiments. He also doesn't say no when you offer lunch after, so you go through the restaurants beside the Butterfly Estate together, sitting in the backs of quite booths so you don't worry civilians with your discussions on guns.

Through regular visits to the Butterfly Estate, you come to meet a good number of demon slayer affiliates. In addition to the hashira, Kyojuro's tsuguko, and Takahashi, you come to know Kanzaki, whose experience with Final Selection makes you more determined to end the practice. You also meet Tsuyuri with her coin, and the trio known as the caterpillar girls, one of whom you see Uzui carrying away under his arm during your latest trip to the Butterfly Estate.

..........

The Sound Hashira is at the entrance to the Butterfly Estate. He looks uninjured. Also, five girls hang off of him. Takado is crying under his arm while Kanzaki dangles helplessly under his shoulder.

You put your hands on your hips, frowning.

"What's the meaning of this, Uzui-san?"

Cold eyes focus on you. Uzui drops the girl under his arm, putting the arm around your shoulders. His sudden smile's all too charming, almost—seductive? You frown harder.

More than the coldness in his eyes, this expression makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

"Say, Fujiwara-san," Uzui regards you with disturbingly hooded eyes, "Do you have any experience with undercover work?"

Chapter Text

"You're not selling me to a brothel. It wouldn't be believable. You're not old enough to be my father. We don't look similar enough to be siblings—"

"I could be a sleazy husband?" Uzui offers.

"You sure can. But I can do better."

You sidestep to Uzui's left, lifting Kanzaki off his shoulders and shielding her under your arm. Uzui lets you--he's relaxed because you've been walking beside him and playing along. Meanwhile, you've sent Takada back to get help from the Butterfly or Rengoku Estate.

"Fujiwara-aneki!"

Kamado runs up to you, Hashibara and Agatsuma leaping out from the trees to surround Uzui.

"I smelled trouble," Kamado tells you. 

As you push Kanzaki towards him, you're reminded of the boy's extraordinary nose.

"Uzui-san, I have an idea."

..........

Your wisteria perfume has two lines, the anti-demon version and the exorbiently-priced, identically-scented, but demon-friendly version. Turns out, the scents aren't so identical to Kamado's sharp nose.

Uzui's wives narrowed down the Upper Rank Six's potential locations to two brothels before they disappeared. Kamado's nose helps you cut the results down to one brothel. In the wisteria house near Yoshiwara, you and Uzui plan the infiltration with Kyojuro's tsuguko.

Compared to killing Gyokko, eliminating the Upper Rank Six is complicated. The mission has three objectives: finding Uzui's wives, evacuating civilians, and then killing the demon. The damage control worries you most—this time, you're in a crowded Tokyo district, not a remote wisteria farm.

You call Yan about organizing an evacuation while drowning the area in wisteria. Shinobu's Estate receives your request for organized medical support. By then, Uzui has dolled Kamado up into "Sumiko," so you take your new "younger sister" and go sell yourself to Kyogoku House.

..........

As you attire yourselves for the mission, you pull Kamado aside from the other tsuguko. It's been years since you last gave 'the Talk' to a kid, but the practice sticks. Kamado also makes the conversations easier—though he flushes at your dry overview of sex and sexuality, he seems more embarassed than clueless.

"If anyone makes you uncomfortable, leave. You're a demon slayer, civilians won't be able to keep up—"

"What about you, Fujiwara-aneki?"

"What about me?"

"You're a civilian. What do you do if someone tries to—if he makes you uncomfortable?" Kamado asks, kind and thoughtful as ever.

"I can leave, too. I am an American demon—most humans can't catch up."

Kamado nods with determination. You smile, covering the words you don't say. Sometimes, you walk away. Other times, you take more drastic measures.

..........

After you select your outfits, Uzui declares that he will "flamboyantly" apply Kamado's makeup.

"What about Rengoku-aniki?" Kamado asks between sessions under Uzui's brushes.

You pause in the motion of darkening your brows. 

The question also occured to you. Kyojuro would likely disapprove, considering how he responded when you asked about Tomioka's availability for undercover work. Granted, you are going undercover for demon-slaying rather than house-buying purposes. You still picture Kyojuro's eyes frowning over the usual smile, his disapproving expression not so different from his mother's face of neutral displeasure.

"What about him?" you reply. Disapproval or displeasure, you're not sending Kyojuro's tsuguko into a brothel undercover and alone.

"He asked us to protect you while he's away for a mission this week!"

"Yoshiwara isn't a good place for ladies like you," Agatsuma adds from the sidelines.

You ruffle his blond hair, so similar to Kyojuro's.

"I've lived in several brothels, you know."

"She's more flashy than she looks!"

"We're not doing anything flashy," you remind Uzui. As a girl, 'Sumiko' can sneak around Kyogoku House and search for the demon with her nose. You can read, write, and keep books. As an accountant, you'll have access to information that oiran, maiko, and servants can't access. Sometimes, the pen is mightier than the sword.

..........

As you learned from the house-seller, unmarried women don't have property rights in Japan. You start with this piece of common knowledge and spin a tale for the Kyogoku House's okami-san. Everything you say is true--you only make a few key ommissions. 

You have years of experience running your family's izakayas (speakeasies). But your husband passed (centuries ago.) Relationships between daughters and parents-in-law—the okami-san knows how tense those can be. Though you can read, write, do arithmetic, and keep books, after your husband's passing, you can no longer make a living running your family's izakayas. (Because you're on the other side of the ocean.)

As 'Sumiko,' Kamado keeps up his anxious smile even as he wonders why he can't smell you lying.

"I hoped that Kyogoku House might find my skills more important than my gender," you continue, holding his shoulders. "I have two mouth to feed, after all."

"Your kid?" the okami-san drawls, nodding at Kamado.

"No, no, think of Sumiko as my little sister."

"You can write, you said?"

"I can write. I can also read, perform arithmetic, and keep books, okami-san."

The okami-san throws you a few scenarios and mathematics problems. You respond quickly and correctly, your skills bolstered by recent practice from helping with Senjuro's math homework. Afterwards, the okami-san waves you into Kyogoku House.

..........

Kyogoku House keeps good accounts. You do better, but even if you didn't, the staff of Kyogoku House would've let you stay for your darling little sister. 'Sumiko' is not only helpful and strong—Kamado has a natural charm that reminds you of Kyojuro. His earnestness is refreshing in a place like Yoshiwara.

..........

In the week after your hiring at Kyogoku House, everything falls into place. The girls of the house start talking about the polite, handsome young men setting up beautiful tents on the edge of Yoshiwara, which is how you know Yan's arragements for the night market are coming together. The tents you designed store wares for the women of Yoshiwara: Chinese silk, Korean cosmetics, French perfume, and Italian fashion, but also medical supplies and equipment hidden behind the flashy goods. Tokito had been injured without extensive on-site medical aid available during the demon slayers' first battle. You don't make the same mistake twice.

While the night market setup draws attention from the women of Yoshiwara and their wallets, you comb through Kyogoku House's accounts. The demon is Warabihime—though she's pretty, the Oiran behaves like a child, tearing  through more luxury goods and servants than her earnings can justify. You're not sure how she remains in her position without the social endurance of a high-ranked courtesean, but you would bet on a combination of charm, marketing, and her ability to strike fear into others with unpredictable violence.

You believe Hinatsuru also discovered the truth. The house's spending on medicine and doctors suggest that Uzui’s wife feigned illness to extract herself from Yoshiwara. From Sumiko's conversations with the Kyogoku House servants, you learn that the “courtesan” has been sent to Kirimise.

The problem is passing the information to Uzui and the other demon slayers. Not long after Hinatsuru, Suma and Makio also disappeared, their crow-messages intercepted. You're not sending more crow-post. 

Fortunately, your job is incredibly boring. Oiran, maiko, and even Sumiko attract attention, thanks to Uzui's flashy make-up skills. In a place like Yoshiwara, no one notices an accountant.

"I haven't seen this one before," he nods at you, his arm lowering to squeeze the side of your waist. You smile and look afraid at Omitsu, who speaks to another servant girl.

The servant girl nods, exiting.

"She's new," Omitsu tells then man holding your arm. "You must excuse the girl's lack of elegance, Shimada-dono. She's only a merchant's widow serving as my accountant."

Shimada glances down from your face, his gaze lingering on your chest and waist. You step closer to Omitsu, who does not move to shield you. She doesn’t back away from you either. 

"How much?" Shimada asks. Omitsu glances at you.

"Not for sale," you shake your head. Your voice is soft, but softness can be confused for fear rather than dead, calm anger. Omitsu's gaze shifts to you, her eyes sharp. You bow low to the ground.

"This unlearned woman could not persume to serve guests."

"You are new here," Shimada smiles. When he says it, there's something disgusting about the light in his eyes. "In Yoshiwara, everyone has a price."

The servant girl who Omitsu spoke to returns, Sumiko in tow.

Omitsu talks with Shimada.

"Shimada-dono, this lowly woman wouldn't want a newcomer to tarnish the reputation of the Kyogoku House—"

"I happen to enjoy them new," Shimada says. "You ought to know this, Omitsu-San. She looks young enough, even if she is a widow..."

As he understand the conversation, Kamado's expression becomes horrified, then furious. But righteous anger isn't what you need right now. You stuff him the notes from your sleeve and push him out of Kyogoku House.

..........

In the end, Omitsu accepts thirty pieces of silver from Shimada. The okāmi-san takes your arm after, her grip softer than Shimado's but no less firm.

"This is Yoshiwara," she tells you after as she brings you clothes for entertaining Shimada. "You know how it is." 

The okāmi-san counts out twenty pieces of silver, your cut of the profits. She tells you that as the accountant, you know that she's giving you a better cut than what the house gives to most geisha, not to mention a newcomer like you.

You rub your face as if you're rubbing away tears, and ask for an hour to bathe and ready yourself. The okāmi-san offers you all the time you need. She also sends two sharp eyed servant girls to attend you, except the person they should be watching for is already gone.

..........

You soak in the wood tub of heated water. The attendent-minders wait outside your door, one set of eyes focused on your silhouette while the other looks out. Though your muscles relax, your thoughts run hard.

You have two options. One: the girls keeping watch on you are guarding the door. You can jump out the window and leave.

Two: you can meet Shimada. Yoshiwara has a demon problem. You can murder Shimada, then take a few bites so his death looks like an extension of Yoshiwara's demon problem.

Neither of those options are a real possibility. Both risk discovery then capture by the Upper Rank Six. If Kibutsuji doesn't know that you're here and what you're capable of, you're not about to help him by outing yourself and your abilities. You can't die, but many immortals aren't fighters. You won't endanger them by make your abilities known and sought by Japan's King of Demons.

Victory comes from knowing yourself and your enemy. You want to murder Shimada, but you want to kill Kibutsuji more.

The last choice, the choice that is not a choice, the option that you hate the most is to wait. By delaying, you bide your time until Kamado can find Tengen and arrange your extraction. The okāmi-san said you can take what time you need, so you soak in the tub and wait for the water to grow cold.

..........

A man shouts outside your room. The girls attending you call after him, but your screen door slides open. Before you can step out of the bath and dress yourself, Shimada stumbles in, his face crimson. He smells of alcohol, an angry drunk as he drags one of your attendants in by her hair.

You want to kill him. Though you're not a swordsman or a martial artist, you are an American demon. You have enough brute strength to rip a man's head off his shoulders. 

Shimada steps closer. You can't draw attention to yourself. Kibutsuji can't know that there's an entire class of beings who have what he's always wanted, to live without fear of death and walk in the sun. 

Shimada drops the hair of the crying girl as he approaches you. He's standing between you and the towels. You bite your lip, drawing blood. If you make a run for the towels—

The screen door crashes to the ground, kicked off its rails. In the dust and the bath's steam, you spot Kamado's kimono. It's too small on the person wearing it now. Though you can't make out the face beneath Uzui's signature flamboyant makeup application, you'd recognize that red-tipped blond hair anywhere, even beneath an explosion of colorful hairties and plastic baubles. 

"Good evening!" Kyojuro screams, the force of his voice shaking the room. "My name is Sumiko! I have come to collect my beloved older sister!"

Chapter Text

Before you can blink, your attendants and Shimada are blinded and immbolized, engulfed under a pile of fabric. If you took the time to look, you might think that Kyojuro took everything in the laundry room and dropped it on their heads. However, Kyojuro hands you the fluffiest towel from the bunch. He turns away, covering his eyes as you step out of the bath.

You wet your lips, tasting iron. Though you could grab a robe, Japanese clothing is still relatively new to you. You don't have time to figure out the complicated kimonos of Kyogoku House. Even if you eventually manage to look normal, Kyojuro's still dressed as Sumiko.

Instead of trying to get dressed, you touch his arm.

"We should go, Kyojuro-san."

He turns.

"Very—WELL!"

Kyojuro shouts the last word. He nods once even as he turns red from base of his neck to the tip of his ears.

Your reasoning makes sense. Time is of the essence, so you should leave as soon as possible instead of wasting time getting changed.

"Excuse me!" Kyojuro carries you gingerly in one arm. The free arm wields his sword. You bury your face into his chest, listening to the sound of slashes, blood spattering as Wabarihime's sash falls to pieces around you.

..........

"Are you all right!" Kyojuro shouts after, running through the night with you in his arms.

When you stop moving, you've returned to the Wisteria House beside Yoshiwara. The scent of too much powder and rouge lingers in the air, though Uzui and Kyojuro's tsuguko have already gone to join the fight. Kamado's message delivery was successful, then. 

"I'm fine. Humans can't hurt me," you remind Kyojuro. Meanwhile, the sounds of battle begin in the distance. "Uzui-san needs your help."

