Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Every living being possesses a fighting spirit.

     Akaza knows this. He has known this for hundreds of years. Even babies, as they scream and cry for their mothers, have a faint aura that speaks of their will. Some are sharp, intense in a way that cuts into his consciousness and demands his attention. Others are bright and bold, filling the room effortlessly. Most are so disgustingly weak that it makes his stomach turn. He has seen an endless variety in his lifetime. All different shapes, colors, intensities.

     Never before has he felt one so dazzling.

     Akaza can feel it the second he sets foot at the site of the crashed train. There are plenty of human spirits that flicker meekly with fear and injury. Among them are those of a few younger slayers. These ones shine like the polished metal of the train once did, aglow with determination and willpower, but lacking any real talent at all. Typical. He could dispose of them with a snap of his wrist.

     If, of course, it weren’t for the absolute inferno currently radiating from across the tracks.

     Anticipation builds up in his chest as Akaza leaps across the clearing. Lower Moon One is dead, he is sure of that. Which means that at least one of the slayers responsible is Hashira level. Obviously, he chides himself, nobody else’s spirit would be so strong. But he can’t stop a slightly crazed grin from splitting his face as he approaches the spirit drawing him forward.

     The second Akaza sees him, he knows him.

     The man has his back turned, speaking with a younger slayer who is laid out on the ground. His body matches his spirit precisely. His hair is long and pulled half-back, falling over his shoulders and burning with the color of flames. Around his shoulders is a cloak which fades from white into a deep red. Strength seeps from every pore in his being. No doubt about it; this is Akaza’s guy.

     Akaza lands behind him, earth cracking under his feet. Excitement squirms in his belly. This is going to be the fight of his life, he’s sure of it.

     First, though, he must eliminate the distraction.

     He can smell blood leaking from the fallen slayer. Should he try to interfere, he would only slow them down. Therefore, logically, the boy should be the first one to go. He and his stupid checkered Haori can go straight to hell, and Akaza will fight this inferno of a man in his absence.

     A single leap is enough to propel Akaza within an arm’s length. His fist is mere inches from the boy’s face when his opponent springs into action. He whips around to face him, and Akaza is captivated by his eyes, the same blend of red and gold as his hair. They shine with passion unrivaled.

     A brilliant red flame blade slices through his forearm as if it is butter, and he flips away across the battlefield. His path to the weakling is blocked now, which he supposes can’t be helped. It is between him and the flame man now.

     “That’s a nice sword,” he purrs, licking the blood from his palm. It’s all for show, of course. His own blood tastes bitter on his tongue. But it does the trick quite nicely, and the weakling’s fighting spirit flares with panic.

     The slayer stands his ground. “Why would you go for an injured person first instead of me?” He calls out to him, and oh, what a powerful timbre. That voice could command a room effortlessly, and anyone in their right mind would listen. Akaza feels giddy.

     “I thought he might get in the way of our little chat, that’s all,” he grins, relishing in the distasteful look on the hashira’s face.

     “And what is it that you would like to discuss?” He retorts, unwavering. “We have only just met, and I already dislike you.”

     Oh, this is going wonderfully. “Is that right,” Akaza exclaims, amusement coloring his tone. “Well, I dislike weak humans.” He deliberately lets his gaze slip to stupid-checker-boy. “The mere sight of them is sickening.”

     “If that is so, than I believe we shall never get along.” The hashira’s spirit is beginning to grow brighter, like stoking embers, growing more and more aware as he takes in Akaza’s taunts. It makes his lungs feel tight as his opponent’s perception sweeps over his form and around the battlefield. Blood rushes sweeter through his veins and goosebumps cover his skin as the air grows tense around them. Akaza knows now that he does not want this to end. He wants to fight this man for eternity, for his skin to melt and burn off from the bite of the flame man’s blade, and to rip him apart limb by limb in return. An unceasing waltz, an immortal battle. Such exhilaration can be his. It can be theirs.

     Akaza finds himself making an offer.

     “That may be as it shall be,” he begins, “but such strength would be wasted on a mortal body.” He takes a step forward, heart pounding with anticipation. “Why don’t you join me, and become a demon as well?”

     “I shall not,” says the hashira definitively. His spirit is glowing orange with defiance.

     His opponent did not leave any room for argument, but Akaza is more than willing to force some in on his own.

     “Ah, but I can see your power at a glance! A hashira, huh?” Akaza continues. “Your fighting spirit is honed to perfection, refined like the finest of steel.” He catches a flicker of confusion in the other man’s spirit, and remembers suddenly that the other is completely in the dark to his own aura. How amusing! How advantageous! He files this information away for future taunting in the heat of battle.

     “Tell me your name, demon slayer,” he implores, and his interest is truly genuine.

     “I am the flame hashira,” His opponent announces. Fitting, he thinks. “My name is Rengoku Kyojuro.”

     A tingle of adrenaline runs through Akaza’s veins. Kyojuro. The name of the man who is about to grace him with the most incredible, heart stopping, death defying fight in all of his two centuries of demonic existence.

     “I am Akaza,” he replies, gifting his name as if it is an offering. A cunning grin splits his features.

     “Kyojuro,” he starts, and the name feels electric on his tongue. “Let me tell you why your physical strength is not enough, despite being a hashira.” Checker-boy gasps to himself at the implication. “It is because you are a mere human,” he informs him. “One day you will grow old, and then you will die.”

     Akaza extends a hand, inked blue fingertips reaching out to the blazing spirit across from him.

     “Become a demon, kyojuro,” he insists, irritation and something akin to desperation snaking into his mind. “If you do, you can become infinitely stronger. You can train for centuries!”

     “You misunderstand,” Kyojuro hums, sounding disappointed. Akaza fights away a strange twinge of guilt.

     “Human life is beautiful because it is not eternal. Death is what makes life so precious.” His gaze hardens. “And do not insult this boy. He is not weak. Human strength does not derive from our bodies alone.”

     His red-gold eyes burn holes into Akaza’s skull. A tremor runs through his veins. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all! Such skill was meant to be preserved for eternity. The loss of it would be a downright shame.

     But if Kyojuro refuses to recognize it, Akaza will take it for himself.

     “—you see,” Kyojuro continues, tone laced with finality, “our moral codes will never align. As such, no matter what reason, I will never become a demon!”

     Akaza’s vision narrows, now. Resentment churns in his stomach and heat prickles over his skin. He knows what he must do.

     “I see,” he forces out.

     His senses expand out across the battlefield, analyzing Kyojuro’s presence and physicality. His height, weight, wingspan, weapon type—all of it registers in the back of Akaza’s mind. It is all of the information he needs to perfectly sync his compass to his opponent’s every move.

     Akaza’s blood thrums in his veins as he activates his blood demon art.

     Compass arms bloom into being below him, burning blue against the darkness. Akaza feels everything. The brush of the breeze against his face is a million times stronger. He can hear the two slayers’ heartbeats and sense the warmth of their bodies. Everything is bright and well-defined, and the whole world is organized to sync with the movements of his technique.

     “If you won’t become a demon,” he seethes, muscles tensing with anticipation, “then I’ll kill you myself!”

     And then they are locked in battle, and Akaza is overcome with a wave of elation. Kyojuro fights like a bonfire, his movements confident and bold, yet simultaneously enchanting, almost dance-like. He is fluid and quick and leagues more incredible than any hashira he’s every fought before. Kyojuro lops off one of his arms, and Akaza laughs aloud in glee. This is it. This is better than he’d ever dreamed. He wants their combat to last forever.

     Akaza advances. He throws his fists one after the other, and his knuckles are sliced open on the slayer’s blade. Each swing is countered with impeccable form. Kyojuro’s face is tense with focus. He is unyielding as Akaza calls out taunts to him, pushing his buttons as he swings at the hashira in rapid succession.

     Blood spills from his wrist as he catches Kyojuro’s blade in his own flesh.

     “I can’t understand it,” he rasps, thrill making his voice shake. “As a fellow martial artist, why would you deny such power, when only the chosen ones can become demons?”

     It’s laughable, really, the intensity of Kyojuro’s glare. It truly is unbreakable.

     For now.

     The flame blade whips upward in a brilliant arc, and Akaza’s arm is thrown towards the heavens.

     Growing a limb, for an upper moon, is akin to simply taking another breath after the first is released. Regeneration is as effortless as a blink. His arm reforms almost instantaneously, with the wet crunch of bones and skin reforming sounding into the night.

     It’s clear by now that Kyojuro is fully uninterested in anything Akaza has to say, but he’s not done trying.

     “Witnessing the agonizing decline of someone blessed with your talent pains me more than you could ever know,” he muses, and he catches a subtle eye roll from Kyojuro. Surely he is thinking that Akaza is dead wrong, or that he is simply trying to get under his skin.

     Which, to be fair, is partially true. But the thought of watching such a glorious man deteriorate due to his own stubbornness makes Akaza want to puke.

     “In that case, you should die now, while you’re still young,” he roars, and he’s beginning to sound quite feral. He likes it. It fits well with the rush in his bones he feels with the sound of metal on flesh.

     Akaza throws himself back, body contorting into his next technique in midair. The prayer beads around his ankles clink as his heels meet. He reaches into his own power source, feeling his compass spin rapidly as it tracks Kyojuro’s every move and adapts to his position in the air.

     The air pressure shifts around him as he calls upon his air type.

     Akaza thrusts his arm forward and feels the ripple of his blood art over his skin as it seeks his target. Kyojuro is scanning rapidly for some sort of surprise attack, unable to see the one slicing through the sky towards him.

     Shockwaves burst into being as the blow slams into him, blunt force pounding against his chest. Kyojuro gasps, stumbling back, his unusual eyes blown wide in surprise.

     And there it is. The first real hit of the battle. The first strike that will not recover in an instant.

     Now begins the real fun.

     Kyojuro, however, is astonishingly quick to adapt. His blade scars the darkness with an arch of flame, blocking Akaza’s airborne attacks before they can make contact. The gears in his head are visibly turning. Akaza sends another flurry on the way down, and as Kyojuro’s blade snaps around to meet it, he lands on his feet across the battlefield, a fair distance between them. Perhaps he’ll give the slayer a moment of peace, to catch his breath, and then try again to convince him. Why can’t Kyojuro see it? The sheer might that Akaza can bestow upon him? It’s unacceptable. He opens his mouth to preach at him once more.

     Kyojuro is in his face in half a second.

     For a moment, Akaza is frozen in shock. Kyojuro had been all the way across the field, he had seen him there, and then in a whirlwind of flame he had blinked into being directly in front of him. An inkling of concern slithers in his chest, and he quickly smashes it down. Kyojuro is dripping with talent, perhaps even more so than he had given him credit for. Akaza is on goddamn cloud nine.

     “Those reflexes!” He exclaims, dodging away from the tip of the sword. “Brilliant!”

     Akaza had thought fighting with Kyojuro was thrilling before. But close combat was a whole other ball game. At any given moment, the man is in his space, his blade is inches away from his skin. Fireworks of euphoria are going off in his brain. His compass is working overtime.

     “Doesn’t it make you sad, Kyojuro,” he gasps, “that such remarkable sword skills will be lost to time?”

     “Why would it? That is simply a part of being human,” Kyojuro replies; finally, finally taking the bait. Akaza could have burst into song right then and there. He restrains himself, barely.

     Another fighting spirit leaks into his consciousness. It’s erratic and wild around the edges, bursting with false confidence and feral tendencies. A glimpse from his peripheral reveals a second slayer, naked from the waist up, aside from the slightly disturbing boar’s mask covering his face. Perhaps under different circumstances, Akaza would be disquieted by such a sight. But now his attention is reserved only for one.

     “Don’t move!” Kyojuro commands, and both Junior slayers stiffen. “If that wound reopens, your life will be in danger!” He is addressing checker-boy, but boar-head is equally as frozen. As he should be. Akaza can tell without even properly observing that his strength is no match for the two of them. If he got in the way, he would surely die.

     “Don’t waste your energy with that weakling,” Akaza snarls, leaping back once more. A wicked grin splits his features. “Keep your eyes on me.”

     It’s provocative, and he knows it. Kyojuro’s fighting spirit flares as he advances again.

     It lasts about two seconds before Akaza is sent flying into the woods. The other two slayers are abandoned at the site of the crash as Kyojuro pursues him through the trees. Akaza lets him get close before darting out to meet him, like a cat playing with a mouse.

     “Such skill,” he laughs, still bewildered, and then proceeds to kick Kyojuro all the way out of the woods he had just pushed him into.

     The slayer tumbles across the dusty ground, landing hard enough to crack it. That will certainly hurt in the morning. If he lives that long. Akaza gives him another moment to force himself back to his feet, strolling leisurely out from the forest.

     Are you sure you don’t want to turn?” He taunts. “Just think of it. If you became a demon, we could spar with each other for eternity! Imagine the strength we would accumulate!” He flexes the stump of his arm, the original lost to the forest, and regrows it in a heartbeat.

     Kyojuro is sweating now, his breath work picking up.

     “Never,” he growls, and his voice is so compelling that Akaza almost wants to agree. “Let me make myself clear. I do not like you, and I will not become a demon!”

    Akaza might have been sad if not for the rush of joy that comes to him as Kyojuro rejoins the fight.

     White-hot pain tears through him as the hashira’s blade rips through his shoulder, and he drinks it in. Akaza calls back his air type, once again forcing Kyojuro back, creating distance which he knows the slayer cannot spare. They are dancing again now. Back and forth, back and forth, perfectly in tune with each other’s movements. Every swing of Akaza’s  fist is met with hot metal. The increasing speed of Kyojuro’s heartbeat is their music, and the push and pull of their footwork their routine.

     Akaza’s knuckles graze the warm skin of Kyojuro’s forehead, and it splits on impact. Blood is officially spilled, and this time, it will not dissolve in the sun or be licked clean as a taunt. This is real. And God, is it intoxicating. The scent of Kyojuro’s blood is sweet and a bit spicy, like it would be rich and warm on his tongue. He would make a fantastic meal, Akaza thinks, and then pushes the thought away. He will not be eating Kyojuro. If he must cut such a beautiful life short, he will at least grant him the burial humans seem to think they deserve.

     Both of his forearms are sliced off, but Akaza is not fooled. The blow to the head has slowed Kyojuro down, made him dizzy.

A concussion, most likely. He’s treated similar things before, he knows how to deal with the side effects. Rest, reduced stimuli, medicinal teas, the works. It will help reduce the—

     He falters for a split second.

     What is he thinking? He has never treated humans before. Where did such intrusive thoughts come from? As if he would spend his time or energy helping a weak human being anyway!

     Akaza scoffs to himself, pushing forward with a renewed vigor. Concussion or not, Kyojuro is clearly disoriented, and he slips up again within seconds.

     Akaza hurls another blow, and his fist smashes into the side of Kyojuro’s belly. With an extra jab, his fist sinks in a bit deeper as the ribs around it crack under the pressure. Kyojuro chokes in pain, gasping for breath. There is crimson staining the jacket of his uniform where the broken bones have surely pierced the skin.

     Still, he is standing.

     Akaza is still trying to persuade Kyojuro to join him, but he’s not quite listening to himself anymore. His attention is captured by the shift in the hashira’s form, how the pain in his head and ribs detract from his skill. Now that he is off balance, he can barely defend himself from Akaza’s attacks. Kyojuro makes a valiant attempt to ward off a strike with his flame blade, but his body is failing him. Akaza’s hand slips past his guard, knuckles crushing his left eye.

     Kyojuro stumbles backward. His footwork is not as precise as it was mere minutes ago, and his breath is beginning to come in gasps. Clearly another blow to the head did not help his case. Something deep inside Akaza’s heart twinges. Seeing Kyojuro in pain, injured enough to need serious medical help, calls to a foreign instinct that he does not understand. He wants to do something about it.

     Instead, Akaza fights.

     Kyojuro’s inferno warps into the shape of a beast, prowling and feline, and Akaza counters with his disorder technique. He can’t suppress a laugh as a ripple of power flutters like nerves through his stomach and chest, spreading to the space around him as the flames are extinguished.

     The flame blade bites into his chest again, and Akaza falls back.

     This time, Kyojuro does not follow.

     The traitorous feeling in Akaza’s subconscious is back, causing him to kneel for a moment and let the hashira breathe. He looks awful, the left side of his face completely painted crimson, and his complexion is beginning to appear pale and sickly. From blood loss or exhaustion, he can’t say, but Kyojuro is unsteady nonetheless. A trickle of blood falls from his chin, landing in the dust at his feet. The weaklings’ spirits pulse in alarm somewhere far away.

     Akaza stands, regenerating his arm again without really thinking about it. The hashira’s eyes have not left him, and he stares at Akaza with a silent defiance as he fights for his breath.

     “Don’t tell me it’s over,” Akaza utters, disappointment flushing over his being. “I won’t have you die on me just yet.”

     Another drop of blood falls from Kyojuro’s lip, and suddenly, Akaza isn’t sure that he is speaking the truth.

     They are in a stalemate.

     Kyojuro is struggling to settle his breathing, his pupils blown wide and his form beginning to tremble. He has pushed himself too far, and they both know it.

     “Do you get it now?” Akaza asks him. His voice has gone soft. The atmosphere is still, as if the whole forest is holding its breath, and it feels wrong to speak any louder. “Every impressive wound that you have inflicted upon me has healed. But you—smashed eye, broken ribs, injured organs—you can not recover from this.”

     Kyojuro shudders, almost imperceptible.

     “If you were a demon, you would heal in the blink of an eye,” Akaza continues. “You must understand. A human can never surpass a demon.”

     Checker-boy is trying to climb to his feet in the background, to no avail. His spirit reeks of blood and weakness. Akaza knows that he will not be entering the fight. He is useless, left only to watch on the sidelines.

     Kyojuro sighs gently, closing his eyes against the pain.

     And then he erupts into flames.

     Akaza nearly jumps at the sudden blaze in his spirit. He had not thought it possible! How could someone so blatantly injured and so horrifically outmatched continue to stand against him? But, of course, here is Kyojuro to once again surpass his expectations.

     “So, this is how it’s going to be,” Akaza murmurs to himself. God, how painful it will be to kill this man.

     The bright red blade is lifted to the heavens as Kyojuro takes another stance. When he snaps his head up, he is smiling.

     “I will carry out my duty!” He announces. “Nobody on this train shall die tonight, no matter what it takes!”

     Except for you, Akaza thinks. But something makes him keep his mouth shut.

     Flames spread in a grand ripple across the arena, and Kyojuro’s spirit triples in intensity. Goosebumps prickle at Akaza’s skin. He has never seen anything so arresting.

     “That strength of body,” he says, awestruck, “that strength of mind! Incredible! Now you have to become a demon!” He lets out an incredulous laugh, high and untamed. “We can fight each other for all of eternity!”

     Fire is burning through Kyojuro’s veins. Akaza can see it, illuminating his skin from the inside out, burning like the sun in his chest. He whispers something to himself. A mantra? A prayer?

     And suddenly, cold fear trickles down Akaza’s spine. Something is wrong.

     He has been so obsessed with the battle that his instincts have failed to warn him. Dawn is coming too soon. The flame hashira is still alive, and has reached some miraculous second wind. The tables have turned in a heartbeat. Now it is Akaza who is running out of time.

     Kyojuro raises his head, and the inferno mirrors him.

     “Ninth form,” he growls, and Akaza readies himself for the most glorious attack of his life. His skin is beginning to feel hot with the lightening sky.

     “Destructive death,” he gasps, kneeling to power up his blood art.

     Kyojuro advances in a sprint, and is haloed in gold as the first ray of dawn rises over the mountains. He is no longer a bloodied human making a last stand. Now, Kyojuro is a harbinger, a carrier of blazing light and certain death by way of the morning sun.

     Every demonic cell in Akaza’s body is screaming. Light falls upon the ground inches from him, and he panics entirely as Muzan’s instincts take over. Kyojuro’s death is not his priority anymore. It is to live. To live, to live, to live. To escape the burn of light upon his body.

     Kyojuro reaches him, fire licking at his hair and cloak. And Akaza pulls his punch.

     Originally, he had intended to thrust his fist directly through Kyojuro’s solar plexus. It would be undeniably fatal. Even with the unrivaled mastery of his breathing technique, he would bleed out and die in minutes. But to do that, Kyojuro would have to get much closer, and then Akaza would have have to pull his fist back out. He would essentially be trapped in Kyojuro’s very form, at his mercy. He could not spare that kind of time.

     Instead, as Kyojuro raises his blade to annihilate him, its edge mere centimeters from his neck, Akaza whips around and kicks him in the stomach. Hard.

     His heel sinks into Kyojuro’s belly, but it does not break the skin. The flame around him is broken as it collides with Akaza’s technique, and dust fills the air, obscuring the hashira’s vision.

     In the split second of shock and pain that Kyojuro gifts him, Akaza turns on his heels and books it toward the forest.

     Behind him, Akaza can hear Kyojuro gag and choke as he collapses to his knees, completely winded by the final strike. He has spent more energy than he has to spare. The weaklings are shouting in horror and confusion. Checker-boy hurls insult after insult, and Akaza ignores him, head too clouded with panic to listen.

     A shrill whistle fills the air, and a blade pierces through Akaza’s chest.

     It feels differently from Kyojuro’s sword. Where that blade was red-hot and spiced with passion, this one is black as night, and it feels as if it carries the sunlight in the sky straight into his bloodstream.

     Akaza gives a strangled shout, but he does not stop running. The sun is licking at his calves, unbearably hot, and his chest is tight with terror. Sweat breaks out along his skin. His eyes water. This, he realizes, is how it feels to be hunted.

     Just as the sunlight reaches him, Akaza throws his body forward and lets himself be swallowed up by the darkness of the trees.

Chapter Text

Kyojuro is alive.

     He barely registers the sunlight on his back or the screams of his juniors. Every last bit of strength has been ripped from his body, and he can do nothing but double over and gag, hugging his injured stomach with both forearms. For a split second, he had been deadly certain that Akaza was going to attack straight through him. Yet at the last instant he had switched to a simple blow to the gut and bolted.

     The sun had risen, and the demon had run for his life.

     Kyojuro is alive.

    The hashira gasps for breath, eyes scrunched shut, and fights back the urge to vomit. His ribs are broken, he knows that much, and it’s likely that his eye is unrecoverable. As for internal damage, he isn’t sure. Kyojuro turns his breath technique inward, scanning for bleeding, but he has no energy left to search fully. Still, if the heavy waves of nausea sweeping over him are any indication, something is seriously unhappy. Whether it’s bruised organs or the concussion undoubtedly blooming behind his skull is unclear.

      Tanjiro is at his side then, clutching the stab wound he had gotten earlier. His boar headed friend—what is his name again?—follows close behind.

     “Rengoku-san!” Tanjiro exclaims, tears running down his face, and Kyojuro forces himself to straighten. His abdomen aches where he was struck.

     He thinks of his mother.

     She had told him once that it was his duty to use his strength to protect those weaker than himself. It was weeks before she passed away. Kyojuro had taken that lesson and made it his life purpose. His mother had given him a mission, and he would follow through. For a moment, he thinks he can hear the gentle song of the glass chime she hung in her doorway.

     He forces a reassuring smile onto his face as he meets his junior’s eyes, and Tanjiro bursts into a fresh round of tears.

     “Rengoku-san,” he wails, “I thought you were dead, Rengoku-san, I thought he killed you—“ He cuts himself off with another sob. The boar stands rigid beside him, but his emotions are betrayed by his trembling muscles.

     Kyojuro wishes that he could cry too. Everything hurts, and he feels sick, and his mother is gone, never to guide him with her words again. He can barely even hold himself upright. But Gods be damned, he will follow through.

     He raises a shaky hand, and Tanjiro collapses into his embrace.

     “Kamado-shonen,” he forces out, voice hoarse from yelling in the fight. “Boar Boy. And your friend, Yellow Boy. I am so unbelievably proud of you all.” He pauses to take in another shaky breath. “And, Kamado-shonen, your sister as well.”

     Tanjiro’s attention is piqued instantly. He pulls back, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I saw her bleed to protect humans on the Mugen train,” Kyojuro tells him. “I know now. Anyone who risks their life to protect humanity from demons is a rightful member of the Demon Slayer Corps. Regardless of what is said to the contrary.”

     That really does it. Tanjiro is openly sobbing, and Kyojuro thinks Inosuke is too. His head spins, and oh, he’s going to pass out.

     “You must continue to grow,” he continues weakly. “I will be honored to aid you on your path to become the next generation of hashira. I believe in each and every one of you.”

     A crow caws in the distance. Thank everything holy and good, the Kakushi are here. Kyojuro can finally rest. He gives one last bright smile to the boys in front of him, his heart glowing with fondness. And then the sheer exhaustion and the warm sunlight lull him into a soothing unconsciousness.

                                  ***

      The butterfly mansion never sleeps. There is always food to make, sheets to wash, injuries to tend, and slayers of various rank coming in and out at all hours of the day. The butterfly girls run like a well oiled machine. Each day, they sleep in shifts, and work with everything they can to keep the place pristine and functioning. Aside from the three youngest, they are rarely in the same place at the same time.

     Today is different.

     Shinobu knows it the second she hears the desperate clamor of voices and footsteps approaching the door. Aoi has gone to meet them, but they have not slowed down. Which most likely means they’re coming straight to her.

     Not a good sign.

     She closes her research journal with a heavy sigh, trying to mentally prepare herself for the chaos that is about to go down.

     Noise explodes into the house as Shinobu snaps her practiced polite smile back into place. She steps out into the hallway to see a small army of kakushi and junior slayers rushing towards her. Tanjiro, she realizes with mild surprise. His two overwhelming friends are with him as well. All three are crying. That would certainly explain the noise. Poor Aoi is desperately trying to get Inosuke to stop yelling, as his words aren’t quite as comprehensible as they are loud.

     She hears his name before she sees him.

     “—Rengoku-sama,” one of the kakushi is saying, clearly on the edge of their own breakdown. Shinobu’s eyes are instantly scanning the group again.

     The flame hashira is being carried by the tallest kakushi, hurrying after the others. Shinobu’s blood runs cold at the sight. He is bleeding terribly from the left side of his face, staining his uniform and that of the man holding him. She can’t see the damage to his stomach very well from this angle, but it’s clear that he is bleeding from somewhere there too.

     Shinobu rushes to meet them and everybody starts talking at once.

     “—Kocho-sama!!”

     “Oh, it’s awful, he—“

     “—his ribs, and—“

     “QUIET!” Aoi shouts, her signature temper coming to the rescue.

     The group must have all faced her wrath before, because all of them shut right up. But Shinobu hears the fear lacing her harsh tone.

     “Bring him here,” she says quickly, and turns to lead the group to the back wing. “Please take the boys to a separate room so Aoi can tend to their injuries.” The kakushi accompanying the trio are quick to redirect the crying teens. Aoi follows with slightly less enthusiasm.

     Kanao appears from around the corner as Shinobu approaches the room. The other three girls are crowded around her, looking awfully worried. “Kanao,” she says simply, and the oldest girl follows her without question.

     They lay him out on a bed and jump into action before the poor kakushi can even finish his report.

     Kyojuro’s temperature is elevated. He is a flame breather, Shinobu supposes, and he had severely overused his breathing style in the fight. So it’s very possibly a harmless side effect. But his eye is beyond saving, the socket filled with fluids and blood, and a bruise has formed all the way down to his cheekbone. The cut on his forehead isn’t too bad, though, and likely won’t scar. The two of them work in practiced harmony, silent except for to mumble a diagnosis or ask for a tool.

     Kanao supports Kyojuro’s back as Shinobu strips him of his jacket and undershirt, and she almost gasps aloud at the sight.

     Kyojuro’s belly is slightly swollen, the skin  purpled and inflamed with a horrible bruise.

     “Blunt force trauma to the abdomen,” she tells Kanao, and the other quickly makes a note. His ribs are another issue. They are clearly broken, some even poking through the skin, but it seems unlikely that there is damage to any of his vitals.

     Shinobu exhales slowly, processing all of her observations and calling on her extensive mental catalog of medical research.

     “Alright,” she begins. “I’m mostly concerned about this.” She lays her fingertips over Kyojuro’s bruised stomach. “The swelling is pretty minor, but it still suggests internal bleeding. Also such deep discoloration could be caused by bleeding into the tissue or skin.” Kanao listens dutifully, nodding slightly.

     “With that, it could be a good idea to do an explorative operation.” Shinobu instructs. “There’s always a chance that it could heal on its own, but that’s not quite a risk we want to take. Doing it ourselves allows us to stem the flow manually and drain any excess fluids.” Kanao hums her agreement as she cleans the dried blood from the hashira’s chest. “The eye,” she says simply, and Shinobu nods. “Yes. We’ll remove the eye while we’re at it.”

     Shinobu pauses for a breath, and locks eyes with her younger sister. Daunting is the task ahead of them. But they are the living, breathing gears that keep the butterfly mansion running, and they will do what they must.

     “Go get the others, please,” Shinobu asks, and Kanao hurries away at her request. She takes over the task of disinfecting the chest wounds, and gazes for a moment at Kyojuro’s sleeping face.

     A shuddering sense of guilt sweeps over her.

     Shinobu had been the last of the hashira to speak with him before he left for his mission. He had relayed to her the details of the mission, the numbers of slayers lost in battle.

     “A demon moon, perhaps?” She had asked, and he responded in kind.

     “Most likely, yes!” He’d grinned. “Perhaps even an upper rank!”

     She hadn’t believed him, not truly. Kyojuro was a bright spirit with a tendency to speak in absolutes, and no hashira had encountered an upper moon in ages. Lower one would be there, perhaps, but that was well within Kyojuro’s skill level. He would be just fine.

     Shinobu had taken his gut feeling with a grain of salt, and made no move to request hashira-level backup for him.

     And now here he was, unconscious and badly injured, having pushed his body far past its limits. If she had only listened, then…

     She forces the thought away as Kanao returns with the other girls in tow. Now is not the time to ruminate.

     They have work to do.

                                      ***

     Kyojuro comes back to himself slowly, like honey dripping from a spool.

     His hearing returns first. It’s muffled, and honestly quite overwhelming, but he can hear multiple female voices speaking to each other in hushed tones. Which means that he is in fact alive, and did not die in his sleep.

     Why is he asleep? Wasn’t he supposed to be on a mission?

     He makes a valiant attempt to open his eyes and sit up, succeeding only in a gentle twitch of his facial muscles. But it seems one of the girls sees him, judging by the way everyone goes quiet.

     Someone mumbles something that might have been his name. Something cool presses against his cheek.

     His sense of touch is returning now. He can feel the relief of damp fabric on his flushed skin. He’s laying down, and the mattress does wonders on his tired muscles. The butterfly mansion, then. That would explain the group of girls who seem to be clustered around him.

     And then suddenly he can feel pain again.

     His belly aches, like he’s been punched a hundred times. A pounding headache blooms behind his eyes, and his ribs feel awfully tight. He hears himself moan weakly in agony and manages to tip his head to the side, brow furrowed and eyes squeezed shut.

     “Rengoku-san,” one of the girls says, voice low and soothing. Shinobu, probably. He can actually make out her words now. He attempts to open his mouth, to confirm that he can hear her, maybe to ask what happened.

     “Mmgh,” he manages instead. How intelligent.

     “Hello there,” she greets him, seemingly unbothered. “Welcome back. How are you feeling? How’s your head?”

     This time, Kyojuro’s body finally cooperates, and he manages to crack open his right eye. His left, he realizes, is covered with bandages. But he can see Shinobu standing over him, the other butterfly girls gathered behind her and watching him intently.

     “ ‘M a’ight,” He mumbles, awfully confused. His tongue feels like lead. “What happ’nd?”

     Shinobu chuckles lightly. “You were on a mission at the Mugen Train. You fought a very strong demon.” Oh, he remembers that now! There were those lovely bento salesmen, and the three junior slayers with so much potential, and the demon that put them all to sleep.

     Nezuko had saved them all, too, hadn’t she? And then…and then what?

     Chills run down his spine as the memory comes to him.

     And then he had fought an upper moon. Akaza. And had it not been for the rising sun, he would have been killed without a shadow of a doubt.

     “You remember,” Shinobu says. It is not a question. Kyojuro can only nod, too overwhelmed to make sense of the mix of fear and shame and relief brewing in his chest.

     She reaches under his head to lift him slightly, pressing a glass to his lips. Kyojuro drinks greedily until she makes him stop, desperate to quench the desert that seems to have moved into his throat.

     “We did an operation to staunch your internal bleeding,” Shinobu tells him, and he listens, feeling helpless. She smiles politely regardless. “In good news, there was very little serious damage. We were able to stop the blood flow and set everything back in its proper place.” Well, that explains the throbbing pain in his abdomen. He had forgotten about that last strike.

     “However,” Shinobu continues, and he freezes, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Unfortunately, we were unable to save your left eye. It will surely take a period of adjustment, but I don’t believe it will stop you from fighting in the future.”

     Kyojuro doesn’t know what to feel. He’s half blind now, but at least he can continue to serve as a hashira, and god , his stomach hurts, and he fought a damn upper moon. It’s all a bit too much, and he’s beginning to feel dizzy. Shinobu notices and pushes a stray bit of hair out of his face.

     “For now, Rengoku-san, I want you to try and rest some more. Your body has a lot of recovering to do.” Kyojuro does not need to be told twice. Darkness comes back to claim him much faster than it released him earlier, and before he knows it, Kyojuro is sinking back into the abyss.

Chapter Text

     Akaza finds his master at a wealthy household downtown.

     There is a group of humans downstairs, and their laughter drifts idly through the floorboards as he lands gently on the balcony. Muzan does not look at him. He has taken the form of a young boy, dressed in western attire and clearly well-off. He absently scans the shelves of books, as if searching for a particular title.

     Akaza does not particularly want to be here. Not only has the blue spider lily continued to evade him, but he failed to eliminate a single slayer at the Mugen site. He can’t imagine that his master will be glad to hear it. But, when Muzan calls, Akaza answers. Anything else would be suicide.

     “Reporting in as you requested, my lord,” Akaza says. He does not move from his kneeling position as his Muzan slowly turns his head to observe him.

     His aura floods through the room as his eyes burn red, and Akaza feels the pressure of it all around him.

     “Were you able to find what I asked of you?” Muzan asks, his voice low and accusatory and horribly out of place in the child’s body. Akaza steels himself to continue.

     “I looked into it, but couldn’t find even a trace of its existence. Each lead left me empty-handed. I could not find the blue spider lily.”

     There is a split second of silence, and nerves squirm inside of him.

     “And?” Muzan prompts, his voice dangerously calm.

     “Forgive my incompetence, Lord Muzan,” Akaza recites. “I will try to live up to your expectations in the future.” He has given the same apology many times before, scripted and practiced to dodge his master’s wrath.

     “And what of the Mugen Train mission?” Muzan pushes. Oh, this won’t go well. One failure can be overlooked, especially when Muzan himself has struggled to find the same flower. But two in the same report will not fly without consequences.

     Akaza takes a deep breath. If he refuses to report, the information will be plucked from his brain anyway, so he might as well expose his failure on his own terms.

    “I inflicted significant injuries upon the flame hashira,” he reports. “The morning sunlight forced me to retreat before I could finish him off. I encountered the boy with the hanafuda earrings, however, so I have a lead on his location.”

     Muzan turns slowly to face him. Shit.

     “It seems that you misunderstand how things work around here, Akaza,” he warns. “I’m curious.” Muzan raises one clawed finger at him, and Akaza braces himself for impact.

     A wave of energy slams into him, shattering the glass of the doors and blowing back the curtains. The pressure is unimaginable, like he’s being crushed alive from every angle. The blood in his veins begins to boil as agony overtakes him.

     “Did you expect praise?” Muzan drawls. “Simply injuring a single demon slayer is nothing. A demon defeating a human is a predictable conclusion.”

     Akaza’s insides are beginning to revolt, squirming and writhing in his stomach. White spots bloom in his vision. He can do nothing but shudder and gasp for air at his master’s feet.

     “What I want is to exterminate the Demon Slayer Corps entirely,” Muzan asserts as he tears the page out from the book he had been flipping through. “Failure to eliminate even a single slayer is simply unforgivable.” Blood bubbles in the back of Akaza’s throat. He grits his teeth, muscles twitching violently, as it begins to drip down his chin. Heat and chills rush over his skin in a horrible contrast.

