Work Text:
First Form: Thunderclap and Flash
He’s lulled into a misleading comfort at the ease and fluidity with which you move; the swiftness of your transitions from stance to stance; the rhythm of your inhalations, exhalations — never sweltering, never heightened. They move prettily, but can they strike when it counts? Hit where it hurts? Zenitsu doesn’t mean to be haughty, but you’re so… ethereal: your body speaks of art and aesthetic — not of push or shove. He’s less so envious, more so fascinated. A child convinced they could do better than their parent, albeit appreciative of their efforts. He watches you train because you glisten and twist and put on a magnificent show. But he’s confident he could beat you. You’re enthralling — not threatening.
He’s sorely mistaken.
The first time you spar—Agatsuma! Are going to keep suspiciously watching me whenever I train… or participate?—Zenitsu swears you’re toying with him. You’re fast. Of course, he’s fast too. You’re both adept users of Thunder Breathing — that he’s willing to concede. It’s been a while since he’s dwelled on his inability to master the forms beyond Thunderclap and Flash, but your slick, mesmerizing footwork—navigating, weaving, surrounding him—provokes his self deprecation.
“[y/n],” he grumbles.
You shake your head, droplets of sweat flicking from your hair the only hint of your exertion, “You’re doing great, Agatsuma.”
He strongly dislikes when you call him Agatsuma — the formality sticky and uncomfortable. Then again, he muses, I’m not exactly friendly around them.
“You’re taunting me.”
“Taunting?” you halt, sucking in sharply as his staff smacks you square in your chest.
“Like that! Why’d you let me whack you?” he yelps.
“You think I’m taunting you?”
“Yesss,” he whines, “You, you’re… dancing with me — I want you to fight me.”
Your mouth twitches, “You sound like Hashibira.”
ARGH.
“I do NOT sound like Inosuke!”
“What’s wrong?” you raise an eyebrow.
“What’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong! What’s wrong? I’m, I’m, I’m-“ Zenitsu crumples to the ground, “Ithoughtyou’dbeeasytobeat but you’re not and now I’m very close to sobbing.”
You snort. At least he’s honest.
“Get up.”
“No.”
“I said,” you rap the top of his head with your staff, “Get. Up.”
“Why are you doing this to meeeee?” he blubbers.
You crouch beside him, steeliness gone, “I know you aren’t this pathetic, Agatsuma. Hashibira brags incessantly about your successful missions, so why do I bring you to shambles?”
You’re puzzled. Genuinely. You’re typically sent on smaller, solo missions—have yet to fight alongside Agatsuma, Hashibira, or Kamado—but you know Agatsuma’s perfected Thunderclap and Flash, and you wonder why he’s so humiliated. Quality over quantity you firmly believe.
“Please get up, Agatsuma,” you stand, extending your hand to him, “Dance with me. I promise I would never taunt you I promise I would never underestimate you.”
He sniffles, wiping his dripping nose on the sleeve of his haori.
“You’re so pretty when you move,” he whimpers frustratedly.
You scoff, biceps flexing as you sink into your favorite stance.
“If I’m pretty, then you are my horizon.”
Zenitsu doesn’t know what the heck you mean by that, but it sounds… like a compliment?
“Which means,” you dart forward, staff poking his sternum, “I look to you.”
Second Form: Rice Spirit
Your statement follows Zenitsu. For days. Weeks. Confusing him. Annoying him. You look to him? I look to you, [y/n]. Never, have I noticed you looking to me. He notices how your eyelashes cling together when they’re wet. Notices how the corners of your lips lift when you step into the sun. How you talk to yourself, likely forgetting about his impeccable hearing: Ouch. Stupid wall. Oof. Fucking chair. Fuck. FUCK. Piss OFF. I’m not in the mood for this. If it weren’t for the accompanying bumps and thuds, then he’d find it difficult to imagine you—you—being clumsy. You’re always utterly calm and collected otherwise. Steady. Intentful. Unreadable.