Kyojuro glances at your lips.

"You are bleeding!"

You touch your mouth. The cuts in your lower lip have healed.

"I'll be fine."

"I will leave Fujiwara-san in your care!" Kyojuro shouts at the man who manages the Wisteria House. Sato bows, reassuring the Flame Hashira whose attention is elsewhere.

Kyojuro releases you. He seems to think twice after, darting forward to squeeze you tightly.

"Oof," you exhale.

"I apologize!" he releases you only to take both your arms, his grasp sliding gently from your elbows to hold your wrists, then your hands. "I will go to Uzui-san and my tsuguko! You will be safe here!"

"Actually, I'm—"

Your hair billows in the wind as Kyojuro takes off again. You watch his silhouette disappear over Tokyo's rooftops, sighing. Kamado's kimono really is too small on him.

..........

As the battle of Yoshiwara begins, the Wisteria House remains quiet. Sato-san brings you a light meal and clothing. You sort through the stack of nice kimono and kimono-accessories, but women's clothes aren't what you need.

"Excuse me," you look up, nibbling through the onigiri, "Sato-san, did Uzui-san leave a package here on my behalf? Of Western clothing?"

"One moment, On—Fujiwara-san."

While Sato searches for clothes, you examine your reflection in the mirror. Two spots of blood stain your mouth, one on either side of your lower lip. Your canines seem to have grown sharper since you last looked in the mirror.

Sato brings you the package of silk suiting, patent leather shoes, and accessories.

"Forgive me, Fujiwara-san. I was under the impression that these were men's clothes."

You cover your mouth, careful not to cut yourself on sharpened canines again.

"No, no, you're entirely correct, Sato-san."

..........

A woman in a towel and a cross-dressing hashira disappear into the Wisteria House. A cross-dressing hashira emerges, followed a few minutes later by a well-dressed young man. You emerge into the main street approaching Yoshiwara, pushing hair from the short wig out of your eyes. 

Modern sexism helped you develop many skills, including the ability to pass as a man. Kyojuro could wear anything and still look male because disguises are about your carriage as much as your appearance. You straighten your back and square your shoulders, putting on Capone's crooked grin and Valentino's smoulder. Then, you step back into the evening lights.

Pedestrians stare. Western suits are still rare and expensive in Japan. You dress like money and walk like you expect people to move, so the crowds part for you. Men envy your poise as much as your wardrobe. Women flush when you glance their way.

As Yan says, beautiful women don't want other beautiful women to sell them clothes. If you're going to be a fashion merchant in Yoshiwara, you shouldn't be a beautiful woman, or a woman at all. 

You happen to support an organization of several hundred fit young people, most of whom happen to be men. Uzui selected the demon slayers whom he considered "slightly flamboyant." Yan recruited the rest of the staff for your night market. Now, you meet a dozen handsome young men at the entrance to Yoshiwara. Your staff bow. You lead. The street clears.

Yoshiwara has seen processions of geisha, but never anything like this. You twirl the crystal-topped cane on your wrist, catching the electric lighting to throw rainbows across the street. The men behind you walk in step, leather heels clacking against the pavement. You blow a kiss at a staring maiko, who drops in a dead faint.

The tent encampment around the corner makes you falter. You inhale, your heart leaping into your throat.

Yan has really outdone themselves. The dyed horsehair tents with their stained-glass lamps and frankincense transport you back to the open-air markets of Karakorum, the jewel of the desert glittering in the sunshine with colorful caravans from Arabia, Africa, India, and China.

The staff of the night market bow to welcome you. Between them, in the center of the tents, a bell awaits. You raise your cane, banging its metal end against the bell. 

The bell rings, the sound echoing through Yoshiwara. Searchlights turn on, their beams piercing through the sky. 

Technology brings the Karakorum of your memory into the 20th century. You remember your opera lessons, drop your pitch an octave, and switch to masculine intonations. Loudspeakers carry your voice through the night.

"Good evening, ladies, gentlemen. My name is Fujiwara, and I apologize for my tardiness. Our Night Market is now in business."

..........

While the demon-slayers-disguised-as-handsome-salesmen patrol the edge of the tent city, you retreat to the storage tents awash in wisteria perfume. Cots have between crates of fabric and jewelry, a makeshift clinic concealed by your night market. Underneath leaded glass lanterns, you meet Uzui's wives.

Makio and Suma kneel when you enter. Hinatsuru struggles to stand. You give her your arm as the antidote to her poison takes effect, asking after the three women's health until Suma's staring makes you uncomfortable.

"Yes?" you prompt, scanning the women to see who answers.

Hinatsuru dips her head in a bow.

"Forgive our surprise, Onjin-sama."

Tengen-sama said you're not—" Makio stops. "That you like to live quietly."

"Please call me Fujiwara-san. No, really," you insist at the women's expressions. "I'm not a demon slayer or hashira, only a foreign merchant. I'm sure Uzui-san has also told you that I'm not flamboyant at all—this is only a temporary disguise."

Suma squeaks when you wink at her blatant staring. You change the topic of the conversation to the weapons Shinobu and Manjeok developed: wisteria perfume bombs, poison for bladed weapons, and medication that might counter the Upper Rank Six's poisons.

"The staff of the night market informed me that you would like to aid your husband in battle. If you would pardon my rudeness, but I feel obligated to add—should you feel otherwise, or change your mind about participating in battle—though I am allied with the demon slayers, I believe above all in individual freedom and choice. This may be a conversation for later, but I am in a position to help negotiate the terms of your engagement with the demon slayer corps or the sound hashira, should you feel they are not in your favor."

"What?" Makio mutters. Suma blinks at you. Hinatsuru considers you with new thoughtfulness, understanding what you do not say: While you're not sure why Uzui has three wives who call him "Tengen-sama," you'll hire three divorce attorneys if they want representation.

..........

"Onjin-sama is so dashing!" Suma whispers as the kunochi leap across Yoshiwara's rooftops, back towards the battle. "Do you think Tengen-sama is jealous?"

Hinatsuru giggles as Makio thawps Suma.

..........

As the battle of Yoshiwara continues, injured civilians begin coming into the Night Market, guided in by demon slayers stationed around the battle. From the Night Market's back entrance, kakushi slip in with their supplies. The heavy perfume and noises of the market disguise the medical scents and sounds.

Meanwhile, you keep up the front of a business operation, meeting clients and negotiating deals with local businesses. Yan has done most of the work for you, laying out your wants, needs, and bottom lines for each merchant. The work is easier when you're the representative rather than the decision-maker.

Then, Shimada saunters into your tent. He's a jewel merchant, the biggest in Tokyo. No wonder Omitsu was so accommodating with him—Yan also wants to work with the Shimada craftsmen.

Shimada grins at you. He's handsome, really. His face has a rugged charm. Often, the scum of the earth fail look their part, but you also specialize in being other than you seem.

You smile back. Your canines poke at your lips. Your senses sharpen with your teeth, the night seeming to brighten, the voices of the people outside growing clear as you attention narrows in onto Shimada with rage. You can smell his blood, too rich and too sweet as it trickles beneath his skin.

"Strip," you tell him.

Confusion plays across his expression.

"I beg your—" 

"Take your clothes off. You shouldn't have to be told twice."

From your desk, you take out a roll of a hundred pieces of silver. You rip their paper wrapping, throwing the coins at Shinmada.

"Your business caters to the women of Yoshiwara, no? As a good businessman, you should understand your clients. I'm giving you an opportunity to gain firsthand experience of their work. Strip."

He laughs in disbelief.

"Is this a joke?"

"Are you a joke?"

Shimada's handsome face contorts in disgust. You grin. That's more like it.

"I don't know who you think you are, foreign scum—" 

"In Yoshiwara, everyone has a price," you recite at him.

You spot the moment that Shimada recognizes you as the from Kyogoku House. The rage in his expression becomes lust. As soon as he understands that you're a woman, you're no longer an equal worthy of his rage, only an object to be possessed.

Shimada reaches for you. You knee him in the groin, saliva filling your mouth in anticipation of fresh meat.

"You little bit—"

Shimada screams as you drag him out of your tent by his hair. The staff and customers of the night market turn and stare at the noise. 

You throw Shimada on the ground, swallowing your spit. Your senses revolt as he hits the ground, where a sharp rock draws blood. He's so close. If you had just one taste—

No, that's not what you planned. You don't want to eat him—you don't know what you're thinking. This is the moment of truth for all the men you hired and all the police you bribed.

You wipe your salivating mouth with the back of your hand, then point at Shimada.

"I witnessed this piece of human garbage try to assault a defenseless woman—or so he thought."

Shimada points at you, "She's a woman from Yoshi—"

You kick him in the stomach.

"I don't care where she's from. You don't assault her. We don't permit that here."

Your staff close around Shimada. Your customers whisper. the women of Yoshiwara watch your response.

A young man brings you a chair. Another returns your cane. They all smell delicious. The part of you that doesn't want to eat is alarmed by your hunger. You haven't wanted blood this badly in centuries.

You sit, crossing your legs, tapping your feet, then taking a few sips of tea. Your mind regains control of your anger. Your canines retract as fear dawns in Shimada's eyes.

He scoots away from you to hit a human wall.

"That's a woman," he shouts at the men behind him, pointing at you as if that makes any difference. 

You scoff.

"What does it matter, what I am? I'm new here. I don't know what the rules are, for men, for women, for anyone. I don't care to learn," you sneer. "We make our own rules."

You jab Shimada with the end of your cane.

"Strip." 

..........

The Night Market tosses Shimada out, stripped of his clothes, his valuables, his pride—everything except his skin, really. Business slows to a trickle as intimidated merchants leave to consider their next steps. 

Maintaining ethical standards come with costs, but you can afford them. Besides, the merchants left at a good time. You need the space as the Night Market fills with injured civilians. As the night continues, you drop the business front since the demon is fully distracted. The tents become medical stations.

Besides the demon slayers on the scene, you're the first to know when the Upper Rank Six dies. The souls stream out from the site of the battle, many tens of thousands rushing to you, their only wish to pass on after being trapped for hundreds of years. They touch you and leave this realm.

Kyojuro carries Uzui to your camp. They'd appear comical with the smaller man's ruined makeup, the larger man sprawled on his back, except Uzui's injury is horrifying. His left eye's shut. Under his skin, his veins bulge unnaturally with poison.

You let the demon slayers guide their hashira to the kakushi while you find a quiet alley to vomit in.

...........

You don't make it to the alley. Kyojuro finds you retching behind the tent city. He holds your hair, then offers a flask of water, his gaze tracing your short hair and contoured jawline.

"You have a surprisingly delicate constitution!"

"We need to stop meeting like this," you sigh, leaning into him.

After, Kyojuro helps you carry dirt to throw into the liquid. You clean up the mess yourself, performing a routine task giving you headspace to sort through your thoughts.

"Uzui-san--if the injury is critical, would he want to become an American demon?"

"He would never want that!"

You figured, but you wanted to offer. Uzui has an abrasive personality, but he doesn't seem to be a bad person. 

"All right."

There's nothing left but for you to wait for the kakushi's prognosis. 

..........

Uzui's tent catches on fire. You and Kyojuro rush over to find the hashira engulfed in pink flames. A tiny girl stands next to Uzui, burning away the Upper Rank Six's poison with tiny hands. 

Afterwards, while the Kakushi attend to Uzui, Kamado introduces you to his adorable younger sister. Nezuko puts your hand on her head and falls asleep. Kyojuro smiles fondly as you rock the girl in your arms, holding her close while he herds his tsuguko off to bed.

You wonder where Nezuko sleeps. The kakushi point you to a wooden box. You stare at the reinforced wooden crate for at least five minutes.

She—the Demon Slayer Corps keeps a child in a box? Does Kyojuro know? Does Ubuyashiki know? Either the leader of the demon slayers doesn't know that his organization has been keeping a child in a box, or he knows and doesn't care. You're not sure which option's worse, but you're already mentally drafting Ubuyashiki a strongly-worded letter in any case.

Meanwhile, you sort through your shipments for the softest fabrics you can find, bundle them up into a mattress, pillow, and blanket, then cover the small bed in a mini light-proof tent to protect Nezuko from sunlight.

..........

After his tsuguko are asleep, Kyojuro comes to your tent. He proudly describes his tsuguko's performance, from Kamado's Sun Breathing to Agatsuma's increased speed. You listen to his play-by-play recount of the battle with the Upper Moon Six, delivered in a dramatic stage whisper since most of the tent city is asleep or in convalescence.

"...Then, Gyutaro cut toward Uzui-san's hand! I regenerated my wound to block him! The demon asked how I could heal so quickly, and whether healing was how I killed Akaza!"

"So, Muzan doesn't know that Hakuji is alive, or he knows and hasn't told the Upper Rank Six."

From Hakuji's description and what you know of Muzan, the latter is unlikely. Muzan derives no benefit from keeping his Upper Moons unaware of their opponents. And he's a vengeful man—he'd be hunting for you and Hakuji both if he knew "Akaza" had lived and betrayed him.

"That appears to be the case! I suspect Muzan might also aware of my inhuman abilities! Though he may not know about your presence now, he must be searching for answers!" 

You nod, considering your next steps. 

Since the Upper Rank Six is dead, three Upper Moons remain. Besides numbers one, two, and four, there's also the demon who controls the infinity castle that Hakuji described.

If you can figure out what your blood did to Akaza, you might be able to eliminate the infinity castle demon. Otherwise, the demon slayers have eight hashira remaining, since Uzui is out of commission.

So far, teams of two hashira have been able to eliminate one demon moon. Douma and Kokushibo are stronger than anyone the hashira have fought before, but Hakuji often fought Douma as Akaza. He seems to have a good handle on the Upper Moon Two's abilities. If he can eliminate Douma with the hashira's help, that will leave two Upper Moons, which should be manageable for the demon slayers.