     “All I ask of you is to crush the life out of them so that I may never cross one of their paths again.” Red eyes drill into Akaza’s skull. “And yet, you are incapable of carrying out even such a simple task.” Muzan tears the book in half. His aura has flooded into every corner of the room, causing Akaza’s demonic cells to strain against themselves.

     “You return to me with nothing but infantile accomplishments, and expect me not to crush you beneath my sole,” Muzan spits, his anger burning into Akaza’s very blood. “I will remind you of your place, Akaza, and ensure that you never fail me so again.”

     And then Akaza’s world dissolves into hell.

     The pressure on his form increases exponentially, and his insides finally rupture. He collapses to his hands and knees as blood pours from his nose and mouth, sliding like tears down his cheeks. Every cell in his body screams. Muzan’s essence resides within his blood, and it is tearing him apart from the inside out.

     Akaza’s eardrums and eyes burst in tandem, and he’s plunged into darkness.

     “Akaza,” Muzan hisses, and with no eardrums left to use, he speaks from inside Akaza’s very skull. His voice resonates through every fiber of his being.

     Akaza is forced forward onto his stomach as another wave of energy sweeps over him. He tries to scream, to beg for mercy, to say anything at all. But he cannot hear himself, so he isn’t sure if it even works. His skin is peeling now, dissolving into a bloody pool as his demonic cells are destroyed.

     “Akaza,” Muzan says, and his name is a curse, condemning him to burn for eternity. It ties him to the stake, hangs him from the gallows, slits his belly open as a sword swings toward his neck. It buries him beneath tons and tons of earth and sends his ashes to the wind.

     “Akaza.” His name is a law. He must obey. He must submit to those of higher rank. He must do what he is told, or he will be hurt. He will be branded with hot coals. He will be tattooed with the lines of a traitor. He will be whipped and beaten until he’s numb at the steps of an unfamiliar magistrate.

     “Akaza.” His name is a war. It tears him apart from the inside. There is nothing but bloodshed and violence and the instinct to kill. Love and life are forgone in the face of the eternal battle in his soul. There is only the bare-fisted death of men, by the dozen, men who have taken away everything that ever mattered.

     Akaza. His name is a whisper behind a closed door.

     Akaza. His name is a hymn, sung in desperation to the heavens.

     Akaza. A scream.

     Akaza. A sob.

     Akaza.

     That is not his name.

     Through the ocean of blood and anger and pain, something roars to life inside of him. Something fervent, something suppressed, something stolen. Some one .

    In his melting mind, there is a dojo with a grand stone well. There is a strong man with an even stronger soul, with calloused palms and endless patience. He reaches out to stroke Akaza’s back as he shakes and seizes on the ground. There is a girl who trembles with weakness and glows with otherworldly beauty. She cups his face as he sobs endlessly. There is a boy with a heavy heart and too much bitterness to hold on his own shoulders. He is looking for a home. As Akaza bleeds out and falls apart at Muzan’s feet, he bleeds too.

     Keizou. The man.

     Koyuki. The girl.

     Hakuji.

     That is his name.

     Akaza. A lie.

     As suddenly as it had started, the torture stops, and Hakuji’s body begins to mend itself. He can hear his own strangled gasps and cries as his eardrums reform. His skin regrows, his ribs come back and cradle his organs. His vision clears and he is met with a sea of blood surrounding him, covering him like war paint. Slowly, carefully, he forces himself up, back into a kneel at Muzan’s feet.

     “How far you’ve fallen, upper three,” Muzan purrs. “You are dismissed.”

     He does not know. Muzan does not know what he’s done.

     Twice now, he has created a monster. Once when he plunged his hand through Hakuji’s skull, pumping him full of demonic blood when he was too lost to resist. Again, when he unknowingly released Hakuji from the prison he had been kept in.

     Muzan does not know that his eyes have reformed unmarred with kanji. He sees Akaza as he stands and bows stiffly. He sees his soldier as he turns and leaps away into the night.

     He is wrong.

     Hakuji lands heavily on the ground a few yards from the house. He is gasping, sweat pouring down his frame. Everything is in technicolor, emotions cycling through his head like a runaway cart.

     He has killed people. So, so many people. With all the lives he has taken as a demon, is he even deserving of his true name anymore?

     Hakuji takes a few wobbly steps away from the house. He tries to organize his thoughts.

     So. Perhaps Akaza is not dead. But Hakuji is not either. Akaza is here in the monstrous stripes covering his arms and chest and snaking along his spine. He is here in his demonic memories, in the graphic images of murder reeling through his mind. Hundreds of innocent people, taken from their lives, feasted upon for his satisfaction.

     Heat rushes over him, and he stumbles to the side, vomiting at the base of a tree as endless nightmares take over his brain. His head spins and spins.

     Here, he realizes, is Hakuji. He is the one throwing up at the realization of all of the agony he has caused, at the thought of filling his stomach with human flesh. He is the one with the flurry of emotions making everything feel so overwhelming. He is the one who loved and lost.

     He sits back and wipes his mouth with the back of one trembling hand.

     Perhaps he is both. He is Hakuji in the sense that he feels things again that he hasn’t felt in centuries. Love, grief, remorse, weakness. He is Akaza in the familiar goal to destroy. But now he has a different target.

     Both sides of him want nothing more than to watch Kibutsuji Muzan burn in the deepest depths of hell.

     He stands, stabilizing himself against the tree.

     For now, he decides, he is Hakuji. He wants to live. He wants to understand. And he wants to kill Muzan. That is who he is until he can figure out what else Hakuji stands for.

     A strange sense of empowerment sweeps over him. He is himself again, almost. He remembers what he has done, and he is free now to decide who he is in the rest of his life and what it means to be aware again.

     He has no idea where to start.

     Hakuji continues on into the forest, steadily leaving behind the man who took his autonomy away. He can no longer feel Muzan lingering in the back of his head, controlling his perceptions, and he wants to keep it that way.

     He is not stupid. Reckless, yes, and impulsive, and still a little bit hungover on his lust for power. But not stupid. Hakuji knows that he cannot defeat Muzan. Not when he so effortlessly ripped him to shreds mere minutes ago. He has no resources, no allies. He doesn’t even know how to function without Muzan filtering through his every emotion, every thought, and every action.

     A new memory surfaces in his brain. A man surrounded by fire, blazing with passion, telling him about the beauty of human life. Kyojuro.

     He understands. How to feel. How to act by your own morals, how to believe in something so fiercely that you would put your life on the line for it.

     Hakuji has nowhere else to turn.

     Should the Hashira reject him, or kill him in his weakened state, so be it. But Hakuji wants to see Muzan suffer and die a thousand deaths, and so does the Demon Slayer Corps.

     If they kill him, he supposes he will die for his sins.

     But if they take him, he can help. He can do his victims real justice. He can tell the corps all about the upper moons, about Muzan, about their strengths and weaknesses and where to find them. He can destroy the demon that took over his life, and save more lives than he’s taken. That way, when the gates of hell open up to finally swallow him, at least he can go knowing that he dragged no more innocents down with him.

    First, though, he wants to get as far away from Muzan as possible. If that man discovers that he has gone rogue, he will send someone to hunt him down. Douma, most likely. Or Kokushibo, but probably Douma. Muzan knows full well how much Hakuji hates Upper Two, and how much more it will destroy his pride if Douma is the one to drag him back to Muzan’s clutches. Hakuji shudders at the thought. He’s still close, too close, and Hakuji’s body still shakes with chills and weakness. There’s only one thing he can do.

     So he runs. Away from the monster in the mansion, from the torture and misery. Hakuji tears through the forest at breakneck speed. He has no direction. He doesn’t even know where the Corps headquarters are. But he runs anyway, praying to something, anything that might listen to bring him somewhere meaningful. Somewhere he can be useful, where he can make it right.

     Hakuji careens into a clearing and immediately feels a fighting spirit sweep over the area, like he’s being plunged into frigid water. A demon slayer. Oh God. He can’t fight this person. He won’t even get the chance to plead his case to whoever it is that handles recruitment at the corps. This is where he dies.

     Hakuji stands frozen, golden eyes dilated, like a deer in the headlights.

     The man in front of him is rather odd. His hair is pulled back in a messy black ponytail, and though deep blue eyes sweep over Hakuji’s striped body, he betrays no emotion. No anger, no fear, no excitement. His haori is mismatched from two different fabrics, neither of which compliment his pale complexion very well. He looks like he could be a statue, or some child’s doll.

     He stares at Hakuji blankly. Somewhere, dimly, Hakuji registers a well hidden shift of recognition in his body language. The junior slayers at the train mission must have reported his appearance, he realizes. Cold dread slithers through him.

     “Please,” Hakuji whispers shakily, holding up both hands in surrender. “Please, wait, you don’t understand.”

     He’s barely even finished his sentence before the slayer is hurtling toward him, blue water blade drawn.

     His fighting spirit flares with the intent to kill.

Chapter Text

     The moment that the slayer swings his first attack, Hakuji can tell that he is a hashira. Every movement is tuned and precise, every inch of movement full of intention. The blade bites through the air toward his neck, and he ducks on instinct.

     “No,” Hakuji gasps, voice cracking. “No, please listen!” The slayer is unbothered. He pushes forward once more, and Hakuji takes up a defensive position, losing his arm in the process. Again, the water blade comes for him, and Hakuji bends backward, narrowly avoiding its swing. He crosses his forearms in front of his face and the hashira slashes them off. Hakuji scrambles back, again and again. He will not fight back. He will give everything he has, and pray it is enough for the slayer to take a chance on him.

     The hashira has a keen eye. Hakuji can see the gears turning in his mind as he observes his every move. His brow furrows as Hakuji meets his blade with a block, splitting his limb down the middle. Without warning, the hashira pulls back.

     “What is the meaning of this?” He demands. His voice is a cold monotone. “If Muzan wishes to take me for a fool by sending you to the one who took in Nezuko, it will not work.”

     “What?” Hakuji sputters. “Who? No! No, that’s not it at all!”

     The hashira lunges forward in a blink, and suddenly there is a blade at his throat. Hakuji freezes, head forced back and face turned to the heavens.

     “Listen closely, upper three,” he drones. His voice drips with discontent. “I see the signs in you that I saw in her that day in the forest.” He forces Hakuji back against a tree, and warm blood spills from his neck as the slayer puts more pressure on the blade.

     “That is the only reason why I am giving you a chance. You will not fight me. You are shaking, you are weak. The kanji in your eyes are gone.” He slams Hakuji’s chest back again, and he wheezes slightly. “What I want is to know why. Why would you go from brutally injuring my comrade to playing the victim the next day? Tell me.”

     Hakuji’s heart sinks. Kyojuro is seriously injured? He had done quite a number on him, and suspected it to be so, but hearing it confirmed by another hashira is another matter entirely.

     “I was punished,” he strains against the sword at his throat, “for failing to eliminate Kyojuro.” The slayer visibly bristles at the use of his first name, and Hakuji kicks himself internally. “I was torn apart, and it—it changed me. It brought me back, the real me, not the beast that he made me become.”

     The hashira seems uninterested in Hakuji’s sob story, so he quickly changes tactics.

     “I know that you aren’t going to trust a word I say,” Hakuji pleads, “but I know what I’ve done now. Please, let me make it right. I have information to share with the corps.”

     Now that is effective. The hashira’s interest is captured instantaneously.

     “What kind of information?” He presses.

     “Anything. I can tell you everything that I know about the upper moons, about Muzan, about the missions he’s sent me on.” Hakuji closes his eyes, the moonlight settling on his striped cheeks.

     There is a pause as the hashira thinks it over. Hakuji finds himself thinking of Keizou. Please, master , he whispers to the stars. Please guide me.

     “Alright,” the slayer says, withdrawing his blade. “You must understand. I am doing this for the good of the corps. I do not forgive you for what you’ve done.”

     “I know,” Hakuji tells him, relief flooding through every fiber of his being. “I don’t forgive myself either. That’s why I’m doing this, to drag Muzan down to hell with me.”

     This answer seems to satisfy the slayer.

     “Come,” he commands, “I will bring you to speak with the master. He shall decide your fate.”

     “That is fair,” Hakuji agrees. The hashira says nothing. He simply turns and starts walking back into the forest.

     After a beat, Hakuji follows.

     The hashira does not speak again. For a long while, Hakuji walks behind him obediently. The silence is rather uncomfortable. It’s almost as if he has entirely forgotten that Hakuji is there.

     “Um,” he tries, once it finally becomes unbearable. “May I ask your name?”

     The slayer is quiet for a beat longer, as if debating whether or not to grace him with a response.

     “Tomioka Giyuu,” he answers finally. Small victories, Hakuji decides. He replays their conversation in his head for the hundredth time since the two began their trek.

     “Who is Nezuko?” He asks next. Perhaps now that he has broken Giyuu’s silence, he will be more inclined to elaborate on the rather odd reference he had made earlier.

     “Stop talking to me,” he says instead.      Hakuji forces back the strongest eye roll of his life. This guy must be a blast at parties.

     Instead, as they tromp through the underbrush beneath the starlit sky, Hakuji fills the silence with his own mind.

     A new face comes to him now, one that he did not remember before. With it comes a whole new set of feelings. There is the bitter smell of herbal medicine in the air. The leathery texture of frail hands cupping his cheeks. The familiar motion of caretaking, of cooling fevers and cleaning sweat stained sheets. Kind eyes that meet his own without judgement for his faults.

     Father, Hakuji thinks, as the man’s weak smile fills his head. Oh, Father, how could I forget? Tears well in his eyes, and he blinks them back, startled. Giyuu hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy fixing his empty stare on the horizon. Hakuji turns his gaze back to the ground. If he had been unable to remember even his own father…

     How much else is he missing?

     Hakuji strains his mind in a desperate search for details. He remembers that his father was ill. Why, or for how long, he cannot say. Koyuki, he knows, had a favorite  hairpin. They wanted to go out someday, to go see something special. There is a void in his memory where the information should be. Keizou ran a dojo and trained Hakuji to fight, but he can’t recall any other pupils or rival dojos around.

     His heart grows awfully heavy as he realizes that he doesn’t even know what happened to them. A chill runs through his bones. He remembers loving them, loving them so much it hurt, and now they are gone. Did they die of old age as he lived on without them, forever eighteen? Did they grow ill and pass on too young? Or perhaps, when he became a newborn demon and was too crazed with hunger to think straight, did he…

    Hakuji banishes that thought before he can finish it, lest he be sick again in front of Giyuu. He wouldn’t have done that. He couldn’t have. Not Koyuki, at least; Hakuji hasn’t killed a woman in his entire life as a demon. But what happened to his father, for him to end up in Keizou’s care? What led him to fall into Muzan’s clutches?

     Reality comes crashing back to him as he nearly slams into Giyuu’s back. He has stopped walking in front of a grove of wisteria, and Hakuji can feel a familiar tingle growing in the back of his throat. It would be enough to deter any lower demon. Some were simply unwilling to brave the misery of the poisonous trees, and most were too weak to withstand it in the first place. Hakuji was certainly weakened from his encounter with Muzan, but not enough for the wisteria to cause him any serious harm.

     “Do not make me regret this,” Giyuu warns. Hakuji suppresses a sneeze.

     “I will not,” he swears, voice slightly thick with the poison. “For what it’s worth, you have my word.”

     Giyuu gives a curt nod and leads him into the grove of purple flowers.

     It has been awhile since Hakuji has willingly entered a grove, and he certainly did not miss it. He coughs slightly as the itch in his throat worsens, and hears Giyuu huff in front of him, clearly indifferent to the demon’s discomfort. His eyes burn and water, and his stomach twists. Chills break out over his skin. God. He really, really did not miss this. Hakuji coughs again, and then swallows back a gag. He takes a deep breath that wheezes in his aching chest in an attempt to calm his demonic instincts.

Run, his cells scream, get out of here.

     And then they are on the other side. Hakuji gasps a sigh of relief as his stomach settles and his throat clears. He rubs the lingering water from his eyes with the heels of his palms. The burn on his skin dissipates with the fresh, poison free air.

     Giyuu looks back, supremely unimpressed, as Hakuji proceeds to hack up a lung upon his exhale.

     “Sorry,” he wheezes, “I’m allergic.”

     Giyuu rolls his empty eyes, and Hakuji mocks him to thin air when he turns back around.

     He catches a glimpse of the environment around him, and his sarcasm is immediately replaced by heart-pounding anxiety.

     The house in front of him is massive. A mansion, more accurately. It is beautifully crafted, and the gardens they stand in are clearly tended with lots of love. Lanterns glow along the paths, illuminating the path.

    “I sent Kanzaburo to inform the master of our arrival,” Giyuu tells him, voice as flat as ever. “Earlier, when you were spacing out,” he adds unhelpfully. Hakuji can’t even be mad at the blow. Quite frankly, he’s far too busy freaking out. He is crazy. Absolutely, indisputably crazy. He’s waltzing straight in to meet with the strongest members of the organization that has been hunting him for centuries. And the master. His last master hurt him for letting him down, and surely this one will too. That’s what people do when they’re in power, right? They hurt the people below them until they obey? He’s bound to suffer through an awful punishment before the hashira will hear him speak.

     Will Kyojuro be there? Hakuji’s heart drops to his feet. Technically, he had come with the intention of seeking advice from the flame hashira, but there’s no way that he can face him now. Hakuji can’t ask him how to live when he had almost taken his life the night before. Then again, if Kyojuro is not there, it means he is still too hurt to make the trip to the mansion. Which means Hakuji does not have to see him, but also means that he is suffering injuries that Hakuji inflicted. He’s not sure which is worse.

      Hakuji rubs his sweaty palms on his pants, and is suddenly painfully aware of his clothing. Showing so much skin had never bothered him before. He wore the lines over his torso with pride. Now though, he feels awfully immodest. The thick blue stripes only serve to amplify his demonic appearance. He wishes he had a proper haori to cover himself. If the entire corps wears uniforms, perhaps the master is uptight about that sort of thing. Hakuji crosses his arms over his chest self-consciously.

     It’s still. Too still. Hakuji gets the distinct feeling that usually the place would be crawling with slayers, coming and going as they pleased and filling the grounds with vibrant presence. But now, he feels like he’s being watched by invisible eyes from every angle. The whole property buzzes with an energy that Hakuji is certain is from dozens of suppressed fighting spirits. A cold sweat breaks out down his back. It’s too late to back out now. Even with his speed, the hashira would certainly catch him once he reached the wisteria forest.

     “Welcome,” two voices say in unison, and Hakuji jumps. The children in front of him appear almost otherworldly, with mysterious smiles and dark eyes like whirlpools. Twins, Hakuji guesses. Aside from their hair color, the two look identical.

     Giyuu bows slightly, and Hakuji awkwardly copies him, arms stiff at his side. He’s quite unused to human social rules. Unlike Douma, Hakuji has never been one to try and blend in with humans. He can’t quite figure out what he’s supposed to do with himself, which, considering he’s now trying to learn how to be human again, is very unfortunate.

     The girls don’t seem to mind, though. They simply turn to lead the two toward the massive main house. Their postures are perfectly straight. Hakuji draws his shoulders back, trying to mimic it. Is this a human thing to do? He isn’t sure.

     The odd group continues toward the mansion, and oh, Hakuji certainly feels the fighting spirits now. They must sense his demonic presence approaching, because somewhere around a dozen fighting spirits blaze into existence at once. Some are sharp and quick, others heavy and dense, and some obnoxiously loud. It’s enough to give Hakuji an instant headache, and he presses a palm over his forehead to dull the throb. He is sweating, he notices. Fear has settled permanently in his chest. Awaiting him are the few most terrifying swordsmen in all of the corps.

     Worst of all, he cannot pinpoint the familiar inferno of Kyojuro’s fighting spirit. He can’t be sure, perhaps he’s just missing it among the cacaphony of spirits, but nerves stir in his ribcage nonetheless. Ugh, why is he so nervous? He knows what to expect. Pain, and then hopefully a chance to speak, and more pain if deemed unworthy. He can do this. He has to do this.

     “Alright,” says Giyuu, and Hakuji snaps to attention. “Here’s the deal. Expect that everyone in that room wants you dead.”

     Lovely, Hakuji thinks. That doesn’t make him feel worse at all.

     “Also, don’t assume that I’m your ally,” the hashira continues. “Just because I’m giving you a chance doesn’t mean I’m on your side. I’m doing this for the corps.”

     “Right,” Hakuji replies meekly, crushing down the disappointment he feels at Giyuu’s aloof-looking stare.

     Inside the mansion, people are shouting. Clearly his arrival is controversial—and rightfully so, he supposes. What can he even say? How can he possibly convince the demon slayers to let him help them when he has destroyed so many of their ranks?

     The girls slide open the doors to the mansion. Giyuu turns to look at Hakuji, clearly planning to guard him to ensure he doesn’t try anything. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

     With a shaky inhale and a bellyful of butterflies, Hakuji steps forward to meet the master.

Chapter Text

     The master is nothing like Hakuji expected.

     He supposes he had been imagining a tall man with broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw. Someone covered in scars and battle worn, with the fighting spirit to rival Kyojuro’s.

     Instead, the man before him is frail and sickly, half of the skin on his face inflamed as if he had been burned. His eyes are milky white, his face framed with straight black hair that brings out the youth in his features. He can’t be older than his mid-twenties, and certainly has never used a sword. His spirit is calm, meditative like a prayer. It’s horribly confusing.

     The hashira, however, are extremely easy to read.

     They are a strange bunch, with a wide variety of abnormal hair colors, strange eyes, and plenty of odd accessories. They all have their weapons drawn, rage boiling among them. One man has a mouth wrapped in bandages, and his hatred-filled eyes are two different colors. Another must be over seven feet tall, and he is also clearly blind. Tears slip down his cheeks as he whispers a prayer. There are only two women, one with dazzling pink hair and a very revealing uniform, and the other short and perpetually smiling politely.

One man wears diamonds on his headband and wields two blades, and a young boy sits in the corner, looking very much lost.

     Hakuji was right earlier. Kyojuro is not there. He must still be hurting too much to make it to the mansion. Hakuji is swallowed by guilt at the thought. Briefly, he prays to the universe that the flame hashira will feel better soon, and hopefully make a reappearance in Hakuji’s life with the same vigor and passion as before.

     With Kyojuro’s absence, the strongest aura radiates from the hashira closest to Hakuji.

     The man appears absolutely feral, his eyes bloodshot and a crazed grin splitting his features. He is covered with scars that run over his face and down over his chest and stomach, which are exposed by an open jacket. Distantly, Hakuji feels a little better about being shirtless. His skin prickles with defensiveness as the Hashira wheezes a breathy laugh at him. The man’s spirit is ragged, like broken glass, slicing at Hakuji’s senses before even swinging his sword.

     “Here he is,” he announces, his voice shaking with rage. “The stupid fucking bastard who attacked our flame hashira and then came crying right into our hands.” His white hair makes him appear ghastly as he slinks towards Hakuji.

     Hakuji takes a step back, unease immediately settling into his muscles. It takes every ounce of his willpower to ignore the instinct to take on a fighting stance.

     Before Hakuji can reply, the master speaks.

     “Sanemi,” he says simply, and the scarred slayer turns and drops into a respectful bow, though his fighting spirit remains aggravated. Hakuji feels himself relax against his better judgement as the master’s voice reaches him. It is unbelievably calming and gentle, and Hakuji thinks that he would cut off his own head on the spot if this man asked him to.

     Slowly, carefully, Hakuji maneuvers himself into a low bow. He does not speak. Honestly, he’s not sure if he can.

     “My beloved children,” the master begins, and Hakuji feels a misplaced pang of loneliness at the fond wording. The hashira kneel in a line at his feet. “I would like to request that you all remain at ease until we have reached a consensus. May I remind you, if anything were to go wrong, the eight of you together would surely be able to handle it.” The tinge of glee in their collective spirits at the idea is terrifying. “That said, I would like to consider all angles of this situation and allow room for rational thought before emotion.” His milky eyes lock with Hakuji’s, and though he knows the man cannot physically see, he cannot help but feel that he’s staring into his soul.

     “I would like to hear from Giyuu, and then invite Akaza to share his story and enlighten us on his purpose for being here.” Hakuji shudders slightly at the use of his demonic title. The slayers don’t know that he’s changed it, he realizes, so they call him by the name he told to Kyojuro.

     “Then we shall open the floor to opinions and proposals from you all,” the master concludes. “Does that seem fair?”

     Judging by the frustration brewing in their spirits, no, the hashira do not think it is fair, and they certainly are not keen on the idea of hearing Hakuji out. But nobody says anything. Their respect for their master must be immense, he thinks. He never felt like that towards Muzan. He was just a man who gave orders, and Hakuji was Akaza, the misinformed fool who followed them.

     “Alright then,” the master says with a gentle smile. “When you’re ready, Giyuu, I would like to hear the story of your encounter with Akaza.”

     Giyuu nods his head in a small bow.

     “I was on patrol,” he says simply. “There was a demonic presence in the air, so I followed it, and he almost ran straight into me.” Irritation stirs under Hakuji’s skin.

     “I fought him, but I immediately recognized some of the behaviors I saw in Nezuko.” Giyuu shifts his eyes to look at Hakuji, and he avoids the slayer’s gaze. “He would not fight back. He did nothing but block my swings and beg me to listen to him. And, as you can see, the kanji in his eyes are gone.”

     Immediately, all seven of the other slayers lean around him to get a better view. This time, Hakuji forces himself to raise his head, presenting his kanji-free irises to the hashira.

     “Already, I wanted to bring him in to show you for yourself, Oyakata-sama,” Giyuu says, “but then he told me that he wanted to make things right by sharing information with the corps, and I figured it would be negligent to do anything but.”

     The master leans forward slightly, his interest clear in the small twitch at the corners of his mouth.

     “I see,” he says, that spring-warm voice of his filling the room. “Akaza. Please tell me, what is it that prompted you to seek justice with us?” His tone is not condescending, not angry, simply curious. Perhaps Hakuji was wrong. Maybe punishment is not in his future today. He takes a deep breath.

     “I did not kill any slayers at the Mugen train,” he begins, and the hashira bristle at his voice. “Muzan was furious, and he made a mistake. He took his punishment too far.”

     A scoff, seemingly from the man with Heterochromia. “Not far enough,” he breathes to the woman next to him, and her eyes flash with agreement. Hakuji pushes on anyway.

     “He had suppressed my memories of who I was, and fabricated a beastly state of mind for me instead,” Hakuji says. “When he tortured me, he ruined my body so thoroughly that he also destroyed the mental cage he made to hold back my memories.”

     “Interesting,” the master muses. “So you remember your human life?”

     “I do now,” Hakuji sighs, his heart aching. “Most of it, at least. There are lots of holes. Oh—and, uh, my name is actually Hakuji. By the way.”

     “Hakuji,” the man repeats, and unexplained joy rises in his chest at the use of his real name. It’s the first time anyone has called him that to his face before. It feels so right. “In that case, my name is Ubuyashiki Kagaya. I do not expect you to call me master, though you may if you wish.” Hakuji nods gratefully, even as the hashira grumble in disagreement.

     “When you came to, Hakuji, why did you choose to come to the people most likely to kill you?” Kagaya asks. Hakuji blinks. Can he really tell him this part? Then again, he supposes, he really has nothing to lose. Either he succeeds, or he dies, and some twisted justice shall be served either way.

     “I didn’t know how to feel,” Hakuji blurts out, “or to think on my own, or act without my consciousness being filtered through Muzan’s curse.” The tatami is suddenly absolutely scintillating. “And then I remembered fighting Kyojuro, and how easy it seemed for him to live life with a purpose, and…I wanted to do that too. I guess I didn’t know where else to go.” Disgust surfaces among the slayers, not quite disguising their protectiveness. They must care about Kyojuro very much.

     “I see. So you came in the hopes of learning to live like a human again?” Kagaya hums. His brow is furrowed in thought.

     “Yes and no,” Hakuji admits. “Really, I think I just want justice. I want to help more people than I hurt, and I want to watch Muzan burn to dust under the sun.” He shrugs lamely. “So does the corps. So all of the signs pointed to here.”

     “So you wish to aid us in defeating Muzan?” Kagaya, sits back, his docile fighting spirit flickering. Something furious is brewing underneath its calm exterior, Hakuji realizes. This man is the picture of tranquility, but he wants Muzan’s demise more than even the strongest of hashira.

     “Yes,” Hakuji says, and this time there is no doubt in his voice. “I’ll tell you everything I know. I’ve got information on all of the upper moons, I can tell you how they fight and how to kill them. I don’t know as much about Muzan himself, but everything I know is fair game.”

     “How can we be sure this isn’t all bullshit?” Sanemi spits, finally interrupting. “He could be sent here by Muzan to lie to us and lead us straight into his goddamn trap!”

     “Shinazugawa-san, please,” hisses the short woman. The master is silent, seemingly waiting to see how the situation plays out.

     “Please what, Kocho? Please stop trying to protect us, stop trying to expose this lying mother fucker for who he really is?”

     The butterfly woman—Kocho, he recalls—ignores Sanemi’s taunts.

     “Tell me about the moons who rank higher than you,” she says calmly, but her eyes burn with barely repressed anger.

     “Sure,” Hakuji nods, endlessly relieved to see their exchange end. He scoots to face her a little better.

     “Upper one is Kokushibo. He’s got six eyes and a sword he developed from his own flesh, and he’s been alive for hundreds of years. He uses breath styles like a demon slayer.” The hashira exchange glances, unease settling among their spirits.

     “Go on,” Kocho prompts, and he does.

     “Upper moon two is called Douma. I hate him, by the way, he’s an absolute disease .  He preys on young women. Very tall, blonde, weird ass rainbow eyes.” Kocho’s muscles are beginning to twitch, but Hakuji keeps going. “He fights with these two golden fans, and his blood demon art is based around ice.”

     “That’s him,” Kocho seethes. She is shaking with rage from head to toe, her fighting spirit growing sickly sweet like wisteria poison. “He’s telling the truth. That’s the one that took my sister.”

     Sadness and fury sweeps over the group. Sanemi’s razor-sharp fighting spirit flickers with grief for a split second, and Hakuji’s heart drops. Whoever Kocho’s sister was, the two must have been close.

     “So now we have proof that Hakuji is willing to give us accurate information about the Demon Moons,” The master confirms. “This could be indispensable for us if we place our trust in him.”

     “Actually, I want to expose this shithead myself,” Sanemi requests, his thin brows set low in determination.

     “A blood test?” Asks the mad with the headband, his eyes wide. Sanemi nods, and the rest of the hashira turn to the master for consent.

     “Yes, I suppose that would be a good idea. Risky, perhaps, but it would solidify Hakuji’s claims.” Kagaya muses. “Sanemi, you may test him.”

     “Test me how?” Hakuji asks warily, as the scarred slayer eagerly draws his sword. Are they going to take some of his blood?

     Instead, though, Sanemi stands and draws the green edge of his blade across his own wrist.

     The scent hits Hakuji like a boulder sent down a hill.

     A marechi, he realizes as he reels back. His stomach cramps up with an endless hunger, his mind clouding as if he’s horribly drunk. Hakuji swallows back a mouthful of drool, shaking all over. Suddenly, he is ravenous. It’s as if he hasn’t eaten in years. The scent of human blood throws a veil over his willpower, his newfound autonomy.

     Hakuji forces the meat of his hand into his mouth, his fangs sinking in until they hit bone. The giddy intoxication of Sanemi’s blood crashes over him in waves, and his balance feels off. His eyes squeeze shut as he pants heavily. Blood and drool flow down his wrist.

     “C’mon, you sick bastard,” Sanemi taunts, his voice rattling in his chest like a predator. “You know you want it.”

     God , does he. Hakuji wants nothing more than to gorge himself on that glorious marechi flesh until his stomach hurts. The very thought makes all of his demonic instincts howl in desire.

     No. No, that’s not right. There is something he wants more. What is it again?

     Muzan. He wants to kill Muzan. He wants to find Kyojuro and ask him how to live. He wants to serve justice to his victims and make the ghosts of his past proud.

     These three wishes repeat over and over in his head, like a mantra, pulling him out of his drunken craze. He is curled in on himself, his hand bitten fully in half. The alternative being to spit it out and have a hand on the floor next to him for the rest of the meeting, Hakuji opts to awkwardly swallow it.

     “No,” he rasps, dragging a hand across his chin and smearing the bloody saliva. “I don’t want to eat you. I want to help you.”

     A fragile silence comes over the room. The hashiras’ fighting spirits lull in confusion. Sanemi is absolutely livid, his beady eyes bloodshot. If looks could kill, Hakuji would be dead on the floor. Kagaya wears a small, mysterious smile.

     “My children,” he addresses them. “We have witnessed Hakuji’s dedication in two separate ways, and we have heard his story. I would like to offer the floor to you now.”

     “Namu Amida Butsu,” whispers the giant man. He is crying again.

     The bandaged hashira looks back to Hakuji with a critical eye. A snake slithers out from inside his haori, and it hisses at him. Hakuji withdraws slightly.

     “Here’s what I think,” he says, teal and gold eyes staring Hakuji down. “We interrogate him, get all the info we can, and then kill him before he changes his mind.”

     Hakuji sucks in a sharp breath. He stares down at the tatami, the nerves having returned in full force. This moment will determine whether or not he can make a true difference. A personal difference.

     “Forgive me, Iguro-san,” the pink haired woman speaks up, “but must we?” Her voice trembles with nerves, her cheeks flushing bright red. “I-I mean, perhaps he would be a valuable asset in the fight against Muzan, that’s all.” Yes, Hakuji thinks desperately. Yes, I will, please just trust me.

     “And what if he loses control?” The snake man shoots back. “It won’t matter how good he is against Muzan if he’s also good against us.”

     “Obanai, Mitsuri, both excellent points,” says the master before anyone else can jump in. “Does anybody else have any alternative options?”

     “I don’t really care,” provides the bored looking boy. He plays with the tips of his long black hair, his cerulean eyes unfocused. “It’s not like I’ll remember it anyway.”

     Well, an interesting statement, but at least he’s not outright vouching to chop off Hakuji’s head.

     “I’m with Iguro-san,” says the headband-man. “That thing has killed probably thousands of humans. We ought to kill him now in a flashy way before his hunger takes over.” The others are murmuring in agreement, except for Mitsuri, who looks about ready to crawl into a hole and die.

     “For what it’s worth,” Giyuu pipes up, and Mitsuri practically glows with relief. “Nezuko has yet to lose control after over two years. Perhaps Hakuji can do the same.”

     There it is again. That name. Nezuko. What does it mean? Why will nobody tell him who she is?

     “Poor creature,” sighs the man with the prayer beads. Fresh tears spill over his cheeks. “We ought to execute him now, and spare his soul the misery.”

     “Bad news, Tomioka,” Sanemi snarls. “Looks like you’re outnumbered.” The other hashira are nodding solemnly. Some avoid Hakuji’s gaze. Others fight to catch it, to flash one last bit of hatred at him.

     The master sighs slowly. His smile is gone. “In that case, perhaps collecting information and an honorable seppuku for his cooperation is the best way to go.” He looks at Hakuji with unseeing eyes, and he almost looks remorseful. His fighting spirit feels oddly conflicted, like he’s not quite sure where his will is truly leading him.

     “The sun is rising soon. We shall keep Hakuji at the mansion throughout the day and collect information, and then he shall be executed at nightfall.” Kagaya’s words are spoken with the authority of a man familiar with making hard decisions.

     Hakuji’s heart speeds up as dread overtakes him. He will be going to hell at nightfall, and Muzan will not be coming with him. He has failed himself. He has failed his father, his master, his lover. He has failed all of the victims he has claimed over the years. He bows his head in defeat, tears of frustration threatening to spill over.

     The sliding door is flung open with a slam, and the entire room startles in unison.

     “Wait,” someone gasps, “I have a proposal.”

      A dozen heads whip around to stare in shock at the figure in the doorway. Hakuji’s chest seizes, and butterflies burst to life in his gut. Shame settles over him like a heavy blanket.

     There, flushed and panting weakly in the doorway, stands Rengoku Kyojuro.

Chapter Text

     Kyojuro looks awful.

