Work Text:
Pinky
Kyojuro is a relatively private man. Not, necessarily, of conscious design: he simply, naturally, operates on a need-to-know basis. He doesn’t pry, badger, or impulsively butt in on the affairs of others. Doesn’t usually question, let alone doubt, the logic or motive behind that which he isn’t explicitly involved in. Whether due to his upbringing or his rank as a Hashira—which, if he’s being honest with himself, then it’s certainly due to both—he dutifully follows the command and will of his superiors. Namely, of course, Oyakata-sama, and his father to an extent when he so chooses to visit home — to visit Senjuro. Admittedly, he doesn’t have many superiors: an almost amusing thought to ponder when he can’t fall asleep at night—Rengoku Kyojuro, Flame Hashira, at the top of the Demon Slayer Corps—because Kyojuro is humble at best, and, at worst, surprisingly unaware of his capability and charisma. While slaying demons requires a high degree of adaptability, he is, at his core, a man of routine and direction. An amalgam of discipline, ambition, and integrity.
Honor.
Deference.
Responsibility.
“[y/n]!” he exclaims, startling your hurriedly moving figure.
“Rengoku-sama! I didn’t- My apologies- Uh- I’m in a rush!”
“Of course,” he waves sheepishly, “Do not let me interrupt! I am glad you are well.”
You nod, stalling for a moment, “What brings you to the Butterfly Mansion? You seem physically sound.”
He smiles unabashed, pleased by your observation, “I am alright! I am merely passing through.”
“Oh,” you swallow a disappointed noise Duh.
Oh? newfound curiosity flits across his expression, “Were you hoping to enjoy my company for longer?”
“That’s very forward of you,” you retort briskly, eyes narrowing in a poor attempt to hide your fluster.
Kyojuro’s confident chuckle warms your ears as his smile widens, “You aspire to become a Hashira, correct? I am always eager to familiarize myself with potential colleagues!”
Just in case he encounters a situation where he has to fight demons with you: the better he knows you, the easier—the more effective—collaboration during battle will be. Not because he’s already memorized the color of your eyes despite only meeting you twice. His intuition rarely leads him astray, is all, and when it comes to you — his intuition wants to burrow cozily and securely into your radiating sincerity.
“I’m pretty sure everyone aspires to become a Hashira,” you mutter.
“You are mistaken. Many slayers do not have the desire or courage to achieve such a rank! You are special.”
“Who’s special?” a third voice sneers.
Kyojuro wishes he’d imagined your slight wince, but the abrupt, involuntary fog glazing over your eyes tells him otherwise.
“Rengoku-sama,” a shrewd man bows stiffly before him, “I pray you were not inappropriately entertaining the dreams of my apprentice?”
And why would doing so be inappropriate? is what Kyojuro intends to remark — a swift and stern utterance to rebuke this strange, belittling man. But years of habit and instinct restrain his seething judgment. Instead, he firmly reminds himself that You do not know or understand their relationship, sparing you a faintly apologetic glance.
“I was sharing a casual greeting, sir. I would not dare interfere between a sensei’s teaching and their apprentice’s learning.”
If he’d turned a shade slower, then he would’ve seen the sharpness in your stare. The disappointment curling your fingers; the loss of respect tightening your throat. But he turns quickly, uneasily, oblivious to your plight. At least — that’s how his reaction feels to you. You have no way of knowing that, even though he doesn’t see it, he absolutely senses it: senses the edge of your frustration, the cruelty of your so called sensei. You have no way of knowing that, as Kyojuro stalks away, shame settles heavy and foreboding in his gut.
Promise
“... did what?”
“Rengoku-san, please … wait …”
“Don’t … where … Kocho-san”
“It’s none … you can’t …”
And then you hear him enter the ward.
“[y/n]?”
You’re too battered and weary to flinch, but your heart twinges nonetheless.
“[y/n]. I-”
He’s standing at the end of your cot—that much you can discern—as you refuse to open your eyes. Let him assume I’m asleep you scoff inwardly.
"I had no idea,” the remorse in his tone catches you off guard, “I should have said something.”