And then you glance at him.
It’s fleeting: maybe you’re eyeing the bowl of pickled ginger next to him? But then your eyes narrow — why would they react to pickled ginger like that?
“Agatsuma,” you balance your chopsticks on the edge of your bowl.
“[y/n]?” he acknowledges you weakly.
“Care for an evening spar?”
Inosuke and Tanjirou are not so subtly ignoring you both: Inosuke scarfing his dinner rapidly; Tanjirou hyper focused on individually eating every single grain of rice in his bowl.
“Tanjirou?” he gulps, “Inosuke?” another gulp, “Guuuyyysss?”
He resigns himself to his torment.
“O-okay [y/n].”
"I’ll be where I usually am, Agatsuma. Join me when you’re ready.”
With a nod, you leave.
“You’re lucky,” Tanjirou remarks.
Zenitsu balks—I’m parched—too jittery to hold his mug of sencha tea, “HOw?”
“Well,” Tanjirou’s cautious, aware of Zenitsu’s… issues, with you. “They use Thunder Breathing, you use Thunder Breathing. Surely that’s ideal for learning?”
“They don’t teach me,” Zenitsu wails, “They beat me with their staff and then tell me I did great when I clearly didn’t beCAUSE THEY BEAT MEEEEE.”
Inosuke slaps him.
“STOP CRYING IDIOT,” Inosuke roars, “IF THEY BEAT YOU, THEN JUST BEAT THEM BACK HARDER.”
“Taaanjiiirooou, Inosuke punched meeeee.”
Sighing, Tanjirou pats his shoulder, shooting Inosuke a stern look.
“You could try talking with them? They seem alright,” Tanjirou suggests tentatively.
“But their eyes are so intense and their muscles ripple and they’re meeeaaan.”
“Your muscles ripple too, dumbass,” Inosuke interjects, “And you look very intense with your snot bubble.”
Zenitsu screams.
Tanjirou gives up.
Inosuke snickers.
Third Form: Thunder Swarm
Dry, summer grass crunches under your bare, toughened heels as you pace the length of the yard, staff twirling mindlessly as you bite at your tongue. Night’s settling in, its cooler shadows hugging your uniform. You’re tired. And waiting. You’ve tracked the moon’s path since you arrived—an hour’s passed since dinner finished—his face fading in and out of focus at the bottom of your guilty pleasures. You’d been excited, originally—another Thunder Breathing user?!—until Agatsuma’d made it obvious that he had an enormous inferiority complex. Perhaps you weren’t the best individual to navigate such emotional turmoil, but you had a weak soft spot for his floppy, ombre hair.
You’d recognize his footsteps anywhere.
“Agatsuma,” you’re very practiced at concealing your delight regarding Agatsuma.
Unfortunately, that means you tend to sound, disappointed, instead.
“I can go-”
“No,” you toss him a staff, wincing inwardly as he fumbles it.
“You could’ve warned me,” he pouts.
“I invited you to spar? Sparring implies a staff?”
“Yeah, but, yeah, ugh,” he hangs his head.
You could try talking with them? They seem alright.
“Are you alright?” the question comes out wrong.
He cringes.
“Pardon, Agatsuma?”
He swallows nervously, “I’m scared of you.”
He hears your heart falter. He hears your heart falter. What?
“That’s… upsetting.”
“You move so elegantly, like calligraphy, like seed pods in the wind,” he clarifies, “And you use Thunder Breathing.”
“You compare yourself to me.”
“You’re the standard,” he admits quietly.
You chuckle, bordering on bitter, “Standard for what?”
“Thunder Breathing.”
The tiny bud nestled in the hollow of your heart aches. You’re proud of your substantial mastery of Thunder Breathing. Proud of your work ethic. Your restlessness. The demons you’ve slain exceeding ten digits. I wish you could be proud of yourself too, Agatsuma. You should be.
“Do you remember what I said?” Zenitsu squints at you. “You are my horizon.”
“Uh, what does that mean?” he mumbles.