     Well, not quite awful —his fiery eye and hair are just as strikingly beautiful as Hakuji remembers. But he certainly looks ill. The flame hashira leans heavily against the doorframe, clutching his damaged ribs with one hand. His face is pale aside from his brightly flushed cheeks, and sweat has collected on his brow. He appears almost feverish, standing there unsteadily before the master and his coworkers and rocking what appears to be a hospital fit. It’s complete with bandages wrapping over the left side of his face, obscuring his crushed eye.

     His one-eyed gaze meets Hakuji’s, and every possible emotion swirls through his fighting spirit. Where it once blazed and blazed into the night, it has been dimmed down to a gentle flame with his injury. It flares with pain, with anger and regret and sadness. There is shame, presumably at his failure to finish the demon off. There is fear as Hakuji holds his gaze, eyes watering, of being hurt again. As quickly as it came, Kyojuro’s unease is stamped out and replaced by a tiny flicker of hope. His expression softens for a split second, and Hakuji is once again overwhelmed by foreign human emotions. And then the flame pillar breaks his gaze with a sense of finality.

     Kyojuro grips the wall for support as he dips into a low bow. “Please forgive my intrusion, master,” he says. “I realized while at the butterfly estate that I had an important suggestion that I ought to present to the hashira.”

     Across the room, the butterfly woman’s fighting spirit boils with a silent rage. Her smile grows tense as she and Kyojuro lock eyes, and Hakuji gets the distinct feeling that Kyojuro is absolutely not supposed to be here under any circumstances. He offers her a sheepish grin, and her polite smile turns downright murderous.

     “Kyojuro,” the master greets, his tone light with surprise. “Goodness, my child, please come sit. You are not well.”

     “I’m alright, Oyakata-sama,” Kyojuro protests. But when the flashy man with the headband hurries to help him to a spot on the line of hashira, he obliges gratefully. Worry trickles through everyone’s spirits, and Hakuji’s heart pounds.

      “Thank you, Tengen,” Kagaya says, and Hakuji files the new name away. “Kyojuro, please tell us what you have come all this way to propose.”

     Kyojuro takes a steadying breath, shifting his hand over his injured torso in discomfort.

     “The medical wing of the corps has been making incredible advances recently,” he begins. “Kocho-san’s poisons are constantly growing more precise and effective.” The woman in question raises an eyebrow at his praise. “However, it will be difficult to make any real progress on a toxin that could stop Muzan or develop a cure for Nezuko without an adequate test subject.” Kyojuro asserts, and interest ripples through the group. Kocho sits up a little straighter.

     “I propose that we keep Akaza alive and allow him to serve as Kocho’s assistant in developing these drugs,” he says. Hakuji is too shocked to care about Kyojuro’s use of his old name. “Assuming that he has proven himself willing to assist the corps, I believe it would be negligent for us to dispose of him without allowing him to serve us to his full potential.” Kyojuro dips his head, signaling that he has finished.

     “Rengoku-san,” Kocho whispers, the gears in her head visibly turning. “You cannot be serious. You want me to keep the demon that almost killed you as a lab assistant?”

     If her unusually blunt phrasing bothers him, he does not show it. “Yes,” he confirms, a small smile making its way onto his face. “Surely having such a strong demon to study would be beneficial. Even if you were not testing drugs on him, he could provide blood samples and allow you to observe demonic biology.”

     “That would make a difference,” she mumbles to herself, staring off into space as ideas flood her brain.

     Hakuji feels frozen, like if he moves a muscle his tentative pardon will be cast aside.

     “How can we be sure he will not turn on you?” Asks the giant man, his voice deep and thick with concern.

     Finally, Hakuji finds his words. “Uhm,” he says. “If it helps, I do not harm women. I mean, I don’t want to hurt anybody anymore, but even under Muzan’s control, I could never bring myself to do it.” He turns to Kocho, who is analyzing him a mile a minute, her eyes sweeping over his form and surely already developing ideas for experiments.

     “Is that so?” Kagaya asks him, and Hakuji nods violently. “I swear it. He gave me an exception to not eat like the other moons did. I guess he found me less unbearable than the others, considering he crafted my headspace to his own desires.”

     “I’ll keep him dosed up on wisteria,” Kocho says. A small, slightly threatening grin creeps onto her face. “That way, if anything goes wrong, we’ll be able to take him down.” She turns her critical gaze to Kyojuro. “Rengoku-san is right. Having such a powerful demon to test on could help us solve mysteries about their kind we’ve been researching for ages, as well as get to work on some miracle poisons.”

     “One that could help kill Muzan?” Giyuu prompts her. Kocho stares at Hakuji with wide eyes, as if the secrets to the universe have just been opened up to her.

     “Yes,” she gasps. “I think so, yes.”

     The energy in the room shifts in an instant, electrified as if lightning is brewing among the hashira. This, Hakuji notes, is the power of a common enemy. It makes you reevaluate who your allies are. Which is why he ran to the corps, and why Kyojuro’s proposal is so effective among the hashira. The risk of a rogue Upper Moon is nothing compared to the potential to defeat Kibutsuji Muzan. They know this. Hakuji can feel their hesitant anticipation hanging in the air.

     “Very well, then,” Kagaya says. His voice is as soothing as ever, but the wild thing once again stirs beneath the tranquil surface of his spirit. “Kyojuro, Shinobu, you have convinced me.” He turns to Hakuji, and he sits straight as a rod, his heart hammering in his throat. There is no way. No way is this happening. Did Kyojuro just save his life? Does he really have a chance to avenge those he’s hurt?

     “I would like to send Hakuji back to the butterfly mansion with Shinobu and Kyojuro,” Kagaya announces, and Hakuji nearly keels over unconscious with relief. A few of the hashira huff to themselves, their fighting spirits alight with a strangled mix of hatred and faith and a tiny, fragile possibility.

     “Shinobu, you may begin to acclimate Hakuji to a wisteria drug,” the master continues. “However, I ask of you to please be civil in your testing. I would like Hakuji to be aware and somewhat autonomous so he may provide assistance and become accustomed to life free of Muzan’s curse.” Shinobu nods tensely. Hakuji does not doubt that she would much rather slice him open and pump him full of poison until he died. But if the master commands her to be humane, it seems that she will comply. Hakuji breathes a secret sigh of gratitude, tears of joy threatening to spill over.

     Kyojuro’s eye is burning into the side of Hakuji’s skull. For once, his brilliant spirit is hard to read. Hakuji looks up to meet his gaze. He intends to thank him profusely, he supposes, or to ask why he came to vouch for him. The second their eyes lock, However, Kyojuro turns away. His perpetual smile has grown tense, his face pinched with uncertainty and too much pain for Hakuji’s liking.

     “—shall write to me by crow,” the master is saying, “to inform me of how the trials go.” Hakuji forces himself back into the present. “Hakuji, I will meet with you to discuss what you know of Muzan as soon as Shinobu has established a baseline.”

     For once, Hakuji doesn’t have to overthink his behavior. He bends double over his knees, palms flat on the ground in endless gratitude. All of his newfound feelings are growing overwhelming again.

     “Thank you,” he utters, his voice trembling with emotion. “Kagaya-sama, thank you. I will not let you down, I swear it.”

     Kagaya gives him a warm smile. If sunlight didn’t burn him, Hakuji imagines it would feel like this.

     “Thank you very much, my beloved children,” he says. “I wish you all safe travels getting home. You are dismissed.”

     The hashira stand and give their master one last bow before turning to file out into the courtyard. Frustration brews among them. Even the young boy with the long hair looks uneasy, and Obanai and Sanemi are downright fuming. Tengen pats Kyojuro’s shoulder as he passes, and Mitsuri lingers by the door.

     Hakuji can’t seem to lift himself up from his bow. The tension and fear from the last few hours has finally lifted, and he feels limp and worn from the strength of the gratitude weighing over him. He rests his forehead on the tatami, whispering prayers of thanks to the universe.

     “Rengoku-san,” Shinobu chirps, her tone sickly-sweet. Primal fear shoots through Kyojuro’s spirit. “As much as I appreciate your desire to assist my research, I do seem to remember instructing you to remain in bed.”

      Kyojuro chuckles weakly. “Yes,” he admits, “you did. My apologies.” Hakuji tilts his head so he has a view of the two hashira. As much as he admires Kyojuro, he kind of wants to see this.

     For someone with so much irritation in her, Shinobu hides it like a master. “Well, as much as I would love to reprimand you now, we have limited time before the sun rises, and we have a demon to escort.” She turns her piercing gaze to Hakuji, and the sheer intimidation suddenly brings back his ability to sit upright. “Besides,” she continues, “you should not be up and about right now, and I’d like to get you back to the mansion as soon as possible.”

     Kyojuro relents, and Mitsuri appears in an instant to help haul him to his feet. He winces slightly, cradling his ribs, and Mitsuri spews a long list of apologies. As he reassures her and sees her off, Shinobu approaches Hakuji. He gets to his feet tentatively, and before he can even react, the stinger of her blade is at his throat. It’s oddly shaped and certainly couldn’t cut off his head, but Hakuji can sense the poison dripping from it.

     “Here’s how we’re going to do this, Hakuji-san,” Shinobu says lightly, and he stares at her with eyes blown wide. “You’re going to walk in front, where we can see you, and should you try any funny business, I’ll pump you full of enough wisteria to put down a horse.” Her menacing grin is back. Technically, Hakuji knows, her poison is not strong enough to actually hurt him very much, but he nods enthusiastically anyway.

     And so, the three of them embark into the night.

     The other pillars are long gone, likely out on patrol or returning home. Their distaste still lingers in the air. Hakuji does not know the way to the butterfly mansion, but the constant prod of Shinobu’s blade on the small of his back is direction enough. The three walk in silence, which, judging by the concern in Shinobu’s spirit, is abnormal. Kyojuro is certainly talkative, this he knows. For him to be so silent is unnerving.

     “Kyojuro,” Hakuji tries hesitantly, and is rewarded immediately with a poke to the back. The threat of wisteria makes his skin itch.

     “Don’t speak to him,” Shinobu insists, although her voice remains polite. It’s quite terrifying, really.

     “Now, now, Kocho-san,” Kyojuro intercepts. He sounds tired. “Simply speaking to me will not put me in any danger.”

     Hakuji’s brain shuts off. Shit. He has so much to say. Are you feeling alright? I’m sorry that I hurt you. I want to feel alive again.

     He can’t bring himself to say any of it. Not now. Not when Shinobu is listening patiently, fully prepared to poison him at the first stumble.

     “Who is Nezuko?” He blurts out instead.

     Kyojuro gives a small laugh in surprise, and Hakuji blushes. “Nobody has told you?” Kyojuro asks, his tone light with amusement.”

     “No,” Hakuji admits.

     “Really?”

     “I tried asking Giyuu, but he told me to shut up.”

     Kyojuro laughs for real this time, warm and genuine. “Yes, that sounds about right,” he agrees. “Do you remember the two Junior slayers at the Mugen mission?”

     “Sure,” Hakuji nods, “Checker-boy and Boar-head.”

     “Or, as we know them, Kamado Tanjiro and Hashibira Inosuke,” Kyojuro corrects him, amused. “Kamado-shonen’s family was killed by Muzan in a tragic event, and his only surviving family is his little sister, Nezuko.”

     Hakuji furrows his brow. “But if she’s alive and well, why is everyone talking about her so strangely?”

     A twinge of sadness colors the hashiras’ fighting spirits. Kyojuro sighs gently from somewhere behind him, and Hakuji wishes he could see his face.

     “Kamado Nezuko was turned into a demon,” Kyojuro tells him, and Hakuji’s heart splashes into his innards. “She has proven herself as a member of the Demon Slayer Corps by putting her life on the line, and she has yet to ever harm a human being.”

     A foreign twinge of jealousy shoots through Hakuji’s sternum. Why did Nezuko get to live life free of the guilt of hundreds of murders? Why did she get to fit so easily among the slayers while he was cursed to serve a monster? He forces the thought away with no small amount of effort, determined to be happy for the girl instead.

     “She’s not quite like you, though,” Kyojuro muses sadly. “Nezuko cannot speak, and she cannot do most things for herself. She has incredible willpower and a good heart, but her ability to process the world has been reverted to that of a young child.”

     Ah. So it seems that she had lost her autonomy as well, just in a different way.

     “That’s a shame,” Hakuji says, and he truly means it. “Tanjiro seemed like a very… determined young man, and I’m sure his sister deserves to express herself as well.”

     “Yes,” Kyojuro agrees. His voice is uncharacteristically soft, more so than Hakuji has heard before. “I’m told that she used to be very bright.”

     Hakuji’s heart aches for her, this young demon girl that he has never met. Muzan’s cruelty knows no bounds. This is not new news, but it still stings like a slap to the face each time he is reminded.

     “Can I meet her?” Hakuji asks quietly, almost afraid to get a response.

     “No,” Shinobu snaps, at the same time that Kyojuro hums in thought.

     “Someday, perhaps,” Kyojuro answers finally. His spirit dims with exhaustion and a bittersweet feeling of protectiveness. “Hakuji, you must understand. I did not vouch for you because I trusted you to be changed.” Hakuji turns his head to look over his shoulder, desperate to understand Kyojuro’s motives. Kyojuro only stares at the ground, his face pale and blotchy. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple.

     “I requested you be used as a test subject for Nezuko’s sake,” Kyojuro admits. “It was selfish of me, yes, but that girl and her brother deserve to sit in the sun together again.” He stumbles slightly, and Shinobu’s spirit flares up in worry. Hakuji represses the urge to reach out and steady him lest he be skewered by Shinobu’s awful rod-like sword.

     “No,” Hakuji protests. “You weren’t selfish. You were right.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the sight of the dark stripes inked over his torso making his skin crawl. “I’m going willingly, Kyojuro, for the very purpose of being useful to those who can end this era of suffering.”

     “Very well, then. Please do not let us down.” Kyojuro says, his voice hushed with desperate hope and shame.

     Hakuji does not speak again, not even when he coughs and wheezes his way through another round of the wisteria grove. It’s all too much again. The anticipation, and the grief, and the anger, and the endless urge for justice. The stars are brighter than he remembers. They blur and twist in his vision as the summer nighttime breeze spills over him like warm water. Hakuji wonders how many of these tiny sensations he has missed in the past century.

     Dawn has crept within two hours of breaking before The rustle of fabric and a sharp gasp causes Hakuji to whip his head around again.

     Kyojuro is bent almost double, one arm desperately cradling his wounded stomach. He is sweating horribly, as if he has just soloed an Upper moon. Which, Hakuji supposes, he has. Considering it was his fault, the whole situation feels that much worse.

     The flame hashira leans heavily against Shinobu, who is struggling to hold him up with her short stature. Her face is pinched in worry, the tip of her sword faltering from its place at Hakuji’s back. The two lock eyes, and he sees the look of helplessness in Shinobu’s eyes as Kyojuro stumbles again. He gives a strangled whimper of pain at the rebound. The caretaker in Hakuji roars to life. In his mind, he reaches out to his father and Koyuki for blessing him with such an instinct.

     “Kyojuro,” he yelps as the hashira sways dangerously on his feet. Hakuji leaps back, catching Kyojuro around the waist before he can buckle. Shinobu’s stinger gives Hakuji a warning jab, and for a moment, his mind grows woozy with wisteria. He freezes in place as the wave passes. Kyojuro feels a bit too hot against his side, and his skin is feverish to the touch.  But he holds him anyway, supporting Kyojuro against him the way his heart had always known how.

     Shinobu’s defensive position stalls. Kyojuro is clearly too heavy for her tiny frame to support the rest of the way, and they all know it. Her hesitation is practically tangible.

     “Fine then,” she says finally, her tone bordering on defiant, like she hopes to make Hakuji regret it. “If you really want to be my lab assistant, you start right now.”

     He nods vigorously. “Yes, Shinobu, I do.”

     “Good,” she agrees, turning on her heel and marching off. “Then let’s get Rengoku-san back to bed this instant.”

     In spite of himself, Hakuji’s face splits into a tender smile.

Chapter Text

     The trek back to the butterfly mansion feels a million years longer than it actually is.

     Dawn’s steady approach keeps Hakuji wary as the odd trio traverses the landscape. Kyojuro is limp against his side, one arm thrown weakly over the demon’s  shoulder. Hakuji supports him in turn with an arm around his slim waist as Kyojuro limps along, the wounds to his torso and head making him dizzy. His practiced breaths have turned labored. Hakuji can do nothing but haul him along, whispering reassurances.

     Despite the slower pace, however, the three reach the butterfly mansion with an hour to spare. Hakuji breathes a sigh of relief at their success.

     It lasts about thirty seconds before Hakuji’s victory is interrupted by a blood curdling scream. He jumps nearly out of his skin at the sound.

     “DEMON!” A someone howls, and something clocks Hakuji upside the head. He whips around to see a twin-tailed girl standing behind him, making a valiant effort to appear defiant instead of absolutely terrified. A group of three crying young girls are clustered around her legs, glaring at Hakuji as if he is the spawn of the devil. Which, to be fair, he kind of is. The older girl is brandishing a sandal at him threateningly. Oh. That was what had hit him. Hakuji looks down, amused, to see the other sandal at his feet.

     “Leave Rengoku-sama alone,” The girl commands, her voice trembling slightly. The trio of children clamor in agreement.

     Kyojuro lets out a pained groan, which was probably supposed to mean something along the lines of, “Don’t worry! This is Hakuji, your new research subject!” Unfortunately, he seems in no way conscious enough to speak coherently.

     “Now, Aoi, it’s alright,” Shinobu assures them, smiling brightly at the group of girls. Another careens around the corner, this time with a sword, probably having sensed Hakuji’s presence. She halts in her tracks at Shinobu’s raised hand. Though she says nothing, her eyes are wide with confusion.

Hakuji feels sweat beading on his hairline. Just how many of them are there?!

     “As you know, an emergency hashira meeting was held today,” Shinobu explains, and the girls cling to her every word. “This is Hakuji-san. He has proven himself free of Muzan’s curse and willing to assist the corps. Therefore, Oyakata-sama has sent him here so I may study a proper demonic specimen.”

     Five pairs of skeptical eyes bear into every inch of Hakuji’s being. If he weren’t still supporting poor Kyojuro, he might have folded under the weight of their stares.

     Morbid understanding flickers in Aoi’s eyes.

     “Oh God, Shinobu-sama, he’s staying ?”

     Pandemonium breaks loose once again. The girl with the sword stands by quietly, looking uncomfortable as the other girls bombard Shinobu with a copious amount of questions.

     “ Girls ,” Shinobu interrupts, cutting one of the youngest ones off mid-question about Hakuji’s ability to wear a butterfly pin. Hakuji eyes the hairpieces warily. Shinobu’s smile is tight with exhaustion.

     “Listen,” she begins. “Yes, he is staying. No, he is no longer in the upper ranks. Yes, he was the one who attacked Rengoku-san. No, he is currently not posing a threat to him. Yes, we can do a dissection.” Hakuji’s blood runs cold at that one. Shinobu glances over at the three youngest.

     “The butterfly pin is undetermined,” she concludes primly. “Kanao, you’re dismissed from training for today, and Aoi, it would be kind of you to help me get Rengoku-san settled.”

     As distrustful as Aoi’s spirit is, she hurries to throw Kyojuro’s free arm over her own shoulder. The hashira whines softly as his damaged abdomen is jostled, and Aoi gasps an apology. From this angle, Hakuji can see blood beginning to seep through the bandages over his head wound. Hakuji had forgotten that the man was certainly concussed. Concern once again worms its way through his chest.

     As Hakuji and Aoi all but drag Kyojuro through the hallways, the other girls follow them like a gaggle of ducklings.

     “If you would please tamper down your demonic presence before we enter the medical wing, Hakuji-san, it would be very much appreciated,” Shinobu requests. Hakuji blushes again. God, why can he never remember how to act around humans? Of course a house full of injured slayers would be unnerved by his presence!

     “Sorry,” he blurts out, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about that. Sorry.”

     Aoi snorts to herself, and Hakuji ignores her. He stalls for a second, unsure how to present human-like. The realization that he doesn’t actually remember his own human appearance hits him like a punch to the sternum.

     Instead, he copies.

     Higher ranking demons, those that share a large quantity of Muzan’s blood, are capable of shapeshifting. Hakuji hasn’t actually done it in quite a long while. Unlike upper six, who blends in for a living, he avoids humans like the plague unless he’s looking for a meal. But vaguely, perhaps by instinct, Hakuji is sure he knows how.

     In his mind’s eye, Hakuji borrows the blue from Aoi’s eyes. He calls upon Shinobu’s dark hair. Kyojuro sighs heavily against his side, and Hakuji recalls all of the mannerisms that make him human. His dazzling, fangless smile, the warm, healthy color of his skin, his steady pattern of blinks. All things that aren’t natural for demons. Hakuji finds himself reluctant to open his eyes, afraid of what he might see.

     “Much better,” Shinobu praises, and Aoi breathes an audible exhale of relief.

     Hakuji forces himself to look down at his hands, and his heart skips a beat. His skin is several shades darker than before, a light golden-brown like the other slayers he’s met. It’s a shocking contrast to his usual ghastly complexion. The navy blue lines that have marred his body for as long as he can remember are gone, hidden away underneath the glamour of human skin. His insides twist as he stares at his wrists. There had never been any markings there before, but he can’t shake the slightly melancholy feeling that something is missing.

     Kyojuro’s room is only a bit further down the hall, and the hashira falters as they approach. His knees give out without warning mere feet from the doorway, and Aoi gasps as his weight shifts. Hakuji clutches the slayer’s waist tighter. He’s careful not to put too much pressure on his abdomen, shifting his grasp to Kyojuro’s hip instead. The hashira is completely out now, his remaining eye half-lidded and unfocused. He no longer has the strength to even clutch his stomach like he did before as Aoi surrenders his weight to Hakuji. Instead, his now free arm hangs limp at his side, indicative of his lack of energy.

     “Would you mind?” Shinobu asks politely, fixing the blankets of the bed. They had been thrown off to the side in Kyojuro’s hurry earlier. Hakuji eases Kyojuro onto the bed, pausing when he unconsciously winces in discomfort. The second he gets the slayer situated, his head lolls to the side, eye rolling back into his skull. Hakuji feels awful. It’s clear that Kyojuro had been giving everything he had to stay awake and keep the burden off of his and Aoi’s shoulders. The girl approaches hesitantly as Hakuji presses the back of his hand to Kyojuro’s forehead and cheek. His skin is heated and damp, and Hakuji’s heart aches with worry.

     “He’s pretty warm,” he informs the two women. He recalls monitoring dear Koyuki’s temperature all those years ago. “It’s only been a day, so it’s probably still too early for an infection to set in to any of his wounds. I’m guessing it’s just a stress fever.”

     Silence. Hakuji looks up, unnerved.

     Both Shinobu and Aoi are gawking at him as if he’s just told them Kyojuro has grown horns.

     Shit. Did he miss something? Is there some sort of human social code he’s accidentally violated? Hakuji freezes under their stares, hand still pressed to Kyojuro’s face.

     “Oh my,” Shinobu says, breaking the silence. “Where did you learn that?” The amusement in her tone makes Hakuji flush with embarrassment.

     “I, uh,” he stammers. “I had some nursing experience. Well, a lot of nursing experience. Before…all of this happened.” He gestures lamely at himself, his chest twinging with sorrow. Everything he knew, he had learned from his time with his father and Koyuki. Are they well, he wonders, wherever they are now? Is Keizou with them? For the thousandth time today, Hakuji sends his beloved family a silent sentiment. He’s not sure if they’re listening, but it makes him feel a little better, and perhaps they would like to know that he’s finally able to think about them again.

     “Interesting,” Shinobu muses. “What kind of experience?”

     “The people I worked with were sick, actually, not injured.” Hakuji looks away, suddenly self conscious. “I mean, I definitely treated plenty of injuries, but most of them were my own.”

     If Shinobu finds this comment off putting, she doesn’t show it.

     “I see,” she says instead, turning to Aoi with her ever-present smile. “Aoi, can you run a quick vitals check please and make sure he’s stable? Hakuji-san and I have much to discuss.”

     The younger girl nods immediately, seemingly grateful to have been given something to do with her hands. Hakuji takes the back of his hand away as Aoi moves to check his pulse and listen to his breathing patterns.

     Hakuji looks up at Shinobu, who beckons him to follow. That sounds like a horrible idea, actually, considering some of the experiments she had referenced earlier. But Kagaya had ordered her to be humane. Besides, this is what Hakuji had come for. He takes a deep breath, trailing after her as she exits the room.

     Shinobu’s lab is a terrifying environment. It looks quite normal at first, equipped with a large bookshelf filled with medical textbooks and anatomical diagrams of the human body on the walls. But as she continues, Hakuji discovers that there is in fact a side room off of the office. He shudders. The room is smaller than the first, and the walls are lined with vials of just about every flower and herb Hakuji has ever seen. Including, he notes with dismay, a distressing amount of wisteria.

     “Alright then,” she claps her hands together. Hakuji startles. “Now, just to make sure you don’t try anything, we’re gonna keep you on a custom wisteria dose while you’re at the mansion.” He cringes slightly. The thought of constantly living with the wisteria side effects makes him wanna rip his head off.

     Shinobu digs around in a cabinet, collecting a variety of vials, a strange gadget with a tube attached to it, and what appears to be a syringe. “Of course, we’ll be establishing a baseline first.” Hakuji nods as if he understands what’s happening. Despite his experience in the medical field, a lot has changed since then. Some of the devices she pulls out are certainly western, and he has never seen them before in his life.

     Shinobu whips around and pushes him back against a wall, and his survival instincts flare momentarily before he recognizes the markings on the wall by his head as a height chart.

     “I’ll start with height and weight,” she informs him cheerily, “and then I’m gonna take a look at your blood pressure, lung health, pulse, etcetera.”

     “Okay,” he agrees awkwardly, for what else can he do?

     “After that, we’ll move on to blood samples and develop our drug.” She jots his height down in a notebook on the nearby table, and leads him by the shoulder to a scale in the corner. He looks down, fascinated, as the needle swivels to mark his weight. “You’ll probably need to rest up for a bit while your body adjusts to the drug, so we’ll start some more fun experiments with regeneration and whatnot tomorrow.” Hakuji swallows thickly. He is absolutely positive that tomorrow’s experiments will not  be fun, but he forces his lips into a tentative smile anyway.

     “Okay, Hakuji-san, that’s a healthy five feet, eight inches, and one hundred sixty-three pounds,” Shinobu announces. He’s not quite sure why that’s relevant, but if Shinobu seems pleased, so is he. He has trained hard for decades to build his form after all. He won’t complain if she wants to praise him for it.

     He complies as he’s led to sit on a table, and Shinobu straps a device around his bicep. It tightens suddenly around his arm as she squeezes the tube, and he jerks away. Shinobu’s spirit darkens threateningly.

     “My bad,” he apologizes sheepishly, giving his arm back. “What is that thing?”

     “It’s a sphygmomanometer,” Shinobu beams. “Thank you for asking!”

     Hakuji stares at her blankly. His brain is one thousand percent empty. But she nods to herself anyway, jotting down more data.

     She pokes and prods him with a dozen other tools. He’s sure he’s seen some of them before, but they evade his memory. One of them goes into her ears as she presses it to his chest and back. She makes him take way too many deep breaths, sliding it around his torso each time. He doesn’t like that one very much. He also dislikes the funnel-shaped one that goes into his ear, and the one that shines a light into his eyes, and the unreasonably large syringe that she stabs into his arm. It takes her a few too many tries to find the vein. This, Hakuji thinks miserably, as he’s poked for the fifth time, is probably intentional.

     When Shinobu pulls the plunger back, the transparent tube is filled with a deep red liquid. It’s dark, like wine, but slightly thicker. Hakuji has seen his own blood way too many times in the past, but it looks different now. In a medical setting, without the sheer elation he feels when slashed in a fight, it feels much more invasive.

     Shinobu goes back for another sample. And another. Hakuji swings his leg back and forth off the edge of the table impatiently.

     “Isn’t this a bit much?” He asks on the fourth round. Shinobu responds as always with a well-mannered grin. “Of course not,” she tells him. “Why, do you need it back?”

     She’s joking, Hakuji realizes, and bites back a rather obvious remark in favor of a light chuckle. “Nah,” he says, “I just…what are you gonna do with it all?”

     “Study it,” Shinobu replies as if she has just solved world hunger. Hakuji rolls his eyes at her turned back, and immediately regrets it when her spirit shifts with recognition. At this point, he wouldn’t put it past her to have eyes in the back of her head.

     Surprisingly, though, she elaborates. “I’m going to study your cellular composition,” she informs him, “and compare it to the demonic blood samples I’ve taken from those still loyal to Muzan.” This is a clever idea, and he is about to tell her as such when she interrupts. “With the rest of course, I’ll experiment with sunlight, wisteria poison, nichirin, and human blood.” Shinobu finishes, rather proud of herself. Hakuji blinks at her, slightly disturbed.

     The woman has moved to a desk against the far wall, and brought over an armful of herbs and extracts. Probably for the drug. Hakuji repositions himself to sit cross-legged as she works. It’s mesmerizing . Each substance is measured with the eye of a chemist, too quick and precise for Hakuji to follow. The wisteria he notices, though, and she adds quite a bit to it. He flinches as Shinobu adds raw flowers onto the extract base she’s already made. She brings it to her nose and sniffs it.

     Shinobu’s face twists in discontent, and she nearly doubles the amount of wisteria. Hakuji feels lightheaded just watching her.

     The chemistry of the flowers seems to have been altered, however, because they no longer contain the sharp, panicky aura Hakuji knows well. Instead, when Shinobu turns to present him with a small mug of the liquid, it feels eerily calm.

     “I’ve altered the wisteria properties to present with less annoying symptoms,” Shinobu explains. Ah, yes, that’ll do it. “Instead, it’s more akin to a sedative, and will last longer with a more tranquillizing affect.” She offers a reassuring smile that Hakuji’s not sure he can trust.

     “Don’t look so grim, Hakuji-san, I won’t be keeping you unconscious!” She chides at his expression of displeasure. “For a bit, yes, while your body adjusts. But afterwards, you will be fully functional, only a little sleepy.”

     Hakuji is struck with a memory then. His father, trembling in a sickbed, and little Hakuji coming to treat him with stolen medicine. His father had drank the cup with reluctance, and Hakuji could not understand why . So what if it was stolen? It would make him better! As far as Hakuji he was concerned, that meant that it was the right thing to do.

    With his father’s memory at his side, Hakuji scrunches his eyes shut and downs the cup.

     Shinobu was right. The drug tastes absolutely atrocious, and he nearly chokes trying to force it down, but it lacks the familiar sting that wisteria usually has. Instead, he feels his eyelids droop as something warm and heavy trickles through his bloodstream. His heartbeat slows, and the room looks a bit blurry.

     “Can you feel it?” Shinobu asks expectantly, and he can only nod. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Lead fills his limbs, and Hakuji relaxes into the sluggish feeling.

     “Good,” she exclaims, and Hakuji feels a grin twitch at the corners of his mouth. “Please rest now, Hakuji-san, so we can really get started tomorrow.” Shinobu gently pushes on his shoulders, helping him lay down on the table he sits on.

     Logically, he knows it’s her. But in Hakuji’s mind, those hands belong to Keizou, chuckling to himself as he forces Hakuji down to rest after a heavy day of training.

     Of course. He needs to rest now, so he can get up at dawn to care for Koyuki. She needs him to be strong so he can make her better.

     Hakuji’s head lolls to the side as sleep takes him, and he surrenders to the warmth of his loved ones around him.

Chapter Text

     Kyojuro is very much over waking up feeling like a corpse.

     The morning sun kisses his brow as it filters through the window, painting his face in gold. He drags a pillow over his head. As much as he adores the beauty of nature, he is currently concussed out of his mind and very much not in the mood for it. Birdsong flutters in, and he moans to himself, a splitting headache pounding behind his eyes. Eye, he remembers with a heavy heart. He now has only one left. He wonders if Hakuji regrets destroying his other one.

     Oh, god, Hakuji!

     The events of the night before flood back to Kyojuro like a rushing river, and his laugh is slightly unhinged as he muffles it into the pillow.

     He had woken up after sunset to a weird atmosphere in the mansion. He was vaguely aware of one of the youngest girls tending to his wounds. Actual movement or speech evaded him, so he simply laid there, seemingly asleep as she worked. He could sense the unease, though. Something wasn’t right.

     Aoi had come in in a rush to check on his bigger wounds, and the girl had interrogated her, clearly desperate for an explanation. There was an emergency hashira meeting, Aoi explained. Upper Three had apparently converted and was brought to meet with the master, so Shinobu had passed on her duties to them for the night. They were to keep an eye on Kyojuro and ensure that he stayed in bed.

     He had lain there, frozen with fear. Upper Moon Three had tried to kill him just the night before, and very narrowly missed his target. What could possibly change his mind? Even if the demon was telling the truth, Muzan’s blood still ran in his veins, and they had no idea what that meant. They had barely even gotten to study it.

     Oh. They hadn’t gotten to study it.

     Kyojuro respected the butterfly girls greatly, and felt horribly guilty as the adrenaline forced him out of bed and out of their clutches. He had made it to Oyakata-sama’s mansion in record time, too hyped up to think about the pain enveloping his entire body.

     He sighs to himself, throwing both arms over the pillow to hold it in place. He feels miserable . His head injury has thrown off the balance of his body’s functioning. How on earth did he survive the hashira meeting yesterday without—who knows? Dying? Or, much more likely, throwing up on the master’s floor?

     Embarrassment burns over his cheeks. Kyojuro knows it wouldn’t have been the end of the world. He’d spent the entirety of the meeting quivering with nausea and dizziness, the never ending throb in his skull giving him vertigo. Oyakata-sama knew that he was royally concussed. He surely would have handled Kyojuro’s sickness with the utmost grace. And, besides, he had witnessed Kyojuro in a worse state before! The master had a habit of coming to visit as many slayers as he could when they were out for the count. Oyakata-sama had seen Kyojuro when he was too ill to move on at least two occasions. Still, Kyojuro thinks to himself, vomiting in front of his coworkers—and an Upper Moon level demon— would have certainly made the list of his top ten most humiliating moments in his entire career.

     The door clicks open, and Aoi enters with quiet steps. She pauses, lingering uncertainly at the sight of the hashira smashing a pillow over his head, as if trying to suffocate himself. Kyojuro forces himself to relinquish his hold on the plush blindfold. He winces as the sun shines directly into his eyeball, and Aoi hurries to close the blinds.

     “Sorry about that, Rengoku-sama,” she frowns. “I didn’t know you were awake! How are you feeling?”

     “I’m alright, though I have been better!” he exclaims, grateful that his voice retains its usual jovial tone. Aoi nods curtly. She of all people tends to appreciate Kyojuro’s unusual bluntness. The both of them have a habit of telling things as they are, though she expresses it through her temper where Kyojuro leans more towards a confident expression of facts. Either way, she seems to find him easier to tend to than the other hashira, perhaps because he is more honest about his thoughts.

     Aoi is growing into an incredible nurse, Kyojuro notes as she begins unwrapping his bandages to change them. He catches a glimpse of the reddish-purple bruise spreading over his stomach. It looks awful. Kyojuro laughs to himself in alarm, and Aoi looks up with a raised brow.

     “Sorry,” he sighs, “Don’t worry about my outburst! That just looks…rather dark.” She tuts to herself as she starts to clean his ribs, and Kyojuro sucks in a total concentration breath as the liquid stings his wounds.

     “How are the boys?” He hisses to distract himself. Tanjiro’s stab wound had been too deep for Kyojuro’s liking. As far as he knew, the others were unharmed, but he hasn’t had the chance to confirm for himself.

     “They’re alright,” Aoi reassures him. “Nezuko, too. Tanjiro’s wound is causing him lots of pain, but the other two are just as irritating as usual.”

     Kyojuro chuckles slightly, disguising a gasp as she prods at the injuries on his torso. Seeming satisfied, Aoi moves to change the bandages.

     “They’ve been asking to come and see you,” She informs him, and hope blooms in Kyojuro’s chest. “However, I decided they’re not allowed in here until you’re feeling better.”

     “I am well enough to see them!” He protests. He rolls his head to face her,  ignoring the way his skull throbs at the movement. It’s to no avail, of course. Aoi is Aoi.

     “Absolutely not!” She snaps, moving on to check his eye. “You are concussed, and a collection of crying and yelling teenagers will not do you any favors!”