That holds your attention—in an anger inducing manner—your eyes flashing open.
“You should-”
As determined as you are to insult Kyojuro’s behavior, you find yourself choking at the sight of him frazzled. Fatigue tempers his typically bright gaze, eyebrows pinched worriedly; nose flared, chin scrunched; fiery hair messily tied back, stray tendrils framing his taut cheekbones in concerning disarray.
“I should have defended you,” he murmurs, uncharacteristically quiet, “That man—your sensei—felt… vile, yet I ran from his challenge.”
Kyojuro hardly ever despises himself. He’s resilient. Independent. Mature. And I failed to protect you. Who else can he blame for your puffy eyes — swollen from exhaustion? Who else can he blame for your bruised and bedridden body? Pushed beyond its limit. Forced on a perilous mission—far above your current ability—without any chance to recover from that man’s brutal, sadistic training. Preparing inexperienced, lower rank slayers for the relentless onslaught of pain, violence, and injury is an important and inevitable aspect of, well, being a slayer. But not like this Kyojuro’s jaw clenches You should not be here.
“I am responsible for you, and I-” he exhales raggedly, gripping unforgivingly at his haori, “I failed to protect you.”
Of course, he feels responsible for anyone below the Hashira rank. Slayers and civilians alike. Not, out of arrogance, but of duty and morality. And you? Well. He doesn’t detour to check on just anybody at the Butterfly Mansion. You watch him carefully, silently, stiffening as someone appears in the doorway.
Kyojuro notices the shift in your demeanor — especially as that presences seeps into the surrounding air. Harsh goosebumps raise along his flexed arms, albeit invisible under his unmistakable Flame Hashira haori, a cacophony of righteous rage bubbling in his chest.
“Rengoku-sama,” slurs that cold, slimy voice, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
"I, Rengoku Kyojuro, Flame Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps, strip you of your position and affiliation. You will never deserve the title of sensei. You are the utter disdain and opposite of sensei.”
Can he actually do that? is your immediate thought. He really does regret his previous inaction is your second. How will Sensei that man react? is your third thought, How will I progress without guidance? soon following.
“You do not have that authority.”
But he has intimidation. And connections. And uncanny finality that, with or without authority, his word is enough to ensure the reality of his declaration.
“And you do not have an apprentice. Not now. Not ever. Understood?”
Comprehension dawns, smirk morphing to an indignant, blustering facade of innocence and protest.
“You can’t do that?”
Kyojuro smiles coolly, “I can. I promise you. I can.”
The tension snaps. With a warning hand resting on his hilt, he strides toward the shriveling man. Unhinged. Gleaming. Dangerous. He won’t unsheath his katana—he isn’t that rash—but the pathetic man doesn’t know this.
“You should go,” he practically hisses.
The humiliated man swivels extravagantly, exiting the ward with a feeble flourish of his kimono, hardly disturbing the dominant, blazing aura rapidly devouring the lingering remnants of his presence.
You’re stunned by Kyojuro’s blatant exercise of power, frankly shocked by how smoothly he slipped into the roles of judge, jury, and executioner. But his next role unravels you. Unravels you as his fury dissipates, soft anxiety taking its place. As he gauges your emotional and mental state, removing his haori in a single motion, draping it across your lap. Is he blushing? Blinking unsteadily, nervously—repetitively—interlocking, separating, and interlocking his fingers.
“I apologize for depriving you of a sensei,” Kyojuro hesitates, heart in his throat, “I would be honored to fill the void I so untimely created.”
“But I don’t use Flame Breathing?” you squeak, fixated on the comforting, unexpectedly gentle scent emanating from his haori.
"I am optimistic that we can overcome that logistic!”
"You pity me,” you whisper, mindlessly tracing the flame pattern covering your legs.
"I admire you!” he’s resolute, “And I am responsible for my missteps. You would be doing me a favor, allowing me to amend my prior neglect.”
The tiniest of smiles tugs at your mouth.
“Okay,” you shrug, teasing mirth crinkling the corners of your eyes, “I suppose I’ll allow it.”