"You forgot that part too?” you smile wryly, “I look to you, Agatsuma.”
“No. No, you don’t,” the strangled gasp tearing itself from Agatsuma unsettles you, “You do not look to me. I don’t know w-what effect you’re g-going f-for, but it’s n-not very n-nice.”
And then he bursts into tears.
You freeze, staff splintering in your grip as you stare in disbelief at the cowering man. This was not the effect I was going for you grimace.
“Zenitsu,” you’re hesitant.
His head jolts up, hidden behind the sleeves of his haori.
You squat, as if approaching an injured animal, “Would you prefer to watch me train for a bit? Or we could,” your cheeks burn, and you thank the stars in the sky that Zenitsu can’t see through the sleeves of his haori, “talk?”
Slowly, his sleeves reveal his befuddled expression, “T-talk?”
“There aren’t a lot of us Thunder Breathing users,” you shrug, “We ought to be familiar,” you reach out, thumb touching his wrist, “If you’re interested?”
He’s shocked by your forthcoming gentleness. As well as. Ashamed. I’m not exactly friendly around them. And, embarrassed. Tch. Bawling my eyeballs out got them to crack? Pitiful.
“Zenitsu?”
He grabs your elbow before you can pull away.
“I’m interested.”
Fourth Form: Distant Thunder
And if I were to know
How close we would come
To holding the weight
Of each other’s worlds in our palms
I’d let you in
In from the rain
The tears you sowed in me
Falling with the pain
Let me settle
Into the nest of your memories
Paint them so delicately
With the heaviest pieces of me
I never looked into your eyes
Until your nose dug to
My spine
Brittle, breaking, bent
Yours to savor, yours to save
If you’ll have my forgiveness
Then I’ll never look
Away
Fifth Form: Heat Lightning
“I let you win that bout,” you snarl, neck smarting as his staff presses smugly to your skin.
“Don’t be a sore loser,” Zenitsu giggles.
“Hypocritical crybaby,” you huff.
You can’t help yourself. You beam at him. At your this beautiful, glowing man. That tiny bud nestled in the hollow of your heart? Fully blossomed.
—
Your first proper conversation had been… painfully shy. You’d sat on the porch across from the training yard: your feet dangling, his timidly crossed — the suddenness of going from sparring to talking, from an irritable uncertainty to a brimming curiosity, reasonably awkward. You’d felt…exposed — sleepy and stripped of your inhibitions. The embrace of moonlight, normally soothing, had illuminated the fragile flecks beneath your translucent exterior: the compassion in your gaze, the protectiveness of your movements, your heart’s optimism.
“You’re clumsy,” Zenitsu, surprisingly, had split the silence, voice louder in the moisture of the dark.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re constantly bumping, thudding, walking, crashing, into stuff.”
“You stalk me,” you’d retorted flatly.
“I have excellent hearing, [y/n],” he’d smiled triumphantly.
“What did I trip on this morning?”
“Something wooden. The thud was… muted. You cursed out whatever it was.”
“It was my tansu,” you grunt.
“You also kicked it angrily — after tripping on it.”
“Quit rubbing in my shortcomings,” you’d glared.
He’d looked at you. Thoroughly. Noticed the gleam of your hair in a newfound light. Messy. The attitude of your jaw as you scowled. Tempting. How even in stillness, you moved. Moved his breath from his lungs to his stomach; from his stomach to his groin. Changed his reservation to intrigue; his intrigue to something fuzzy.
“I enjoy your shortcomings,” he’d whispered.
You’d talked and talked: favorite color, favorite weather, favorite meal—lunch, Zenitsu, it’s the most important meal “Wrong, [y/n], that title belongs to dinner!”, favorite kind of tree—”None of them! They could fall on me!” Zenitsu, has a tree fallen on you? “Not yet, but what if?”; and then you ask him—what’s your deepest fear?