     Kyojuro flinches, remembering the way Zenitsu had screamed at the prospect of demons on the Mugen train. He could still hear Inosuke’s hysterical laughter as the boy pounded on the windows.

     Perhaps Aoi has the right idea.

     “And what of Hakuji?” He asks, and the atmosphere in the room seems to darken.

     “He’s here,” Aoi confirms, unease clear on her face. “Currently, he’s asleep. Shinobu-sama says that he’s adjusting to the drug she created to suppress his strength.”

     Kyojuro’s heart rate picks up. Hakuji is here. This is really happening, isn’t it? He had really gone through with his plan to save the life of the demon who had gone to take his.

     “Has she already begun testing?” He pushes. He almost doesn’t want to know.

     “No, not quite yet,” Aoi hums, and pain shoots through Kyojuro’s entire body as she checks the empty eye socket. He curls his toes against the agony, breathing as deeply as possible. A distraction. He needs another distraction. He isn’t sure if he should be disappointed or not about the testing, so he focuses his mind on that instead.  On the one hand, they’re no closer to finding a cure for Nezuko. But on the other, Hakuji hasn’t yet been cut open or poisoned. A twinge of guilt pokes at his gut at the thought of what Shinobu could do to the demon before he remembers that Hakuji had tried to murder him.

     An eye for an eye, he supposes grimly, and instantly regrets choosing that metaphor. Aoi wraps a fresh set of bandages around his aching skull, and lowers his head gently back to the pillows. Kyojuro sighs to himself. He feels very much useless.

     “Is there anything that I can do?” Kyojuro asks. Restless had always run rampant in his body, and it’s already beginning to hit him. He wants to go check on his juniors, to go slay a demon, to run or fight or even just find something to fidget with so he doesn’t go mad. People often say that Kyojuro moves faster than most, both body and mind. He’s always moving, riding his own wave of knowledge and new ideas. Now, being constrained to a hospital bed, time seems to move painfully slow. Aoi has only been here for a short while, but it already feels like a million years.

     “Nothing that requires concentration,” Aoi sighs, as if she had predicted his question. “That means no reading, no writing—though if you wish to write home, I would be happy to transcribe a message for your crow—and certainly no getting out of bed.”

     “Right,” he says numbly. This is going to be torture. “If you would be willing to send a message to Senjuro for me, it would be greatly appreciated!”

     “Sure,” Aoi agrees. “I’ll go grab some ink. Please rest up until I return.”

     She leaves, and Kyojuro is alone again. He stares up at the dark wooden ceiling, tracing the grain with his remaining eye. God, his head hurts. Kyojuro takes a deep breath, settling himself deeper into the pillows.

    He hopes Hakuji will wake soon, so that dear Nezuko can be cured.

                                   ***

     Summer nights have always been Hakuji’s favorite. The air is warm and gentle like a comforting hand on his cheek as he turns his face to the stars. Why Koyuki loves winter so much, he can’t understand. But as far as he’s concerned, whatever Koyuki finds joy in are the most important things in the world. So he respects it. Still, secretly, he likes summer better. That way he can take her outside at night without worrying about her catching a chill.

     There’s a festival in the village tonight, and the wind whips through Koyuki’s hair as she hurries down the hill, pulling Hakuji along by the hand. She turns around to smile at him, and Hakuji’s heart nearly bursts with adoration. Her dark hair is haloed with silver moonlight, and her eyes sparkle with elation. This, he thinks, is the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. His beautiful girl, with snowflakes in her hair and the smile of a goddess. He would follow her to the ends of the earth.

     The village is aglow with lanterns and music, and people thread in and out of the stalls in a seamless current. A group of children bursts through the crowd, nearly bowling Koyuki over, and she giggles as Hakuji sweeps her out of the way.

     “Oi, watch it!” He hollers after them, but the screeching army of children has already rounded the corner.

     “Ah, Hakuji-San,” Koyuki laughs, entwining her fingers with his. Warmth shoots through his chest as she pulls him closer. “Don’t mind them, they’re just a couple of kids having fun!”

     “They can have fun somewhere else,” he grumbles, and she squeezes his palm. Hakuji can’t really be angry, though. The sound of Koyuki’s laughter is medicine to his soul.

     The pair of them amble around with no real destination. They both know why they’re really here, anyway. They buy udon from a nearby vendor, chatting and giggling like a couple of school children. Hakuji’s belly quivers with butterflies each time she meets his eyes with her doe eyed stare. He has to look away to hide his blush. She has no clue just how much she drives him wild. Hakuji hides his giddy smile behind more noodles.

     When they finish, Koyuki has his hand again, leading him to a field down by the water. Most of the festival crowd is still distracted by the activity in the square, so they have the place to themselves. A band begins to play around the corner, their sweet melodies floating like fireflies through the air. Koyuki turns to face him, and Hakuji nearly trips over his own feet. He’s too busy grinning at her like an idiot.

     “Dance with me, Hakuji-san,” she blurts out, throwing her arms out to him. Her cheeks flush a brilliant pink.

     “It would be my honor,” he murmurs. Her hand fits perfectly in his own as their palms meet. She wraps her free arm around his neck, gazing up at him like he’s hung the stars. Hakuji is breathless as his other hand comes to rest on Koyuki’s waist.

     He’s never been much of a dancer. A fighter, sure. Hakuji has learned enough Soryuu to be graceful and light on his feet, but that is a very different thing from dancing with Koyuki. Surely she isn’t great either, though, considering she’s only this year well enough to be out of bed all day.

     The music swells, and it has a western feel to it, unique to Hakuji’s ears. He likes it. His insecurity melts away as Koyuki pulls him in to spin, and he laughs aloud. The two of them stumble around in a series of spins and steps, mostly on the rhythm but sometimes not. Neither of them could care less. Hakuji twirls her with a crescendo in the music, and Koyuki shrieks a laugh as he sweeps her off her feet into a dip.

     The first fireworks burst above them as Koyuki cups his face, and their lips meet with the gentlest, purest passion that Hakuji has ever felt.

     When they break apart, Koyki’s eyes shimmer with tears of joy. He holds her around the waist, pressing their foreheads together as the world around them jumps with color and song.

     “Hakuji-san,” she whispers, and he presses a hand to her porcelain cheek. Her mouth moves then, in the shape of three words he has ached to hear, to say, since the day they met.

     I love you, her lips spell.

     “Wake up,” he hears instead.

     Unease brews in his gut. That is not Koyuki’s voice. He freezes, staring at her in confusion, and Koyuki looks horribly nervous. She mouths his name, but it never reaches his ears.

     “Wake up, Hakuji-san,” the voice says again, and Hakuji shakes his head rapidly. This is all wrong. Why can’t he hear her?

     Koyuki is in tears now, reaching out as he stumbles back. She gasps the same three words over and over like a prayer— I love you, I love you, I love you— and no sound reaches him. Hakuji tries desperately to say it back, to tell her that he wants to protect her until the end of time, but his jaw is stuck shut. He claws at the side of his face, trying to pry it open. His fingertips are blue. His fingernails have grown into bloody claws. Something wet is running down his cheeks where he had scratched himself.

     Koyuki, he yells in his mind as his lover screams in terror. No, Koyuki, I’m sorry, I love you too.

     Blood leaks from the corner of Koyuki’s mouth as she begins to choke.

     Hakuji is frozen in place, watching from inside a monster’s body as his mind slams against itself with all of his strength. He screams for her, begs himself to move, cries out for anybody to please just  help her.

     Koyuki falls to the ground, bloody and unmoving.

     “Hakuji-san!” The voice calls one more time.

     Hakuji bolts upright in the middle of Shinobu’s lab table, gasping for breath.

     His skin is soaked with sweat, and his cheeks are damp. Perhaps he was scratching at his face in real life, too.

     Koyuki is gone. He meets Shinobu’s wide eyes, unable to speak over the grief constricting his heart. Her smile is gone.

     Liquid drips from his face onto his pant leg, and oh, it isn’t blood after all.

     For the first time in over a century as a demon, Hakuji is crying.

Chapter Text

     The experiments are actually quite docile. So far, at least. Hakuji isn’t sure exactly what he’d been expecting, but it had certainly been more traumatic than this. Possibly due to the fact that Shinobu is quite preoccupied studying his blood.

     When Hakuji had awoken that morning, crying on a lab table, there had been an odd look on Shinobu’s face. It wasn’t emotional, per se, but her practiced smile was gone. The true neutral she met him with was just as jarring as his own tears streaming down his cheeks.

     “Who is Koyuki?” She had asked softly, expression unmoving.

     Hakuji had felt sick with anger and grief. What he had just seen certainly hadn’t been a memory—the last bit, at least, had been a nightmare. Whether the first part was based in reality was unclear. But whether it was real or not, Koyuki was not Shinobu’s tool to use in a mind game. She was his universe, his ripple in the pond, the snowflake melting against his skin. She was not for Shinobu to know.

     “None of your Goddamn business,” he’d snarled, and Shinobu recoiled, her pleasant expression fixed back in place. He was too devastated to truly feel guilty. And so, Shinobu had retreated to the corner to look at something under what Hakuji assumed was some sort of amplifying lens. He had remained where he sat, brooding quietly to himself and hugging his knees to his chest while he waited for the awful hollow feeling to pass.

     That is where they are now. In a stalemate.

     Hakuji sighs, resting his chin on his knee while he watches the hashira work. Shinobu has put samples of his blood into tiny glass slides, and is staring into the same device from earlier. He still feels sluggish; the drug circulating in his veins is certainly doing its job.

     “So,” he finally speaks up, and Shinobu looks up with a smile. “Are you gonna cut me open? Or something?”

     “Certainly, if you’re willing to let the girls and I observe,” she confirms, and he shudders. “Not quite yet, though. I’m studying your blood for today, and I would like to compare the samples to Nezuko-chan’s.” She turns fully to look at him, temporarily abandoning her device. “Other than that, I was hoping to do some simple regeneration tests, with your hands and such. I’m going to save new poisons until you fully adjust to the one you’re currently on, so until then I’ll mostly be working with the blood I’ve already extracted.”

     Hakuji nods gratefully. He’s lost full limbs many times before, so he’s all game if Shinobu wants to cut off his hand a few times for the good of the order. Besides, a sick pride surfaces in him at the thought of showing off his rather impressive regeneration speed. He’s positive that Shinobu will be glad to study it.

     However, the hashira turns away again. Apparently she’s not yet done with her funny little device. Hakuji taps his foot against the metal table, only stopping when Shinobu’s spirit prickles with irritation.

     “What is that thing, anyway?” He finally asks, boredom getting the better of him.

     “It’s a microscope,” Shinobu answers without looking up. “It magnifies the blood on the slide by hundreds of times so I can observe your cells.”

     “What do they look like?” He questions, and Shinobu pauses. Her spirit swirls as if she’s debating something with herself. And then she turns around, beckoning with one hand.

     “Would you like to come see?” Shinobu invites him, and Hakuji can’t stop a grin as he pushes himself off of the lab table and comes to look.

     It’s like looking at a galaxy in the night sky. Hakuji can barely comprehend it. His cells cover the lens in hundreds of reddish dots. Most of them look almost sickly, he realizes, corrupted with purple like a bruise. But a few of them are pristine and untouched.

     “Those darker ones are your demonic cells,” Shinobu informs him. “But that tiny percentage that seems healthier—those are human, Hakuji-san.” He looks up at her in disbelief. She shakes her head.

     “I don’t understand,” she admits. “I’ve only seen this in one other demon before. But I have no clue what causes the initial shift from fully demonic to just slightly human.”

     “I wish I could tell you,” Hakuji murmurs, returning to the microscope. “Are you saying that my blood is the same as Nezuko’s?”

     “Goodness, no,” Shinobu giggles, and he rolls his eyes into the lens. “Your cells are much stronger, and the percentage of demonic cells is still quite a bit higher.” Hakuji’s stomach drops. That doesn’t sound good.

     “Still,” the hashira sighs, “to have any human cells at all…it’s a good sign, Hakuji-san.”

     Nevermind! This is fantastic news! Hakuji has science on his side! He swallows down a joyful laugh, and moves to let Shinobu take over the microscope again.

     She stares into it for a few minutes more, making tiny adjustments on the knobs on the side, before abruptly standing up. She has that look on her face again. The pleasant smile that lets him know that what is to follow will likely not be very pleasant at all.

     “Well then! Let’s start with regeneration, hmm? We can work with the sunlight once it gets a bit brighter outside.”

     Hakuji cringes at the last part, but nods anyway. His pulse picks up as Shinobu grabs a rather large, surgical-looking knife.

     “In the interest of not bloodying my lab, we’ll be sticking to small parts. Fingers, hands, that sort of thing.” Shinobu beckons Hakuji over to a table covered with a protective sheet, retrieving a cutting board from another cabinet.

     Hakuji nods, splaying his palm out across the board. He’s not particularly excited to get chopped up, but he’s doing this for his family. For his victims. For Kyojuro, and, apparently, Nezuko.

     Shinobu happily pulls on a pair of gloves, and her grin looks slightly more genuine as she turns back to Hakuji.

     “Ready, Hakuji-san?” She asks, eyeing a clock on the wall above his head, and then brings the knife down before he can respond.

     The cold metal chops through his hand, separating it from his wrist with a flash of pain. A dim flicker of adrenaline surfaces in the back of Hakuji’s brain. It’s a tamer version of the giddiness he used to feel during a fight, when his blood was spilled by a slayer’s sword. His hand reforms with a wet crunch in less than a second. Shinobu’s eyebrows shoot up, and Hakuji holds back a grin lest it appear suspicious. It’s not the gory memories that threaten to break him, but the shock on the hashira’s face at his regeneration speed is damn near laughable.

     “Oh my,” she utters finally. “I see. That is quite fast.”

     Hakuji can’t help it anymore. He barks a sharp laugh, smacking his free hand over his traitorous mouth.

     “My bad,” he mumbles from behind his palm, “it’s not funny.” Even though it kind of is.

     Shinobu shakes her head slightly in what might have been amusement as she scoops the discarded hand to the side. Hakuji composes himself and, at her prompting, returns his hand to the cutting board.

     The blade takes his fingers this time, and the sharp sting lasts no longer than a heartbeat. Shinobu blinks, looking around at the workspace.

     “Actually, this is much less violent than I anticipated,” she muses. “It seems that your regeneration speed stems the blood flow before it can even make a mess in my workspace.” Hakuji nods in agreement. The cutting board is stained red from the initial slashes, but aside from a few stray drops, the wounds have healed too quickly to spill blood onto the table sheet.

     Shinobu contemplates for a moment longer. “Do you mind if I take a forearm?” She finally asks, and Hakuji awkwardly bends to the side to lay his arm across the board.

     The burn from this one is much stronger, but Hakuji’s face stays neutral against the pain. Shinobu’s knife lacks the telltale sensations of breathwork. It’s cool and empty in contrast to the spicy-sweet burn of Kyojuro’s sword, and Hakuji guesses that Shinobu is not using one of her breath forms right now. He still doesn’t really understand how those work, either. Slayers breathe in special ways, this he knows. During their fight, Kyojuro’s breaths were full and strong, drawn from deep within his lower belly. It must be something fancy with the diaphragm? He has no clue, but he certainly couldn’t replicate it if he tried.

     “Shinobu,” he tries as he moves to give the hashira access to his other arm. “Uh—what breathing style do you use?”

     Her spirit tingles with surprise and a bit of suspicion. “Ah, Hakuji-san, you aren’t trying to collect information on me, are you?”

     “Of course not!” He blurts as Shinobu casually cleaves off his arm. “I just was curious, that’s all. You didn’t seem like you were using any to cut me.”

     “I don’t need to,” she replies calmly. “Cutting your neck would be a different story, of course. But you seem very willing to let me cut you as of now, so I have no reason to use a breath form.”

     Hakuji’s brows shoot up. As Shinobu goes for another slice to his hand, he focuses his energy into his forearm, and the blade glances off his thickened skin.

     “Oh, there it is!” Shinobu exclaims, a hint of glee coloring her voice. “That’s more like what I expected from an Upper Moon.”

     “I am not an Upper Moon anymore,” Hakuji insists, something dark curling in his chest. Is it fear? Rebellion? Sadness? He can’t tell.

     “I’m glad to see it,” Shinobu says, and somehow it feels more genuine than the rest of her speech. “I use insect breathing. It was my personal creation.”

     “Really?” Hakuji asks, intrigued. “You can just do that?”

     Shinobu’s smile twitches in amusement as she scrapes a modest pile of discarded limbs into a bucket. “Yes, many slayers adapt the base forms to work for them,” she tells him. “Same with their swords. Out of the nine current hashira, only four of us use standard nichirin katanas.”

     God. Demon slayers were more complicated than he had thought. For over a century, they had been regarded as weak pests who could never achieve anything important. Their only purpose was to bleed out and die at his feet. But from the second he set foot in the master’s mansion, his whole perception of them had shifted.

     “Would you mind holding off your regeneration on this one?” Shinobu requests, and he nods the affirmative. When she chops off his hand this time, he represses his cellular instinct to rebuild. Blood spills over the table and sheet as Hakuji holds the stump of his wrist frozen in time.

     Shinobu’s eyes are glued to the clock. “Is this difficult for you at all?” She questions. “Have you held your regeneration before?”

     “Of course I have,” Hakuji admits, shame weighing in his shoulders. “Back when I was Akaza,” he says, the name bitter on his tongue, “I…I used to hold it back to taunt people sometimes.” Shinobu’s brow crinkles in disgust, and Hakuji takes a steadying breath. “For data purposes though, no, it isn’t difficult for me, though I haven’t tested how long I can hold it off.”

     Shinobu nods to herself thoughtfully for a moment.

     “Alright then,” she announces cheerily, “we’ll test it right now!”

     “Huh?” Hakuji gasps as Shinobu whips out a roll of bandages. He holds his wrist steady, watching in bewilderment as she wraps the stump.

     “There,” she says, patting his bandaged wrist like it’s an obedient animal. “This way you can keep any blood from spilling onto my floor if you lose control of it.”

     “I won’t,” Hakuji tells her, but he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.

     “Anyway, while we wait for this to time out,” Shinobu begins, “why don’t you tell me about the sun?” She sits back down at her desk, pulling her research journal over.

     “What about it?” He asks, confused. “That’s, uh, not exactly my area of expertise.”

     “Precisely,” Shinobu affirms. “What exactly triggers it to burn you? Is it the radiation? Or perhaps just the light itself?”

     Hakuji furrows his brow. He’s honestly not sure. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t fear the sun. Since the very first day of his demonic life, which is little more than a blur of hunger and bloodshed in his memory, he has retreated into the shadows at the first sign of dawn. It’s visceral, like his very cells are rebelling against the golden light of morning.

     “I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “But the instinct to run from it has been written into my flesh for as long as I can remember.”

     “Understood,” she says, leaning back in her chair and sending him an analytical look. “And what would you say triggers that fear in you?”

     Skepticism surfaces in the back of Hakuji’s brain. When exactly did this become a therapy session?

     “It’s like a sixth sense,” he responds simply. “I can feel it in my flesh and bones before dawn comes, so I have time to flee. But no matter what I’m doing, if the sun is coming up, every survival instinct in my body overrides my system and forces me to flee.”

     Shinobu is writing furiously in her book. “Have you been burned by it before, Hakuji-san?” She inquires.

     A memory comes to him, demonic this time. He is newly born, so hungry that it hurts. He’s feasting on the corpse of a dead man when the sun comes, too lost in his bloody paradise to sense it ahead, and it singes the back of his heel as he flees into the shade.

     “Yes,” he says, “once. I had just turned. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such suffocating pain in my life.” Goosebumps prickle at his skin with the memory.

     “You said you would stop anything to escape,” Shinobu grills, her spirit flaring. “Why did you allow yourself to get burned?”

     Hakuji makes a valiant effort to quell his exasperation at the question. “I was a newborn demon,” he sighs. “I was starving . The instinct to eat overrode the instinct to run until it was almost too late.”

     As guilty as he feels admitting it, Shinobu seems satisfied with his answer. She drums her fingers on the tabletop as she rolls the information around in her brain.

     “Well,” she says suddenly. “I have more bloodwork to do. Seeing as your missing hand could use energy and therefore detract accuracy from any other experiments, and it’s too early to give you more wisteria lest it interfere with our current one, you’re off the hook until your hand comes back.” Shinobu turns the microscope back on, switching out the current sample for a new slide.

     Hakuji stands there frozen. What does it mean for him to be off the hook? It’s not like he can just go train in the courtyard or something. It’s still sunny anyway. And training was all he did before, when he had free time and wasn’t nursing Koyuki. Should he just sit there again? The thought makes him want to rip off his other hand too. And surely Shinobu wouldn’t love his eyes burning into the back of her skull again. So what is he to do?

     Apparently he takes too long just standing and thinking, because Shinobu turns around with her usual tight grin.

     “If you’re just going to stand around, I’m sure Aoi could use some help with the chores,” she suggests pointedly.

     Hakuji straightens. Chores. He’s good at those, he thinks. He vaguely remembers doing them a lot when he lived with Keizou and had a dojo to uphold.

     “Sure,” he says. “I’ll go see if she needs anything.”

     “Alright then. Come get me when your hand grows back.” Shinobu is too engrossed in her studies too look up again as Hakuji slips out the door.

     Hakuji wanders through the halls in the direction he thinks Aoi went. He can sense her fighting spirit somewhere across the building, and he tracks it through the maze to some sort of a laundry room. One of the younger girls is with her, probably helping out.

     The two sit in the center, talking in hushed tones as they patch up uniforms with deft hands. Two piles of uniforms and hospital clothes tower above them. Hakuji watches quietly as the younger girl tosses a freshly stitched jacket onto the pile of finished ones, reaching for a torn pair of pants. Hakuji isn’t sure what to say. Hey, dudes, your boss sent me to help you out. Need a hand?

     As luck would have it, he’s saved from coming up with an awkward pitch when Aoi catches a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye and freaks out once again. The girl shrieks as they both scramble away from him.

     “Whoa, whoa!” He tries, raising both forearms in surrender. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise!”

     “What the hell are you doing here?” Aoi gasps, holding up her needle threateningly. Hakuji kinda likes this one. She has sass. He can respect it.

     “Shinobu doesn’t want to start anything else until the hand is back,” he explains, holding out the bandaged stump of his wrist, “so she sent me to help you with chores.”

     “Really?” Asks the littler one, suspicion brewing heavily in her spirit.

     “I swear it,” says Hakuji, pressing his remaining hand over his heart.

     Aoi shakes her head in disbelief. “Well, if Shinobu-sama really sent you, you can fold that pile.” She gestures to the pile of related uniforms. “Sumi and I are preoccupied with the mending, so get to it.”

     Hakuji nods gratefully, joining the two at a respectful distance. It’s a bit of a struggle with one hand, but he manages to fall into a rhythm of folding, even as the girls constantly add more to the pile. The monotony of it feels comforting, and Hakuji almost laughs to himself.

     Forget being a demon. Hakuji never wants to take another human life again. He wants to join it.

     He’ll fold all of the laundry in the world if it means he can have a place here.

Chapter Text

     Folding laundry is not the only thing Aoi has in store for him.

     Hakuji has always had good control over his regeneration. So as the day continues, the hand stays gone, and the chores keep coming. Shinobu is yet to call for him, presumably still occupied going through slide after slide of his blood. And honestly, it feels good to have something to do. Really good. So Hakuji can’t complain.

     When they finally finish the pile of laundry, a girl with twin braids (Naho, Hakuji learns,) comes in to ask for help going through the storage closet downstairs. The procession makes their way down, following Naho’s lead, to an obscure room at the end of a hallway. As the girl wrenches open the sliding door, Aoi gives a laugh of disbelief. Or maybe despair. The room is packed full of every trinket imaginable, some of them spilling out onto the floor.

     Hakuji raises his eyebrows in amusement as Sumi taps her fingertips together, flustered.

     “Ah, Naho-chan! I forgot this was even here! I’m so sorry!” She squeaks.

     “So did I,” Aoi groans to herself. Naho nods her agreement.

     “What’s the point of having all of this stuff if nobody even knows it’s here?” Hakuji asks, folding his arms across his chest. Aoi gives him an unimpressed stare.

     “Brilliant question, wise guy,” she scoffs. “It’s almost like that’s why we’re cleaning it out.” Hakuji nearly bites his tongue off to keep himself from sticking it out at her. He makes a delightfully atrocious face at her in his imagination instead.

     The upside of having a mountain of useless stuff is that they don’t really have to worry about organizing it. If Shinobu actually needs something, she is not the type to let it get buried in a storage room. So their sorting is mostly divided into ‘donate to others’ and ‘just toss it’ piles.    

     Mostly, it’s medical equipment, either broken or simply outdated. But, as with any closet, there are plenty of unexplainable hidden gems. The girls giggle amongst themselves every time they find a particularly random item. Sumi produces a western-looking nurse’s cap, and shoves it onto Naho’s head. In return, Aoi knights her with a particularly ugly pair of eyeglasses. Hakuji bites back a smile at the way they amplify her beady little pupils.

     “You look like an old man,” he informs her, and Naho primly sticks a glass thermometer into his ear in retaliation. He swats it away, chucking it at Aoi’s back, and then easily dodges as she tries to beat him on the arm with a clipboard. After the sandal, she can’t catch him off guard that easily.

     “Oh!” Sumi gasps, and holds up some sort of white fabric she’s discovered somewhere in the back. “Hakuji-san, you need a uniform!”

     “Absolutely not,” Aoi interjects. “He isn’t one of us! He’s just hanging around on Oyakata-sama’s orders.”

     “But he’s helping!” Naho argues. “And besides, he’s shirtless !” She says the last word like it’s something scandalous, and Hakuji crosses his arms over his bare chest. He’d almost forgotten. He misses his vest.

     “Yeah, Aoi-san, he must be cold!” Sumi cries, casting him a sympathetic look.

     “Actually, demons don’t get cold,” Hakuji supplies, and is promptly ignored. He isn’t sure if he wants a uniform or not, though. Judging by the outfits of the other girls, the fabric Sumi holds is a dress. Hakuji has never worn a dress before, and he can’t imagine it will be very fitting on his figure.

     However, when Sumi shakes out the fabric, it turns out to be a simple white kimono, the type to be worn with hakama pants. Almost like a martial artist’s uniform, he realizes, a wave of sadness turning his stomach. It looks quite a bit like what he might have worn when he trained at the dojo.

     Naho squeals with joy, taking the kimono and shoving it into Hakuji’s arms. Sumi digs around some more in the closet, and resurfaces with the second part of the outfit. Hakuji watches, frozen, as the girl holds the waistband up to his hips to judge the sizing. It’s a simple pair of black hakama pants, reminiscent of those a demon slayer might wear.

     “Where did that even come from?” Aoi pipes up, but the girls are too excited to pay much attention. Suddenly, there are hands on Hakuji’s back, shoving him towards another spare room.

     “Try it on, Hakuji-san!” The younger girls insist in unison. Their ability to mirror each other’s speech is uncanny. Hakuji awkwardly steps into the dusty room, the girls giggling deviously behind him. Peer pressure really is a bitch.

     It fits. Almost too well. The previous owner must have been about his size, because the kimono tucks easily into the hakama, which perfectly hug his waist. The sleeves should irritate him, he knows, after so many decades wearing a vest. But they’re loose and light, and wearing the kimono feels familiar. Feels right . Like it’s his first day at the dojo all over again, and it had been Keizou who handed the uniform to him instead of a group of strangely endearing children.

     When he finally forces himself to open the door, they have multiplied. He jumps slightly at the sight. The wisteria Shinobu gave him earlier must have really dulled his senses, because he didn’t even notice their arrival. The third younger girl has arrived—Kiyo, he remembers Aoi mentioning earlier—and Kanao is there too, staring at him with her usual blank expression. She stands quietly as the three young girls rush Hakuji, squealing triumphantly and inspecting their handiwork. Hakuji flushes with embarrassment as Kiyo forcefully adjusts his collar, and he locks eyes with Aoi, who looks begrudgingly amused.

     “Alright, I’ll give,” Aoi sighs. “It looks fine. Much better than what you had before, anyway.”

     “Thanks,” Hakuji forces out. A strange mix of sadness and joy flushes through him, and Hakuji feels queasy with it. The stump of his wrist tingles.

     Oh. Wait. Maybe that’s from the wisteria, not just his feelings. Shinobu did say he would feel a bit off, right? It would explain the muffled senses and the odd roll in his stomach. His bandaged wrist is beginning to itch. Should he go see Shinobu? Didn’t she want to do more tests today, with sunlight or whatnot? But she had instructed him to return when his hand did too. And that still hasn’t happened.

     “—Hakuji-san,” Aoi interrupts his thoughts, and he comes to to her fingers snapping in front of his face.

     “Huh?” He shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m kinda spacey today.”

     “I’ve noticed,” she deadpans. “I said, we need to get going so we can start on dinner. It takes a long time to cook for all these people, you know.”

     Well, Shinobu will probably come get him if she needs him anyway. Hakuji nods. He doesn’t have the slightest idea how to cook, but what’s one more thing to learn how to do? It seems to come with the job description. Learning to cook is nothing compared to learning to live like a human again.

     In the end, he follows the girls back upstairs.

                                   ***

     Shinobu could study Hakuji’s blood forever.

     She puts a fresh slide under the microscope, this time with a drop of wisteria extract, and watches as the demonic cells squirm against the offending liquid. The few human cells remain stable. Over the past few hours, she’s noticed the early signs of cellular division occurring in the human cells. But the minute they begin to attempt to move along in the cell cycle, the demonic cells stop them. That, she supposes, is why it’s so difficult to return a demon to humanity. The few human cells they have left are almost incapable of reproducing, and even if one managed to sneak through, it’s likely that the parent cell might not live long enough to matter. A similar process has been occurring in Nezuko’s blood for months now. Not quite enough to kill off the stubborn few human cells, but too much for them to have any chance of making progress. A perpetual cellular stalemate.

     Shinobu sighs, and preps a new slide. This one has nichirin shavings in it, and the reaction is more intense. The demonic cells writhe with it, destroying themselves against the sun kissed metal and dragging the human ones down with them. She hums to herself in disappointment as the cells die before her eyes. So far, there have been no breakthroughs.

     A light knock on the wall behind her breaks Shinobu from her trance, and she whips around, mildly startled.

     Kamado Tanjiro stands in the doorway, looking awfully nervous. One calloused hand clutches the stab wound on his stomach. Nezuko stands next to him, holding his free hand tightly.

     “Tanjiro-kun,” she exclaims, hiding the irritation pricking at her skin under a welcoming smile. “You’re injured! You should be on bed rest right now!”

     Tanjiro bends forward slightly at the waist. “Please forgive me, Shinobu-san!” He says, a bit too loudly. “But I have a very important question for you!”

     Shinobu sighs internally. Why do none of her patients ever behave? “At least come and take a seat, then, Tanjiro-kun!” She invites, mainly just to get the boy off his feet with such a fresh wound. Thankfully, he obliges, sitting gratefully on a chair opposite her. Nezuko sits happily on the floor, leaning against her brother’s legs.

     “You have something to ask of me?” She prompts, moving some of her research journals and stray papers out of Tanjiro’s way. Goodness, she’s been making a mess.

     Tanjiro takes a deep breath and puffs up his chest as if trying to make himself feel stronger.

     “I’d like to take a sample of Hakuji’s blood, please!” He blurts out, squeezing his eyes shut.

     “Oh, my,” Shinobu gasps, and giggles in disbelief. Does Tanjiro intend to do his own research? If so, she admires his ambition, but she’s absolutely certain that he doesn’t have the facilities to do anything better than the research conducted at the Butterfly Mansion.

     Unless, of course, he does. Which, judging by the sort of anxious determination in his body language, is entirely possible. Suspicion creeps into the back of Shinobu’s mind. Sweet Tanjiro is so honest that she knows he won’t lie to her face, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been withholding the truth.

     “Tanjiro-kun,” she starts, leaning forward. “What do you want with Hakuji-san’s blood?”

     Tanjiro looks tense as he meets her eye. “I need to be honest with you, Shinobu-san,” he says. His maroon eyes shine with sincerity. “Nezuko and I have been getting help from a demon doctor by the name of Tamayo, as well as her partner Yushiro. She has asked me to collect blood from the Twelve Demon Moons in order to help create a cure for Nezuko.”

     Oh. That was just about the furthest from her expectations Tanjiro could have gone. For a moment, only shock and interest fill her body.

     And then the rage comes. This entire time, Tanjiro has been working with not one, but two other autonomous, curseless demons, and he never told her. Just how much research had she missed out on? Who’s to say that those two demons don’t hold the answers in their very own blood without even knowing it? Heat rushes over her skin, and Shinobu buries the urge to scream below her tranquil exterior.

     “I see,” she grits out behind her tight grin. “And how long has this been going on?”

     Tanjiro holds up his palms sheepishly. “Not that long, Shinobu-san, I promise! And Oyakata-sama already knows!”

     Of course he does. Shinobu shakes her head slightly in disbelief. That man knows everything. Why on earth did Oyakata-sama, of all people, not tell her?

     “Is that so,” She utters, trying her very hardest not to be angry with the master. Surely he has his reasons. Shinobu trusts him with her life, and if he has not shared such essential information with her, he must have a purpose for doing so. “Tanjiro-kun, have you been collecting blood thus far?”

     Tanjiro hangs his head slightly, shame settling on his shoulders. “No, Shinobu-san,” he admits, and Shinobu selfishly feels a bit better. “I wanted to take some from Rui, but Tomioka-san killed the demon and I was too injured to intervene.” He looks up again, his eyes brimming with emotion. “That’s why I want Hakuji-san’s blood. Maybe it can make a cure for Nezuko.”

     Shinobu’s heart softens against her will. For a second, she thinks of Kanae. Her dear older sister. She had wanted so much to befriend demons, had believed with her whole heart that it was possible. If she were here now, she would tell Shinobu to open her heart. To embrace this new asset. To work with it.

     “Alright,” Shinobu says before she can stop herself. She reaches for one of the tubes of blood on the desk, entrusting it to the boy in front of her. “Take this to Tamayo-san. I will write to the master and see if I can talk to him about all of this.”

     Tanjiro practically glows with gratitude. He bows again, grabbing Nezuko’s hand. The demon girl hums contentedly.

     “Thank you so much, Shinobu-san!” He cries, shooting to his feet. It seems like he wants to leave before she changes her mind, which at this point is probably wise. “I am so grateful! Please give Oyakata-sama my regards!”

     Tanjiro evacuates the room as quickly as he can. Which, with a stab wound and a sleepy demon sister, is not all that fast.

     “Please go rest!” Shinobu calls after him, and he waves in agreement.

     She slumps forward as he leaves, unease curling in her gut. What the hell. After so many years of nothing, why now is everything happening at once?

     Shinobu turns back to her research half-heartedly. Hakuji is yet to return. His regeneration is likely holding strong still, and honestly, she doesn’t know if she wants to see him after all that. She can smell something pleasant being cooked in the kitchen, so the girls are probably starting on dinner. He must be helping, then.

     She pulls back the curtain, letting the fading sunlight burn away the blood on the slide.

     It tells her nothing new. Sunlight will always burn demonic cells. Demonic cells will always bring the human ones down with them.

     Shinobu has gotten sidetracked. Tomorrow, then, she’ll do more sunlight testing with Hakuji. The sickening anger simmering in her blood won’t make it past his uncanny senses, even when he’s loaded up with wisteria. Besides, the peace and quiet has been nice. Surely Aoi and the girls appreciate the help as well. So, she decides to let them be. She’ll give Hakuji another dose of their new drug tonight, and until then, she will finally take a break from hours upon hours of cellular observation.

     Hakuji had cried that morning when he awoke. When he first took the wisteria, he had been drowsy and slept peacefully for hours on end. The trouble started with some twitches of his muscles, and then downright squirming where he lay, his brow crinkled with discomfort. Shinobu finally paused her research when the quiet whimpers had evolved into cries. Tears had spilled down his cheeks, his face flushed and body trembling in the throes of a nightmare. He had called out for a girl. Koyuki. For a moment, the never ending frustration in her heart had lifted, and her whole body had ached with sympathy. But when she woke him, he had seemed angry. Scared. Perhaps the demon has known loss just as much as she has.