"I think we should go on the offensive—"

"You were always on the offensive! You are a very aggressive tactician!"

You blush, "I—well, I do believe in striking with the element of surprise on my side."

"Your strategies have been effective!"

"I hope to afflict maximum damage before Kibutsuji gets the chance to understand what we're capable of, or to replenish his ranks. I will ask Hakuji to return to Japan. He can help defeat the Upper Moon Two, which will leave two upper moons, and Muzan." 

"I cannot think of a better plan! Are you unharmed!"

You blink at the non-sequitur. Kyojuro examines you intently.

"Kyojuro?"

"I came to extract you from Yoshiwara as soon as I could! But Uzui-san said you were in disguise for days! Are you well!"

"Oh," you laugh to yourself. "I'm all right. You should be more worried for the humans of Yoshiwara than for me, you know," you remember your blood lust and swallow. "They're not a demon like me."

Kyojuro inhales.

"I trust your judgement."

You smile, your expression complicated.

"The merchant who barged in while I bathed—I wanted to kill—"

"A merchant barged into your bath!" Kyojuro interrupts, his volume rising. 

You pause.

"Did you—you didn't notice that there was a whole other person in the room when you brought me towels?"

"No! I was—I was distracted!"

Kyojuro turns bright red in the light of your stained glass lamps.

"Fujiwara-san?" someone calls from outside the tent. You recognize the silhouette of Murata, that demon slayer with the shiny hair.

"Come in," you call as Kyojuro goes to the door.

Murata opens the tent to be find the flame hashira smiling brightly and standing too close to the tent flap. He shrieks, tossing the basin of water that he was carrying into the air. 

Kyojuro catches the water before it can fly across the tent.

"Be careful with hot water, young man! You could have burnt yourself!"

Murata bows, "I apologize for interrupting, Rengoku-sama, Fuji—Fujiwara-sama! Good evening!"

"Fujiwara-san is fine!" you call after him.

..........

Murata brought one towel. You go to find another, so Kyojuro can also clean the ridiculous make-up off his face.

"What happened!" Kyojuro asks as you search your tent, "Why did a merchant barge into your bath!"

You sigh.

"Uzui-san told you I was undercover in Kyogoku House, yes?"

"You were disguised as an accountant!"

"I was, but—some people do not take no for an answer when you're a woman, especially a woman in Yoshiwara."

"The House tried to sell you against your will! How despicable! They should face consequences for their actions!"

"Oh," you tilt your head, smiling at Kyojuro. "They will."

The death of the Upper Moon Six leaves a power vacuum in Yoshiwara. You happen to be strongly positioned for adopting a neighborhood.

"The merchant as well! You are not for sale!"

"Yes, about that," you hesitate, "I have told you I'm not a good person."

"That is not true!"

You draw a deep breath, then explain what you did to the merchant. Kyojuro's brow furrows.

"I understand your reasoning!" he finally replies after a pause. "He violated your privacy. You violated his privacy! However! You also humiliated that man! And I cannot condone retributive justice. An eye for an eye will make the world blind!"

"There's more than that—I wanted to show Yoshiwara that we don't tolerate harassment, not from powerful people, not in a brothel."

You intend to fill the power vacuum left behind after the death of the Upper Moon Six. New management, new rules.

"I understand! You mean well!" Kyojuro agrees, "The show of force may be effective, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions! I would not want you to continue down a dangerous path, hurting people for future results that may never come to pass! 

Besides! People should not treat others well becomes they fear punishment! We should respect each other as fellow hu—as fellow people!"

"I don't know how to make that happen." In your experience, people don't work like that.

"I do not know, either! We can learn together! You have chosen a difficult path! I would not want you to become lost, or lonely!"

You find the extra towel stashed in your guest room, handing it to Kyojuro. He accepts, but holds on to your sleeve.

"Are you all right?" he asks again, more gently. He's speaking at a normal volume for other people, which is a soft voice for him. Though he doesn't know how to ask, or if he should, Kyojuro remains worried about what happened in Kyogoku House. 

You sit on the tatami beside him, not quite touching. He shuffles until the sides of your bodies press together. You poke the bright pink spot of blush that's been half smudged across his cheek.

"I didn't have time to be scared, seeing as my darling younger sister Sumiko barged in."

"Well!" Kyojuro starts, sitting straight up, "I do apologize! Would you--would you like--excuse me! I beg your pardon!"

You laugh, nudging Kyojuro with your elbow so he knows it's a friendly joke. He softens, glancing at your expression.

"Don't worry," you lean against his side. "I feel safe with you."

He moves carefully, as if afraid to disturb you. His weight shifts until he's also leaning on you, his arm around your waist.

"Well!" he shouts, then falls quiet, remembering the wisteria house is asleep. "I'm glad to hear that," he stage-whispers to you, his breath tickling your ear.

..........

Once the basin of water cools to a usable temperature, Kyojuro scrubs his face with the towel. You grimace at the force he uses, which only smudges Uzui's makeup.

"Kyojuro-san, you're going to hurt yourself—"

"I will heal!"

You find the tin of petroleum jelly in your bag, then pat the tatami before you.

"Come here."

Kyojuro kneels before you. You scoop petroleum jelly onto your fingers.

"This will feel cold."

"I am prepared!"

You dab the petroleum jelly on his nose, his forehead, his cheeks, then his chin. Kyojuro blinks at the cool sensation of the gel on his skin. As you spread the jelly across his face, he brings one hand up to gently hold your wrist. Kyojuro closes his eyes as your thumb glides across his lips.

You trace from his hairline to the nape of his neck, the petroleum jelly dissolving Uzui's pigments. Afterwards, the petroleum jelly and the makeup wipe off easily on the wet towel.

"You can open your eyes now."

"Yes!"

Bright orange eyes snap open. Kyojuro continues to hold your wrist. He's pulled your arm into his lap, where he continues to absent-mindedly pat the back of your hand.

"I can help with your makeup, too!" 

At his gesture, you shuffle closer on your knees, passing over the tin of petroleum jelly. Kyojuro mimics your motions, scooping a dollop of the translucent white cream. He rubs the gel between his hands, warming it with his body temperature.

"That's a good idea," you realize.

"I would not want you to be cold!"

You latch onto the cuff of his jacket before you close your eyes, but Kyojuro is gentle with you. Instead of scrubbing like he did earlier, he moves so carefully that you take a moment to notice when he's touched you. Though his hands are rough, his calloused fingertips glide delicately over your skin.

"You are clean now!"

You open your eyes.

"Thank you, Kyojuro-san."

He stares until you touch your cheeks. No pigment comes away on your finger.

"Kyojuro-san?"

"Your face," he whispers. "It's nice! You have a nice face!"

..........

After he pours the basin of water outside and you tuck away the toiletries, you linger at the threshold of your room, Kyojuro on one side, you on the other.

You're not sure if the Wisteria house assigned him a room, actually. Sato-san might be asleep already.

"Would you like to stay the night?" you wave at the interior of your room. It's more than big enough for two.

"That would be highly inappropriate!" Kyojuro whispers. "I am an unmarried man and you are an unmarried woman! Though you can also appear as a dashing young man!"

"I—eh? Dashing?"

"It is a known fact! Uzui-san's wives also find you dashing! Young Agatsuma was quite disconcerted at your popularity among the women of Yoshiwara!"

You cover your mouth, snickering, then steer the conversation back where it was going.

"I did not ask if it would be appropriate if you stayed, Kyojuro-san. I asked if you would like to stay."

He glances away, his expression almost guilty.

"I like being close to you! I've missed you!"

"I would like if you stayed," you offer, leaving the choice to him.

"Very well!" Kyojuro nods after a pause. "As a hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps, it is my responsibility to ensure your comfort!"

"Wait, that's not--you don't have to--"

Kyojuro has already flash-stepped away. From the distance, you hear his voice--though he speaks softly, he maintains the speech rhythm and intonations of shouting. Sato's voice replies in a sleepy murmur.

Moments later, Kyojuro returns with a futon that he unrolls what he appears to consider an appropriate distance from you. You step behind the shoji screen to change.

When you emerge, he's kneeling beside your futon. You slip into bed while he looks anywhere but at you. After, he pulls the blanket up around your shoulders, tucking you in and fluffing the pillow around your head.

"You don't have to put me to bed like your tsuguko, Kyojuro-san. I'm not a kid."

"I am quite aware! Goodnight, Kiku-san!"

Chapter Text

For once, you wake up earlier than Kyojuro. You withdraw your hand in the motion of reaching for his hair, then decide to push the stray strands out of his face. He murmurs your name as you leave the bedroom.

A faint voice lectures in the infirmary. 

"...were you thinking, losing your left eye? This was only a fight against the Upper Moon Six."

As you approach, Iguro demands that Uzui recover more quickly. Shinobu's nowhere to be found. In her absence, you slip through the cracked door, clearing your throat to announce your presence.

"Only a fight against the Upper Moon Six? How many Upper Moons did you fight, Iguro-san?"

As you speak, you step between Iguro and Uzui. Uzui shakes his head at you.

"Fujiwara—"

"Uzui-san would recover faster if you weren't lecturing him at the small hours of morning, Iguro—"

You never finish your sentence. Iguro stabs you. The twisted sword severs your vocal cords. He cuts through your neck, but you heal faster than any demon he's fought. The wound heals after the swing of his sword. Your neck reconnects before he severs it.

Fear shuts down your mind. Something else rises to fill the absence. You watch the fight as if outside your own body, the fear a dark cloud over your thoughts.

Your body grabs Iguro's sword. The blade cuts through your callouses like the flesh is butter. You feel sick, but your body moves on its own. Your cells heal again and again, faster and faster until the blade's edge wears dull against new skin.

Iguro jerks his sword free. He's so slow. You can count every cricket's cry, name every note of Uzui's voice as he calls for Shinobu. Your body can smell every blood-filled vein in the snake hashira's thin, flexible arms.

Your canines sharpen into fangs. Saliva drips from your lips. Iguro swings the blade at your neck again. So slow.

You duck to meet his sword. Demon slayers rely on their weapons.

Your body is the weapon. You bite through Iguro's sword.

The blade shatters in your mouth. You grin at the snake hashira, blood leaking out from between your teeth.

Something prickles your arm. The world turns sideways. Your consciousness returns to your body. Your mouth hurts. You try to spit out the metal shards, disgusted by the taste of iron, horrified by the sharpness of the shards. They're inside you. You need them out. You have to get them out, but you don't want to touch a sword or its pieces.

Your hands shake. You're crying. Then, you know nothing.

"Ara-ara, what an unpleasant way to wake," Shinobu murmurs as you collapse.

..........

"I'll get rid of her."

"You can't," Shinobu blocks the snake hashira. "I am not asking you to refrain, Iguro-san. I am telling you—she cannot be killed."

"She's a demon just like them. She might pretend to be helpless, but you saw—"

"I saw her defending herself," Uzui cuts in, arms crossed in front of his bandaged chest. "You tried to cut her head off, Iguro-san."

"You're taking her side because I lectured you." 

"I'm—"

"Yes," Shinobu tells Iguro, crossing her arms like Uzui. "I specifically forbade you from interrupting my patients' bedrest last night. Fujiwara-san may be a demon, but at least she listens to reason, Iguro-san. You're hindering Uzui-san's recovery."

Shinobu waves at the door to Uzui's room. Iguro doesn't budge. Shinobu's smile twitches.

"If you are so concerned about the available hashira, perhaps you should be working instead of interrupting Uzui-san's rest. After all, you are the only one in this room—including the demon—who has not helped defeat an upper moon. Isn't that right, Uzui-san?"

Instead of responding, Iguro jumps out the open window. In his absence, Uzui and Shinobu stare at your body on the ground.

"Is it true?" Uzui asks Shinobu. "You can't kill her?"

"On a cellular level, she overpowers Muzan."

"So if she goes mad..."

Uzui trails off. The hashira stare at your unconscious body before Shinobu calls her attendants. The estate staff lift you off the floor, onto the open hospital cot beside Uzui.

"Does she know?" Uzui whispers.

"She does now."

..........

You wake up to Kyojuro's face two inches from yours. He has flecks of gold in his irises. You yawn.

"Good morning!" he whisper-yells. You wet your lips, careful around sharp canines you no longer possess. When you touch your mouth, the fangs have receded. 

"Are you hungry! I'll bring food now! I did not want the porridge to get cold!"

"Hey," Uzui shouts after Kyojuro, "Bring three bowls!"

You woke without being awake. As Kyojuro departs, you take in the unfamiliar surroundings. The infirmary cot reminds you what happened this morning.

"Iguro—"

"He left." 

Once Kyojuro leaves, Uzui's violet gaze narrows on you.

"You didn't know you could do it, the demon thing."

You touch your canines, shaking your head.

"Not until last night."

Your fangs grew when you were afraid and angry at the jewel merchant. The world seemed to slow down when Iguro stabbed you, but did it slow, or did you get faster? 

The last time you felt this angry was in Chicago, when Kyojuro told you that Muzan controlled demons. You remember the world slowing down, your surroundings becoming clearer, but your anger came without no physical changes. Is this what the Panchen meant by "do not fall"? 

Japan provokes a strong emotional response from you. Will you become a mindless demon if you succumb to fear or anger?

What about love?

"What are you going to do about it?" Uzui asks.

"I don't know," you admit. "I need to think about it. Make a plan. I haven't needed to think on the move for many years. And I was never all that good at it."

Uzui rolls his eyes.

"Very un-flamboyant, I know," you sigh. Uzui scoffs.