He has faaar too many, and picking one would require sifting through them which would reduce him to quivers especially since it’s moon-o-clock and he doesn’t feel like psyching himself out because he’s finally getting to know you and spooking himself would absolutely disrupt your fledgling connection sooooo he impulsively blurts.
“Dancing with you.”
You’d feigned offense as he’d bugged out in front of you, praying for the ground to devour him whole.
“It’s late,” you’d decided abruptly, “I’m going to rest.”
“[y/n],” he’d groaned.
“Zenitsu?”
“I’m afraid of how dancing with you would… make me feel.”
You’d smiled devilishly, waved goodnight. Rolled into bed. Counted backwards from 100. Muttered aloud.
“I hope it would make you feel elated. Safe. Untethered.”
You’d known he’d heard you.
—
“I’m sensitive, [y/n]. There’s a difference,” Zenitsu withdraws his staff to his hip, offering you his hand.
“You’ve improved,” you take his hand, his callouses catching on your own.
He basks in your unprompted praise, marveling at the gift of your fingers laced between his.
“You’re patient with me,” he’s eager to credit you.
You gravitate to him, placing his palm on your soon-to-be-bruised neck. He’s stuck. Stuck in the infinity of your movement. In the reassurance of your leisurely pulse. The proximity of your trusting smile.
“No, I’m not,” you murmur, lips brushing sweetly against his stunned mouth, “That wasn’t very patient of me, was it?”
A low noise vibrates in his throat.
“Never mind,” his staff falls, hands free to grasp your sides, their tautness eliciting a desperate moan from him, “You’re impatient. Very impatient. Continue being impatient. I like it,” he tilts your chin upward, “I like you.”
Sixth Form: Rumble and Flash
Sway my core
From beyond the fracture
My faith in you
A welcomed distraction
Best my ways
Topple my throne
Humility the token
I’m unsure how to adore
What’s your deepest fear?
That look in your eyes
Haunted
Distant
Too good at goodbyes
Be brave, unafraid
Unwavering at the gate to my soul
Shrouded in midnight
The definition of my being
I wonder
If I toured yours
Would the same void persist?
Ah
No
You are too golden
Burnished, bold, brilliant
The only heat capable
Of stirring my
Ambition
Seventh Form: Honoikazuchi no Kami
“You’re awake?!” Inosuke’s baffled.
“I’d rather be asleep,” Zenitsu replies through gritted teeth.
“So why are you awake?” Tanjirou’s worried.
“Pay attention,” Zenitsu slashes, deflecting multiple kunai hurtling toward them.
They’re two days into their mission—hunting a trio of moderate strength demons preying on a fishing village—and he already misses your loving snark. Already misses being wrapped around your fingers. All of them. Misses spinning you in circles, and being spun. Your dizzying undulations. He isn’t much of a dancer without a staff or katana in hand, this you’d quickly discovered, but he listens to you, and you listen to your instincts. Sometimes you move hand in hand, chest against chest. Other times you move in tandem: separated, mirrored, contrasted, a thread of devotion just for you—just for him—floating from your leap to his wiggle, from your turning to his shimmying. His favorite times, however, are when he simply watches. Watches the grace of your arms, the sweeping, limber motions of your legs, toes consciously pointed. The music you move to is the one thing he cannot hear, but he can see. Can see the music swell as you stretch and run, run, run. Can see the music ebb as you curl and tug and smile. He never applauds. Just rushes to you as you pant, damp towel in hand for your shining forehead—Dancing is definitely a workout, Zeni!
“So why are you awake?” Inosuke nags.
“Aren’t you supposed to be terrified?” Tanjirou pipes.
Zenitsu hisses as skittering claws echo eerily nearby, “I am!”
They stand shoulder to shoulder, a hush before the assault: Inosuke itching to behead something, Tanjirou determined to relieve the village of its predators, and Zenitsu — Zenitsu is at peace. Tenderness caresses his heart, and as the demons crawl into view, he can almost hear the music—your music—humming warmly, resolutely, playfully. You’re doing great, Zeni.