     Shinobu pulls out some paper and ink, and chews on the tip of her brush as she contemplates a blank page. What can she possibly say to the master? Hello, Oyakata-sama, I respect you with every fiber of my being, but why the hell did you keep such valuable information from me? No, that simply won’t do. She sighs, resting her head on one palm.

     Oyakata-sama, she writes. I hope that this letter finds you in good health. I had a rather interesting encounter with Kamado Tanjiro-kun today, who informed me of the existence of a demon doctor by the name of Tamayo. I was wondering if you might have any information on the subject? I think that it could be very informative for my research. Also, I believe you wished to speak with Hakuji-san about the Upper Moons. Please do let me know if you are able to meet with either or both of us any time soon.

     She signs off formally, with a heavy heart and confusion running rampant in her brain. As she whistles out the window for En to come and carry her letter, she presses her fingertips to her lips. For Kanae.

     Her crow comes to take the letter.

     Shinobu’s love is left to the wind.

Chapter Text

     Hakuji very much dislikes working with human food. It’s tedious in a way he hadn’t expected. Despite how much the thought disgusts him, eating had been much easier as a demon—just a brief hunt and he would be rewarded with a feast of human flesh. But human food has to be chopped, and seasoned, and boiled, and baked, and a whole variety of other annoying processes. It certainly doesn’t help that the mere smell of human food makes his stomach churn. But Hakuji powers through, obediently chopping the vegetables that Aoi places before him. He follows Kiyo’s tutelage to achieve the right shape and size, but being one hand short, his chopping skills are mediocre at best. His wrist feels a bit sore, his flesh tingling as if it’s asleep, but his regeneration still holds strong.

     The girls work like a well oiled machine. Hakuji watches, entranced, as they buzz around the kitchen. Never once do they run into each other or drop a utensil. Aoi bosses him around without a care, and Hakuji fumbles along. Kanao even shows back up at some point. She stares for a moment as Hakuji wrestles with a sweet potato, and then reaches into her pocket for a moment. Her spirit grows tense with indecision. Hakuji is intrigued, watching out of the corner of his eye as Kanao visibly debates with herself. Finally, she approaches, wordlessly adjusting Hakuji’s grip on the knife. As she walks off to go help Sumi, he can’t help but feel oddly touched.

     After a few hours, when the sun fully dips below the horizon, the cooking process is finally complete. Hakuji feels very accomplished, despite doing the least amount of work out of the group of them.

     “Alright,” Aoi announces, wiping off her hands with a nearby towel. “We’ve got an extra hand today, so our routes will be different. Hakuji-san can serve all of the rooms on this floor, and we’ll divvy up the others.”

     “I’m not a waiter,” Hakuji mumbles to himself. He grabs the trays anyway, of course. He’s not a hooligan. And so, Hakuji finds himself playing server for a distressing amount of ailing slayers.

     It’s okay, Hakuji chants in his head as he makes his rounds. It’s okay that they’re weaklings. I am going to let them be. Still, as he helps them sit and set up their dinner trays, he has to swallow back waves of irritation at their lack of strength. A century long habit of destroying those he deems weak has certainly left some lasting effects on Hakuji’s mind.

     He wrings his wrists out as he returns the kitchen to reload his trays for the last room. The sheer concentration of feebleness in the mansion is making him restless. Hakuji finds himself longing to fight with Kyojuro again. He had felt so electrifyingly alive, the night wind stinging his cheeks and the hashira’s blade burning into his flesh with a heat unmatched. He doesn’t want to fight him again, not really. Hakuji doesn’t want Kyojuro to get hurt. But if there was a way, a way to feel that rush again without having to fight him to the death, then maybe…

     Hakuji sighs, rolling his shoulders, and slides open the last door.

     The room bursts into a minefield of fighting spirits. What they lack in physical heartiness, the spirits make up for in sheer willpower. The patients’ desires to kill crash over him, and Hakuji tenses up in anticipation.

     Wait. Oh, shit. He knows these boys. And they sure as hell know him.

     Sitting on the three beds in front of him are Tanjiro and Inosuke, as well as a third boy dressed in yellow. This one is unfamiliar, but his spirit is just as on edge as his companions.

     Hakuji’s defensive mechanisms roar to life in the back of his mind. They itch for a fight, beg for him to bring out his fists and tear these boys to shreds before they try anything. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment to clear his head. All of the wisteria and human scents and busy work and tests have grown severely overwhelming, and Hakuji’s skin crawls and prickles with heat.

     “Hakuji,” Tanjiro breathes. He’s frozen in place, one hand extended towards where his blade rests on the floor. He looks conflicted, wide red eyes locked with Hakuji’s own. He sniffs the air, and his confusion deepens. Hakuji bristles. What is this kid doing? He can’t smell that bad, can he?

     “RAAAAGH,” screams Inosuke, and Hakuji’s attention snaps to the boar headed kid. That’s more like what he was expecting. “FIGHT ME, KAJUKI!” Inosuke tries to lunge at him, and Tanjiro reaches out to bar an arm across the boy’s bare chest. “Inosuke,” he scolds, and the boy in question retreats slightly. Despite his brash demeanor, he seems to respect Tanjiro in his own way.

     The yellow boy on Inosuke’s other side looks as if he’s just seen God and had his soul evicted from his body. He stares at Hakuji with terror so pure that he can physically feel it radiating from the boy’s fighting spirit. Hakuji is unsure whether he actually sees him, or if he took one look at what he thought to be an upper rank demon and completely mentally shut down.

     “Hakuji,” Tanjiro tries again, his voice tense with apprehension. His hands shake with barely repressed fury. “I’ve spoken to Shinobu-san, and I know she’s keeping you here, but I don’t understand why! I won’t let you hurt Rengoku-san again!”

     Hakuji sets down the tray down on a side table as slowly as he can, straightening to present the boys his empty palms.

     “No, no,” he assures them. “That’s not why I’m here. I’ve broken the curse.”

     Tanjiro sniffs the air again, and Hakuji’s heart slams against his ribs. The boy looks stricken. “How?” He gasps. “Why? Why should I believe you? Are you trying to take advantage of me because of Nezuko?”

     At the sound of her name, the box at the foot of Tanjiro’s bed creaks open, and a sleepy looking young girl pokes her head out. The boy in yellow twitches, unconsciously turning his attention toward her.

     It’s her, Hakuji realizes. This is Nezuko, the girl who came before him, the one who proved all of the hashira wrong and walked so that he could run. An overwhelming mix of sadness and gratitude swirls within him. Tanjiro reaches down to herd her back into the box, fear and an intense protectiveness burning in his fighting spirit.

     “Muzan tortured me and accidentally returned my memories that he had locked away,” Hakuji tells him, repeating the same explanation he’s given many times by now. “I know who I am again. I intend to avenge those I’ve hurt by working with the corps to destroy Kibutsuji Muzan.”

     Inosuke growls slightly at his statement, and Tanjiro shakes his head slightly. “You’re not like Nezuko,” he chokes out. “You’ve hurt people. You hurt Rengoku-san.” His face is clouded with doubt. He glances at a vial on his bedside table, filled with dark liquid. Medication, perhaps?

     “I know,” Hakuji says, fresh guilt filling up his belly. “I didn’t know what I was doing. Not really. I don’t want to hurt anybody anymore, I just want to make it right.”

     Tanjiro looks like he wants to cry. “Your scent is different,” he whispers. “You don’t have the same distinct touch you used to.” Oh. That’s why the kid’s been sniffing him for the past few minutes.

     “You don’t smell like him anymore,” Tanjiro says, and for a moment the anger and fear crumbles. Hakuji can see endless kindness and empathy in the boy’s face.

     “He can’t control me anymore,” Hakuji confirms softly. “Now that I have my autonomy, I want to fight for something real.”

     “FIGHT ME,” Inosuke interjects at full volume, and Hakuji gives him the stink eye of a lifetime. The moment shatters. Tanjiro pulls him back again, seemingly running everything through his brain over and over as he stares.

     “Please eat,” says Hakuji to break the silence. He brings the three their trays, delivering Inosuke’s from a safe distance as the boar snarls at him.

     “Zenitsu,” Tanjiro calls, tugging at his yellow haired friend’s sleeve, “wake up.” Zenitsu ignores him, tracking Hakuji’s every move with bloodshot eyes as he awkwardly delivers his tray. Nezuko crawls out from her box to poke at Zenitsu’s arm, and he immediately comes back to life.

     “Nezuko-chan!” He exclaims, sounding halfway delirious. Hakuji turns to leave while they’re distracted, despite how badly he wants to speak to the girl in front of him. He wants to know how she works. How she survives in a climate designed to destroy her kind. But right now, when he’s just dropped so much information on the rather intense group of boys, it is clearly not the time. Besides, the boar boy and the yellow boy have already begun fighting over their food.

     “Hakuji-san,” Tanjiro calls to him before he can escape. He turns around guiltily to see the slayer’s features set with determination.

     “Thank you for helping us,” he says softly. “Your scent is genuine, so I trust you to do good work. But you must understand that I can’t forgive you for all the pain you’ve caused.”

     “I understand,” Hakuji says, heart clenching with emotion. “I have not forgiven myself either. The best I can do for now is to promise that I will never hurt Kyojuro or any of you again.”

     Tanjiro nods solemnly, and Hakuji bows his head, slipping away before the slayer can say anything else profound. He feels threadbare, like his brain is too fried to process anything anymore. He knows there’s probably more for him to be working on, but he doesn’t think he can handle anything else. The world of humans is so fast, and so loud, and Hakuji is caught up in it like a leaf in a river. His bandaged wrist burns, the skin taut and tender as his hand fights against his control in an attempt to regrow itself.

     So, instead, he goes to Shinobu. Her work space has been moved around, some notebooks pushed out of the way and a bottle of ink resting off to the side, but she’s otherwise returned to the exact position in which he left her.

     “Hakuji-san,” she greets him before can announce himself. Shinobu turns to look at him, and her eyebrows shoot up as she gives him a once-over. “I like your wardrobe change,” she tells him, and Hakuji flushes. He’d forgotten about the new white kimono and black hakama pants. He quite likes them, actually, but it’s different having everybody else judge them. Shinobu seems amused though, likely at the idea of her girls fussing over Hakuji’s appearance.

     “Sumi found it,” he explains, and Shinobu nods sagely.

     “It’s for the best,” she hums. “Otherwise, I don’t believe our uniform maker would have believed me about having a male assistant, so you would likely have ended up with a skirt.”

     “What?” Hakuji blurts, contempt simmering in his blood. “Is he a pervert or something?”

     “Oh, very much so!” Shinobu agrees gleefully. “The girls and I have a tradition of burning the rather indecent uniforms he sends us on a pyre out back.”

     Hakuji laughs in disbelief. His respect for Shinobu has just gone up exponentially.

     “I’m assuming you helped the girls?” Shinobu questions him, and Hakuji nods. “We did laundry,” he informs her, “and made dinner. Oh, and we went through a closet. Which is where we found this.” He gestures to himself, and she nods her approval.

     Shinobu stands from her station at the desk, beckoning for him to come closer. “Let’s see that hand,” she prompts, and Hakuji obliges, presenting the bandaged stump. When she undoes the wrappings, the wound remains frozen in time, but his wrist is swollen as if his body has attempted to build a new hand under the skin. Shinobu pokes and prods at the tightened flesh, and Hakuji winces at the contact. Shinobu glances up at the clock again.

     “Alright then, go ahead and release your regeneration,” she instructs, and Hakuji gratefully lets his body complete the regeneration process. A new hand shoots back into being, the skin smoothing out and reshaping itself in an instant. Hakuji wrings out the tingles in his wrist as Shinobu takes down notes.

     “A bit faster than before, presumably due to built up pressure,” she mumbles to herself as she writes. Shinobu returns to look over the hand again, seemingly finding it satisfactory.

     “Well, Hakuji-san, are you ready for another dose of wisteria?” Shinobu asks him, and Hakuji can’t repress a shiver. He knows it’s a precaution to keep him in line, but images of Koyuki choking on her own blood and screaming his name make Hakuji feel lightheaded.

     “Will it make me dream again?” He mumbles, ashamed to have to ask. Shinobu’s eyebrows twitch in a way that may have been sympathetic. She gives him a reassuring smile, but Hakuji can’t find any comfort in it.

     “I don’t know, Hakuji-san,” she answers, and his heart splashes into his stomach. “As your body adjusts, you’ll feel the effects less and less. It’s likely that the dreams will decrease as well.”

    He nods, clinging to her words as she offers him a cup of the familiar liquid.

     Hakuji loves his family more than anything, but as he chokes down the vile liquid, he prays that they will not come to visit him tonight.

                                   ***

     The ceiling has quickly become the single most scintillating thing in Kyojuro’s life.

     He has been here for what—two days now? Three? He isn’t quite sure. With the frenzied escape to the master’s mansion, and all of the sleeping he’s been doing, Kyojuro’s sense of time has been skewed. Aoi sent a letter home to Senjuro yesterday, he thinks, but he hasn’t gotten a response yet. He supposes it can not be helped. Shinobu’s crow is awfully busy, after all! So he waits diligently, letting his brain cells rot away as he stares into the void.

     Aoi has just finished up her final round of the night, checking his bandages and bringing him broth. Apparently, with such an intense stomach wound, he’s still not allowed to eat real food lest he make himself sick. Kyojuro accepts the bowl with gratitude, but can’t help but be secretly disappointed. On the bright side, the girls must have found some extra help somewhere. When Kyojuro asks Aoi about her day, she informs him that they completed their chores in record time, so perhaps a healed slayer had lent them a hand.

     Aoi is gone now, though. Which means Kyojuro is alone with his thoughts once more. He represses the urge to scream in frustration. He should be working right now, saving lives, doing something that matters. Not slowly disintegrating in a hospital bed. His mother’s words come back to him, and Kyojuro feel guilt prick at his rib cage.

     He’s starting to feel slightly better, though, at least physically. The soreness in his muscles from the battle has begun to fade away, and most of his smaller cuts and bruises are healing nicely. His head is less foggy, too, which perhaps is why he can sense someone approaching his room so soon before they arrive.

     Unease sweeps over him, and Kyojuro pushes himself up on his elbows. Who on earth is coming to his room at this hour? The butterfly girls have already done their nightly checks. Surely it isn’t Hakuji, Kyojuro senses no hint of his demonic presence. Even when he suppresses it, it’s not enough to fool a hashira like Kyojuro. So it can’t be him. Shinobu, perhaps? She should be busy with her research. There’s no real reason for her to come and see him at this hour.

     There’s a light knock on the door. This, at least, seems polite. If someone were coming to attack him while he’s down, there’s no way in hell that they would just knock.

     “ Come in,” he calls hesitantly, and the door creaks open to reveal two small figures in the doorway. All of Kyojuro’s nerves melt away at the sight of his juniors.

     “Kamado-shounen!” He exclaims, and Tanjiro beams like the sun itself. Nezuko hums in excitement, eyes sparkling. Kyojuro doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a wonderful sight. After his pseudo-quarantine, simply speaking with the two feels akin to a gift from the heavens.

     Kyojuro moves to sit up, and Tanjiro is at his side to assist in an instant. Under different circumstances, he would be embarrassed to have his junior help him with such a simple task, but the pain in his abdomen and the joy in his heart distracts him. Nezuko crawls up onto the foot of the bed, joyfully swinging her legs off of the edge.

     “Rengoku-san!” Tanjiro half-whispers, and his soft voice perfectly avoids aggravating Kyojuro’s headache. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t come see you earlier, Aoi and Kanao have been on the prowl. Are you feeling alright?” Nezuko gives a questioning hum for emphasis, and Kyojuro feels his face light up with a brilliant grin.

     “It is no worries!” He assures them. “I didn’t think I would even be able to see you in the first place; this is the highlight of my week!” Tanjiro laughs at the claim, but Kyojuro means it wholeheartedly. Aside from saving the two hundred passengers on the Mugen train, this is the greatest thing that could have happened to him. “Ah, and I’m well enough. Concussed, surely, but other than that I’m quite alright!” He informs them, and both visibly deflate with relief.

     “Oh, Rengoku-san, I’ve been so worried,” Tanjiro admits. He looks down at his hands, fidgeting with his fingers. “We encountered Hakuji-san today, and I…I’m just so conflicted. I mean, I saw the way he hurt you, and surely he’s taken many lives to get to where he is, but…he smelled so genuine, like he actually wanted to do justice.” Tanjiro looks up at him, eyes wide with vulnerability. “I didn’t know what to make of it. So I came to you for help, Rengoku-san.”

     A deep tenderness settles over Kyojuro’s soul. Suddenly, for the first time in years, he feels like he might cry. Tanjiro had tried to defend him to an upper rank demon, and when he didn’t know what to do, the boy had come to Kyojuro for help. He feels like a real mentor again, in a way he hasn’t since Mitsuri became a hashira and graduated out of his care.

     “Kamado-shounen,” Kyojuro says, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s hair. “Nezuko. Thank you for coming to me for advice.” Tanjiro nods earnestly, and Nezuko hums, entertaining herself with the corner of the blanket.

     Kyojuro doesn’t know where to begin.

     “It is true that Hakuji caused me injury during our battle,” He confirms. “I do not condone any of his actions in the past. I believe that he has done things that are unforgivable.” Tanjiro sits at attention, fully invested. “However,” Kyojuro continues, “He also practically carried me all the way back here following the hashira meeting! Additionally, he passed Shinazugawa’s marechi blood test, and has been proven honest by Kocho’s knowledge of Upper Moon Two.”

     “Carried you?” Tanjiro interjects, looking distressed. “Rengoku-san, you said you were alright!”

     Kyojuro chuckles softly to himself. He is, and he isn’t. But his troubles are not for Tanjiro to concern himself over.

     “I am,” Kyojuro consoles him, “largely due to Hakuji’s help.” He looks over at Nezuko, who has flopped down across the bed, and his chest warms. “I was the one who vouched for Hakuji’s pardon, in the hopes that such strong demonic blood could help develop a cure for Nezuko. I will not forget what he has done in the past, but for now I have faith that he is dedicated to helping us pursue a better future.”

     Tanjiro’s expression softens, tears welling in his eyes. “You did it for Nezuko?” He whispers, subconsciously taking his sister’s hand. She clutches it with both of her own, staring at Kyojuro with wonder in her expression. He wonders just how well she understands his words.

     “I did,” Kyojuro says. “I meant it when I told you that I accept your sister as a member of the corps, and as such, I intend to operate with her best interest in mind as much as I can.”

     “Thank you,” Tanjiro gasps, swiping at his cheeks. “Oh God, Rengoku-san, thank you.”

     Kyojuro laughs, and for once it sounds less like a pained wheeze and more like his usual hearty tone. “It’s my duty as a hashira to care for my juniors,” he replies, and suddenly Tanjiro is gripping his hand as well. He leans forward, looking awfully serious.

     “Can I still be your tsuguko?” He asks, almost desperately. Kyojuro’s heart leaps. Even now, broken and confined to a hospital bed, he’s still wanted. This prodigy of a boy wants Kyojuro to train him. None of his tsuguko have ever stuck around. But Kyojuro’s gut rarely lies to him, and now it whispers, maybe this time. A flicker of hope ignites in his soul.

     “Of course,” He beams. “I’ll take the both of you into my care.”

     Tanjiro laughs through his tears in relief, squeezing his mentor’s palm, and the tension in Kyojuro’s soul finally relaxes.

Chapter Text

     Pain shoots through Hakuji’s body as he’s thrown to the dirt outside the magistrate’s office. His palms are scuffed and bloody from the fall, and they’re swept out from under him by strangers’ hands. He writhes in their hold, desperate to break away and make a run for it, but when he’s pinned down like this their physical strength surpasses his own. Hakuji heaves a breath as heavy footprints approach him.

     “Well, well, well,” A man sneers from above him. Hakuji twists his neck and is greeted with an upside-down view of a wealthy looking man with a chonmage hairstyle. “If it isn’t Soyama Hakuji, our resident demon boy.”

     Hakuji’s face splits into a wicked grin. As the magistrate approaches to examine his wrists, Hakuji spits blood into his face.

     The man recoils, swiping at his face with his sleeve, and one of the men holding Hakuji grinds his face into the dirt. A rock slices into his forehead. Warm blood trickles down his face, and Hakuji can feel a bruise forming over his eye. A sick satisfaction settles in his gut nonetheless.

     “Mark him,” spits the magistrate. Another pair of arms slams down onto his back, and Hakuji’s breath is knocked from his lungs. He gasps for air as his arm is wrenched to the side. The cold press of a wooden block slides under his wrist, bracing it against a solid surface, and Hakuji’s head grows fuzzy with pain as the thick needle pierces his skin.

     Hakuji is no stranger to Irezumi tattoos. He already has two sets after all. But each time, he chews the inside of his lips raw against the sting as the metal needle stabs him over and over again. By the time the agonizingly slow process is complete, he tastes blood, and Hakuji bears a third set of lines across his forearms. He forces himself to take deep, slow breaths against the sharp throb under his skin.

     Somebody yanks his head up by the hair, and Hakuji is greeted once again by the magistrate’s devilish grin. “I would ask if you’ve learned your lesson, boy,” he muses gleefully, “but we all know you’re a few hundred whippings short of that.” Hakuji snarls at him. “You can’t make me learn shit,” he taunts, and his head is predictably dropped back to the dirt.

     “We’ll see about that once you go numb down to the bone,” the magistrate jeers. Hakuji is almost grateful for the people pinning his body to the jagged ground. He never wants to have to see this man again in his life. Rustling sounds from behind him as his tormentor takes their position. Hakuji takes a shaky inhale, steeling himself for what’s to come. The sheer torment of the whip never fails to take Hakuji’s breath away, and his heart crawls into his throat with a cruel anticipation. This is for my father, he chants in his head as if it is a mantra. I will endure anything for the sake of my family.

     A sharp crack rings out as the whip tears into Hakuji’s skin. He shoves his face further into the ground to hide his silent scream. The beating is relentless. It’s a monster in and of itself. The whip splits open his flesh, leaving angry red welts on his pale skin. It greedily drinks his blood, carves gashes over his spine, flushes agony through his being. Hakuji dimly registers men standing over him, cackling as they beat him. His eyes water with the torture. Breathing has become a chore, and he forces all of his mental energy into keeping his lungs going, expanding and contracting desperately in between strikes. Please, he thinks to himself. Please, anybody, let me get through this for my father’s sake.

     It feels like hours before the final lash bites into him, and Hakuji gives a choked gasp, fingers clawing at the dirt. His arms are yanked behind his back, dirty rope looping around his neck and around his wrists too tightly. His assaulters force him up into a sitting position, crossing their weapons in front of his chest. The magistrate glowers down at him.

     “That’s three lines now,” the man announces, his voice laced with a smug pride. “Next time, I’ll chop off your wrists.”

     Hakuji bursts into delirious laughter. “Do it, then!” He crows. “Cut them off! You do that, I’ll still have my feet. I’ll pick pockets with those!” He flashes his captors a vicious grin. “Either way, you’re not getting me next time,” he taunts. The men bristle, and Hakuji relishes in their disgust. Let them try. He’ll evade them again and again. He’ll do what he must to provide for his family.

     “Such a criminal at the mere age of eleven,” the magistrate scoffs. “Even a grown man would go numb after receiving a hundred lashes.” The man points at him scornfully. “You are a demon child,” he hisses, and the hands holding Hakuji back undo the rope, shoving him away. Hakuji wastes no time before bolting from the area. He knows better than to stick around. Years of thievery have taught him never to spend too long in one place.

     The adrenaline carries him far enough away to be free from the risk of the men returning before he collapses against the wall of an alleyway. Wooziness overtakes him as Hakuji’s body finally registers the full agony of his wounds. Any energy he had is gone now. The pain permeates every cell of his being. Hakuji braces himself on his forearms, gasping for air, desperate to console himself before he returns to his father’s side. Nausea churns in his gut, and he gags forcefully. Hakuji manages to choke up a few mouthfuls of stomach acid, burning his throat in the process. That’s all he’ll get, he knows, even though queasiness still sends flashes of heat rushing over his skin. His stomach is empty anyway. He gave all of the food they had left to his father in the morning, and he had been caught in the first place trying to steal more.

     Hakuji draws in a shaky breath, swiping the back of his hand across his lips. The skin across his back is so tender that it feels as if he’s been burned. His yukata is undone, exposing purple bruises and bloody gashes to the chilly air. Hakuji forces himself to fix it up, gritting his teeth against the pain as the fabric brushes against his wounds. He can do this. He’ll return to his father as if nothing is wrong, tend to his fever, and then bandage up his own injuries as best he can once he’s fallen asleep. Vertigo makes his head ache as Hakuji takes two unsteady steps backward.

     “Hakuji!” Somebody shouts from behind him, and chills rush down Hakuji’s bloodied spine. He whirls around, halfway expecting to see one of the men from the magistrate returning to break him more. Instead, it’s an old man from down the road and his son that runs toward him. Their faces are twisted with panic and grief, and Hakuji’s breath freezes in his lungs. Oh God. Please, God, don’t let this be happening.

     The old man grabs him by the shoulders, shaking him slightly, and Hakuji dimly registers a flare of pain in his back. He can’t look the man in the eye. The world feels unreal all of a sudden, and Hakuji finds he can’t quite process what’s going on. A childish fear fills his chest, one that he ought to be too hardened to feel anymore.

     “Your father heard you got caught again,” the man cries. “He hung himself, Hakuji, he’s dead !”

     Everything falls apart.

     Hakuji drops to his knees as his body toils with anguish and agony and a deep, boiling hatred at the world. The colors and shapes of the environment begin to blur before his eyes. Hakuji can’t hear the man or his son talking to him. There’s only a shrill ringing in his ears as his walls crumble and he sobs into the void.

     Hakuji awakes on Shinobu’s lab table once again, gasping in confusion as the world snaps back into being. He’s trembling violently. Phantom pains still rush up and down his back and wrists. Hakuji’s chest heaves with his efforts to stabilize himself. Desperation sweeps over him, and Hakuji spins around, scanning the room for something, some one, to bring him comfort. To ground his spiraling mind. Last time, he had resented Shinobu for being up in his business. But he aches for her presence now, to remind him that he’s real and breathing and working for a purpose.

     This time, he is alone.

     Hakuji bends forward slowly, resting his spinning head in his hands. That one didn’t feel like just a nightmare. It felt like a memory. If that is so, that means his beloved father really did kill himself.

     And it was all Hakuji’s fault.

     He pushes himself off of the table and starts for the door. He needs to find Shinobu. Or anybody, really, to distract him from the poison in his head.

     Out in the hallway, he nearly runs straight into Shinobu, who stops short with a quiet gasp of surprise. Violet eyes sweep over Hakuji’s eyes, wide with worry. Surely he looks a mess, Hakuji thinks, so he can’t truly brush off her analytical stare. She’s clutching a jar of something in her dainty hands.

     “Shinobu,” he says to break the silence. “What do you have there?”

     She breaks from her trance to present the jar in her hand. “This is sunscreen,” she announces proudly, and Hakuji’s brain short-circuits. She’s joking; she has to be. There’s no way in hell she actually expects him to walk into the fiery sunlight with only fucking sunscreen as protection.

     “Okay,” he responds, a nervous grin plastered on his face. “Cool. What about it?”

     Shinobu’s smile widens, something diabolical flashing in her features. “We’re going to test it!” She tells him cheerily, reaching up to clasp him by the shoulder. “Come along now!”

     Hakuji stumbles after her, stammering a hundred half-formed protests. This is insane! He’s gone through all of this just to die by the sun! An ancient fear roars to life in his bones, one that sends shivers over his skin and makes his heart pound. He can see the open doors to the engawa, leading out into a sunny courtyard. For the residents of the mansion, it’s likely a spot of relaxation, somewhere they go to recenter. For Hakuji, it’s a death sentence.

     “Wait,” he gasps, as Shinobu half drags him onto the porch. “Please, wait, I don’t think I can do this.”

     “Ah, but it’s for science!” Shinobu beams. “You wish to take down Muzan, remember? Don’t you want to know if this works?”

     No. He does not want to know how this works. All of his nerve endings are on fire, his instincts telling him to run. But the wisteria in his blood has made him sluggish, and his feet are inexplicably rooted to the floor.

     Shinobu stares up at him for a moment, considering his petrified expression. Hakuji can feel himself trembling all over once again, and a bead of sweat rolls down his temple. She softens slightly as they make eye contact.

     “You had another dream.” It’s a statement, not a question.

     Hakuji nods stiffly.

     The hashira sighs in defeat. “Well then, let’s just get it out of the way fast and then you can rest for today. Sound okay?”

     “ Please, ” Hakuji chokes. “I can’t. Please don’t make me do this.”

     “I’m sorry Hakuji, but this is important research,” Shinobu shoots back. “Did you not sign up for this?”

     He did, technically, but he never expected staring down the sun to be quite so viscerally horrifying. It was one thing to say he would, and another entirely to actually do it.

     “Whatcha doin’?” A cheery voice asks, and Hakuji whips around to see Kiyo standing in the doorway. Kanao lurks behind her in her typical silent manner.

     Shinobu gives her a reassuring grin. “Hakuji-san and I are just about to do a sunlight test!” She nudges Hakuji’s arm, and he forces himself to lift the corner of his mouth. It can’t be very convincing, though, if his tremors and the sweat snaking down his forehead are as visible as they feel.

     Kiyo’s brow crinkles with worry, and she hurries forward to grab both of his hands. Kanao trails along after her.

     “Oh, Hakuji-san, are you unwell?” Kiyo frets. His palms burn where they meet her human skin, but he can’t bring himself to pull away.

     “Demons don’t do well with sunlight,” Shinobu reminds her, “so he’s just a bit reluctant to test it out!” She sends a pointed glare at Hakuji, as if saying, don’t bring the kids into this.

     Hakuji swallows thickly. “That’s right,” he croaks. “I—I’m just…just scared.” Kanao reaches into her pocket, but does nothing. Kiyo’s gentle spirit swells with empathy.

     “Oh, it’s okay, Hakuji-san!” She gushes, squeezing his palms. “I’m sure it’s very scary. I get scared all the time when I have to get shots, because I just know it’s gonna hurt, even when I know it’s for the best!”

     Hakuji wants to cry. The sheer sincerity in Kiyo’s words hits him like a punch to the the diaphragm. What did he do to deserve such kindness? He can’t bring himself to waste her genuine desire to comfort him. And so, when Kiyo takes a gentle step towards Shinobu, pulling on his shaking hands, he summons every last bit of his willpower to follow.

     “Very good, Hakuji-san,” Shinobu praises, but her tone has shifted. It sounds almost guilty. She takes one of his hands from Kiyo, slathering his skin with sunscreen.

     “We’ll just do a hand, alright? Just like yesterday,” she promises, and he gives a feverish nod. “Good news is, we only need to do this once. This is designed to protect against very strong UV rays, and if it doesn’t work, I will already have my answer.”

     Hakuji’s diaphragm spasms as Kiyo gently guides him forward. She walks slowly backward, holding him by his sunscreen-less hand, and Hakuji forces himself to match her steps. The sun is so close now. Close enough to illuminate Kiyo from behind, a halo of golden light. Hakuji could reach out and touch it. He could.

     But he can’t.

     Hakuji stands, frozen to the bone, as Kiyo tries to coax him forward. Terror courses through his veins. Hakuji feels his human glamour slipping as his demonic instincts take over, familiar navy stripes showing faintly beneath his skin.

     There is a gentle touch on his back, and Hakuji twists his head slightly. It’s Kanao. Her hand rests over his shoulder blade, warm and delicate. It’s a stark contrast to the lashes from his dream.

     “You can do this, Hakuji-san,” Kanao whispers, her voice hoarse from disuse. Emotion floods over him, and Hakuji is unsure whether he should cry or laugh or scream or run for his life.

     Instead, Hakuji lets the wave carry him the last step forward and into the sun.

     The instant the sunlight kisses his outstretched fingers, Hakuji is overcome with an endless agony. It knocks the very breath from his lungs. The burn of a thousand flames rushes through Hakuji’s body, and he reels back, tearing his arm away from the beast in the sky. One leap carries him all the way across the engawa. Blinded by pain, Hakuji jams himself into the shadiest corner, clutching his burned limb to his chest. A childish feeling of betrayal simmers in his belly as Shinobu rushes to him.

     “Well, that answers that, doesn’t it?” She chirps. “I can now confidently say that ultraviolet radiation is not the source of the burn.” Hakuji can only stare at her. His ability to process the world around him feels almost as fried as his hand.

     “Can I see?” Shinobu asks, holding out both hands, And Hakuji slowly offers his own.

     The burn that had originated at his fingertips has spread all the way up to his mid-forearm. Raw, blistered skin covers his hand, and as Shinobu turns it over, blood leaks from the cracks. As he watches, though, his regeneration kicks in slowly. The sun has made it lethargic, but it works the same as ever. The wound heals over before his eyes. Hakuji stares as his racing heart slows and he becomes aware of Kiyo’s arms wrapped around him.

     “There you go,” Shinobu says softly as the last bit of burned skin vanishes. “I know that was hard for you. Thank you for doing this, Hakuji-san.”

     “Yeah,” he gulps. “Yeah. I…of course.”

     Shinobu holds out a hand to pull him to his feet. “Let’s get you somewhere shady, hmm?” She prompts, and Hakuji gratefully obliges.

     Returning to the indoor hallway clears Hakuji’s head like he’s been doused with cold water, and his shoulders droop in relief.  A detached sort of pride wells within him. Take that, Muzan. That sick bastard. Hakuji has faced the sun on purpose, and he’s lived to tell the tale.

     Aoi hurries around the corner then, red faced and visibly flustered. Hakuji tenses right back up, and he senses Shinobu and Kanao’s spirits as they do the same.

     “Shinobu-sama,” she wheezes, and the air seems to stand still. “The master is here to see you.”

     Shock floods Shinobu’s spirit, and Hakuji’s chest tightens with nerves. It seems he isn’t off the hook quite yet. Visions of his dream come back to him, of wounds over his back and an old man shaking his shoulders. No matter how afraid he is, his father would have wanted him to face it.

     And so, for the second time that week, Hakuji goes to meet the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps.

Chapter Text

     Kagaya speaks with Shinobu first. The two retreat into an office as the girls escort his wife, Amane, into the sitting room. Hakuji is up next, he knows, so he tries to find a proper balance of close enough to be summoned easily and far enough as to not eavesdrop. As a result, he ends up practically bouncing around the halls. Nervous energy simmers under his skin. Hakuji paces up and down the halls, absently chewing his cheeks and popping his knuckles. He pauses as he accidentally snaps his own finger. Staring dumbly at the protruding bone, Hakuji wills his regeneration to fix it up. If he has to wait too much longer, he thinks he might actually go crazy.

     Thankfully for his sanity, Shinobu’s meeting lasts less than an hour longer. She leaves the room as Hakuji turns back down the hallway towards her. Shinobu remains civil long enough to bow one last time to the master and beckon to Hakuji with one hand before hurrying giddily off to her lab. The corner of Hakuji’s mouth twitches in amusement. Seemingly, their meeting was rather productive.

     Hakuji approaches the room feeling like his intestines are tying themselves into knots. He has never met one on one with the master before. Realistically, he knows he has nothing to hide, but he still feels slightly sick at the prospect of hanging out with the man who previously sent warriors to hunt him down. Hakuji nods his head slightly in a quick bow as he enters. Kagaya looks up at him with unseeing eyes, a small smile on his lips.

     “It is good to see you, Hakuji,” he muses in that velveteen voice. “Please, come and sit.”

     Hakuji kneels across from him, the soothing timbre of the master’s voice settling his nerves instantly. He doesn’t understand how Kagaya does it. All he has to do is open his mouth and he can placate anybody. The marred flesh below his eyes has spread slightly lower, however, and small patches of purple have bloomed on his hands.

     “Now then,” Kagaya begins, “Shinobu has told me about your experiments. How are you feeling?”

     A small jolt of surprise registers in the back of Hakuji’s mind. Why should the master care how he is, when he has been kept alive only to experiment on? Especially when the man himself is so sick?

     “I’m fine,” Hakuji utters, as to not be rude. “My senses are a little dull, and my body feels kind of weird, but other than that, I’m doing okay.” Concern swells in his chest as he observes the master’s pale complexion, visible even in the dim light of the office. “I, um, I hope you are doing alright also, Kagaya-sama,” Hakuji offers. If Kagaya notices Hakuji’s awkwardness, he doesn’t show it. He simply gives him that gentle grin that he does so well. “I am well, thank you.”