"I can't believe they're calling you the most beautiful man in Yoshiwara."

"I—I beg your pardon?"

"The King of the Night," Uzui makes a disbelieving noise, looking you up and down.

"Excuse me? Uzui-san, I have a diverse skillset, I'll have you know." 

Uzui's violet gaze returns to your eyes. He smirks. There's something tactical about the way he flirts, like a switch he turns off and on. 

"Tell me about your diverse skillset," he purrs, making it sound like an innuendo.

You clear your throat, trying to understand the sudden flirtatiousness as you list skills from opera-singing to translation.

"...though I'm not a very good poet. I am a good translator, however. For certain languages. I like to think. I have a good sense of sound..."

"Mmmhmm," Uzui becomes less flirtatious as he loses interest. You understand then.

You clear your throat, "Uzui-san. We're allies. You don't have to seduce me for information. I've already committed to helping the demon slayers. Also, you're married." Extra-married, considering his three wives. Is polygamy still legal in Japan?

"I—" Uzui blinks, as if he had not realized he'd been flirting. The young man scratches the back of his head, the embarrassment more endearing than the flirting. Despite—or maybe due to?—being so tall, Uzui's not much older than the other demon slayers, you realize.

"Sorry," Uzui's smile becomes bitter. "Old habits die hard."

Ubuyashiki said he's a shinobi. Honeypots are normally women, but seduction can be a tool of the trade for both genders. The youth of Japan grow up too fast. It doesn't excuse Uzui's trying to kidnap the Butterfly Estate girls—he still demonstrates no remorse or afterthought about his actions—but you can see what made Uzui act as he did.

That's a problem for another time. He's a recovering patient, after all. You smile with encouragement.

"I understand you're supposed to be good at killing." 

Uzui grins, the expression a little insane like some of Kyojuro's smiles.

"Oh, I am. Who's Rengoku to you?"

There's no transition. You double take, thrown off like Uzui wanted. That was his real plan, then.

The flirting might have been instinct, but Uzui's questions were prepared deflection. He's not curious about your miscellaneous skills, only seeking to distract you, so your guard is down for his real question.

"Kyojuro-san and I are close friends."

"He slept in your room last night."

"In separate futons. It was very proper. I'm sure you've roomed with female demon slayers, Uzui-san."

"You're not a demon slayer. He doesn't think of you as a coworker."

You stare at your lap, hands curling in the blanket.

Kyojuro wears his heart on his face. You've learned to read his smiles like an open book. Even when he lies, he's somehow honest.

"I know, but—"

You explain the prophecy to Uzui, slowly putting your thoughts into words from the first time. The story begins in Tibet, continuing until your moment of madness this morning.

"You're scared," Uzui accuses after.

"Well, certainly. My biology concerns not only my own fate, but also the other—"

"That scares me too, but I'm talking about Kyojuro."

"Kyojuro? He doesn't—"

Uzui grins, "No, he scares you. I know women, Fujiwara-san. You like him, but you're not acting on it. Why? Did someone hurt you?"

"That—that's—"

"And I know Kyojuro. He likes you. Don't hurt him. He's very independent—he'll smile through everything like it's fine. It's hard to watch for the rest of us."

When he returns with food, Kyojuro gives Uzui his breakfast tray, then brings you the other bowl. Uzui watches Kyojuro gravitate to you side, leveling you with an unimpressed look over the younger man's shoulder.

..........

Unlike Uzui, you were recovered as soon as you woke. Though he remains bed-bound after breakfast, you're free.

Sato delivered a new uniform and the cleaned haori to your room. Kyojuro kneels. You help secure the haori-cape with the ties behind the neck and on his shoulders. He shouts at the mirror in your room.

"After I returned from America! My father helped me put on the flame hashira's haori!"

"Your mother asked me to ask that of him in the letter," you remember, tying the last knot before smoothing the thick fabric over Kyojuro's shoulders.

"She did! My father told me!"

"I'm glad." You don't understand all the significance of the Flame Hashira haori, but you know it's important to Kyojuro and it's family. "You deserve the recognition."

Kyojuro doesn't respond. When you check his expression, you find him staring at your reflection behind his shoulder.

"Did Uzui-san tell you about my episode this morning?" you guess.

"He did!" Kyojuro's head lowers. "I am disappointed in myself. I should have woken earlier!"

He always assumes responsibility. One of Ubuyashiki's daughters told you about his perfect track record for protecting civilians, but survival means growing older and gaining more experience. Some situations aren't as simple as protecting humans from demons. Some demons don't eat people. Sometimes, you're not yourself. Some allies want you dead. 

"You did well, defending yourself! But you should not have been attacked. I will speak with Iguro-san," Kyojuro decides. "He has had a difficult childhood! He must understand--we are allies, not enemies!

"I will check on Uzui-san! To ensure his psyche recovers as well as his body!"

Kyojuro shuffles closer on his knees. He takes both your hands.

"Do you know what triggered you to change this morning! We will ensure it does not happen again!"

"It happens when I'm scared. Or angry." The two walk hand-in-hand.

Kyojuro's head lowers. Uzui's right, he's very independent. That's a nicer way of saying that Kyojuro shoulders everything himself, but he's not the only one who knows how to take responsibility.

"I'll work on managing my emotions better." You like to think you're quite emotionally even-keeled, but Japan brings out your worst sides. Maybe you should meditate more, like the Panchen says.

"When Hakuji-san comes to Japan, I'll also ask him to bring sundowner steel. Just in case."

Kyojuro understands. You see it in the way he stops smiling, tries to smile again, and fails. He stares at the ground, hands fisted in the fabric of his hakama.

Are you a hypocrite? Months ago, you had hope Kyojuro would live despite becoming immortal. Now, you're preparing for the possibility that you must be killed.

"It is cruel," Kyojuro remembers. "It would be very cruel to ask someone who loves you to kill you, Kiku-san."

You exhale. The world is a cruel place. Your demon abilities are a double-edged sword. In the wrong hands, you can cause unimaginable harm. 

"If it came to that, I would no longer be myself, would I?"

"I disagree! You destroyed his sword! You never sought to harm Iguro-san, even in a moment of madness! You are not a demon like Muzan!"

Kyojuro sits up straight, crossing his arms. The confident pose is familiar, reassuring. You sit up straighter, too.

"I have been thinking, since I returned to Japan! It is difficult to accept my new state of being! But I am trying! I am using and honing my new abilities! Demon skills can help people!"

Strength is strength, an unthinking tool without morality. In the right hands, your abilities can also make the world a better place.

You hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

..........

As Kyojuro feeds and checks on his Tsuguko, you check on Uzui's wives. Hinatsuru, Makio, and Suma are already stretching, having finished their morning exercises. Without yesterday's suit and makeup, they take a moment to recognize you.

"You're a woman?" Makio demands. This seems to be a trend among the demon slayers. "Onjin-sama" is a gender neutral term, and most demon slayers seem to picture a man. Many still haven't reconciled the Rengoku family's new guest with the demon slayers' new sponsor.

"Are you an actress?" Suma asks.

You scratch the back of your head.

"No, not at all. I couldn't take the attention. It's just--I've lived in periods when women had fewer rights, you see? Being able to pass as a man is a convenient skill. I haven't needed to use it-women have more rights now--"

On that note, "How did you all come to be married to Uzui-san?" you ask after the former kunochi finish their stretches, and you make a fool of yourself trying.

Hinatsuru describes how their former clan assigned multiple qualified women to ninjas for reproduction. You ask after the clan. On one hand, its culture is problematic and outdated. On the other hand, you have a skilled mercenary force working for hire, and an offensive you need to mount against Kibutsuji Muzan.

As you chat, Suma, Makio, and Hinatsuru return to the infirmary to take breakfast with Uzui. The former kunochi bow to "Tengen-sama." You bite your lip.

Choices have consequences. Uzui is trying to leave his past behind him, but history sticks to you. Uzui's also in a position of power, where his mistakes can harm other people.

It's not nice, but there's no subtle way to say this and you don't want to be misunderstood. Besides, Uzui looks chipper now. While he rests, he has time to consider his choices and mistakes.

You clear your throat, bowing to Uzui's wives in semi-apology.

"You are no longer shinobi or kunochi," you remind them. "Should you ever want a divorce, I can arrange something."

The former ninja regard you in stunned silence. Uzui reacts first.

"Oi, Fujiwara! I thought we were allies, you backstabbing brat."

You straighten, smiling grimly at him.

"Uzui-san, you habitually flirt with other women despite being very, very married. You're working on that, but—

"When we met yesterday, you were kidnapping children. You planned to sell Takado and Kanzaki to a brothel despite the girls having no undercover experience. Takado is a civilian. They're both medical personal."

"What?" Makio demands.

"Uzui-san also sold Kamado to a brothel," you bow your head. "I was complicit in that decision. That's partly my fault—"

"We saw Kamado--" Hinatsuru remembers

"That's why his face was painted?" Makio scowls.

"--But where are the girls?" Hinatsuru finishes. 

"Tengen-sama!" Suma's on the verge of tears. You pat her back. Instead of going to Uzui, Suma grabs you like a plush toy. Oof, she's strong.

You take a minute to recover your breath.

"Takado and Kanzaki--they're fine. Uzui encountered me as he was kidnapped them. He sold me instead--"

"He sold you?" Suma wails. "Tengen-sama sold Onjin-sama!"

Uzui scowls. You grin at him Suma's shoulder. After explaining how you became involved with the Battle of Yoshiwara, you free yourself from Suma's grasp. She grabs Uzui instead. You leave Uzui to the mercy of his wives.

"Get back here, Fujiwara," Uzui yells. "I'm going to kick your ass—"

"Such a violent man," you tsk. "I'll be sure to inform the divorce attorneys!"

..........

There is a patch of medicinal flowers outside Uzui's room. A woman in a demon slayer's uniform is leaning over the heliotrope as you exit the infirmary. The early morning is quiet, peaceful but lively with the faint sounds of Uzui's family and Kyojuro's tsuguko in the distance.

The uniformed woman turns. You understand then why Shinobu doesn't like to be called Kocho. The Insect Hashira had an older sister, didn't she?

"Hello, my name is Fujiwara."

If she's surprised that you can see her, the woman's soft smile betrays nothing. She returns your bow, long hair falling over her shoulders.

"Good morning, Fujiwara-san. If you don't mind me asking, are you a demon?"

"I'm an American demon, according to Shinobu-san."

"I see. I had always hoped that one day we might live in peace with demons."

Her smile becomes wistful. The woman exhales.

"My name is Kocho Kanae. I was once the Flower Hashira. Since other spirits informed me about a foreign woman who could speak with the dead, I have been gathering information on Douma, the Upper Moon Two. Do you have a pen and paper, Fujiwara-san?"

Chapter Text

The older Kocho-san instructs you to keep Douma's locations from her sister until Hakuji returns. Toshi booked his flight to return in time for the autumn final selection. Until then, Kocho takes the information Uzui's spies have gleaned to find the Muzan, the remaining upper moons, as well as any new Japanese demons that might have been inducted to replace the eliminated ranks.

You're invited to the trial of the snake hashira. Kyojuro helps you draft a recommendation for restorative justice. While you're unwilling to face Iguro again, Kyojuro volunteers to train with his fellow hashira, so Iguro better understands the self-control of demons like you. While she's disappointed in Iguro, Mitsuri also offers to chaperone his training with Nezuko. Kyojuro assures you the sparring will be safe. From his descriptions, Iguro also sounds appropriately appalled by the idea of playdates with a demon girl.

Between representation by Kyojuro and Eagle Two, you avoid the Ubuyashiki estate until the crow summons a week before Hakuji's arrival. The Upper Moon Six has reappeared in Yoshiwara.
..........

Takahashi escorts you to the estate again, wearing a more protective uniform this time. As she runs, she tells you how the woman demon slayers have started to assemble a Yoshiwara police force, to fill the power vacuum left by the demons while investigating rumors of Muzan's appearance in Yoshiwara.

From Takahashi, you learn about the return of the Upper Moon Six before you meet Ubuyashiki. There's a ghost in Kyogoku House. The demon slayers aren't ghost hunters, however—

"I understand you can speak with the dead," Ubuyashiki states. You can still feel Soothing Voice reverberate through the air, but its influence is lighter, easier to detect, especially since you've braced yourself.

"Would you meet the demons' ghosts? I would not request your presence in the field, but no one else has your abilities. I have arranged a hashira to be your protection detail."

You bite your lip. So far, making the spirits of the dead move on has been a simple matter. You're the door. You touch the ghosts, they move pass on you. But everyone you've helped pass on has been a willing participant in this interaction. If the Upper Rank Six doesn't want to move on, do you have to play tag with spirits? You're not sure if you can outrun a ghost.

Ubuyashiki inclines his head when you describe the situation.

"I believe the benefit of surprise would help you encounter the Upper Moon Six. Kyogoku House has agreed to welcome you as their newest oiran. I understand you have experience with undercover work..."

Your dawning sense of dread is punctuated by the arrival of the Wind Hashira. Ubuyashiki coughs, escorted away by his daughters after Shinazguawa kneels and greets him.

"The fuck is she doing here?" Shinazugawa hisses, pointing at you. Kiriya introduces the mission, his smile unfaltering.

..........

Kyojuro has another mission tonight. You would've preferred Shinobu or Uzui. At least Ubuyashiki didn't send Iguro. Or, heavens forbid, Himejima. You could already picture the monk weeping at the sinfulness of Yoshiwara.

Shinazugawa's hand slams against the house behind you. You're startled from your mental ranking of the best hashira to go undercover in a brothel with by Shinazugawa pressing you to the wall. Though Takahashi has a new uniform, Shinazugawa's outfit is still showing a lot of skin.