     The man reaches for a teacup resting on the low table at his side. “I would offer you tea, but it’s my understanding that you cannot drink it.” Hakuji nods, a small chuckle escaping him. Any human food or drink would probably come right back up onto the floor, and he isn’t keen on doing that in front of the Corps leader. Kagaya’s eyes brighten with mirth as he takes a sip, and for a moment, Hakuji feels the same warmth that would be felt by a demon slayer rather than a demon.

     “Would you be willing to speak with me about Muzan?” Kagaya prompts, and Hakuji finds it easy to agree. Somehow, in some strange twist of fate, he trusts this man. His fighting spirit is like a breath of spring, free of corruption or any hidden motives.

     He starts from the top.

     “I don’t know how much you guys already know, so I’m sorry if anything is redundant,” Hakuji begins, and Kagaya nods encouragingly. “Honestly, I don’t know all that much about the man himself, but I’ll tell you all that I can.”

     “That’s quite alright,” Kagaya hums. “Anything you can give us will be greatly appreciated.” He sits back as Hakuji speaks again.

     “Muzan has been looking for a way to conquer the sun,” Hakuji admits. Kagaya’s spirit flashes with alarm at his words. “Typically, the searching was left to me. The Moons who outranked me mainly carried out targeted missions for him—they were stronger, more swift—so my job was to search for whatever Muzan sent me to find, and I would be called onto site if I was in the vicinity of something he found interesting.”

     “Like the Mugen train?” Kagaya clarifies, and Hakuji nods. “It was supposed to be left to Lower One, but after his death, I was the closest Upper Rank nearby. He disposed of the Lower Moons altogether, by the way; Lower one was the last one left.”

     Kagaya nods to himself thoughtfully. “I thought as much. We noticed a significant decrease in fatalities in certain hotspots despite no excess slayer involvement.”

     “That’s right,” Hakuji agrees. “Anyway, the thing I was sent to find was called the blue spider lily. Muzan seemed to think it could be the key to conquering the sun, but he never told me why, and I never found it.”

     The master’s spirit tingles with interest, his pale eyes widening slightly. “I see,” he says. “So despite never having seen it, he had reason to believe it could alter the physical state of a demon?”

     “I’m not sure. Maybe he did see it, once, a long time ago. But he believed wholeheartedly that it was the key.”

     Determination burns through Kagaya’s spirit, and Hakuji shivers under the intensity of his stare. “We shall find it, then, and perhaps it can help us develop a cure.” Hakuji’s stomach does a somersault. Perhaps his hundred years of searching was not pointless after all.

     “Muzan also searches for it personally,” Hakuji presses on. “He takes on different human disguises to gather information. One of them is a geisha, one a businessman, and one the young son of a wealthy pharmacist. That form was his most recent. I’m certain he’s moved since then, though, he never sticks around in one place for too long.” He takes a deep breath. Despite his hatred for Muzan, little residual bits of Akaza seem to remain in Hakuji’s mind. Sharing such confidential information so openly makes the pieces scream from within his brain, and he has to fight to shut them up. He is not Muzan’s soldier anymore, and the information he has is his to share.

     “Do you have any idea where he could have gone?” Kagaya urges, and Hakuji shakes his head. “He has a hideout in an alternate dimension called the Infinity Fortress, but it’s impossible to access unless Muzan wills it to be so. It’s operated by a biwa demon called Nakime.”

     “So there are no physical entrances unless Nakime creates one?” Irritation curdles in the master’s spirit. “That is rather unfortunate.”

     Hakuji can’t help but laugh at Kagaya’s look of distaste. “I know, right?” he sighs. “That means when the time comes to fight him, he’ll have to come to us.”

     Gears are spinning full speed in Kagaya’s head. His racing thoughts are visible in his expression, even beneath the marred skin. Hakuji feels a tiny flick of adrenaline at the sight. Kagaya is planning. He’s plotting . Which means, sooner or later, he will arrive at an answer that they can use to tear that diabolical motherfucker Muzan off of his self-built throne of corpses.

     “The Upper Moons,” Kagaya utters, sitting forward. His hands are trembling. “Them first. If we take away his strongest soldiers, he’ll be forced to face us on his own. What can you tell me about Upper Moon Six?”

     Excitement blooms in Hakuji’s gut. He knows this one. “They’re at the Red Light District,” he blurts. “Daki and Gyutaro. That’s their stomping grounds, has been for ages.”

     Genuine surprise washes over the master’s spirit. “There’s two?” He gasps, and Hakuji chuckles again, adrenaline resurfacing with Kagaya’s eagerness. In a different universe, the two could perhaps be gossiping.

      “Yes, there’s two!” Hakuji exclaims, holding up two fingers for emphasis, even though Kagaya probably can’t see it. “Daki is the main body, but she’s laughably weak. Her brother Gyutaro appears when she’s mortally wounded, and he’s the real deal.”

     “Tell me more,” Kagaya insists, and Hakuji readily continues. “The trick is to cut off both of their heads at the same time. Daki’s is easy to cut, but Gyutaro is a whole other story, so the timing has to be perfect. Plus, he fights with poisoned sickles. So if the slayer gets cut at all, they can be dead in minutes.”

     “Poison,” Kagaya mutters to himself. “Poison. Tengen.” His gentle grin turns devious in a way that resembles Shinobu.

     “So if their heads are both cut, they will die for certain?” He asks, and Hakuji nods enthusiastically. “Daki doesn’t have any poison, for the record. Her obi can be manipulated like a whip with a mind of its own, but other than that, I don’t see why she would cause too much trouble to a talented slayer.”

     “I have just the team,” Kagaya announces proudly. His pale cheeks are flushed with adrenaline. “Hakuji, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You have opened many doors for the corps. In time, I hope that—“

     Kagaya collapses forward on his knees in a violent coughing fit, and Hakuji’s chest tightens in alarm. He recalls his dream from earlier, his memories of his father coughing until he couldn’t breathe. He knows he shouldn’t touch the master; it isn’t his place, and any physical contact could potentially be misinterpreted as aggression. But as Kagaya holds himself up on trembling arms, blood trickling from his throat, Hakuji throws caution to the wind.

     “Kagaya-sama!” He gasps, scooting to the master’s side in an instant. A particularly violent fit splatters blood against the floor. Hakuji presses a gentle hand to his scarred forehead, feeling heat simmer below his skin. His pulse is racing. Kagaya gags painfully, spitting a mouthful of crimson onto the tatami, and cold worry slithers down Hakuji’s spine. This is too much blood to be normal. Hakuji scoops his silken black hair away from the splash zone as he chokes and sputters.

    Another violent heave causes Kagaya’s  arms give to out. Hakuji catches him with an arm around the torso as the man’s youthful features contort with pain. He must have some sort of medicine, right? Something to make it stop? Hakuji doesn’t know. So he tilts the master’s head forward to keep his windpipe open and his clothes unbloodied, and calls for help.

     “SHINOBU!” Hakuji shouts, praying that she can hear him from her lab. “SHINOBU, COME HERE!” His senses strain as they reach out across the mansion, and among a number of confused patients, he catches a distinct flare of panic from the other end of the house. Thank God. She’ll likely predict what’s going on and bring one of her ingenious concoctions with her.

     “Hey, now,” Hakuji soothes as Kagaya chokes up another mouthful of red. He wipes the blood from the man’s chin and neck with his own white sleeve. “Breathe, Kagaya-sama, Shinobu’s coming. She’ll have medicine, just try and breathe.” Kagaya gives a shuddering gasp, losing himself in another fit on the tail end. But at least he’s gotten an inhale. Kagaya grips at Hakuji’s arm like an anchor, stealing another ragged breath. Footsteps pound in the hallway.

     “Oyakata-sama!” Shinobu exclaims, her thin brows furrowed with worry. “Oyakata-sama, can you hear me? Please, I need you to drink this.” Kagaya fights to still his breath as Shinobu raises a glass to his lips, gently pushing on his throat to help him swallow. She pulls the glass away as he coughs anew, fresh crimson soaked up quickly by Hakuji’s sleeve. This time, though, the fit is less violent. Minutes pass before the master finally goes limp in Hakuji’s hold, his lungs finally cooperating as he gasps for air.

     “There you go,” Hakuji murmurs, releasing his hair to rub Kagaya’s trembling back. “Shinobu, he has a fever. His pulse is pretty high too, but that could just be from the strain.” She nods dutifully, double checking Hakuji’s observations.

     “Please forgive me,” Kagaya rasps, slowly leveraging himself upright. “I did not mean to bloody your floor. And your kimono, Hakuji, I’m very sorry.”

     “No, no!” Hakuji blurts, at the same time Shinobu insists, “please don’t apologize!” The two lock eyes for a moment before Shinobu reaches out to grasp the master’s hands. “Can you stand, Oyakata-sama?” She asks. “We ought to get you somewhere you can properly rest, and surely Amane-sama will want to check in on you!” Kagaya nods, groaning softly as she hauls him to his feet. From holding him up earlier, Hakuji had discovered that his frail body was worryingly light, and Shinobu seems to have no trouble supporting him.

     “Hakuji-san, please check in with the girls,” she instructs as the two limp to the door. “Right,” he agrees, feeling awfully helpless. He’s been dismissed again, sent off to find something to pass the time before the next test. A foreign sort of sadness brews in his chest, one unlike any he’s felt before.

     And then, for a split second, Shinobu meets Hakuji’s eyes as she turns a corner, her eyes uncharacteristically vulnerable. Her cherry pink lips move as she mouths something over her shoulder.

     Thank you.

     Relief washes over him like the waters of a hot spring, and Hakuji feels the tension in his muscles relax. It seems he did the right thing after all. He starts off down the hallway to find the girls. Shinobu will treat the master the way she knows how, and he’ll do what she needs him to until…

     Until what? Even if he knows how to help sick people, he can’t do what Shinobu can. She knows more than he does about nearly everything, with her fancy gadgets and extensive pharmaceutical knowledge. Shinobu is like a goddamn walking encyclopedia. If, of course, an encyclopedia was capable of destroying demons on a cellular level. So, no, he can’t keep up with her. Does that mean everything he’s learned will go to waste?

     He sighs softly, his mind retreating back to his fuzzy memories of nursing Koyuki and his father. Even if he can’t remember all the details, it’s still endlessly comforting.

     Hakuji rounds the corner, lost in thought, and nearly bodyslams a child.

     “ Shit!” He yelps, his instincts running damage control and reeling him back before they can make contact. “Sorry! God, kid, eyes on the road!”

     Hakuji looks down, holding up both palms, to assess the kid’s state of being. He’s embarrassed, he realizes. This sort of thing would never have happened before, without the wisteria in his system slowing him down. The child looks up to meet his gaze, and Hakuji’s entire body stalls at the sight of a familiar pink kimono bamboo muzzle.

     Nezuko. It’s fucking Nezuko. Fresh anxiety churns in Hakuji’s stomach, and he does his best to strangle it as he squats slowly to meet Nezuko’s eye. Finally, the two of them are alone. He can ask her every question that’s been plaguing his mind for a week now.

     “Hello,” he breathes, and she tilts her head at him with an inquisitive hum. Hakuji recalls what Kyojuro had told him that night after the hashira meeting. He had looked at Hakuji with such genuine interest, his remaining eye like a smoldering ember beneath the inferno of his hair, illuminated like a deity in the moonlight.

     Nezuko cannot speak, he had said, his handsome features pinched with sympathy and pain, and she cannot do most things for herself. Yet, Hakuji had sensed a deep-rooted respect for her in the flame hashira’s fighting spirit. Looking at her now, Hakuji can see a flicker of intelligence in her wide, rose-pink eyes. Her spirit is nearly incomprehensible. She has a demonic aura, sure, but otherwise her fighting spirit is tucked safely away from his senses. A protective measure perhaps? Either way, he doesn’t need to read her spirit to know that Nezuko has a purpose for being here. It shows on the determined set of her brow.

     “Are you here to see me?” Hakuji asks, a bit hesitantly. Nezuko nods quickly, with a huff from behind her muzzle. Emotions swell in Hakuji’s rib cage, making his chest feel tight. He wants so badly to fit in. To be useful. To finally have a place that feels like home again, and people that feel like a family. Nezuko has all of that. She’s accepted as an official demon slayer, and thoroughly adored by her brother and his friends. She’s even won over Kyojuro’s stubborn heart. Something awfully sad and lonely inside of him aches to have that too.

     Hakuji swallows thickly, throat aching as he forces back a lump. “Will you help me?” Hakuji chokes out, his heart beating uncomfortably. Nezuko’s eyes sparkle with mischief. Her finders wrap around his hand, and Hakuji yelps as Nezuko yanks on his arm, humming at him loudly. He can’t repress a shaky laugh as the child drags him down the hallway.

     It’s time, Hakuji supposes, to uncover the secrets to reclaiming his humanity.

Chapter Text

     Nezuko drags Hakuji to a parlor that he is most definitely not supposed to be in.

     It’s farther off from the patients’ ward, and looks a bit too lived in to be a simple guest room. It’s almost personalized, with simple decor on the walls and a shelf with a few trinkets. If Hakuji wasn’t so curious about what Nezuko had to show him, he would have bolted by now. And besides, she has his arm in a vice grip, so there isn’t really anywhere he can go without ripping off the limb.

     Nezuko spins around in front of him, and points eagerly to something on a table against the far wall. “Hmm-mmm!” She hums, as if to say, ta-dah! Her expectant gaze roams over Hakuji’s features as he follows her outstretched hand.

     On the table, there is a goldfish in a circular glass tank. Hakuji approaches it to see better, and Nezuko trails after him, bouncing on her heels with excitement. The fish is a brilliant orange, and it reflects light off of its scales as it swims lazily in circles. Nezuko swoons next to him, twittering happily at the fish. He looks up with raised brows.

     “It’s very pretty,” Hakuji admits, and Nezuko flaps her little hands with joy. Was this all that she wanted to show him? Confusion and a bit of disappointment stems in his mind. He had been hoping Nezuko would have found a way to communicate something profound. That she would enlighten him, or share her wisdom on how to survive as a demon in a world of slayers. Instead, he gets a goldfish. Perhaps, a distressing voice whispers in the pit of his stomach, her silence is her survival.

     Nezuko shakes her head a few times, as if to clear her thoughts. A small clawed finger taps on the glass of the tank, and Hakuji follows the motion with interest. Nezuko points at the fish a few more times to make sure he’s watching, and then, with the utmost pride, points at herself.

     A smile twitches at the corner of Hakuji’s mouth. “You can’t have it, Nezuko,” he informs her. “It belongs to somebody else. Shinobu, probably, and I doubt she would take kindly to you kidnapping her pet fish.” Nezuko huffs, frustrated, and shakes her head no. She points again, firmer this time, at the fish and then at herself. But this time, she points at Hakuji too. He blinks at her. Is she suggesting that they team up to steal the fish? That the punishment will be lesser if they split it? Hakuji has done enough thievery for a lifetime, and he’s about to tell her as much when Nezuko holds up a single finger, looking deep in thought. Pause, Hakuji can picture her saying. So he strangles his guilty confession and waits patiently.

     This time, Nezuko’s movements are much more intentional.

     She points to the fish, her claw clicking against the glass, and after a pause, traces the shape of the round glass. Fish. Bowl. Nezuko looks up at him, seemingly waiting to ensure he understands. She holds her hands still until Hakuji nods his comprehension.

     Nezuko points to herself once more, and then makes an odd motion with both hands. Her palms are held flat, and they move parallel in opposite directions to form a rectangle in the air. She then mimes putting on a backpack, puffing up her chest and pulling on invisible straps over her shoulders. Expectant eyes meet Hakuji’s once again.

     A memory from the other day resurfaces in Hakuji’s mind. Tanjiro was sizing him up, hackles raised, and Nezuko had peeked out from a large wooden box on the floor. It had been turned away from him, but Hakuji had caught a glimpse of a strap poking out of the back.

     “Box?” He asks, and Nezuko nods, snapping her fingers. Bingo! She spreads her hands out, as if inviting him to analyze the situation.

     Hakuji considers her words. There are four now. Fish, bowl, Nezuko, box. Two subjects, and two corresponding items. Therefore, it makes sense that there must be some sort of comparison between the pairs. The bowl and the box are both containers. And Nezuko does tend to hang out in the box. Is that her point?

     “The box holds you like the bowl holds the fish?” Hakuji guesses, royally confused. Nezuko tilts one hand in a ‘sorta’ motion. She pauses once more, nibbling on the tip of one claw, and then repeats the box hand sign before squatting down. The girl draws her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them. It almost looks as if she’s physically grown smaller. Nezuko mimes scratching at an invisible door, and then smacks her knee in faux frustration. It’s almost comical. She pouts, seeming extremely unhappy being trapped in her imaginary box.

     Oh. She’s trapped. Like a fish in a bowl.

     “You’re confined,” Hakuji tries, and Nezuko nods again. She taps her fingers against her muzzle as well, nodding some more. Heavy sympathy squeezes Hakuji’s chest. Nezuko is getting by, sure, and without a doubt is sustained by the love of her family. But still, her conscious mind is stuck in a wooden prison. Her voice is muffled by a demonic haze and a stick of bamboo. Regardless of the noble intentions behind the box and muzzle, Nezuko’s demonic nature does not allow her to live without such constraints.

     Nezuko’s wide pink eyes stare into his as Hakuji slowly nods. “I get it,” he says. “I’m sorry. It was unfair of me to assume you had it easy.”

     The girl shakes her head, dark brown waves flowing around her shoulders. Her gaze is soft as it meets his. Nezuko scrunches up her face slightly, as if she’s trying to gather her focus. She moves slowly, intentionally. Her rose-pink claw indicates the fish and the bowl, then herself and the imaginary box. Hakuji’s pulse picks up as Nezuko points at him. She’s making connections, now. Whatever she chooses as his matching pair must be what she views as the thing holding him back. A sword, perhaps, like that of a demon slayer? Maybe she will mime the actions of a pickpocket, will read into his soul and point out the worst of his memories?

     Instead, Nezuko taps him lightly on the forehead. Hakuji blinks, emotions welling up inside of him as he tries to process her implications. He is holding himself back. His mind is his own jailer. Hakuji feels awfully vulnerable, his eyes watering slightly as Nezuko’s hand moves once more. The breath in his lungs catches in anticipation.

     Nezuko taps her ear, and then reaches out to softly press her small hand over Hakuji’s aching chest. Her palm is warm, soothing the deep sadness in his rib cage. This time, her message is clear as day.

     Listen to your heart.

     A traitorous tear spills over Hakuji’s cheek, and he swipes it away. A warm smile splits his face as he chuckles softly. Nezuko saw right through him, didn’t she? The little demon girl reaches up to wipe another tear away, and shakes her head slightly as if trying to clear away brain fog. She sways slightly on her feet, looking awfully sleepy. It seems that the focus it took her to express such a simple conscious thought is slipping.

     Hakuji supports her weight as Nezuko tilts slowly forward, falling asleep with her head buried into his shoulder. He huffs a contented sigh, hoisting the child into his arms to bring her back to her brother. When he gets there, however, the room is empty save for the large wooden box on the floor. The boys must be off at recovery training. Tanjiro sleeps on the far left, Hakuji recalls, so he deposits the sleeping girl on his bed. He pulls the blanket up over her shoulders, tucking her in and making sure there are no outside windows in the room before he leaves. It is he who is on a mission now.

     Hakuji finds Shinobu reentering the house through the front door. She must have just seen the master and his wife off, and she looks up at him with an unreadable expression on her face.

     Shinobu speaks before he can. “Hakuji-san, well done,” she says softly. “Your efforts to help Oyakata-sama have not gone unnoticed.” Blood rushes to his face at the praise. He had honestly not expected it. Shinobu has been a bit cold recently, and it’s comforting to hear her speak of him so. “You ought to give me your kimono so we can clean out the blood,” she continues, and Hakuji looks down with a start. He had forgotten that he’d used the white fabric of his sleeve to clean the blood from Kagaya’s chin.

     “Right,” he mumbles sheepishly. “Sorry, I forgot about that.” Shinobu smiles softly. “Probably isn’t great for your image, no?” She teases, and Hakuji gives her a grin of his own. She leads him back to a storage room full of hospital uniforms, and trades him a plain western-style button up for his stained kimono. He’s a bit sad to part with it. The style reminds him of Keizou.

     “Well, did you find the girls?” Shinobu asks, and Hakuji is suddenly reminded of his mission. He bows his head apologetically.

     “Actually, I was intercepted on the way by Nezuko,” he admits, and Shinobu raises both brows in interest. “She took me to see a goldfish. And she communicated with me through a combination of pointing, humming, and hand symbols.”

     “She took you to my parlor?” Shinobu deadpans. Her spirit prickles and Hakuji raises both hands in surrender. “I didn’t know, she just took me there! The fish was important, anyway; she used it to set up this whole elaborate metaphor about the things that hold us back from our full potential.” He takes a deep breath to calm the nerves growing in his stomach as Shinobu nods slowly.

     “And what did she have to say?” Shinobu prompts, clearly anticipating a point to the story. Hakuji forces himself to meet her gaze.

     “She told me that my mind is my own prison, and advised I follow my heart instead.” He bows his head slightly in his appeal. “Please allow me to serve as a nurse for the butterfly mansion!” He blurts, his hands clenching into fists with anxiety.

     “Oh my,” Shinobu giggles. “Is that your heart’s desire?” Hakuji nods a bit too enthusiastically. In his mind, he clings onto memories of his father and Koyuki. “I have some experience already,” he pitches, “but I would be more than happy to learn all of the new practices. I’ll still do chores too, I mean, I’ll still help out in other ways! But I’ve been getting my memories back, and I…I think healing is where my heart has always resided. This is where my heart resides.”

     Shinobu taps her chin in contemplation. Hakuji is sweating. It’s almost like she’s drawing this out on purpose.

     “The butterfly mansion is always in need of volunteers,” She says finally, and Hakuji’s heart clenches. “But I would be lying if I said that having a new assistant would not be helpful.” Shinobu sighs to herself, her calm demeanor flickering slightly as she turns her face towards the heavens.

     “My sister always wanted to befriend demons, but I could just never trust them,” she admits finally, her voice uncharacteristically emotional. Sorrow stirs in Hakuji’s chest at the memory of Shinobu’s loss. Kanae—was that her name?—had been killed by Douma. That shitty bastard. He wishes he could make her pain go away.

     “But I think you’ve proven yourself, Hakuji,” she says quietly, looking at him with wide violet eyes full of vulnerability. “I will train you to the best of my ability.”

     “Thank you,” Hakuji gasps, holding back a joyful whoop. His muscles droop with relief, gratitude swelling in his belly, and Shinobu chuckles quietly. “Come along now,” she beckons, “you have chores to do.”

     Hakuji’s heart aches with too many feelings to understand.

     As Hakuji follows Shinobu’s instruction, buoyed by joy, he hopes that his family can be proud of him now.

                                   ***

     Kyojuro is worried.

     Senjuro never responded to his first letter, which was odd, but not horribly distressing. He is a busy child after all, keeping the house in order and tending to their father. When Kyojuro is away from home, it’s not unheard of for him to reply late with flustered apologies.

     Out of sheer boredom and homesickness, Kyojuro had written again a few days ago now. And once again, crickets. That is what worries him. One letter is understandable. But two, especially when he’s surely worried sick about what happened at the Mugen train, is concerning.

     Kyojuro groans softly to himself, squirming into a slightly more comfortable position. Since his arrival at the butterfly mansion, he seems to have been cursed with a perpetual stomach ache—firstly from the brutal belly wound, then the waves of nausea that accompany his concussion, and then the uncomfortable fullness from eating solid food again. This newfound worry is just another log on the flame. He sighs, resting an arm over his stomach and burying his face into the pillow. He could write again, but if there was still no answer, he would only panic more. Perhaps he should ask Shinobu to send a Kakushi to check on everyone.

     Like a godsend, Tanjiro appears at his door just in time to pull him out of his anxious spiral. The boy greets him quietly, and Kyojuro sits up with a bright grin. His new tsuguko has been sneaking in to visit him as often as possible, and with Shinobu distracted and the girls in the kitchen, it’s the perfect opportunity for a hang out.

     “How are you feeling, Rengoku-san?” Tanjiro whispers, and Kyojuro feels slightly guilty lying. “I’m alright!” He insists, and Tanjiro cocks his head.

     “Are you sure?” He presses. “Your scent is different. You smell stressed.” Well. Tanjiro’s flawless sense of smell strikes again. Kyojuro has learned quickly that there is very little he can hide from the boy. So he sighs to himself, and decides to let himself off the hook.

     “I haven’t heard back from my brother!” He admits, and Tanjiro’s brow furrows with concern. “I have written to him twice now, and Senjuro is not the kind of boy to ignore letters at such a time! I know it is illogical, but I can’t keep myself from worrying that something has happened.” Tanjiro looks horrified. A dark, primal expression flickers across the boy’s face. Sadness spreads over his features like ink over paper, and with it a fierce protectiveness.

     Kyojuro’s heart sinks as he recognizes that expression. He’s seen it on too many people, their shoulders slumped with grief and regret over those that have been lost to the heavens. Tanjiro is an older brother too, he remembers, and in Kyojuro’s fear he must have found memories of his own failure. He is a boy scorned, home too late to save those he loved, and he will never allow such a thing to happen again for as long as he breathes. The thought process is clear as day on his face, and Kyojuro knows what he’s about to do before he even opens his mouth.

     “I’ll go check on him,” Tanjiro announces, and is on his feet in a heartbeat before Kyojuro can protest. “Kamado-shonen, you mustn’t!” Kyojuro insists, but the boy’s shoulders are set in determination. Some deeply buried part of himself must be aching for redemption. He bows slightly to Kyojuro, ignoring his distress with a warm smile. “Don’t worry, Rengoku-san, I’ll ensure that your brother is safe!” He promises, and then he is gone, footsteps pounding down the hallway.

     “You are still injured, Kamado-shonen!” Kyojuro hollers after him. No response.

He sinks back onto the pillow with a heavy sigh, pain blossoming behind his missing eye. Kyojuro’s dear tsuguko, who has recently been stabbed and confined to bed rest, has just fled the mansion on his behalf. Apprehension for the boy latches onto Kyojuro with its claws drawn. Kyojuro huffs a humorless laugh, drawing a hand over his face.

     Suddenly, someone else appears in the hallway, and there is a hesitant knock on his door. Confusion hangs over Kyojuro, who is still struggling to make sense of what all just happened. It’s probably Aoi, having heard him yell, or perhaps one of the butterfly girls.

     “Come in,” he invites tiredly, and jumps as the door is slammed open with more force

than he’d expected. Cold shock crashes over him like he’s been plunged into the winter sea.

     There, standing in all of his glory, is Hakuji.

     The demon has taken on a human appearance, one that he had been too exhausted to notice the last time they saw each other. It suits him. Dark hair accentuates the icy blue of his eyes, which are framed by long and pale lashes. His skin is a healthy golden brown, free of the stripes that once marred his body. Without them, his boyish features shine through, from the slope of his nose to his soft lips and his flattering jawline. He looks so undeniably human, and Kyojuro finds himself at a loss for words.

     Luckily for Kyojuro’s pride, Hakuji seems equally petrified. He stands frozen in the doorway, what appears to be a cleaning rag clutched in one hand, as if he’s come directly from doing chores. Which, Kyojuro thinks, maybe he has. His low cut pants have been replaced with tasteful black hakama, and his sculpted abdomen has been hidden under a hospital shirt. It must be uncomfortable, though, if the multiple undone buttons are any indication. It’s a very odd combination, almost enough to distract Kyojuro from the fact that Hakuji is standing right in front of him.

     “Hakuji,” he breathes, at the same time that Hakuji blurts, “what happened?”

     They’re in another stalemate, this one significantly more awkward. “Sorry, you first,” Kyojuro backs down. Mainly because he wants to know what on earth the demon is doing here.

     Hakuji blushes in a way that’s almost endearing as he looks down sheepishly. “I, uh. I’m sorry that I’ve been avoiding you. I was nervous.” The confession brings a strange emotion to Kyojuro’s chest. When did Hakuji go from actively pursuing his murder to being anxious to speak with him? “That’s quite alright,” he replies dumbly. “I suppose I was not quite prepared to see you either!”

     Hakuji’s mouth twitches upward at the corner. “Right,” he agrees. “Anyway, I felt your fighting spirit flare up from across the mansion, like something was really bothering you, and…well, I guess I wanted to make sure you were okay?” Kyojuro doesn’t know how to feel. Part of him is flattered, against his will, that Hakuji wanted to check on him. Another remembers the anguish of the demon’s knuckles splitting his flesh, smashing his eye. A third toils with worry, for Tanjiro and Senjuro. This one, he decides, is the most easy to understand.

     “I am fine!” He exclaims, slightly too loud. Hakuji raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. Kyojuro smiles nervously. “I’m simply concerned for my Tsuguko! My family has been unresponsive to my letters, and he seems to have taken it upon himself to go and confirm their well-being, despite being wounded!” Hakuji looks over his shoulder in alarm, as if he could still see Tanjiro’s form fleeing the scene. He meets Kyojuro’s gaze again, initiative clear in his wide blue eyes.

     “Is that what’s worrying you, Kyojuro?” Hakuji asks, his eyes sweeping over his body like he’s analyzing his body language for signs of pain. Kyojuro flushes under his scrutiny. Years of hashira training have taught him to conceal his discomfort, so he’s not at risk of the demon scoffing at his weakness, but it still feels as if Hakuji is seeing past his defenses. “Yes, that’s what is the matter,” Kyojuro confirms so he’ll stop giving him that intense stare.

     Hakuji nods to himself. “Alright then,” he says. “I’ll accompany Tanjiro to check on your family, and make sure they are both safe.” Oh, God. That’s almost worse. “Wait,” Kyojuro calls desperately as the demon turns to leave, and he turns with both brows raised. He looks completely genuine, and Kyojuro’s heart toils with indecision. Despite his unwillingness to let Hakuji out into the world, he doesn’t know how much longer he can bear stressing about his father and brother before he hauls himself out of bed and goes to look at them himself. Perhaps this is the best course of action. Hakuji can protect Tanjiro, Tanjiro can feel good about himself for a job well done, and Kyojuro can finally relax.

     “Please keep Tanjiro safe,” Kyojuro says weakly, “and tell my father, Shinjuro, to take care of himself. Tell my brother to trust himself and do what he thinks is best.” He feels ridiculous, asking such a powerful demon for such a vulnerable request. But Hakuji’s features soften at his words.

     “You have my word,” Hakuji says gently, and then he slips away, closing the door behind him.

     Kyojuro stares at the ceiling in shock. He has just sent his injured tsuguko and a former Upper Rank demon off to his family home. In trying to soothe his anxiety, he’s ended up even more worried than before. Kyojuro rolls onto his side with a pained groan, pulling his knees up to his chest. He sucks in a slow recovery breath.

     His stomach hurts again. Go figure.

Chapter Text

     It takes Hakuji all of five minutes to catch up to Tanjiro. Luckily for him, the sun has just dipped down below the horizon, so he’s able to travel in leaps and bounds rather than darting through the shadows. Besides, the boy clearly knows he’s coming, what with that superhuman sense of smell he has. Hakuji can sense apprehension in his fighting spirit. He slows his pace to run alongside Tanjiro in an easy jog.

     The boy clutches the wound on his torso, looking awfully pale. Nezuko’s box rests on his back. She must be asleep still. The sun has only just gone down, anyway, and Hakuji can’t sense any activity within the box. Tanjiro turns to meet Hakuji’s gaze, and sweat drips down his brow.

     “What are you doing here?” He gasps, and Hakuji offers what he hopes is a friendly smile. “Kyojuro was really worried about you,” he informs him. “I’m tagging along to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t hurt yourself.” Tanjiro returns the grin, but it seems strained with his labored breaths. “I appreciate it, Hakuji-san, but I have this covered!” He says, in an attempt to be politely dismissive. Hakuji laughs slightly at Tanjiro’s indignant expression.

     “I admire your confidence, but you’re pushing yourself too hard.” Hakuji reaches out to slow Tanjiro with a hand to the shoulder, and he reluctantly lowers the pace. “There. Let’s just walk for now, yeah? Your master will be worried sick if you return with that wound reopened.” Tanjiro’s spirit tingles with irritation. Hakuji is right, though, and Tanjiro seems to know it. And so, the two walk side by side, Nezuko riding along on Tanjiro’s back.

     Hakuji has always enjoyed talking to humans, even before he broke Muzan’s curse. Before he killed his opponents, he used to chat with them for awhile. Humans intrigued him, with their short lifespan and indomitable wills. Their conversations ranged from demonhood and human morality all the way through modern culture and technology. Akaza rarely understood what they rambled on about, and was satiated by a quick fight, or, if he was feeling up to it, a filling meal. But Hakuji is different. He talks to people because he cares, because he genuinely wants to understand. It’s an odd contrast, one he’s still getting used to. He’s still caught off guard each time emotions he thought he had lost swell in his chest.

     Tanjiro, as it turns out, is a good conversationalist. Quite reluctant at first, but honest and kind-hearted. He has a lot to say. Hakuji steers clear of any controversial topics—the Corps, demons, Muzan—and instead focuses on the boy’s travels. Where has he gone on missions? Is the food good there? The music? The people? What is is favorite place? By the time they reach the estate, Hakuji has learned that Tanjiro’s favorite food is tara no me, he had his second ever mission in Asakusa (and found it severely overwhelming), he grew up in the mountains far off in the countryside, and he does Nezuko’s hair, although he can’t quite replicate the updo she used to wear. For someone who seemed so wary of Hakuji’s presence, Tanjiro seems to be too genuine to deny such pleasant conversation.

     The pair grow quiet as they approach the entrance. The crow which was leading them flies off, leaving them alone. It must have been Kyojuro’s. The estate is massive, and it seems old, likely built by some Rengoku ancestor long ago. It stands rather impressively against the darkening sky. Tanjiro slows to a halt, breathing heavily and clutching his stomach wound with both hands. Hakuji waits for him to continue, but the boy simply stands there.

     “What are you waiting for? We’re here, aren’t we?” Hakuji asks, moving to enter the property. Tanjiro’s spirit flares in alarm, and he snatches his sleeve, pulling him back. “Don’t be rude,” He hisses. “We can’t just waltz in!” Hakuji rolls his eyes, to Tanjiro’s evident annoyance. “Well, how about we just stay out here until the sun comes up, then?” He sneers, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If nobody is gonna invite us in, we ought to just go ourselves.”

     “But that’s rude,” Tanjiro insists again, looking rather offended. “Humans have social rules for that sort of thing, you know!” Hakuji throws his hands in the air. “Oh, so we should just abandon what we came here for to be polite?” He snatches his arm away from Tanjiro’s grasp. “What if something really did happen, huh? How is his family supposed to invite us in if they’re—I don’t know, dead ?” Tanjiro opens his mouth in horror, as if he’s about to chew Hakuji out in a glorious lecture on manners. Instead, he freezes again, the color draining from his face as he stares at something over Hakuji’s shoulder. Too late, Hakuji registers the presence of a new spirit.

     “Um,” someone says, voice tight with fear. “Hello? We, uh, we’re not dead.”

     Hakuji whirls around, cheeks burning. That probably sounded absolutely atrocious. His voice catches in his throat at the sight of the nervous-looking boy lingering like a ghost in the entryway.

     It’s Kyojuro’s brother. He has to be. His hair is the same halo of flame, and his wide eyes are that familiar gradient of red and gold, like precious amber. His unruly locks have been pulled back into a ponytail, though bits still poke out to frame his youthful face. There’s no way he’s older than Tanjiro, Hakuji thinks. Perhaps fourteen at most. The boy clutches a broom so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. His fighting spirit is gentle, like the comforting blaze of a fireplace in the winter in contrast to Kyojuro’s brilliant firestorm.

     “You must be Senjuro,” Tanjiro says lightly, his effortless kindness shining through in his voice. “We’re Tanjiro and Hakuji from the Demon Slayer Corps!” He bows politely, and Senjuro’s anxious posture relaxes a bit. His eyes flicker to Hakuji, who awkwardly copies Tanjiro’s movements as he continues speaking. “Your brother, Kyojuro-san, sent us to check on you and your father. He was awfully worried when you did not respond to his letters!”