"The hell have you been telling Rengoku-san?"

"I—I beg your pardon?"

"Every hashira meeting. Every time we see each other. "Shinazugawa-san, I care deeply about my younger brother! We have occasional disagreements! Every family does! But surely any dispute between brothers can be resolved! We are family, after all!""

You giggle into your elbow at the impression of Kyojuro. Shinazugawa pulls away, flushing with anger. You push into his space instead, grinning like a cat with the cream.

"Why? Do you perhaps have an estranged younger brother, Shinazugawa-san?"

"Leave him alone!"

"I can't do that. We have a concurring appointment with Shinobu-san at the Butterfly Estate. We're both helping with her demon-blood experiments, you see."

You add the date and time of your next appointment with Genya and Shinobu. Shinazugawa won't look at you, but his audio memory is excellent.

..........

While you have your reservations about returning to Kyogoku house, playing a courtesan presents the perfect opportunity for you to advertise your wares. From Yan's shipments, you select the most opulent fabrics and makeups for the season.

Then, there's the matter of Shinazugawa's disguise. The demon slayers provided him with unremarkable civilian clothes, but you're not wasting a willing model to advertising your wares. While you've a more limited selection of men's clothing on hand, you should be able to replace a few pieces so the outfit also fits Shinazugawa better.

You hover fingers over your chest.

"You prefer open collars, Shinazugawa-san?"

Shinazugawa hefts the handful of summer clothes in his fist. You cringe at the wrinkling.

"I've got my clothes, woman."

You tsk, picking a silk brocade. The hints of green in the dark fabric bring out the striking violet of Shinazugawa's eyes.

"You're meant to look like an oiran's client, not a commoner—"

Shinazugawa bats away your hands.

"I am a commoner. This is what you get."

You raise your eyebrow.

"What about the way you speak to Ubuyashiki-san?" Shinazugawa steps into formal speech patterns easily enough.

"That's—my Ma—she—I was being polite!"

"Mmhmm, here," you hand Shinazugawa the brocade kimono. He seems to prefer open collars, like Uzui.

Shinazugawa stares you down. You don't notice, too busy searching through the rest of your wares. He snatches the kimono out of your hands.

..........
You settle on an outfit of luxurious but understated fabrics, nearly a modern, cool-toned version of Kyojuro's casual wardrobe. Shinazugawa looks distinctly uncomfortable in nice clothes, however. He keeps loosening the fabric at his collar.

"Are the clothes uncomfortable?"

"No. They're fine. Let's go."

"You look uncomfortable."

"Do I look like Uzui to you? I'm not flashy, or from a good family like Rengoku. Or rich, like you. I didn't grow up dressing like this."

You bite your lip, "Neither did Uzui. Neither did I. Fake it 'til you make it."

"I'm a demon slayer, not a shinobi."

"You're strong and confident in your abilities. Be that."

As Shinazugawa gets used to the new outfit, you sit him down at your vanity, preparing make-up to cover Shinazugawa's scars.

"Close your eyes."

"Why are you doing? Fix your own face—"

You laugh into your elbow. Kyogoku House will have their own makeup routines. You look forward to learning what products you can sell them, but they don't touch-up their clients.

"Kyogoku House will dress me. Before I go, I'm going to hide your scars because you'll need to look like an idle nobleman, not a warrior."

Shinazugawa sneezes at the powder. You hand him one of the giant handkerchiefs from your stack.

"Close your eyes. Hold still. Raise your hand if you need to—"

Shinazugawa raises his hand, sneezes, and blows his nose before closing his eyes again. As he demands for you to hurry up, you find the unscented powders and mix a batch to match his complexion. Shinazugawa holds very still as you run the brush over his face, chest, and arms before setting the color.

"You can open your eyes now."

As Shinazugawa examines his reflection, you find a thin brush and the pot of kohl.

"Do you want eyebrows?"

When he doesn't respond, you turn to find him still staring at the mirror.

"What the fuck," he finally whispers. "I look good."

"Of course you do," you huff. "I'm a great cosmetics dealer, and you have excellent bone structure. Now, do you want eyebrows or not?"

..........

You enter Kyogoku House first, assigning Shinazugawa to walk about town and adjust to his disguise. As night approaches, the house dresses you for your first evening as their oiran, making a show of welcoming you into warabihime's former suite.

You sympathize with Shinazugawa's shock, staring at yourself in the mirror. However, you made him look like a more polished version of himself. The woman in the mirror is unrecognizable to you, the fabrics on her body more familiar than the white, black, and red-painted face in the mirror.

Shinazugawa seems to have the same reaction. Your maiko introduces the "guest," who regards you as if searching for someone else under all the fabric and makeup. Of the hashira, Shinazugawa and Iguro have backgrounds most similar to yours. Without his usual anger, you wonder if you and Shinazugawa could have been friends, had you met in another life, another century.

Shinazugawa bows. You blink with surprise.

"I have anticipated the grace of your presence, my lady."

You cover your mouth, breaking character immediately at Shinazugawa addressing you with his Ubuyashiki-voice. His glare finds you under the layers of the disguise. You smooth over the grin, discretely checking your lip rouge while disguising your laughter.

"Please, no need to be so formal, Shinazugawa-san."

You gesture him to a seat, then pour tea. Shinazugawa shuffles closer as you serve wagashi, though he looks anywhere but at you.

"Where are the demons?" he whispers.

You shrug. Based on the briefing, they should have appeared by now. Were they put off by Sanemi's presence? Or can spirits sense something unusual about you, with your being a spiritual gateway?

"What do we do? I'm not—we don't have to—"

Shinazugawa makes a gesture with his hands. You raise an eyebrow.

"I would hope Ubuyashiki-san does not require the demon slayers to seduce people as a part of your missions."

Shinazugawa coughs. You recall the methods of Uzui Tengen.

"No," you insist firmly.

"Then, are you gonna—" Shinazugawa clears his throat, "I would be grateful for the opportunity to admire your shamisen playing?"

Yeah, you don't play the shamisen. Instead, you translate Arabic poetry. With how busy Mitsuri is, you feel bad sending her your drafts all the time, but now, you have a captive listener and native Japanese-speaker. With pleasure, you whip out your latest translation notebook. Here's to being prepared.

"What do you think of poetry, Shinazugawa-san?"

"What."

Chapter Text

"She's not even that pretty," a girl says.

"Not nearly as pretty as you," a boy's voice agrees, placating the girl who makes a 'hmmph' sound.

"How dare you compare her to me!"

"She's not even close," the boy agrees with the girl.

Though you don't pause in your reading, Shinazugawa notes your gaze straying to the entrance of the Oiran's room. His body remains relaxed, giving away nothing, but his eyes search the room with new intention instead of looking anywhere but at you.

Two people come into the room, a tall, lanky boy with an interesting look leading the way. A beautiful white-haired girl follows him. They watch you and Shinazugawa, gauging your reactions. You continue reading, watching the—teenagers?—from the corner of your eye.

The white-haired girl reaches for a vase. At first, her fingers pass through the porcelain. She scowls, the ugly expression transforming her pretty features without detracting from them, such is her beauty. 

"I can't," the girl howls, looking to her brother, "I can't do it. Help me."

The taller boy wraps his hands around the vase. His face twists with concentration. At first, his fingers scrabble. Then, he picks up the vase and launches it at you.

Shinazaguwa shouts, drawing his sword from between the floorboards. He gets between you and the projectile, slicing it from the air. The porcelain shatters. You dart out from behind Shinazugawa, running for the kids.

To your surprise, your hand makes contact with the boy. He doesn't disappear.

The boy looks as shocked as you do until the girl screams. Her voice seems to wake him. He takes her hand and runs.

..........

You and Shinazugawa chase the ghosts. Though you're faster—the siblings appear like ordinary teenagers and run at their speed, not demon speed—ghosts can pass through walls. You shed layers of your cumbersome gown, picking up speed while Shinazugawa follows your directions, herding the kids he cannot see, but the ghosts figure out that they should hide instead of running. You lose them in the densest portion of Yoshiwara, running across the rooftops while they duck into the buildings below.

Shinazugawa paces the tile roofs like a restless cat, his steps soundless. You don't move so easily, but you're the only one who can see the ghosts. Despite the chilly night wind, you linger on the rooftops, glancing down into the streets below for a glimpse of the ghosts.

"Here," after a quarter hour, Shinazugawa hands you a bundle of fabric. You let it fall open in your hand to recognize his haori. Your haori, really, though the fabric's still warm from his having worn it.

"Thanks," you throw the jacket over your shoulders, grateful for the protection against the wind.

Shinazugawa makes a 'tch,' sound, waving at your remaining, thin robes.

"Nobody wants to see all that."

"Excuse me?" you shoot a pointed glare at his exposed chest. "You and Uzui-san both show more—"

"We're men!"

You sniff, "I believe in gender equality."

"Freeze to death, then," Shinazugawa scowls, leaping down from the rooftops. 

..........

You're scheduled to talk with the Panchen the next morning, but the phone never rings. Instead, there's a voice too-close to your head.

"Hello," it says.

You turn to the Panchen's face two inches from your nose. He's upside down, his head and torso coming downwards from the rafters. You yelp.

The Panchen floats downwards, his legs then feet emerging from the ceiling. Once he's floating in the center of the room, the translucent child avatar rotates one-hundred eighty degrees to be right-side up before taking a seat on the tatami.

"Since when did you enter the exorcism business?" the child asks.

"I'm not in the business," you reply. "There are—were—two demons," and you explain how the Upper Rank Six became the ghosts haunting Yoshiwara.

"The difference with these kids—" you open your hands, examining your fingers. "I could touch them, but they didn't pass on after I touched them. I don't know what to do now, and they're causing havoc in Yoshiwara. It's hard to protect yourself and your belongings from teenagers that you can't see."

"Teenagers?" the Panchen asks. You shake your head, remembering your brief glimpses of the boy and girl.

"I would guess they're thirteen? Seventeen? Something in-between. The boy's older."

The Panchen's visibly disturbed, an odd expression on such a young face.

"Are children capable of evil? Can they be held responsible for their actions before their bodies and minds are fully developed? This is an age-old philosophical question. It's possible that their spirits remain in purgatory on earth until they've proven their character, independent of their physical bodies."

You've barely met, but the former demons seem mischievous rather than evil. Can they be taught? You voice the question the Panchen, who tilts his head to regard you.

"Would you like to guide them?"

His smile isn't entirely playful. Is this your job now? The Panchen guides dead people's souls, but you'd prefer a formal interview to being unceremoniously thrust into a trial-period for being a guide to the afterlife. Then, you could reject the job.

"I have too much to do," you cover your face, closing your eyes. You were already committed to Shinobu's experiments and yours-slash-Yan's Tokyo business ventures. Yoshiwara is being rebuilt. Hakuji is returning to Japan. Ubuyashiki and his kids treat you like an on-call consultant. You're building a house and you've barely had time to look at the construction—Shinjuro has been practically managing the building on your behalf.

"You are bound closely to the affairs of the world," the Panchen laughs with the easy air of someone who isn't.

"I don't think I could—do whatever it is that you do. I barely even understand what you do."

The child Panchen shrugs, "Divinity doesn't suit everyone. Some would say I love the world too dearly for enlightenment."

He laughs. You smile at him. In your long, long life, there have been many who departed for the afterlife. Staying is one thing for people like you. You stay because it is your nature. The Panchen stays because he chooses it. He has seen enlightenment and mortality in Tibet, one of the most challenging environments on earth with its high altitude, thin air, and searing sunlight. He's never had your invulnerability, yet he's lived with his people, grown old, and died through peace, war, and famine. You admire him for that, choosing to return despite having known and found freedom from suffering.

"Love," you murmur, catching on his turn of phrase. "You told me not to fall in love, you know?"

The child's face twists into a expression of disbelief.

"I did? I would never."

You repeat his prophecy. 

"Desire is the root of all suffering. You are less susceptible to hatred than love. Do not fall."

"I started glowing?" the Panchen asks, waving a small, chubby hand around his head. You nod.

"This is the problem with prophecy," he sighs. "The interpretation. But it's quite a stretch from "do not fall," to "if you fall in love, you will become a Japanese demon," no? Was that your concern?" 

"How would you interpret 'Do not fall?'" you ask.

"It's quite simple, in my opinion. If you fall in love—or fall to hatred—you will not attain enlightenment. That does not make you a demon. 

"For example, you have not attained enlightenment and you are not a demon. I inhabit the mortal world instead of enlightenment and I am not a demon. People who have not attained enlightenment are all about us, no?"

"That sounds very innocuous—" you begin. The Panchen hums in agreement. "But the way you spoke to me in prophecy? That sounded like a warning."

The Panchen hums, considering your interpretation.

"Perhaps it was. You are very powerful, not only in what you are able to do, but in the capabilities of your physical vessel. Should you lose yourself to feeling, you would become a weapon of incalculable destruction, hence the warning."

"So I can love and hate—in moderation?"

"Eh," the Panchen turns his head this way and that, unsatisfied with your word choice.

You try again, "I can love and hate. And that doesn't make me a demon."

"We all love and hate. That's a part of whatever makes us human."

"I think—" you don't exactly understand, but you think you know what to do now. "I think you've helped me move forward. Thank you."

"Certainly," the Panchen considers you with eyes too wise for his young face. "I think, sometimes, that there is too much reverence for divinity. It is not so," the Panchen waves his hands and wiggles his fingers, making sounds that might be a ghost or a police siren. "Enlightenment can be admittedly difficult to understand, but there is divinity in us all. Prophecy or no prophecy, if you are becoming something you cannot abide, you will know it, no?"

You look at your hands and imagine the fingernails sharpening into claws. When you lick your lips, you remember the cutting, pointed teeth from when you had been angry. You're lucky. For you, becoming a mindless demon isn't a switch that someone flips. 

If it comes to that, perhaps if you pay attention, you'll be able to pull yourself back from the brink.

"Now," the Panchen rubs his little hands together. "You mentioned love? Oho."

His eyes sparkle with a grandfather's glee for family gossip, but the Panchen's concentration is broken by the interruption of Kaname's voice.

"Kyojuro Rengoku has returned! Kyojuro Rengoku has returned from his mission!"

"Ooh, the brilliant soul," the Panchen exclaims.

..........

The Panchen is called home before Kyojuro's return. The tsuguko are out on their own separate missions. You walked Senjuro to school already, but it's early enough in the morning that Shinjuro remains asleep. You're the only one in and awake, so you order food and return with the boxes. Kaname takes an unsalted peanut as you plate the seasoned foods. He cracks the shell, eats the peanut, and flies onto your shoulder as you head for the Rengoku Estate entrance.

Kyojuro arrives via the rooftops, the dense architecture enabling him to bypass the morning crowds. Kaname senses him first, flying from your shoulder toward the shock of blond hair that disappears from your view. You hear Kyojuro before you see him again. As he greets your neighbors from street level, you prop open the estate doors.

"Good morning!" Kyojuro shouts.

"Welcome home," you lean out past him, waving hello to your neighbors as Kyojuro enters. "Have you eaten?"

"I have not!"

He helps you shut the heavy front doors.

"I haven't either," you yawn. "Come, there's enough food for us both."

You consider him. 

This time, you take Kyojuro's hand instead of his sleeve, pulling him along towards the dining room.

He doesn't move.

"Kyojuro-san?"

When you turn back, Kyojuro's staring at your hand. That gives you pause. Were you too forward? What's the etiquette for flirting these days? You're out of practice by a few centuries, and not exactly Japanese like him.

"I apologize!" he shouts, marching forward. "I was distracted! You have not eaten either! It is late in the morning!"

He keeps ahold of your hand, patting it with his other hand, then adjusting his grip to fold gently around your hand as if holding onto something precious and fragile. When you don't draw away, he squeezes your hand gently.

You squeeze back, pulling Kyojuro forward.

"I was away last night. Shinazugawa-san and I were at Kyogoku House. There were two ghosts—kids? Ghost kids..."

..........

While you eat breakfast, Eagle One arrives with a message from the Ubuyashiki Estate. Tonight, Kyojuro will accompany you to Yoshiwara, though he's just returned from a multi-day mission hours ago.

After breakfast, once Kyojuro goes to sleep, you send Eagle One to the Ubuyashiki Estate, except you don't. Your crows come and go as they please. You have, however, reached an agreement with the American crows. You give Eagle Two an egg and a Look. Eagle Two takes her position outside Ubuyashiki's window to scream "vacation." If anyone asks, your crow is broken.

Your crows work perfectly. A few weeks ago, the Ubuyashiki Estate crows started bullying Eagle Two for the constant screeching outside Kagaya's window. They stopped after Eagle One made a return trip to the U.S. and brought back Bob's cousins, who have colonized the new roof for their Japan vacation. You now have an appropriately American nest of bald eagles for your new house, and they have taken it upon themselves to stick up for their fellow avian expats.

While Japanese crows are larger than American crows, they're all considerably smaller than bald eagles. The bullying stopped soon after the Brown-Hamilton family's arrival. At a random time in any given day, one of Bob's relatives swoop into the Ubuyashiki Estate and preen beside their smaller American friend.

In addition to physical intimidation, Eagle One undertook a charm offensive upon his return to Japan. You don't know the details of crow business, but Kyojuro believes there were several inter-crow conversations, a presentation on human physiology, and a concerning amount of peanut-based bribery that you may or may not have sponsored. Your understanding is that crows now have a union led by either Isuzu or En. 

The crow union has been a great help in implementing and enforcing rest for the corps. You are disappointed but not surprised by the crows having apparently stronger professional organization and group-negotiation tactics than their demon slayer partners.

..........

Kamado returns first, having been away on a simple errand for the demon slayers. All of the tsuguko are recovering after the battle of Yoshiwara. Being good with people, he's often the first to return from his tasks. 

You meet him at the entrance to the estate. He tiptoes when you mention that Kyojuro only just returned in the late morning. When Agatsuma and Hashibara's birds announce their success, Tanjiro meets them at the door,  leading them to the training rounds away from Kyojuro's bedroom so he can sleep. You find them stretching, Hashibara contorted into a cylinder while he taunts the others on lacking flexibility.

You give the tsuguko the latest hour to wake Rengoku before departing for Yoshiwara. As you arranged this morning, the Panchen's spirit joins you on your stroll across Tokyo's rooftops. The child floats through the sky beside you, his robes gold like the circle of the moon.

..........

The teenagers' ghosts sneak in on you while you're dressing, which would be good tactics except for the Panchen's eighty eight clones that pop out from the floor, roof, and walls. All of the spirits have taken different forms from the Panchen's many reincarnations and their different ages as if surrounding the Yoshiwara ghosts in a foreign army. 

The Panchen's clones also took the liberty of appearing in torn clothes, grey skin, with loose teeth, gaping mouths, and drool. In a moment, your surroundings have transformed from the dressing room of an upscale brothel to the scene of a horror film. One clone even shouts "Brains!" in Japanese, stretching out grasping hands for the teenage ghosts.

Though you realize the prank soon enough, the Yoshiwara ghosts don't know the Panchen. The teenagers hold onto each other, the girl crying into her brother's chest while he tries wrap himself around his sister in protection.

"Panchen," you murmur. It's disconcerting when all his forms look at you all at once. Then, the spirits snap together in a burst of gold. Instead of the child, the Panchen has taken on the form you recognize from his last life, a gaunt old man who would be even taller if not for his bent back.

"Oof," the Panchen's knees pop as he squats, lowering himself to the teenage ghosts' eye level. 

"It doesn't feel very nice to be scared, does it?" he asks the ghosts.

The girl hides behind her brother, but he's so thin that his body doesn't completely block her from the Panchen. Still, he holds out his arms as a shield, although his expression has become uncertain at the appearance of the friendly old man.

The Panchen reaches forward, pulling a candy out from behind the boy's ear in a sleigh of hand you recognize from the lifetime before his last. When the boy regards the candy suspiciously, the Panchen retrieves a candy from behind his other ear. The boy watches the old man eat the second candy before licking his own.

His eyes widen at the sweetness. He takes the candy out of his mouth, passing it to his sister, watching her eat it and marvel at the flavor. While the girl's distracted, the Panchen passes her brother another candy.

"Give it to me!" the girl demands, holding out her hand. The boy gives her the candy. The Panchen opens his hands, showing off two more candies that he gives the boy.

"These are for you," the Panchen tells the boy. "No, they're for your brother," he insists when the girl pouts. 

The Panchen beckons you over, keeping an eye on the teenagers as he drops into a cross-legged seat on the tatami. He somehow stuffs another candy into your non-spirit hands as he introduces himself, then you.

"...this is Kiku-san. What are your names?" the Panchen asks the Yoshiwara ghosts.

..........

"I don't want to live with a bunch of ugly old people!" Ume screams.

"I am full of youthful energy," the Panchen yells back, shrinking back to his current child form.

"How do he do that?" Gyutaro whispers. The Panchen wags a chubby little finger at him.

"I could teach you, but you'd have to come to Tibet first."

"I don't want to be his apprentice," Ume pouts, tugging on her brother's sleeve. You clear your throat to her glare and Gyutaro's suspicious stare.

As the resident merchant and poet-in-translation, you wax poetic about Tibetan dresses and furs. Ume emerges slowly from behind her brother. Once she agrees, Gyutaro's coming, having already been convinced by the promise of food and safety, though he still seems wary from the Panchen giving him and his sister equal attention.

"Well, then, we'll be off," the Panchen waves at you before turning back to Gyutaro and Ume. "Have you said your goodbyes? Do you have all your things? Let's take a look around."

Though the Panchen looks younger than the ghosts, his mannerisms remind you of a parent dressing their children, tying boots and zipping up coats in preparation before venturing into the cold. He waves at you before they depart. You watch the spirits float away into Yoshiwara as Kyogoku House's attendants arrive to help you dress.

Your mission's complete. It's no longer strictly necessary for you to dress up today, but as a professional, you shouldn't refuse an opportunity to show of your wares before key customers. Also, you've been told that you clean up rather nicely, and Kyojuro is your guest for the night.

..........

You sense when Kyojuro arrives outside your door. Japan still affords a reverence to the warrior class. Kyojuro has concealed his sword. He would never flaunt his status, but he carries himself in a way that is obviously bushi, and recognizing the subtle signs of status is how the staff of Yoshiwara earn their keep.

There was a time when you would have been among the bowing servants, trying to make yourself invisible because the samurai were the nobility's enforcers. No attention was better than any attention. They did not see you, and you did not look in case they could sense the weight of your gaze.

It's different now. Kyojuro is undercover. Without the demon slayer uniform, you see nothing but his status and upbringing. It's in his build, his stride, the fine fabric in even his casual clothes. There was a time when you would not imagine looking upon a man like him, much less doing so and feeling affection. Bushi do not skim your neckline with their eyes, swallow, and raise their gaze to examine your expression.

"What is on your mind!" Kyojuro whisper-shouts at you in the quiet of the young night.

"Women like me don't receive visitors like you," you reply without having to re-explain your history. Between you, it's understood.

"That was long ago!"

Kyojuro reaches for your hand. You lead him into your chambers. The attendants bow and depart, sliding the screen door closed behind them.

Under the brightness of the lamps in the reception room,  he's a vision in red. As Kyojuro unties the fur-lined cape, you help roll it off his shoulders. Underneath, the red-on-red patterned brocade pattern shimmers in the firelight. , As you step away, hanging his coat in the closet, he rolls his shoulders, the movement and fall of his clothes suggesting the body underneath.

"You're very handsome," you tell him.

"Thank you!" Kyojuro pauses, "You look—"

He does not continue, turning red and looking away, which makes you glance at your reflection. The oiran makeup is very flat and very white, very black, or very red. You barely recognize yourself in the mirror.

"You are dressed as a courtesan! The outfit! Is! Very provocative!"

You pause, then finish shutting the closet. That reaction? It's not what you expected.

"The first time we met, I was in the shower?"

The oiran garments are modest even compared to your flapper dresses. Nearly all your skin is covered, if not by clothes then by paint.

"I was not looking!" Kyojuro protests, "This is different!"

Kyojuro tries to explain. It's not the amount showing but the suggestion of bareness, the thin lines of unpainted skin peeking just above your collar hinting at the body underneath. He doesn't quite get all the words out, but it's enough to guess at his meaning.

It would explain why Shinazugawa refused to look at you last night. You don't quite get it yourself, but Shinazugawa seems to and Kyojuro does.

You step one of your feet between his and move forward, putting your weight on that leg.

"Are you looking now?" you breathe into the shell of his ear and hear Kyojuro swallow.

"Would you want me? To look!"

Like always, he's staring straight past you. You circle him then stop where your face interrupts his line of sight. The trail of your kimono wraps around his legs.

"Yes," you say and his eyes fix on the movement of your lips. When he tries to look at you, his gaze flickers like a trapped firefly.

"I have always thought you beautiful," Kyojuro admits quietly.

..........

You sit next to him and walk him through what happened in the room, the arrival of Ume and Gyutaro's spirits, the Panchen's appearance, and their departure for Tibet. As you talk, Kyojuro examines your hand, tracing the joints of your fingers with his thumb. Kyogoku House grows noisy with the voices and movements of their courtesans and guests.

When you're ready to go, no attendants wait outside your room. They're probably busy.

"Can you help me take this off?" you ask Kyojuro.

"What!"

"The girls are helping the real courtesans. I figure they're busy, and you're here."

Kyojuro stares blankly into space for long enough that you begin counting the seconds.

"I see! Well! It cannot be helped!" he agrees, but his arms cross protectively over his chest.

You kick off the sandals and instruct him to unravel the back of your obi. He helps you step out from the kimono layers until you remain in the undergarments.

"Can you get this?" you wave at the paint along the back of your neck, searching your bag for cleansing wipes.

Kyojuro settles behind you, one hand holding your shoulders while the other passes gently down your neck. You clean your face in the mirror.

"Close your eyes!" he instructs when you think you're done. You put another cloth in his hand. The wet fabric is cold along the folds of your eyelids, then the corners of your eyes. Then, there's no other contact besides the hand on your shoulder, resting just beside the curve of your neck.

A woman laughs in a room to your north. A man speaks after. If you focus, you can also hear Kyojuro draw breath.

"Can I open—"

Something brushes softly against your lips. When your eyes widen, Kyojuro's are closed. He exhales as he pulls away from you. Then, his eyes snap open. He jerks up, the permanent smile flying back onto his face.

"I—I apologize! I do not know what came over me! That was un—"

You pull him closer by the collar and kiss him. Kyojuro exhales, sighing against your lips, his whole body relaxing into yours. As you wrap your arms around his shoulders, his hands come to rest around your waist, thumbing absentmindedly at the shape of you under the thin fabric.

Eventually, you must breathe. As you pull away and inhale, Kyojuro's eyes reopen. He stares at you with that wide-open, unblinking owl stare. When you wave a hand in front of his face, the smile doesn't change.

"Are you okay?" you finally ask.

"I don't know!" he blinks again, his pupils refocusing on your face, your lips, and then raising back to your eyes. "Do that again!"