     Senjuro’s eyes widen in surprise, like a deer in headlights. “Letters?” He gasps. “I haven’t received any letters at all; I’ve been worrying myself sick all week! Did Aniue—oh my goodness, are you alright?”

     Confused, Hakuji follows Senjuro’s startled gaze. Tanjiro’s brow is slick with sweat, creating a sickly sheen over the pallor of his skin. “You’re deathly pale,” Senjuro frets, clutching the broom tighter.

     Hakuji stiffens as another spirit fills the air, rough like gravel and sharp with the likeness of burning alcohol. He crinkles his nose at the invasive presence, and whirls around to see a middle aged, severely inebriated man standing before them. He shares the same unique features with the Rengoku boys, though the natural beauty in the captivating characteristics has been lost to time, and likely also the sake jug he clutches in his fist.

     “Stop this nonsense,” the man growls, and Senjuro flinches back. “We don’t give a damn what that pathetic excuse of a son has to say. I don’t want his idiotic, talentless influence rubbing off on Senjuro!”

     Fury bursts to life in Hakuji’s chest, and he fights to maintain his human appearance as his blood boils. This must be Shinjuro. For the first time in awhile, he truly wants to tear someone to shreds, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to hold himself together. The man’s poisoned words make Hakuji’s chest ache with a fierce protectiveness.

     “A person’s talent is determined the day he is born, and Kyojuro has none of it,” Shinjuro snarls. “It’s no wonder he ran off and tried to get himself killed! I burned those infernal letters the second they came in.” He takes a lurching step forward, and Hakuji unconsciously sticks out an arm to herd Senjuro and Tanjiro behind him.

     “I’ll tell you what,” Shinjuro seethes. The smell of alcohol burns Hakuji’s lungs, and Tanjiro coughs from behind him. “How about you two screw off and go tell Kyojuro not to bother writing home anymore!” He takes a vicious swig of his sake jug. “Senjuro! Your brother is damn worthless anyway. It’s high time you wiped that sorry look off your face!”

     Senjuro’s spirit withers with anguish from behind him, and Hakuji’s fists ball up so tightly they slice into his palms. Tanjiro steps forward, anger bubbling in the air around him.

     “Hold on!” Tanjiro demands. “That’s going way too far!” Hakuji finally manages to condense the venom brewing in his belly into words. “How dare you speak about Kyojuro like that,” he spits, his vision tunneling. “That man has more talent in his damn fingernails than most have in their entire body.” His heart feels like a rabid beast, chained up and straining against the post that is his brain. Senjuro trembles, eyes welling up with tears as he watches the exchange.

     Shinjuro sizes them up with a disdainful expression. “Who the hell are you two?” He slurs, distrust boiling in his spirit. “Get your sorry asses off of my property.” Tanjiro steps forward again to stand at Hakuji’s side. “We’re with the Demon Slayer Corps,” he explains, squaring his shoulders. Dimly, Hakuji registers Kyojuro’s influence in his confident pose. Shinjuro leans forward slightly, face twisting as he drunkenly attempts to focus on Tanjiro’s features.

     Ceramic shards shatter onto the ground as the sake jug falls from Shinjuro’s hand. Something has awoken in his fighting spirit. Something dangerous. It rears its ugly head, shaking off ash and coal like a cheap imitation of Kyojuro’s flame dragon. Immediately, Hakuji’s body sinks into a defensive stance. Shinjuro raises an accusatory finger, his hand trembling with rage.

     “I get it now,” he utters, a vein in his forehead jutting out. “You’re a Sun Breather, aren’t you?” Hakuji snaps his head around to catch Tanjiro’s reaction. Clearly he’s missed something. Thankfully, Tanjiro’s face mirrors his own confusion.

     “Sun breathing?” Tanjiro breathes, brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?” His spirit swirls with uneasiness. The boy has obviously picked up on the sudden change in Shinjuro’s demeanor from aggression to blatant hostility. Hakuji watches the man like a hawk, waiting to jump in to action at even the slightest advance.

    Which is how, when Shinjuro shoots forward with a speed quite unbecoming of a drunken man, Hakuji is able to shove Tanjiro out of the way. Shinjuro’s rough hands grab him by the wrist, and in some convoluted method of appeasement, Hakuji allows himself to be shoved to the ground. His arm is wrenched back as his chest is slammed into the dirt, and the boys cry out behind him. Instincts designed for fighting flare to life in Hakuji’s rib cage, and he forces himself to remain motionless on the ground. Should Hakuji strike back, he doesn’t trust himself not to punch a hole straight through the man’s chest. So he allows himself to be restrained. This way, Shinjuro will be too distracted with holding him down to attack the kids, and Hakuji has time to force back his violent instincts.

     He gets them in check just in time. Senjuro appears at his side, tugging desperately at his father’s sleeve. His eyes are wide, haunted with years of playing the mediator. “Father, please stop!” He gasps, and Tanjiro goes for the man’s other arm. “Can’t you see that these people just want to help us?” Shinjuro snaps his head around toward his son, fury blazing in his stare. Tanjiro senses it too, his fighting spirit blaring with alarm.

     Shinjuro swings a backhand at Senjuro’s jaw. “You keep your mouth shut!” He snarls, and Tanjiro snatches Senjuro by his shoulders, sweeping him out of arm’s reach. Simultaneously, Hakuji pumps power into his legs, kicking off the dusty ground and twisting effortlessly out of Shinjuro’s grasp.

     Shinjuro stumbles backward, seething with rage like a cornered animal. Hakuji drops into a practiced Soryuu defensive pose, keeping the man’s eyes on him. “That’s enough, you monster!” Tanjiro shouts from behind. “How could you do such a thing? Insulting your own injured child and attempting to strike your other as well?” He pulls Senjuro to his feet, holding him up as the boy trembles with shock. “What is it that you’re even trying to achieve?”

     “You’re mocking us, aren’t you?” Shinjuro growls. His attention is no longer on Hakuji, and the demon waits quietly, tense like a coiled spring, in case the man goes for Tanjiro once more. “What makes you think such a thing?” Tanjiro cries. “Now you’re just slandering me!” A tiny sliver of hurt crawls into his spirit. Hakuji knows just how much Tanjiro values his honesty, and being accused of mockery must not feel good in his heart.

     “It’s because you’re a user of Sun Breathing, huh?” Shinjuro sneers. “Don’t try and lie to me, boy; I know all about those earrings. It was in the book!” Shock splashes across Tanjiro’s face, and Hakuji’s gut twinges with interest. Muzan had once tasked him to eliminate the boy with hanafuda earrings. He had assumed it to be a simple identifier, but if Shinjuro’s implications are true…

     “The first breathing technique ever created, the most powerful of them all ,” Shinjuro rambles on. The gears in Tanjiro’s brain are visible turning, desperate to soak up every last bit of information Shinjuro will spare. “All other techniques derived from Sun Breathing. Flame, water, wind, they’re all just cheap imitations! All of them!” A bead of sweat trails down Tanjiro’s forehead, tracing his scar. Senjuro is making a valiant effort to keep his breathing in check. Hakuji’s gaze circulated rapidly between the three. It’s clear that Tanjiro and Shinjuro need to talk this through, so for now, he waits on standby. At this point, intervening would only escalate things. Tanjiro’s spirit grows more and more tense.

     “Don’t get cocky just because you’re a Sun Breather, boy!” Shinjuro shouts, and something in Tanjiro’s spirit snaps. His limbs tremble as he shoots to his feet. “As if I could! ” He wails, and stressed tears spill over his cheeks. “Can’t you see how devastated I am by my own weakness? You…you miserable old bastard!” Tanjiro’s veins bulge in his forehead, his expression growing exponentially more distressed. Senjuro jolts in Hakuji’s peripheral. “Look out, Tanjiro,” he gasps, and Hakuji prepares himself for action. “Father is a former hashira!”

     Tanjiro either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care. His spirit is overwhelmed, shuddering with anger, protectiveness, and a painful self-deprecation. “Don’t you dare badmouth Rengoku-san!” he bellows, launching forward with a fist drawn back. Shinjuro catches him by the arm, winding up a punch of his own. Hakuji explodes into action, smacking Shinjuro’s arm away. The man is faster than he should be. He’s no Kyojuro, but he’s clearly impeccably trained. He whirls around, swinging at Hakuji’s face, and he expertly ducks, leaping backward as Shinjuro goes for a jab to the stomach. As it turns out, however, the wisteria designed to dampen his sheer strength is working. As Shinjuro feints a strike at Hakuji, he sweeps his leg back, hitting Tanjiro in the shin and knocking him to the ground. Hakuji sees red.

     “Father, please! Stop!” Senjuro yells, his voice shaky with desperation. Hakuji surges forward, snatching Shinjuro’s attention again before he can make a beeline back to Tanjiro’s downed form. He won’t attack. He doesn’t trust himself. But Keizou trained Hakuji with the hand of a master, and every bit of muscle memory in Hakuji’s body has been honed by the very best. He flits in and out of Shinjuro’s space, blocking every swing. He pretends to be on the offensive, getting up in his business to throw a punch that he knows Shinjuro will dodge, and then reels back. The man blunders after him, and Hakuji draws him subtly away from his son.

     Still, despite his best efforts, Shinjuro’s mind is set. He rages against Hakuji’s tricks, lurching back towards Tanjiro the second he lets up for a second. Tanjiro has a scrape on the side of his face from when he hit the ground, and his spirit toils with anguish. He’s gonna try something, Hakuji can see it. For a split second, they lock eyes over Shinjuro’s shoulder. The need to act is clear as day on Tanjiro’s face. In order to clear the guilt in his soul, he has to do something. Hakuji may be fresh to the Slayer Corps, and even to pseudo-humanity. But as Tanjiro vanishes from his field of vision, he understands the boy’s thought process somewhere in his soul. Something’s got to give.

     Hakuji blocks a punch against his shin with a practiced kick, struggling against the wisteria to stay light on his feet. Shinjuro’s swings are unrelenting, coming at Hakuji in an endless flurry. The man is a terrifying combination of hashira and completely drunk—all of the heart-stopping strength, and none of the impeccable control. He keeps his senses spread open, waiting for the flicker of opportunity.

     There.

     As Shinjuro winds back for another attack, Tanjiro materializes out of thin air, and Hakuji leaps backward. The boy launches himself at him with a fury unrivaled, and Shinjuro’s spirit leaps with shock and confusion.

     Tanjiro’s forehead slams into his with a sharp crack, and Senjuro yelps in horror somewhere in the distance. Hakuji panics. Holy shit. Did the kid just break his own skull on his watch? Oh, Kyojuro is going to kill him.

     The two collapse to the ground, and the tension in the atmosphere finally falls silent.

Chapter Text

     As Tanjiro kneels at his side on the tatami, drooping with defeat, Hakuji thanks everything holy. Despite using it to knock a former hashira unconscious, the boy’s head is completely fine. Which means Hakuji will not have to face Kyojuro’s wrath for letting his tsuguko shatter his own skull. He spares a glance at Tanjiro, whose spirit wobbles with shame. He may have incapacitated a violent Shinjuro, which is arguably a good thing, but he clearly still feels horribly guilty.

     Hakuji bites his bottom lip to repress a smile as the scene replays in his mind. It shouldn’t be funny, he knows, but the mental image of Tanjiro absolutely demolishing a grown man with only his forehead sends a thrill of gleeful pride down his spine. Tanjiro can feel guilty all he likes. As far as Hakuji is concerned, a win is a win.

     Senjuro re-enters the room with a tray of tea. Hakuji’s heart drops at the realization that this could expose him. Either he simply rejects the tea, which seems to have all sorts of social stigmas around it, or he drinks it and tries not to let his demonic body expel it back onto the floor. In the end, however, it seems that in this situation the drink is simply representative of hospitality. Hakuji accepts it graciously, but as the three sit in a lopsided circle, none of them drink.

     “Ah, thank you,” Tanjiro croaks. He looks slightly delirious. “I’m sorry for…for head butting your father. Is he okay?”

     Senjuro’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “I think he’ll be just fine,” he assures him. “When he came to, he even went out for more sake.” The words are light and without sadness, but Hakuji’s chest still tightens. Of course he did. That man is too busy with his alcohol to give a damn about his family.

     “Actually, I wanted to thank you both,” says Senjuro, dipping his head slightly. “I could never even talk back when he badmouthed my brother. You took a load off of my mind by saying what I couldn’t.” He straightens, and his expression is so genuine that it soothes the stress in Tanjiro’s spirit. “Please tell me, is my brother well?”

     “Yes,” Tanjiro blurts out. “He’s awake and healing nicely.” His statement is comforting to Hakuji as well. Between all of the chores and tests and dreams, he hasn’t heard much of Kyojuro’s condition. It’s good to know that he was not just putting on an act.

     “When I spoke to him earlier today, he gave me messages for you and your father,” Hakuji starts carefully, and all eyes are suddenly on him. Senjuro sits with bated breath. His posture is perfectly polite, but Hakuji can sense the vulnerability in his spirit. “He asked your father to take care of himself,” Hakuji tells him, “and you to follow your heart and do whatever it is that you think is best.”

     Senjuro’s amber eyes well up instantly with tears. His shoulders droop slightly, the relief in his soul almost tangible. A grateful smile tugs at his lips. “Thank you, Hakuji-san,” he utters, voice trembling slightly with emotion. “Gosh, that really does sound like him, doesn’t it? I will pass his message along to father when he returns.” He swipes away a tear threatening to fall, and reaches behind him to procure an old red book.

     “About Sun Breathing,” Senjuro starts, and Tanjiro’s posture straightens with interest. “Something rang a bell in a book my father used to read.” He slides the book towards the two of them, and Tanjiro reaches out to accept it with barely restrained enthusiasm. “Thank you very much!” Tanjiro exclaims. Hakuji cranes his neck to read over his shoulder, and only properly scoots over to see when Tanjiro shoots him a look. He must be being rude again.

     Ice shoots through Tanjiro’s spirit as he opens the book, and Hakuji’s heart splashes into his stomach. The pages have been absolutely annihilated, destroyed angrily and with intention. Any legibility it once had has been lost. “Look at this!” Tanjiro chokes out, and Senjuro scoots over to look as well, his face pinching up with horror.

     “Was it always like this?” Hakuji questions. He has a bad feeling that he knows exactly who is responsible. Resentment stirs in his gut at the thought. “No, that’s not possible!” Senjuro breathes. “The Flame Hashira Chronicles are kept with the utmost care.” His wide gaze is cast to the ground, his spirit clouding with shame. “I believe it was my father who destroyed those pages. I’m so sorry.” Tanjiro, kindhearted as ever, immediately protests.

     Hakuji can only nod along with the boy’s affirmations. He feels awful. For Senjuro, that’s for certain, but also for Tanjiro. Hakuji knows nothing about Sun Breathing, but the prospect of it had made Tanjiro’s spirits skyrocket with hope, and now they’ve plummeted back to a quiet melancholy. It’s not fair to either of them. Vaguely, Hakuji wonders how such a deplorable asshole of a man could bear two sons as wonderful as they have grown to be.

     Their mother must be a fantastic woman.

     On second thought, do they even have a mother figure in their lives? Despite being in their estate, Hakuji has neither seen nor sensed any evidence of another person around. Nobody has mentioned one either. Now that he thinks about it, it would make sense if she were no longer around, at least in the sense of Shinjuro’s alcoholism. His heart pangs. Hakuji knows full well what the loss of a loved one can do to somebody. He’s sitting here as a demon, after all, which has to count for something. He wonders how long Kyojuro has been shouldering the weight of a broken father and a mother lost to some cruel fate.

     “…I’m going to train harder, and learn how to master hinokami kagura!” Tanjiro is saying as Hakuji tunes back in. Oops. Senjuro prompts him to continue, listening much more politely than Hakuji was. “I can’t move my body the way I want to when I perform hinokami kagura along with total concentration breathing. My stamina has improved thanks to constant, but I physically can’t keep up with it.” His gaze drops to the tatami. “That day, if there was anything I could have done to prevent Kyojuro-san from getting hurt…I’ve tried to come up with something, but there’s just no such convenient method.” Guilt tightens in Hakuji’s ribs. This is all his fault.

     “But no matter how grueling it may be, I will push forward,” Tanjiro announces, “Kyojuro-san has accepted me as his tsuguko, and I will become a powerful hashira just like him! No matter what!”

     Both boys have fresh tears welling in their eyes. In some odd way, Hakuji almost wants to cry too. He’s not sure whether the lump in his throat is from guilt, or inspiration, or memories of his own family, but he swallows it down anyway.

     “You are his tsuguko?” Senjuro breathes. A single tear curves over his cheekbone, and he doesn’t bother to brush it away. His spirit flares, then, with an unexpected softness. Tiny red undertones of guilt shiver like cracks through him, but most of all, the boy is shrouded with a soft golden relief. It’s the color of honey and the last rays of sunset. The color of an agonizing burden finally lifted. Senjuro turns his face to the open sliding doors, gazing out at the night stars as a soft breeze tousles his hair.

     “My brother never had a tsuguko,” he whispers, as if he’s afraid to say it out loud. “Normally, I would have become his tsuguko, and trained as a hashira reserve. But…” he sighs gently, and his eyes find Hakuji’s. If he hadn’t already felt it in the boy’s fighting spirit, he certainly sees the flood of emotions now. Hakuji nods softly, encouraging him to go on.

     “No matter what I did, or how hard I trained, my nichirin sword failed to change color,” Senjuro admits. Tanjiro’s gaze softens with sympathy. “Nichirin swords only change when you reach a certain level of sword skills. But, no matter how much training I underwent…” Senjuro shivers slightly, the tears coming faster now. “It was no good,” he mutters, head bowed in shame.

     Senjuro looks up to meet Tanjiro’s gaze. “Thank you,” he says softly. “By commiting yourself to training as his tsuguko, you’ve eased my soul.” Tanjiro’s spirit tingles with warmth. Senjuro gives him a smile, genuine from the bottom of his heart. “I think I’m going to forget about being a swordsman, and find some other way to be useful,” he confesses. “This will break the long line of the Flame Hashira title in the Rengoku family, but…I’m sure my brother will forgive me. And I wholeheartedly believe that you will do great things in his care.”

     Tanjiro bows slightly. “I’m very grateful for your blessing, Senjuro-kun,” he says. Hakuji nods as the boy meets his eye. “It seems like he cares about you very much. I can’t imagine him ever being angry at you for following your heart,” Hakuji tells him, and the boy chuckles softly to himself.

     “I certainly hope not,” he grins, and Hakuji can see traces of the same glow that Kyojuro has in his young features.

     “If anyone dares to badmouth you, I’ll personally headbutt them!” Tanjiro announces. Senjuro flinches. “You should probably stop doing that,” he suggests, and Tanjiro stares at him as if Senjuro has just implied that he should consider growing a second head. Hakuji bites back a laugh at the sight. As irritating as this kid can be, the sheer comedic value that goes hand in hand with his undying honesty is endlessly entertaining.

     In the end, Senjuro sees them off at the front entrance as the sky starts to lighten. It’s not quite sunrise, but there are only a few hours left before it is no longer safe to travel. Seeing as there’s no way in hell that Hakuji is going to attempt to shrink to join Nezuko in the box, he whips out a crafty white lie to get out in time. Senjuro easily agrees, instructing them to hurry back as to not upset Shinobu, and promising to send word of his research on other books.

     “I’m glad I got to talk with you,” Senjuro says before they leave. “Please get home safe.” Standing out in the night air, he has the capacity to bend properly at the waist in gratitude. Tanjiro copies him. “No, we’re the ones who should be thanking you!” He insists, and Hakuji gives the same half-bow he’s been working on. He doesn’t much like bowing to anybody, but it seems to be important to Senjuro, so he does it anyway.

     “Oh, before you go, I have something I want to send with you,” Senjuro gasps, turning to hurry back inside. Tanjiro and Hakuji exchange a look, and the boy shrugs, lifting the box on his shoulder. Nezuko hums softly from inside.

     Senjuro’s arrival is announced by a gentle clinking sound. He’s beaming, clutching something small and fragile in his small hands.

     “Hakuji-san, thank you for carrying along my brother’s message,” Senjuro says earnestly, and Hakuji’s cheeks color slightly with the praise. “And Tanjiro-san,” the boy turns to meet his gaze, “I’m very grateful to you for traveling all this way to check on us! Please tell my brother that we are safe and sound, and give him this. Tell him I found it in a box in the back closet.” Senjuro holds up his hands.

     The object in question is a small glass bell, the kind that might hang in a window to catch the breeze. It’s formed in a gentle sphere, mimicking the moon as the translucent glass picks up its soft light. A humble pattern of blue flowers trails down the side. The sweet ring it makes stems from a small glass stick striking the delicate side of the bell, and a gentle baby blue tassel sways in the light breeze. It’s beautiful, and undeniably precious. Such a work of art shouldn’t have been left to gather dust in a box somewhere! Hakuji worries he might shatter it in his demonic grip, so when Tanjiro steps forward to accept the bell, he doesn’t fight it.

     “We will take it straight to him,” Tanjiro promises, thanking him again with another bow, and Hakuji mirrors once more. As worn out as he is, part of Hakuji is endlessly grateful to interact with humans so normally again. It warms his heart as he and Tanjiro wave to Senjuro, the boy waving back from his spot out front of the house.

     “He’s sweet!” Tanjiro exclaims once they’re out of earshot.

     “Very polite,” Hakuji agrees with a grin. “And so timid. Having met Kyojuro and his father, I have no idea where it comes from.”

     Tanjiro chuckles, wrapping the bell safely up in his haori.

     As the edge of the sky bleeds orange, the two begin the trek back to face Shinobu.

                                   ***

    Upon returning to the butterfly mansion, the pair are greeted by Aoi, who stands rather impatiently at the doorway.

     “There you are!” She snaps, and Hakuji’s heart drops. He’s in trouble. Aoi marches up to them, grabbing the two by the ears with little trouble. Tanjiro squeals in pain next to him. Hakuji isn’t all that bothered by the pinch on his skin, but the fury in Aoi’s spirit in another story altogether, so he stays down.

     “You two are darn lucky that your crow came back to report your whereabouts,” She seethes, dragging them inside. “Especially you, Tanjiro, I specifically remember instructing you to rest today! You’re both lucky if Shinobu-sama doesn’t castrate you on the spot!” Tanjiro, who does not possess the same regenerative abilities as Hakuji, blanches significantly.

     “Yes, ma’am,” he agrees weakly. “Please, could we go check in with Rengoku-san before I return to bed? His family sent us to give him something important.” Aoi huffs, but doesn’t disagree. She stares up at the ceiling as they walk, and finally lets them go, heaving a sigh.

     “Fine,” she gripes. “But no more than five minutes, Tanjiro. Hakuji, Shinobu is distracted with blood work at the moment but if you aren’t back to report to her within fifteen, I’ll cut off your head myself.” Hakuji raises both eyebrows in amusement, but agrees graciously anyway. What a funny kid , he thinks as she stomps away. No wonder Shinobu keeps her around.

     Kyojuro sits up a bit faster than he should when the two enter his room. His face stays a practiced neutral, but his eyes glaze slightly with dizziness. It passes as soon as it comes, however, and Kyojuro stares up at them with desperate eyes.

     “Is everything well?” He asks, nerves spiking in his spirit. Hakuji’s heart hurts to see him like this. Distantly, he wonders how much longer it will be until he and Kyojuro can fight again. Not to kill this time, but to train, and to chase that sweet adrenaline they had both felt at the Mugen train. He strangles the thought, forcing himself to focus.

     Tanjiro’s chest puffs up with pride. “It went well, Rengoku-san!” He announces. “We met Senjuro-kun, and he’s just lovely. It turns out he hadn’t written back because your father had been withholding the letters, but we, uh, took care of him.” Kyojuro’s spirit wilts, simmering low for a moment. “Took care of him?” He asks, and Tanjiro blushes beet red.

     “Headbutted him,” Hakuji clarifies, feeling some weird mix of enraged and extremely pleased. “It was kinda awesome.” Tanjiro grins sheepishly.

     Kyojuro’s spirit twists with concern and amusement. The corner of his mouth twitches. “That sounds like my father!” Kyojuro laughs reassuringly. “I’m glad to hear that everyone is alright.”

     “Not to be a downer,” Hakuji adds, “but we did actually have to straight up knock your dad out. He was violent towards Tanjiro over something called Sun Breathing.” Kyojuro stiffens. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “I can not say that I have any idea what Sun Breathing means, but whatever it is, it is no excuse for him to meet you with aggression.” He looks down at the blankets, fingers twitching.

     “I think it has something to do with Himokami Kagura, the dance I told you about,” Tanjiro explains. “The book Senjuro had expected to find the answers in has been destroyed, but he said he would do more research and get back to me!”

     Kyojuro’s expression warms. “That boy has always been a good researcher! I’m sure he will find something interesting to report!” Tanjiro’s features lighten with hope. It seems that he has complete faith in Kyojuro’s words, like a true student. For a moment, Hakuji sees himself and Keizou in the pair. Keizou had poured his heart and soul into teaching Soryuu, and Hakuji had sucked it up like a sponge. He had respected his master above anything else, and found endless joy in his teachings. Watching Kyojuro and Tanjiro interact fills him with a gentle nostalgia for times long lost.

     “…and Senjuro sent us with a gift,” Tanjiro is saying as Hakuji resurfaces from the depths of his memory. “He asked us to bring you this!” The boy unfolds his haori, holding up the delicate glass bell. It catches the light from the overhead, jingling as Tanjiro holds it aloft, and Kyojuro gasps softly as his spirit floods with emotion. A deep, visceral sadness overtakes him, accompanied by a gentle tranquility and an undying love. Hakuji’s heart swoops. It reminds him so much of how he feels when he remembers his father. There are swells of happy days, twinges of wistfulness, and traces of the stubbornness of repressed grief. Kyojuro’s eye sparkles with it.

     “Thank you,” he says, his voice earnest as Hakuji has ever heard. “I am very grateful for you, Kamado-shonen, you have done well.” Tanjiro’s shoulders draw back with honor. His spirit is bright with pride and exhaustion. Kyojuro’s lips twitch into a grin.

     “However, you are still injured! I must order you to go and rest before you worsen your wounds.” Tanjiro flushes a bright red despite his grin, and bows deeply. He ties the bell to hang over the window, so that it might catch the wind if it were open, and departs graciously on his master’s orders.

     Suddenly, Hakuji and Kyojuro are alone again. He stands awkwardly by the doorway, shifting his weight around as Kyojuro sizes him up.

     “Well then, Hakuji, you ought to come sit down!” Kyojuro finally says, breaking the silence between them. “You’re making me nervous fidgeting like that!” Hakuji blushes indignantly, but he supposed that’s fair. Slowly, he approaches the chair by Kyojuro’s bedside and sits.

     This is happening, isn’t it? There’s no going back now.

Chapter Text

     Sitting at Kyojuro’s bedside makes Hakuji feel incredibly vulnerable. He isn’t sure if he likes it. Kyojuro, the wildfire, the expert on the beauty of life, is mere feet from him. His amber gaze studies Hakuji’s features, making his stomach flip. He wants to know how Kyojuro lives so brilliantly. How he faces the pain and dark things of the world with such grace. And yet, despite his desperation to comprehend it, the questions stick on his tongue.

     Kyojuro returns his gaze to the ceiling with a soft sigh. “I wish to understand,” he says gently. “I know that your goal is to exterminate Kibutsuji, and I commend your return to yourself on that front. But I am just an injured man, broken under the force of your fists. What is it about me that intrigues you?”

     Well, that’s embarrassingly straightforward. Hakuji shifts slightly in his seat. He can’t bring himself to tell him the truth. Admitting that he’s lost and confused and desperate to feel alive again would be akin to admitting his own weakness. Instead, he defaults to the safe answer, the one that comes easily to his mouth.

     “You’re strong, Kyojuro,” he says lamely.

     Kyojuro gives him a sad smile. “I don’t think that’s the reason,” he hums. “If all you wanted was physical strength, you would have latched onto Himejima-san the second you set foot in the hashira meeting.” Hakuji remembers the man in question. He had been mind-bogglingly tall, and packed with muscle. It was clear that he was the oldest and most experienced of the hashira, unrivaled in physical power. Hakuji had admired him for it, of course he had. But somehow, the man’s boulder-like physique and spirit could not compare to Kyojuro’s dance of flames.

     “You’re different though,” Hakuji mumbles. “I don’t really know why. All of the hashira are strong but you…you have this aura about you that’s full of more passion than I’ve ever seen on anybody else.” Kyojuro turns to meet his gaze, his single eye wide with interest. Hakuji looks down. “As a demon, I resented that,” he admits. “It meant that no matter how much I pleaded with you to listen, you could never understand. But now, I…I just want to feel like a real person again. And not a single person I’ve met can even begin to rival your enthusiasm for life.”

     The room is quiet for a moment. Hakuji’s heart pounds. His guts feel like they’re twisting into knots, stubborn revulsion prickling at his skin at Hakuji’s own weakness.

     “You are saying that you wish to understand my philosophy on life?” Kyojuro asks quietly. Hakuji bows his head. “Yes,” he says. “No. I don’t know. When I first came back to myself, I was just so lost. For some reason, the only thing I could think to do was to come to the Demon Slayers. To find you. ” Hakuji tears his fingers through his hair. “When we fought, all of the things you said…you were just so human. And I think I wanted you to save me. To teach me how to be human again, too.”

     Kyojuro sighs to himself. His spirit is troubled, simmering low, and for once Hakuji can’t quite understand it. His eye is locked to where the bell hangs in the window.

     “It was my mother’s,” Kyojuro tells him, and Hakuji is confused for a second before he follows the Hashira’s gaze. “It hung in her room when she was ill, and brought her joy during her recovery. I remember the way it chimed the very day that she instructed me to protect the weak.” He turns to meet Hakuji’s eye, and the moment hangs between them like the bell itself, fragile and full of precious beauty. “My outlook on life was shaped by what she taught me,” Kyojuro tells him. “If you believe that I can help you, or bring you some sort of peace, I will do what I can. That is the sort of person she raised me to be.”

     Hakuji is flushed with relief, tension that has been wound up for centuries relaxing in his very bones. Kyojuro smiles warmly, and something foreign stirs in Hakuji’s chest.

     “You ought to check in with Kocho-san before she loses her mind,” Kyojuro jokes, and the moment slips from Hakuji’s grasp. “Come and see me tonight, when the mansion is asleep, and I will see what I can do to help.”

     “Thank you, Kyojuro,” Hakuji breathes, and the hashira’s name tastes like a prayer.

     Tonight, he thinks, cannot come fast enough.

                                     ***

     Hakuji returns to Shinobu’s office with all the guilt of a dog who has wrecked its owners living room. She sits at her desk, shoulders tense with anger as she fiddles with a potion she’s concocting. Hakuji bows to her turned back. She knows he’s there, and he best apologize as much as he can before she throws him out into the morning sunlight.

     “Shinobu,” he says to the floor. “Please forgive my unsanctioned departure. Tanjiro ran off to the Rengoku estate, and Kyojuro was so worried for him that I couldn’t help but follow.”

     Shinobu says nothing. A bead of sweat trails down Hakuji’s temple. “I’m very sorry,” he tries again, and Shinobu gives a sharp sigh. “Come in, Hakuji-san,” she says, her voice an eerie calm. “There’s no point in dwelling on it now. The Rengokus are all fine, and you have training to undergo.”

     Unease squirms in Hakuji’s belly. “Are you sure?” He asks cautiously, and Shinobu finally turns to look at him, standing from her desk. Her polite smile is plastered on. “I cannot say that I approve of you running off, Hakuji-san, but I am willing to overlook it and continue with your training under the condition that it will never happen again.” Hakuji swallows thickly. “You have my word,” he vows, and Shinobu nods in agreement. The midnight blue frustration in her spirit reluctantly bleeds away as she turns to gather up a bundle of white fabric on the desk.

     “On the bright side,” Shinobu chirps, “having you out of the house gave the girls to opportunity to get this cleaned up for you!” She shakes it out, revealing Hakuji’s favorite white kimono, sans the bloody sleeve. Excitement tingles in his veins, and he’s already fumbling with the buttons on his stupid western hospital shirt. Shinobu chuckles softly to herself as Hakuji chucks the shirt onto the lab table, which has largely become his domain, and graciously accepts the clean fabric.

     He’s about to put it on when his fingers brush a new texture against the kimono’s front. He holds the fabric up to inspect it, and has to blink rapidly to hold back tears that threaten to form behind his eyes.

     There on the left side, made to rest right over his heart, is a hand embroidered butterfly.

     The delicate wings are spread dramatically across the fabric, lined with black thread and speckled with white and a pale yellow. The interior is a dark, navy blue, causing the white spots to pop, and the butterfly’s body tapers down to where two pink spots stand out at the bottom of the wings. It’s eyes are a striking gold.

     Hakuji’s hands tremble slightly as he stares at the patch. The butterfly, he knows, symbolizes service at the mansion. Each of the girls have them as dainty pins in their hair. But seeing as Hakuji’s hair is too short to put a pin in, it seems they’ve chosen the next best thing. He swallows a lump in his throat as he observes the coloring. The navy blue, the bright pink, the gold…it reminds him of his demon form, the one that he repressed under his human glamour. Seeing it now, represented in the artist’s handiwork, Hakuji can see the beauty of the metaphor. His demonic colors have been taken and shaped into something new, something precious and purposeful. Just like he has.

     “The girls did it themselves,” Shinobu says softly. “Aoi and Kanao helped with the difficult details, but it was the trio’s idea. They’re all very excited for you to have it.”

     That does it. Hakuji closes his eyes as a tear slips over his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispers. “It’s beautiful. Thank you for letting me wear it.” Shinobu’s spirit stirs with a slow warmth. “You can thank them yourself,” she announces. “When you’re dressed and ready, please come and meet me in the medical wing. It’s time to get started.”

     Hakuji can only nod as she leaves, wrapping the kimono around himself. He had forgotten how much he loved it. The western shirt had irritated him to no end. He feels much more like himself wearing this. Hakuji runs his fingertips over the intricate butterfly on his chest, swiping his tears away. His heart feels like it could burst, and he laughs wetly.

     He tucks the kimono into his hakama pants, fixing the waistband briefly before swiping an arm across his face and heading out to find Shinobu.

     It seems he has finally found somewhere to belong.

                                  ***

     One thing that works to Hakuji’s advantage is that he is a fast learner.

     As they go, Shinobu explains the schedule. Hakuji will awaken at sunrise to do chores, early in the morning when Shinobu has not yet returned from nighttime missions. Upon her arrival, he will accompany her through whatever she has in store for the day. Training, medical business, experiments—Hakuji will be there. After he finishes training with Shinobu in the evening, he will have a free hour. The girls presumably use this time to bathe, write, or do whatever other activities they deem necessary for self care or general enjoyment.

      During this time, Hakuji thinks, he will likely be speaking with Kyojuro. The thought makes his chest prickle with anticipation. Afterward, of course, he will drink the wisteria and be cast into the same nightmarish dreamland as always. Hakuji is not looking forward to that part as much.

     Shinobu, however, keeps him too distracted to worry about it all that much. There are people to treat, tools to learn. She goes through them quickly, holding up each tool and rattling off a name as she demonstrates how to use it. Hakuji files each one into a collection in his brain. Stethoscope. Thermometer. Forceps. He finds himself wishing he had these when he was nursing Koyuki and his Father. Maybe then he could have done something more to help? He shakes his head slightly, strangling the thought before it can latch onto him.

    As the day goes on, Hakuji learns how to administer medication, wrap all different kinds of wounds, and give proper stitches. Shinobu supervises with the vigilance of the brightest Kasugai crow. As Hakuji’s strong hands examine each wound, snippets of demonic memories come back to him. A snapped wrist under his inky-blue fingertips. A gash across the temple left by his razor sharp claws. Broken ribs, caved in the shape of his beaded foot.    

     Hakuji examines the beaten slayers, this time with the eye of a medic, and patches up all of the same kind of wounds he’s inflicted over the years.