Chapter Text

You leave Kyogoku house for a late dinner. It must be past midnight by the time you return home, yet Kyojuro's up before sunrise, kneeling in front of his father's door though Shinjuro won't be awake for hours.

"Kyojuro?" you murmur as you pass. His head tilts, recognizing your voice.

"Good—" he pauses, reducing his volume, "—morning." 

You climb onto the engawa behind him, steering Kyojuro backwards until he's kneeling beside the door facing the courtyard instead of his father's bedroom. Shinjuro doesn't need an aneurysm waking up to his eldest son's bright, unblinking gaze.

"Are you walking to school with us today?" you ask from your spot beside Kyojuro. He usually goes with you and Senjuro if he's home.

"Not today. I brought breakfast! Senjuro is eating," Kyojuro glances towards the kitchen.

"What are you waiting for, exactly?"

"I am—" Kyojuro begins, but before he can finish the sentence, his tsuguko rush into the courtyard, tailed by Senjuro with a worried expression.

"Rengoku-aniki is awake!" Hashibara shouts. Kamado gestures for him to hush. Agatsuma yells for Hashibara to hush, but he's barely anymore quiet. Senjuro stands to the side, regarding Kyojuro and the door beside him anxiously as the tsuguko report on their missions. Their volume falls at Kyojuro's request, but at this point, you doubt the quiet is of any use. You step aside from the screen door because you can hear Shinjuro stirring from outside the bedroom.

The screen door slides open with a creak. Shinjuro stares blearily at his sons and Kyojuro's apprentices, whose voices rise in a chorus.

"Good morning father!" Kyojuro turns, shouting with them, "May I have your permission to court Fujiwara-san!"

Shinjuro exhales, closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Kamado glances between you, Shinjuro, and Kyojuro between you.

"Congratulations," he murmurs as Agatsuma wails.

"I want a wife. It's not fair—"

"A wife?" Hashibara demands. "Can you eat it? Is it food?"

Senjuro stands behind the tsuguko. When you meet his gaze, he offers a small, encouraging smile. You smile back.

..........

You're unfamiliar with Japanese courtship customs, especially those of a warrior-class family like the Rengoku's, but Shinjuro clarifies after you and Kyojuro return from walking Senjuro to class.

"Your parents would meet with his mother and me to discuss the match. If all parties approve, you would then meet Kyojuro to determine your compatibility over the course of several months."

You never knew your parents, but you offer to meet with Shinjuro in their stead. The Rengoku father-and-son duo agree.

"What are your customs in America?" Shinjuro asks you after.

"There are 'date's!" Kyojuro replies, pronouncing the last word in English with a Japanese accent like 'deeto.' He explains going on outings to amusement parks, sporting events, and the theatre using turns of phrase that you recognize from Toshi's Japanese. After, Shinjuro looks to you for confirmation.

You nod, "That's it, pretty much. It's not so formal, especially compared to your customs."

Shinjuro turns to his son.

"Kyojuro will make arrangements for your outings."

"Well," you pause, "I could also—"

"Yes, father!" Kyojuro shouts.

"He asked to court you," Shinjuro adds, "Make him do the work."

..........

Kaname announces your courtship on Kyojuro's behalf. The news travels quickly from the Ubuyashiki Estate. You're not sure whether it moves on Ubuyashiki's orders, by some unspoken accord between your crows, or from the human affinity for gossip, but most of the Butterfly Estate knows by the time of your afternoon arrival. 

You both receive congratulations from the demon slayers who recognize you. Kyojuro receives congratulations from others, whom he then introduces to the embarrassment of all parties except him. The demon slayers apologize for not having recognized you. You apologize for your reserve.

"She is very humble," Kyojuro whispers at a volume that's not really a whisper. You elbow his side. As he laughs, your new acquaintance offers renewed congratulations.

..........

You have not become fearless with respect to needles, but you have come to anticipate, prepare for, and manage the fear. Though you still feel faint at the sight of metal piercing your skin, you've learned that you prefer to look. You like to know what's being done because the knowledge gives your mind focus. Thinking of the procedure keeps your mind from wandering, pushing nerves and memories back into your subconscious so you lace your fingers into Kyojuro's hand with a light touch instead of a white-knuckled grip.

When the blood is drawn, you wait in a reception room for the younger Shinazugawa.

The older brother arrives first. Kyojuro straightens in recognition.

"Good afternoon, Shinazugawa-san! I have received my father's permission—"

"—To court Fujiwara-san. I've heard." 

Shinazugawa nods at you. Something's changed about the way in which he regards you. It takes you a moment to realize that's he's simply looking instead of glaring.

"Congratulations," Genya says quietly behind his brother. 

"Good afternoon, young Shinazugawa!"

Genya bows. Though Kyojuro is technically his superior in the Demon Slayer Corps, the younger Shinazugawa is usually not so formal with you both. 

From the corner of his eye, Genya glances at his brother, who does not look at him.

"I was visiting Shinobu-san," Shinazugawa tells Kyojuro, but after Genya kneels, Shinazugawa takes the cushion opposite Genya. He face Kyojuro while Genya faces you. 

The kakushi sets the bowl of blood between you and Genya. You do not close your eyes because that would make you focus on the smell. Instead, you glance past Genya's spiked hair, to the wind stirring the flowers outside the window. 

Genya glances at his brother, Kyojuro, and then you. When you meet his eyes, he holds your gaze and bows.

"Itadakimasu—" he mutters quickly.

As Genya drinks your blood, the room reacts to his thanking you for the meal. 

"She is not food!" Kyojuro shouts as you and Shinazugawa explode into laughter. He's furious, his hair waving in the wind like flames, his haori-cape bellowing out behind his back. You pat his arm.

"It's all right. He's being polite."

The scent of flowers drifts into the window, enveloping the smell of blood. Sharp instruments and human experimentation is another matter, but in the echo of laughter, you find that the Butterfly Estate is no longer frightening to you.

..........

When the bowl is empty, you leave the reception room with the kakushi who's come to collect it. Genya has an adult chaperone, and you give the brothers privacy.

Kanae's spirit waits on the engawa outside the room.

"Congratulations," she smiles at you and Kyojuro. 

You turn to him.

"Kocho Kanae-san's spirit is with us."

"I see!" Kyojuro turns, though he isn't looking in the right direction. "Good day, Kocho-san! I have received my father's permission—"

"—To court Fujiwara-san," Kanae recites in time to Kyojuro's announcement. "I heard," she smiles at you, and you're struck by how she and Shinazugawa gave identical responses.

You brush Kyojuro's arm, "We were planning on lunch first, before we proceed to the airport for picking up Hakuji-san. Would you like to pick the restaurant?"

Do spirits eat? The Panchen did give the Yoshiwara spirits candy, so you figure it wouldn't hurt to ask.

"I am in the mood for donburi, if you wouldn't mind. I can experience scent and taste, though the food remains untouched. But before we proceed to lunch, Fujiwara-san, are you aware that the Butterfly Estate has a chrysanthemum garden? I've always admired the flower's medicinal properties, and autumn is the season for blooms..." 

..........

Lunch is a three way conversation. You speak on behalf of Kanae, ordering her dish which Kyojuro eats after confirming that the spirit is done and Kanae gives him permission. The empty bowl joins his growing pile.

The three of you arrive at the airport in early afternoon, but turbulence delayed Hakuji's plane. It's not until sunset that the monoplane descends from the clouds, but instead of the cabin, Hakuji emerges from the plane's landing gear. Before the wheels hit the ground, he leaps out of the sky.

Instead of spattering, Hakuji stands from his crouching position to the stunned silence of the airport staff.

"Over here," you shout from the gate, waving both your arms in wide arcs above your heads. What you lack in volume, Kyojuro supplements with his voice. 

The airport authorities move to hush you. You point at your car parked outside the airport fence. Then, you point at the airport, where a long line has gathered at security from other international arrivals. You shake your head, crossing your arms in an 'X.' 

Hakuji nods. In lieu of going through security, he jumps the fence. You and Kyojuro race to the waiting car, Kanae laughing as you cover the license plate and hop into the driver's seat, speeding away before the airport cops can stop you.

Inside the car, Hakuji undoes the top button of his shirt, letting a massive, shining beetle out into the air, but your attention's distracted by the second spirit passenger in your back seat. Kanae smiles at the girl in the middle seat, who's wearing a pale blue kimono in a style two centuries old. She pats the leather chair, then glances at your eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.

You meet her gaze as the sun sets, the orange light passing translucently through her skin.

"Good afternoon," you bow as much as you can while driving, "my name is Fujiwara Kiku."

The spirit following Hakuji covers her mouth, glancing at Hakuji, then Kanae on either side of her.

"Is Miss Kiku talking to me?" she whispers to the other spirit. Kanae nods.

"I am," you confirm as well.

"Oh, good heavens," Koyuki murmurs in a dialect two centuries old, "You can see me?"

Chapter Text

Kanae agreed with your temporarily withholding information from Shinobu, knowing her younger sister's brash temper beneath the calm smile. Once Hakuji arrives, you request Shinobu's presence in your garden.

"Good morning, Fujiwara-san," Shinobu smiles with polite compliments on your new house. You nod at Eagle One, sending the crow to bring Hakuji from the Rengoku Estate now that Shinobu has arrived. Then, you cut through the pleasantries, all business like she pretends not to be. 

"You will recall that I can speak to the dead," and you give Shinobu your notes regarding Douma's habits, tactics, weakness, and blood demon arts.

The smile clicks off as Shinobu reads. Her open eyes are sharp, analytical, and intense, the young scientist emerging from beneath the placid mask.

"Where's my sister?" Shinobu demands.

Kanae stands with Koyuki. They had been chatting quietly about furniture, but Kanae has more thoughts on your landscaping as the former flower hashira. At Shinobu's question, Kanae smiles in the direction of her sister, and then you.

"Here," you gesture in her spirit's direction, and Shinobu's expression twists.

It's unfair how you can meet the spirits of the people they love. Hakuji likes you and he shut down at the fact that you met Koyuki, though he has been missing her for two centuries. Shinobu puts on her smile and you recognize in the habit a defense mechanism like Kyojuro crossing his arms. Rage simmers underneath that smile.

"She's here," you murmur, tracing Kanae's outline in the air as her spirit walks closer. Koyuki excuses herself, drifting away to give the siblings privacy. 

"Can she hear me?" Shinobu asks, her voice somehow even, her smile unmoving though her fists shake.

Kanae nods. You say yes.

"Yes."

"I will kill him," Shinobu promises. "The upper rank two. I will kill him. This I swear."

Kanae moves closer to her sister, passing a palm over the wrinkles kneading the skin between her brows. Her other hand raises, held parallel to the ground just over Shinobu's head, measuring how her once younger sister has grown. When Kanae reaches for Shinobu's shoulders, her arms pass through.

"His name is Douma," Kanae says. You translate.

"I don't give a—"

You start at the vehemence in Shinobu's tone, but she swallows the curse, bowing in Kanae's direction.

Shinobu returns to the transcribed notes. She reads them twice—you can tell by the movement of her eyes.

"Where is she?" Shinobu asks you. The notes include no locational information.

Eagle One lands on your head, as if on cue. You grimace as talons pull on your hair. He rights himself. Shinobu raises a brow.

"I would like for you to meet someone before the full debriefing," you explain as Hakuji enters the garden, Koyuki's spirit behind him.

Hakuji turns as if searching for someone. You clear your throat, gesturing at Shinobu.

"Hakuji-san, this is the Insect Hashira."

"It's a girl?" Hakuji scowls, staring down at Shinobu. "How old is this kid?" 

Shinobu's brow twitches above the everpresent smile. 

"Hakuji-san, how nice to meet you in person," and she offers her hand.

Hakuji reaches for the handshake, leaving his side open.

Shinobu stabs him. 

As you step back in shock, she explodes with a flurry of attacks, her rage manifesting into the physical assault on Hakuji. 

At first, he blocks, taking hits as he learn to discern her intentions in the thick cloud of killing intent. Eventually, he growls with frustration, batting at her with finesse of an elephant trying to swat a fly.

"Oho. That won't do, Hakuji-san," Shinobu taunts. 

You see the moment that she breaks through Hakuji's insistence on not fighting women. Instead of speeding up, he slows, his movements becoming intentional instead of instinctive. Ice forms beneath his feet, encrusting your groundcover.

Shinobu notices. Her smile remains unchanged, but her eyes take on the sharpness of analysis. Her form changes, her haori fluttering out like the wings of a butterfly before both opponents blur, their movements so fast that they've become invisible to your eyes.

..........

As you fail to watch the match, Kanae glances at Koyuki, who's staring with wide eyes. The older sister smiles apologetically, lowering her head.

"I'm very sorry—"

"But she is magnificent!" Koyuki exclaims breathlessly. Her eyes sparkle, her gaze on Shinobu because she's already watched Hakuji fight as Akaza for two centuries. 

Kanae straightens, beaming with pride. As Shinobu tests the techniques she developed for Douma on the other ice user, Koyuki glances at the older Kocho sister from the corner of her eye. She steps closer, murmuring a question. Kanae explains her sister's techniques as you squat in the grass and mourn your garden.

..........

You don't know how long they fight except that it's too long. By the time Shinobu tires, Hakuji's healing has slowed, and your garden has been decimated.

Shinobu pants as Hakuji raises his arms in a truce.

"You're good," he says as Shinobu raises the point of her sword to his neck.

"You noticed?" Shinobu replies, her smile mocking as she sheathes the sword and turns back to you.

You do not look at the frozen corpses of your chrysanthemums which were just budding to bloom. You swallow your misery and clear your throat.

"I would like you to fight Douma together."

Shinobu wants to, but she knows that she cannot reject you because of your access to Kanae. You know Douma's location, and you're not telling unless she plays along.

"Would Hakuji-san fight alongside a woman?" Shinobu asks instead.

Hakuji joins her, walking to her side as he also approaches you.

"That woman is a demon," he says, pointing to Shinobu with his thumb.

Shinobu reaches for her sword. Hakuji catches the bare blade in his hands. You grimace, turning away as he bleeds, the wound healing slower than usual.

Hakuji licks his blood, sucking up and spitting out the poison

"Can you freeze it?" he points at the poison burning a hole into your groundcover. "I can inject the ice into his bloodstream through a ranged attack..." 

Shinobu's eyes narrow, but her rationality overrides any distaste she has for Hakuji. You struggle to follow their discussion of tactics and techniques, but Kanae and Koyuki give ideas that you translate. Both spirits, especially Kanae but also Koyuki, have better senses for martial arts. While Koyuki was never a fighter, she's watched over Akaza's battles for the last two centuries to developed a keen assessment ability. 

After they finalize next steps for killing Douma, Shinobu looks to you, then the space around you.

"Please tell her I'm very proud of how everyone has grown, but especially her," Kanae murmurs. Her smile persists, but her voice cracks and you find it hard to breathe under the weight of all the words unspoken.

..........

Shinobu requests a week of vacation, before which she'll hand off her duties at the Butterfly Estate to the kakushi. Hakuji has Douma's location. Once Shinobu's ready, he'll meet her at the Butterfly Estate, from where they'll travel together to the cult.

Kanae lingers after Shinobu departs for the Butterfly Estate. 

"I suspect my spirit remains on earth not for need of passage but for lingering attachments," she tells you as Hakuji starts to clean up your ruined garden. "I expect I will pass on after Douma's death."

Kanae will be returning to the Butterfly Estate. After, she'll accompany Shinobu and Hakuji to the battle with Douma.

"This is goodbye, then," you surmise.

Kanae bows, "It was a pleasure to work with you, however briefly. And to meet you," she bows to Koyuki.

Koyuki's spirit watches Kanae walk away, then runs after her.

"Kanae-san!" she calls, "Wait."

Kanae's spirit pauses. Koyuki wrings the fabric of her kimono, a nervous gesture from life.

"I read books about women like you and your sister, but they were fiction," Koyuki says, all the words rushing out together. "I didn't know real women could be like you. I wish we could have met in life, I would've loved to hear of all your adventures."

"You've had quite a few adventures yourself, no?" Kanae smiles, "I would've liked to travel the world as you have."

Koyuki covers her mouth, blinking.

"I have, haven't I?" she murmurs and the smile filters into her expression, shy but bright like sunshine after rain.

After Kanae's departure, Koyuki's unusually quiet. When you translated for her and Hakuji, you mentioned your newfound ability to help spirits pass on. Koyuki needs to think and you give her space.

"I don't want to go to heaven yet," Koyuki decides as the sun sets. You're out in a still-presentable portion of your new garden, trying the buckwheat tea you found that afternoon because Koyuki had mentioned missing the flavor. 

The spirit beside you takes a sip of her tea. Though the physical cup doesn't move, she seems to enjoy the flavor.

"Kanae-san gathered intelligence for you and the demon slayers, right? I could do that," Koyuki suggests. "Hakuji-san can fend for himself. I'm not much use fighting," Koyuki looks at her hands, "but your allies are strong. I want to be strong, too."

You close your eyes, then recite the most gory fragments of your information on Japan's demons. Muzan eats humans. He punched a hole through Hakuji's head and injected his blood. That's the least of the horrors that Koyuki might witness—the demon slayers have reported far worse, which you describe to Koyuki before adding that the corps may sanitize the gore from your reports, knowing your inability to stomach it. Their reality is likely more horrific than you know.

"Death may make you physically invulnerable, but witnessing atrocities? I suspect those experiences can change you—your spirit—even after death."

Koyuki weighs your words until her tea cools. You drink the cup and refill it with warm liquid. She smiles in thanks.

"I don't think anything can prepare you for that horror," Koyuki replies after a few more sips, and you wonder if she is remembering her own murder. "I could not tell you how I will respond until it happens, but I can promise—I'm good with my mind? I'm not sure how to explain," Koyuki bites her lip. 

"When you're very sick for a long time, it's easy to think about nothing but the pain. It consumes your thoughts. I learned to put it away. I may not be the most brilliant woman or a scientist like Shinobu-san and Kanae-san, but I am good at sorting through the thoughts in my mind, deciding what can stay, and putting away the rest. So even if there are risks, I would like to try," Koyuki decides with determination. You smile at her. 

"I think you're strong in your own way."

"Do you really think so?" she covers her face, but your trust says more than your words.

"Give me some time to prepare while you accompany Hakuji-san to the battle with Douma. I'll have a debriefing and espionage plan prepared before your return."

Chapter Text

You know first when Douma dies because Tokyo fills with souls, most of them women, more of them beautiful.

None of them wait. Not all ask for permission. There are so many, and they rush you all at once, done with earth after centuries trapped by the former upper rank two demon. Thousands of ghostly touches brush over your skin. You barely feel them except for the exhaustion after. It sinks you into sleep so deep you miss the crows coming home, announcing the victory of the Insect Hashira. She's been wounded and brought back to Butterfly Estate.

When you wake, the Rengoku Estate seems quieter. Kyojuro isn't supposed to return from his mission until later in the week, but you don't hear his tsuguko. You don't think they've missions these days, so they must have gone to see Shinobu at the Butterfly Mansion.

When you slide open the paper door, Koyuki's facing off against a wall of women in clothes from many time periods. She and an older lady in Edo clothes are in a whisper-shouting match, as if being quiet to avoid disturbing your sleep. You raise a hand.

"Excuse me—"

The older woman reaches for you. Koyuki slaps her hand away. Now that you're awake, the woman's voice rises.

"...been waiting for decades!"

"So you can wait one more day," Koyuki declares.

You clear your throat.

"Has Hakuji-san returned?" you ask her.

"He's ready to go," she confirms. 

You stop before the nichirin sword from the side of your room furthest from your desk and your bed. You can draw it sometimes, on better days, especially if you're with others on the training grounds. You've become better at not thinking or overthinking—you can usually hold the sheathed sword now, almost every time you try. 

You reach for the sheath, close your hand around it, move your arm. The sword can't cut you from inside the wood and leather—it's not physically possible, see? You're doing it, holding the sword. Now, you just have to walk.

Koyuki pushes back the other ghosts to escort you through the estate. As you walk, she briefs you on the battle with the upper moon two.

You were aware of Shinobu's poison-based abilities, which had been enhanced with you and your groups's wisteria research. As a fighter, she's fast but physically weak and human. Hakuji's ice abilities and regeneration enabled him to serve as a shield. 

You hold the wall, blanching at the thought. Koyuki simplifies her descriptions of battle, moving quickly to the end when Hakuji helped push Shinobu's blade through Douma's throat. Then, he carried her back to the Butterfly Estate, leaving before anyone powerful could try and hold him for questioning.

"Has he eaten?" you ask as you arrive at the kitchen to find Hakuji scarfing down rice and fish. Koyuki giggles. You wave apologetically as she shuts the doors on hundreds of ghosts.

You try not to drop the sword too quickly. It still clatters too loud against the tatami beside Hakuji, but maybe that's in your head.

When you stand, he reaches for the handle of the blade. The weight that you put down returns to your shoulders like a boulder.

"Please—" you strain, unable to muster any more words. You're tired. You don't want to see the blade today—you can already picture that sharp, silvered edge in your mind. It's the nice swords that are the most dangerous—they don't hurt until it's too late. The nice swords cut flesh like butter.

"Hey," Hakuji says. The massive beetle has emerged from his shirt to buzz concernedly around your head. You still think you're hallucinating how big the bug is.

Hakuji's holding up his hands. The nichirin sword—your nichirin sword—remains sheathed behind him. Koyuki's face is red, as if she's been shouting.

"Sorry," Hakuji says. You shake your head, glancing at his half-eaten meal on the table. 

His teacup is empty. You go to the stove and hold the back of your hand over the kettle. It's warm enough, so you refill his cup before pouring one for Koyuki and one for yourself while Hakuji puts himself between you and the sword, then tosses it onto the other side of the room.

"You—you are uninjured?" you ask after you recover your thoughts. 

Koyuki takes the seat beside you. You sit across from Hakuji, who shows you his arm.

"I am now." The skin's unblemished.

"Koyuki described your battle to me," you glance to the ghost, who gives her compliments, critiques, and suggestions that you convey to Hakuji's nods, thoughtful frowns, and eye-rolls. Passing her thoughts on is easy—you relax, your mind half-present as the couple chats through you.

"Do you need rest?" you ask Hakuji after.

He points his thumb at the sword on the other side of the kitchen.

"Not if you've work for me," he says.

"You know Eagle One," you begin. Hakuji grins at the memory of the Americna crow. His beetle shudders, crawling back under his collar. "He will lead you to the Final Selection forest," you pause.

"Eagle Two may want to come along. Make sure she doesn't get lost," Koyuki says. You translate. Hakuji rolls his eyes. You clear your throat.

"Per our intelligence, there should be at least six dozen demons in the forest. Like we've discussed, we should try and spare any with a conscience—"

"That won't happen," Hakuji says. You sigh. You cannot save everyone, especially when the next final selection is incoming. More people will die unless Hakuji clears the forest.

"Then—" you draw your hand across your throat.

"Kill them all," Koyuki says.

..........

Koyuki goes with Hakuji to the final selection forest but soon returns, confident in his ability with the lower level threats. She leaves again to canvass the city in search of Kibutsuji and the Upper Rank One. 

You help the last of the remaining souls move on, except for the ones who decided to stay after meeting Koyuki. For them, you map out the districts of Tokyo and assign a hundred-or-so souls to search for demons.

The tsuguko return and leave on their own missions before the crows announce Kyojuro's return. When he arrives, you're overseeing construction on your house and helping with the heavy lifting. You brush off the dust before jogging to the front entrance of the estate.

"You are particularly radiant today!" 

You reach up to cover your blush and then sneeze at all the wood dust.

"Ah!" Kyojuro reaches forward, brushing a smudge of dirt off your nose.

"Particularly radiant?" you crook a brow.

"Well! It is true!" he insists, following you to the washroom.

Kyojuro ladles water for you to rinse your hands, and then your face. He's not incorrect. As you helped more souls pass on, the going went easier and you felt lighter. In the basin's water, your reflection has brighter skin than you remember. You feel healthier and stronger than you've ever been, which is impossible. You're immortal. Your body has not changed in a thousand years.

This doesn't feel like the feverish energy that came with your sharpening senses, teeth, and anger, but you don't know what this and you don't like that, not knowing.

"The Panchen suspected that something would happen when I returned to Japan," you admit.

"What does that mean!"

You wave a hand before you, all around you.

"He suggested that this is some sort of—test, perhaps? For enlightenment? I don't recall the phrasing exactly, much less understand..."

As you dry your hands, Kyojuro glances at them. Before you can lower them to your sides, he takes your hand, examining your fingers against his palm.

"I think you are passing! With flying colors!"

You begin to smile, until he continues.

"It concerns me!"

You take Kyojuro's hand, pulling him towards your new house as he finds the words. He stops halfway between the main estate buildings and your new home.

"In this world I have known demons but not gods! Except your odd friend! It follows, then—enlightenment takes most people away! Elsewhere!"

You let him pull you closer. Kyojuro's irises can be orange or even crimson, but in this light, they're golden. At your proximity, his voice softens.

"There are futures for which I had been prepared—to die in battle. To pass of old age. I was not prepared for this! I am fortunate to have you. My family. The demon slayers—"

Kyojuro swallows. You watch his throat bob, and then he's looking at you like he never does.

"I do not know if I can follow where you go after this," he says, and then his eyes close. "I fear you are not meant for this earth."

You try to chuckle. The sound comes out nervous instead of disbelieving. You're just a girl, but you have known and seen more than most of the enormousness about the entire universe where all things are possible.

"I'm not going anywhere," you swear. Kyojuro squeezes your hand.

"Promise?" he asks. You press your forehead to his, linking your pinkies together.

"I promise," and you should know better, having been witness and recipient to enough promises broken that the sharp fragments would fill a baseball stadium, then spill over. 

You're different, having been made different from watching all the promises broken and kept, remembered and forgotten, clung to and abandoned. Your promise is not a desperate thing, spoken with more wanting than certainty. Maybe it was all the souls over the past days, maybe it's all that's happened over the past months, or maybe it's your entire lifetime, years on centuries stacked atop each other until everything tumbles and runs like a glacier melting into the ocean that circles the world and envelops the heavens. 

You're not enlightened yet. There will be bad days or weeks or even years. You're still careful to not become a demon, but you've also new confidence beyond the causes that drive you, which brought you here today. You know that everything will be okay, and you try to give that conviction to Kyojuro.

..........

When Shinobu wakes, the Ubuyashiki Estate summons you and Hakuji to the trial by the hashira of the former upper rank three. You want to burn the invitation-slash-summons in the kitchen fire.

"You're full of killing intent," Hakuji observes, leaning too close. When annoyance flashes across your face, he dances back with a grin.

"This is a farce," you wave the cards, letting the invitations flutter in the air. "We all know how this ends."

Even if Ubuyashiki could afford to piss you off, he can't lose a skilled and effectively immortal fighter. He's not stupid enough to kill Hakuji. The 'trial' is a show to give the Hashira an illusion of choice, or another dose of soothing-voice.

"You're not going?"

You glare at Hakuji from your desk. He laughs.

"So. You don't have to go. You don't want to go. You're still going?"

"Ubuyashiki playing silly games won't prevent me from winning them," you reply.