     As he does so, he digs through his broken memory for the faces of those he’s hurt. Most don’t have names. Hundreds of human lives, reduced to flashes of startled expressions and yelps of fear in his mind. Hakuji whispers soft prayers for the souls he has broken. As he stitches up a gash against a young man’s neck, he prays for the soul of one he killed long ago in the same manner. It’s an odd feeling, seeking retribution. Hakuji knows he can never make up for the lives he has taken, but he can do his damn best to make sure that no more will join them.

     Hakuji wraps a girl’s stomach with bandages, Shinobu practically breathing down his neck as he does so. He can’t bring himself to mind too much. This particular wound placement reminds him of one of the souls he does have a name for. A hashira by the name of Aoki, one he had killed by a fist through the belly many years ago. The man had been a water breather, his movements nimble and crisp like a mountain stream. A hashira.

     Aoki, Hakuji whispers to himself, too softly to be heard. May your soul Rest In Peace. I bless all those whose lives I have taken in a similar manner. I see you now.

     Hakuji isn’t sure exactly when the prayer beads around his ankles migrated to his wrists, but it feels right. He misses the slight clink of the beads when he walks, but his wrists don’t feel so bare anymore, and this way he can fiddle with them as he works. Each new slayer, each new injury, he brushes the beads softly with his fingertips. Uttering the names he knows under his breath, simply wishing peace for those he does not. Occasionally, and perhaps selfishly, Hakuji slips in prayers for Koyuki and his father as well. As he gently wipes sweat from a young slayer’s forehead, they inevitably return to his mind, and Hakuji’s heart aches with longing as he mumbles their names.

     It is at the end of one of such prayers that Hakuji feels a sharp gaze suddenly burn through his senses. He whips his head up so fast that his neck pops.

     Shinobu has been reading his lips. They stare at each other for a moment, and Shinobu regards him with a sort of silent understanding.

     As Hakuji turns back to his work, he whispers one more prayer for Shinobu’s sister. He senses her spirit pulse from behind him, but opts not to look back.

     By the time he goes to see Kyojuro, his head aches with a swirl of emotions. Guilt, regret, and a strange sort of tranquility. He hasn’t yet made a dent in the mountain of his sins, not even close. But by nursing the wounded slayers and honoring the memories of those he hurt, he has at least picked up a shovel. The thought leaves him with a fragile peace, one that he carries with him to see the hashira.

     “Senjuro wrote,” Kyojuro says immediately as Hakuji slides open the door. He’s beaming, his single eye sparkling with joy as he clutches a paper in his hands. Kyojuro’s relief is infectious, and Hakuji finds himself giving a soft sigh of thankfulness.

    “Oh?” He prompts. “What did he say?”

     Kyojuro stares at the letter like it’s the most precious thing in the world. His spirit is fragile with disbelief, golden and frozen in time like spun sugar.

     “He says that father has stopped drinking,” Kyojuro informs him incredulously. “You and Kamado-shonen must have knocked some sense into him. Apparently, Senjuro awoke to find him throwing all of his sake jugs out the front gate, cursing about his own incompetence and the near-loss of his eldest son.” Hakuji’s lips quirk up in a disbelieving grin.

     “No shit,” he muses. “The headbutt actually worked.”

     Kyojuro bursts into slightly hysterical laughter. “It worked, Hakuji!” he wails. “Had I known that a mere headbutt could break him from his spell, I would have done so years ago!” Hakuji wheezes a laugh. “I would pay good money to see that,” he offers, and Kyojuro hides his flushed face with his palms in a fit of delirious giggles.

     Hakuji gets the feeling that Shinjuro’s sudden sobriety has been a long time coming.

     “Goodness,” Kyojuro gasps, rubbing tears from his eyes. “I’m sorry, I am being rude! I simply don’t know how to process this information. Please, Hakuji, come sit!” He gestures to the same chair as before, and Hakuji takes it gratefully. Kyojuro turns his head to meet his gaze. Even with only one eye, Kyojuro’s stare is intense as ever, and Hakuji shivers under its amber glow. His hair is splayed out over the pillow in waves, haloing his handsome face. He must look radiant in the sunlight, Hakuji thinks, and nearly bites a hole in his own cheek as he banishes the thought.

     “Is Senjuro going to come and visit?” Hakuji asks instead. Kyojuro’s smile is radiant as he nods enthusiastically. “He is! At the moment, He is keeping an eye on father to ensure that he does not slip back into old habits, but then he will be along!” Hakuji nods in understanding. It’s a good plan. With how deeply Shinjuro has fallen into alcoholism, it’s unlikely that he’ll be able to abstain so easily if left to his own devices.

     “Smart kid,” Hakuji says. Kyojuro laughs, and the sound warms his heart.

     “Indeed! And likely good for your mission of self discovery.”

      “Is this because I have bad manners?”Hakuji accuses him. “Because that’s not my fault!”

      Kyojuro’s remaining eye sparkles with mischief. “I’m sure it’s quite a learning curve!” He relents. “Still, it would be a good idea to learn some human social rules.”

     Hakuji quirks an eyebrow. “And here I thought it was your job to teach them to me!”

     “Hmm, I suppose it is,” Kyojuro agrees. “What is it that you would like to know?”

     That’s a good question. One Hakuji is not prepared for.

     What does he want to know? He wants to know what makes Kyojuro tick. To know how he can endure so much trauma and grief and still be so incredibly beautiful, inside and out. How does he make friends with everyone he meets? Where did he learn to be so lively, so bright, and so powerful? Who taught him to fight? What keeps him going every morning, when the sunlight forces Hakuji’s kind away into the shadows?

     Everything, Hakuji thinks. I want to know everything.

     “Tell me a story,” he says instead, “about your life. A good memory, maybe. Something that helped shape you into who you are today.”

     “Interesting question,” Kyojuro muses, one fingertip resting unconsciously against his chin. “Although a bit like a job interview. Oh, speaking of which, I heard you were hired as a nurse! Congratulations, Hakuji!”

     Hakuji blushes furiously. Something about Kyojuro’s praise makes his pulse speed up in a way that he doesn’t understand.

     “Um. Thanks? It’s been going well so far, I think it’s good for me.” he croaks, and then reaches out to swat Kyojuro’s shoulder from his seat at his bedside. “You’re stalling!”

     Kyojuro laughs, a warm baritone that’s genuine in a way that Hakuji has never truly heard from him before. It’s free of pain or stress, and fills the room with an easy comfort. “I am thinking!” He tells Hakuji, and he can’t help but believe him as Kyojuro turns his head to stare up at the ceiling.

     Since breaking the curse, Hakuji’s emotions have tripled in intensity. Everything seems a little more vibrant, tingling over his skin like electricity. But as Kyojuro speaks again, the room is filled with a wonderful stillness, as if suspended in time.

     Kyojuro begins his story, and Hakuji listens with his heart thrown wide open like a window in midsummer.

Chapter Text

     For someone whose entire family is designed to represent the blazing heat of flame, Kyojuro loves winter. Especially the snow, because when it falls upon them in thick, lazy flakes, it stands out so brilliantly in his mother’s dark hair.

     Rengoku Ruka is a rather serious woman. She is a mother, and a poet, and she doesn’t care for nonsense. Kyojuro has been raised with her impeccable manners, perfect posture, and her quiet, close-lipped smile. But now, when a particularly heavy snowflake lands on his father’s thick lashes, making him jump, her true smile graces her features. It’s imperfect, technically. It shows a bit of her bottom teeth, and she has a little dimple adorning her left cheek. But Kyojuro adores it. And Father looks at her as if she’s the most radiant woman in the world, his own bright grin stretched over his flushed cheeks.

     Kyojuro and Senjuro scramble on ahead as their parents meander along behind them. Senjuro is a little older than a year, and to Kyojuro’s delight, he’s recently begun to walk on his own. Kyojuro is seven now, going on eight once the springtime hits, and he’s been waiting to have a little sibling to run around with for as long as he can remember. Senjuro is the best friend Kyojuro has always hoped for. He holds Senjuro’s hand as the toddler bumbles along through the snow, shrieking with laughter and flailing his arms each time a snowflake kisses his chubby cheeks.

     They aren’t going anywhere in particular. His father’s official excuse was that they were going out to the market, but Kyojuro is old enough to know that not only do they already have everything they need, but there’s no reason to take the whole family out just for a shopping trip. In reality, it’s a very unsubtle ploy to get the family out into the snow together. Father, being a hashira through and through, wouldn’t be able to justify letting himself go out and play with his family. This way, he’s convinced himself that he’s doing something productive, and seems very proud of himself for it.

     The look on Mother’s face tells Kyojuro that she sees right through him. But her beautiful smile is out, and it’s clear that she’s more than happy to indulge him by pretending to have a purpose for their little adventure.

     Eventually, though, they do make it to the market. Kyojuro exclaims aloud at the sight. It’s busy today, bustling with people preparing for the winter festival. Vendors call out to them, with carts full of little trinkets meant to be gifts for friends or perhaps offerings to the gods.

     “Boys,” says Mother, and Kyojuro tugs Senjuro back by the sleeve. The toddler whines in protest, and Mother giggles fondly.

     “Yes, Mother,” replies Kyojuro, staring at the pair with as much innocence as he can muster. He stills his body, widening his eyes slightly, as if he has absolutely no intention of running off to mess around once his parents set him loose. They both analyze him with critical gazes, as if gaging how much trouble two children can realistically cause if set loose in the snow for a few hours.

     “Alright,” Father relents. “Go on, then, go play.” He doesn’t look as tired today as he has been lately. Today, there is no war; there are no demons. Just his two hyperactive children and his wife’s hand laced in his. His eyes lighten in a way that Kyojuro hasn’t seen on him since the last time he was home on injury leave.

     “Don’t go far,” Father hollers after them as Kyojuro snatches his brother’s hand and the two run giggling from the scene. Over Senjuro’s gleeful shrieks, Kyojuro hears a quiet smack as Mother leans in to give Father a gentle kiss. Gross.

     Still, a win is a win. Kyojuro and Senjuro have successfully gained their freedom, and the two dart around the market, dodging surprised shoppers with their arms full of goods. Today, Kyojuro decides, they are Demon Slayers just like Father. Their mission is to spy on the market goers to discover the demon hiding among them.

     Kyojuro tells Senjuro as much. The toddler stares up at him with an eager expression, giggling conspiratorially even though he is still too young to really understand what his big brother is saying. Thankfully, Kyojuro is creative. Senjuro is just a Mizunoto, that’s why he doesn’t get it! Senjuro is a Mizunoto, and Kyojuro is a big strong Hashira who will teach him how to do cool stuff. He drags a screeching Senjuro to hide behind a stall, shushing him as the toddler continues to laugh and wriggle around in his brother’s hold. He then pokes the top of his head over the counter, his wide red and gold eyes surveying the scene.

     The people at the market appear relatively normal. They’re bundled up in warm layers, which is unfortunate. It’s hard to tell if someone is a demon if they’re too buried in fabric to see their face! Instead, Kyojuro moves on to observing their behavior. Senjuro joins him. His short, messy hair pokes over the top, and Kyojuro has to put the boy on his lap so they can both see properly. Senjuro grabs a fistful of Kyojuro’s long hair, gurgling happily to himself. Ah, well. Anything for his junior.

     Unfortunately, Kyojuro is yet to spot anything particularly demonic. There’s a neighbor woman who he vaguely remembers meeting a few years back, and oh, she is definitely flirting with the kimono vendor. But, although unexpected, her behavior does not warrant an investigation. The pair creep along to another stall. This time, the owner is there, and she stares in amusement as Kyojuro asks very politely if they could please use her stall as a stakeout spot. The portly old woman simply chuckles at the two of them, ruffles Kyojuro’s hair, and then they’re in. Kyojuro thanks her profusely. As a hashira, kindness can get him places. He says as much to Senjuro, his Mizunoto, and the lady laughs again to herself. Kyojuro isn’t totally sure why, but he lets it slide.

     Eventually, Kyojuro starts to grow a bit bored of his game. He has never been one to keep his attention on one thing for too long, and Senjuro is still a bit too distractible to be a fitting pupil. Kyojuro does one last scan of the marketplace. He grins triumphantly to himself, crossing his arms proudly across his chest. By the power vested in he, the Flame Hashira, Kyojuro decides to deem this area officially demon-free.

     Senjuro tugs on his pant leg with a whine, seemingly wanting to go play in the thick snowdrift a few yards away. It admittedly looks very tempting. Besides, their parents can’t be too far away. He looks out at the crowd to catch a glimpse of Father’s bright hair.

     He follows Senjuro once he catches sight of them, giggling and surrendering to chasing his little brother around in the snow. His parents seem awfully happy, and the two kids clearly have time to play. Mother and Father are all the way across the market anyway, hand in hand and looking helplessly in love.

     In the split second he saw them a moment ago, they had seemed so relaxed. It was like they could finally release the burden of life from their shoulders. Rather than being a Hashira and a Corps wife, they were just Ruka and Shinjuro, two kids in love. Kyojuro still thinks that love is odd. He’s been told that he’ll get it when he’s older, but he’s certainly never felt the desire to do anything like sappy like that with any girl he’s met. But, for a moment, seeing them so bright brings endless joy to Kyojuro’s heart.

     He tackles a shrieking Senjuro to the ground, and Kyojuro catches Father’s eye as they tumble through the snow. He and Mother are at a wind chime shop. Father beams at him, then, the way he did when he was a few years younger and less battle hardened. Mother comes up beside him, looping her arm through his as she laughs openly at her boys’ antics.

     Hanging from her free hand, dancing in the breeze, is a delicate glass bell.

                                  ***

     When Kyojuro finishes speaking, a gentle silence hangs in the air for a few moments. Hakuji finds himself leaning back against the back of the chair, surrounded by a coziness that wraps him up like a blanket and warms him from the top of his belly to the tips of his toes. Kyojuro looks over at him, a soft smile on his face.

     “That was the last time we all went out together before my mother fell ill,” he says, and immediately the happy glow in Hakuji’s belly turns sour. “But it has always stuck with me. Seeing my parents so joyous and carefree…I wanted to be just like them. And, well, I suppose here I am!”

     “That was beautiful,” Hakuji says softly. The warm haze from Kyojuro’s storytelling skills is melting into a heavy sadness. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother.”

     Kyojuro sighs, but it is without negativity. “It is alright,” he hums. “I miss her dearly, of course, but I have tampered my grief with many good memories. She always did love the snow. When sadness tries to take me, I think of her joy in the wintertime, and it always works to soothe my soul.”

     There is a sudden tug at the stem of Hakuji’s brain, rippling through his skull like a cord pulled taut. “I had someone who loved the snow as well,” he blurts out, and immediately freezes. He hasn’t told anybody about Koyuki before. Hasn’t even consciously spoken her name out loud. Fear squeezes his heart at the thought of exposing such a vulnerable part of himself. Would Koyuki be upset at him for sharing her memory?

     Kyojuro turns to look at him, eyebrows high with surprise. Hakuji feels nauseous.

     “Is that so?” The hashira asks. “I knew you remembered parts of your human life, but I am unaware of the extent.”

     Hakuji can’t meet his gaze. He stares instead at Kyojuro’s strong hands, folded over his chest. “I remember my people,” Hakuji tells him. “And little moments. But I don’t know what happened to them yet. Every time I take wisteria, I dream about them, and more details come back to me.”

     “I see,” Kyojuro says, his voice light with interest. “So you have much to learn!”

     Hakuji chuckles slightly at his bluntness. “Yeah,” he admits. “I really do, huh?”

     Kyojuro hums to himself in agreement. “Would you like to tell me about your snow-person?” He asks, and Hakuji pauses. He doesn’t know. It feels like Koyuki is his beautiful secret, a love lost and long gone, residing in his memory alone. And yet, that thought doesn’t comfort him as much as he wishes it did. Koyuki was too radiant to remain unknown. He always thought she deserved the chance to share her kindness with the world.

     Perhaps Kyojuro is close enough.

     A strange heat settles over Hakuji’s shoulders, like a pair of encouraging hands, and he speaks.

    “Her name was Koyuki,” he chokes out, and Kyojuro smiles softly. His pupils are dilated in the low light, making him look very un-intimidating. It keeps Hakuji going.

    “We met after her father saved me from a life on the streets to become his pupil,” He says. Now that the dam has been lifted, the words flow from him like a river. “She was always sick, so I nursed her like I did my own father. I loved her more than anything I’ve ever known. Koyuki had a way of looking at the world, like there was good to be found in everything, even things that were painful. It reminds me of…”

     It reminds me of you.

     Hakuji stops in his tracks, swallowing the words before they can leave his stupid mouth. What the hell does that even mean? Confusion joins a tangle of emotions warring in Hakuji’s chest. He doesn’t understand them. His emotions feel so overwhelming now that Muzan’s curse has been lifted, and he doesn’t know how to interpret the softness he feels in him at Kyojuro’s inquisitive gaze. Butterflies tickle the inside of his belly. Hakuji shuts up. His thoughts have gotten into unknown territory. Most likely, he tells himself, he’s just tired.

     If Kyojuro is confused by his sudden silence, he doesn’t show it. “She sounds wonderful,” he says, and somehow it doesn’t feel like an empty reassurance. Kyojuro has the commendable power to make everything he says feel genuine, and Hakuji leans into the sincerity in Kyojuro’s voice.

     “Thank you for listening to my story,” Kyojuro hums, his single eye sparkling. “Will you be back tomorrow?”

     Hakuji can’t stop the shy grin that settles onto his features. “Yes,” he agrees. “Don’t get too excited.”

     Hakuji leaves the room buoyed by a warm heart and Kyojuro’s rich laughter. He turns Kyojuro’s words over in his mind, about settling grief with the good memories he has left. Somehow, he feels less scared to take the wisteria tonight.

     Perhaps this time, his dreams will be more kind to him.

                                 ***

     “Ah, I see!” Keizou wiggles a finger in the air, as if tracing an invisible written character. “So the ‘haku’ in Hakuji is the same as the ‘koma’ in komainu! Ah, I get it!”

    Hakuji huffs in amusement. His master is rambling again. It’s a hot day, in the very bowels of summer, and Hakuji is too drenched with sweat to think straight. Keizou lugs the bucket out of the well with one final heave, and Hakuji hands over their own buckets which they will use to drag the water back to the dojo. First, though, Keizou plunges his wooden ladle into the cool liquid, gesturing for Hakuji to do the same. He obliges gratefully. Before they drink, Keizou clicks their ladles together in a sort of salute. Hakuji grins tiredly before drinking greedily from his share.

     The sensation of cold water in his throat brings Hakuji back to life. He chugs the ladle, relishing in the refreshing chill that he can feel passing through his overheated chest and into his stomach. After one final desperate gulp, Hakuji pulls away, gasping for air. Keizou laughs at him heartily as Hakuji sits back criss-cross. His chest heaves. His muscles ache terribly. Today was a heavy day of training, and Hakuji has left everything he has on the dojo floor as usual. Thankfully, his master seems more than willing to sit with him and let him rest while Hakuji chases away the residual heat in his bones.

     “I suppose you’re the same as me then, huh?” Keizou says, and oops, he’s still talking. Hakuji sits up a little straighter to listen. “There’s something you have to protect. Like a komainu guarding a shrine.” Keizou chuckles to himself, turning to transfer the well water into their buckets. Hakuji tumbles his master’s words over in his head. Something he has to protect?

     No matter how much he tries to think about anything else, his mind strays to Koyuki as if on instinct. Her gentle doe’s eyes, her small hands, her soft black hair which Hakuji tries very hard to keep in an updo the way she likes. The way her laughter is so fragile but so genuine, the way her words draw him straight out of his shell, the heat that tingles over his skin when her fingertips brush against his arm. Nursing her is hard work, yes, but Hakuji wouldn’t change it for the world.

     “I guess so,” he mumbles, deep in thought, and Keizou ruffles his short hair. Hakuji is too distracted to cringe away. His chest feels all warm and fuzzy, and Hakuji bites back a shy grin. He helps Keizou fill the buckets to keep his hands busy.

     Each of them carry a bucket as they trek back to the main building. Hakuji tightens his core, bracing the heavy bucket against his pelvis to keep the water from splashing over the side. The midday sun beats down upon his shoulders, and sweat trickles uncomfortably down Hakuji’s back. Really, though, he can’t bring himself to mind that much. He likes to feel helpful. And Keizou’s proud smile makes the hard work worth it a hundred times over.

     “I suppose we ought to get back to training,” Keizou prompts, and Hakuji groans  to himself. Haven’t they done enough for today? He wants to cool off inside with Koyuki. “I have a new move to teach you! And—“

     Keizou stops. Goosebumps rush over Hakuji’s skin.

     “Master?” Hakuji chokes out, his voice trembling. The urge to turn around is overwhelming, burning through every pore of his being, but he’s frozen in place. It’s like Hakuji is paralyzed . His muscles spasm with the effort as he hears a wet choke from behind him. Every instinct he has is aflame. Horrible things are transpiring behind him, he knows it, but he can’t turn around, can’t do anything, and now he’s failed his master, and…

     The spell of immobility snaps in an instant, and Hakuji whirls around with the force of a hundred men and the desperation of a lost child. His footing goes, and he pitches sideways to the dusty ground.

     In the split second before he hits the ground, Hakuji catches a glimpse of Keizou’s limp form in the dirt. His eyes are wide with shock, his hands frozen in time, perpetually clawing at his throat. His chin and neck are coated with crimson that soaks steadily into the white fabric of his kimono.

     His gaze locks with Hakuji’s for a split second before they bleed red. This must be a nightmare. It has to be.

     A guttural scream tears from his throat, and Hakuji awakens to the cold, hard floor of Shinobu’s lab.

     His heart pounds painfully as he fights for breath. He must have rolled off of the lab table in his distress. Hakuji’s senses reorient themselves slowly, and he can feel the approach of sunlight tingling on his skin. Hakuji pushes himself up on trembling arms. Keizou’s name slips past his lips as he closes his eyes and forces himself to his feet.

     He is a butterfly nurse now, and dawn is coming.

     Hakuji has work to do.

Chapter Text

     As a demon slayer, one sees plenty of sunrises. The arrival of the sun over the horizon announces the beginning of a truce that prohibits active combat and ensures the safety of humans all across Japan. Many slayers love them for their symbol of safety and peace.

     But Shinobu has always been conflicted.

     On one hand, sunrises remind her of Kanae. Her sister used to adore the sunrise, being the type who relished in the tranquility it brought to the land. She used to enthusiastically point out the colors to Shinobu, who could see them just fine on her own, but liked it better when Kanae narrated it. On the other hand, it meant that her time to hunt was over. There was no longer any chance to catch the trail of the elusive Upper Moon Two.

     Rationally, Shinobu knows that she has no chance of defeating Douma even if she could find him. She is, after all, a woman of logic. But some feverish little thing inside of her still hungers to hunt him down in the midnight hours, just to see the look on his stupid, murderous face. She detests the sunrise sometimes for this reason entirely. As she treks back towards the butterfly mansion, Shinobu decides that today is one of those days.

     Perhaps, though, it is a good thing that the demon has been so elusive. It has given her time to begin to build her resources. Mainly, Hakuji. As much as it makes her shiver to work so closely with a former Upper Rank, Hakuji has proven to be an invaluable test subject as well as a skilled nurse. It’s been a few days now since he started, and he’s already tackled the adjustment period to the everyday routine of a butterfly nurse. He works easily with the other girls, matching their rhythm like it’s second nature.

     For a creature that was born to inflict wounds, he sure has a gift for healing them. Since his official initiation, Hakuji has treated dozens, if not hundreds of slayers, and Shinobu has somehow found herself trusting him to handle it. He seems to have incredible discipline in the face of human blood, and shows no signs of desire to consume his patients.

     In fact, he shows no desire to consume anything. Hakuji has eaten nothing at all since breaking Muzan’s curse, yet has shown no signs of hunger since Shinazugawa’s blood test. Intriguing. Theoretically, a demon of his build and rank should have to eat plenty and eat often. But Hakuji does not. Shinobu already has a plan to experiment with his diet upon her return to the mansion in a short while. Perhaps his fasting ability has to do with Muzan’s blood? Is the Demon King more resistant to hunger? In that case, what about human food? Considering he spends so much time in human disguises, Muzan must have some sort of way to get around the human food limitation. Does Hakuji have that ability as well?

     Such questions have been brewing in the back of her mind for days on end. Although, at the end of it all, his appetite—or lack of one—is not quite what worries her the most.

     Shinobu knows virtually nothing of Hakuji’s past. She’s aware that he remembers it in bits and pieces, and that new memories often resurface in the form of dreams when he drinks the wisteria drug she has made for him. It also appears to be a sore subject. The day that he had first awoken after the treatment, in tears and soaked with sweat, he had cried out the name of a girl Shinobu did not know. Koyuki. When she had asked about it, he had refused to answer.

     Shinobu has lost people. She knows full well how much it can hurt to talk about someone you will never see again. As a result, she respects Hakuji’s boundaries. Shinobu does not pry. Yet, each time she sees him after a night of wisteria, his face is paled with varying levels of horror and grief. He’s begun to pray, as well. As he tends to slayers’ wounds, his lips move softly and silently, and he’s moved his prayer beads to his wrists so he may brush his fingertips against them for support. It’s fascinating. Shinobu does not think that demons have an established religion, and Hakuji’s practices seem to be targeted more toward a general power than any specific god or deity. Still, it worries her. Seeing the way his face pinches with focus as his lips move absently betrays the guilt and shame Hakuji is repressing. It’s like he’s trying to atone for the wrong he’s done by relating his current patients to his former victims. By treating them, he’s trying to treat himself as well.

     Shinobu sighs to herself, tilting her head to look up at the sky. She knows the feeling.

     As the last of those taunting colors bleed away into an early morning blue, Shinobu returns to the butterfly mansion. She will not be sleeping today. Later, perhaps, when Hakuji goes down for his little wisteria-induced nap. But as of now, the two of them have experiments to run.

     If she can’t solve Worry A, being Hakuji’s continuous state of grief and undisclosed past, she will tackle Worry B instead: Hunger. Seeing as it hasn’t struck Hakuji yet, now is the time to begin exploring their options for when it does. She has asked Aoi to have plain rice prepared for her, as well as fresh cuts of wild meat. Human food and animal flesh. Two things that demons infamously avoid. Her hope, however, is that an Upper Moon level demon will be able to get past the body’s rejection of such things, which in turn would influence her theory on how Muzan blends in so goddamn well. And, therefore, how Douma blends in so goddamn well. It’s a bit far fetched, but it’s worth a shot. At the very least she can start getting to the bottom of Hakuji’s unusual appetite.

     Shinobu sheds her shoes by the door, trailing into the kitchen to track down her loyal test subject. She’s greeted instead by the three youngest, who are scooping fresh rice neatly into a bento. Her heart swells in appreciation. Her girls are truly heaven-sent.

     “Oh, Shinobu-sama!” Kiyo gasps in surprise. “Welcome back! We’ve prepared the rice like you asked; Aoi is bringing the meat to your lab.” Shinobu thanks them brightly, and the three exchange glances among themselves. “Please make sure you eat as well, Shinobu-sama,” says Naho, and Shinobu’s smile softens at the edges.

     "I will,” she promises. “I promise.” It’s technically true, she does plan to eat at some point in the next few hours. But for now, it’s not her priority. “Now, have any of you seen Hakuji-san?”

     “What about me?” A voice intercepts, and Shinobu looks up to see Hakuji staring in confusion. He has a box of medical supplies under one arm.

     Shinobu puts on her best grin, trying her best to seem non-threatening. “It’s experiment day today!” She explains cheerily, grabbing the bento.

     Hakuji eyes it warily. Confusion is plain as day in his wide blue eyes.

     “Okay,” he finally agrees. “Should I just…not work with patients today?”

     “The girls can cover for you,” Shinobu waves him off. “Follow me, please! I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”

     The three girls call out their assurances from their respective kitchen chore stations, and Hakuji reluctantly follows her to her lab. Nice. She’s got him now. Shinobu is absolutely positive that Hakuji won’t enjoy this experiment any more than she will enjoy dealing with the potential aftermath. But if it gets her one step closer to eradicating Douma…

     Perhaps Hakuji could use that motivation too. She files it away for future use. Sooner or later she’s sure to need it to light a fire under the demon’s ass to keep him in line.

     Ah, how Shinobu loves having resources. As she leads the way, she hums softly to herself.

     It’s an old folk song that Kanae used to sing.

                                  ***

     Hakuji has no idea what Shinobu is planning, but judging by the materials Shinobu has collected—including a bento of rice, a hunk of raw meat, and a bucket—he’s not going to like it.

     He watches her warily from his usual perch on the lab table. Shinobu finishes shedding her sword onto her desk before turning to face Hakuji with a bright grin, dusting off her hands. “Well then! How about we get to the point, shall we?”

     Hakuji nods slowly. “Sure. What exactly are we doing today?”

     Shinobu avoids the question. Bad sign. “Since you arrived at the mansion almost two weeks ago, you haven’t consumed a single thing,” she says matter-of-factly, and Hakuji’s heart rate picks up. He doesn’t like where this is going at all. “I’m not hungry,” he says simply.

     The hashira grabs her notepad. “I see,” she hums. “I’d like to be prepared for when that inevitably changes! Tell me about your eating habits.” Shame floods Hakuji’s chest. He’s been avoiding this topic like the plague. Not only does it strike at his heart to think of eating human flesh, but it draws his attention back to the waning countdown to the time when he will feel the agonizing need to do it again.

     “What about it?” He asks numbly. The flash in Shinobu’s eyes tell him that he is not as slick as he thinks. She’s already onto his internal conflicts.

     “Oh, where to start,” she projects, tapping her pen against her chin. She’s teasing him, he knows she is. “How often do you eat? And when you do, how much?” Hakuji sighs deeply. For a split second, he’s reminded of how Douma used to bug him about his weak appetite, and shivers break out over his skin.

     “I’ve never been one to eat much,” he starts. “I had a special exception from Muzan to train in order to build my strength, rather than gorging myself on human flesh like the other Moons did. So I really only ate a few times a month, and even then it wasn’t much.” Shinobu is scribbling furiously on her notepad, as crazed for information as ever. “That’s quite unusual for a demon,” she prompts without stopping. “Why did you refrain from eating?”

     Hakuji shrugs. He feels helpless. “I remember hating the feeling of a full stomach,” he admits. “It makes you sluggish, you know? And I guess I was so obsessed with being stronger that I couldn’t bear to slow myself down by eating on the regular.”

     “Interesting,” Shinobu muses. “But the other Upper Moons eat often, yes? What do they eat?” There’s a devious glint to her gaze, like she’s trying and failing to repress an ulterior motive.

     Hakuji’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is this about Douma? Because I can tell you about his diet, he used to get on my ass about mine fucking relentlessly .”

     Shinobu drops the act with a frightening speed. “I’m trying to figure out how he and Muzan keep hiding from us,” she discloses. “In order to understand how the hell they blend in with humans despite being unable to consume human food, I’d like to know everything you can tell me about how they eat.”

     “I don’t know about Muzan,” Hakuji scoffs. “That bastard is an enigma. You would think his fake human families or business partners would get pretty damn suspicious when he can’t eat anything they give him.” Shinobu nods sharply. “My point exactly. I have a theory that he might be capable of consuming human food, and simply chooses not to.”

     Hakuji wheezes a laugh. Now that would be something. “I wouldn’t put it past him, actually. I know for sure Douma exclusively eats women—something about their biology being more nutritious? But I don’t know about his relationship with human food either.” He pauses, a fuzzy memory coming back to him. Douma was bragging about eating with his cult. Akaza had smashed his jaw off. Hakuji grins to himself at the memory. His demonic self got major points for that one.

     “Actually, I think he does eat human food with his cult. Whether he keeps it down, I have no clue.”

     Shinobu scribbles more notes, and then pauses, nibbling on the tip. Fury burns in her fighting spirit, combined with a fierce determination. Hakuji is certain that today’s experiment is not one hundred percent personal. Today, he is also Shinobu’s crash dummy, using his similarity to Douma’s rank to collect information on him vicariously.

     She takes a deep breath. “Okay. Here is the deal. If demons at Muzan’s level have an elevated capacity to digest human food, it could tell us a lot about how they blend in. And also, it could potentially provide a solution for when the hunger hits you.”

     Hakuji’s stomach drops. Oh, no. No, no. He sees exactly where she’s going with this. Shinobu’s gaze flickers to the bento. Hakuji anticipates the question before she asks it.

     “I can’t eat that, Shinobu,” he sighs, and she immediately shifts her body language to indicate that she’s severely unimpressed. “Have you tried?” She demands. Hakuji presses his lips into a thin line. Technically, he hasn’t. She’s got a point. But that doesn’t mean he’s even the slightest bit excited about purposefully ingesting something that his body likely will reject.

     Shinobu sighs, tearing one hand through her hair in a quite uncharacteristic manner. “Look,” she says. “We both know it’s only so long until your hunger catches up to you. Seeing as I can’t exactly give you human flesh, and demons aren’t equipped to survive on blood alone…Hakuji-san, if there’s even the slightest chance that this will work, we have to try.”

     Hakuji stares down at the floor, guilt churning in his rib cage. It’s true. If somehow Muzan has adapted to human food to survive, and by some slim chance given Hakuji the same ability through the sheer amount of his blood, they have to know. Hakuji refuses to ever consume another human in his life. Should this work and give him enough sustenance to maintain himself without flesh, it could change everything. He would no longer have to worry about starvation corroding his conscious will.

     “Okay,” he agrees finally. “I’ll do it. Just give me the damn bento.” The tension in Shinobu’s spirit settles in relief. She hands over the box of rice and the raw animal meat, and Hakuji’s stomach preemptively turns over. He cringes. “How much of this do I have to eat?”

     Shinobu chuckles softly. “Not all of it, just do as much as you can and we’ll see how you feel! Oh, and here—in case our research question is disproved.” She holds out the bucket, and he stares at it unenthusiastically. Finally, he accepts it, stashing it next to him on the lab table.

     “Ah, yes, everyone’s favorite research question,” he snarks as he scoops up the first bite with his chopsticks. He’s severely out of practice using them, and he drops half of the rice back into the box. “How much human food can Hakuji eat until he pukes?”

     Shinobu laughs for real at that one. “It’s for a good cause, Hakuji-san! For science!” She taps her chin, widening her eyes more than is necessary. “Unless…I understand if you don’t think you can handle it? I suppose we’ll just wait until you get too hungry…and keep letting Douma evade our clutches…”

     Hakuji scowls at her, shoving the rice into his mouth before he can talk himself out of it. It tastes like ash, and his stomach sours instantly as he forces it down. Oh, fuck this. Fuck this big time. He’s suddenly very glad for Shinobu’s antagonizing. If he focuses on decimating Douma, this will be much easier.

     “Keep talking,” he growls as he swallows another bite. “If this works, what exactly will this tell us about that stupid shithole?”

     “Well,” Shinobu titters. “For one thing, it could prove his theory of women being more nutritious incorrect, assuming that whatever extra supplements he’s receiving would be from the human food he eats with his followers.” Hakuji hums through another mouthful of rice. “Additionally, it would solidify his disguise exponentially. If it doesn’t work, however, we can also extract valuable information about him and Muzan.”

     “How so?” Hakuji prods. Shinobu flips to a new page in her notebook, scribbling down what appears to be a list of possible outcomes.

     “If Muzan can’t digest human food, that immediately decreases his legitimacy as a businessman,” She asserts. “Humans are very social creatures, after all, and it’s very commonly expected to go out to dinner with those you’re working with. Especially considering he can’t go outside during the day, going to dinner would be the natural human suggestion. His inability to do either would make him appear shady and unreliable.”

     “Right,” Hakuji agrees, fumbling with his chopsticks. “So if he doesn’t have some sort of adaptation, he can’t logically be all that successful?”

     Shinobu snaps her fingers. “ Precisely. Which I find hard to believe, considering all of his forms seem to be upper class. That’s why I developed this theory in the first place.”

     Hakuji forces himself to take a chunk out of the animal meat, and instantly regrets it. It tastes like a cheap imitation of human, only tougher and more game-y. It somehow makes his stomach squirm more than the rice does. He pulls a face, shuddering and tossing it aside. “ Ugh. Nope.”

     The hashira rolls her eyes at him. “Additionally, it gives us clues into his family life. Being unable to eat with his family is likely taken as cold and uncaring—which, to

be fair, is certainly true. In order to keep his fake family stable, I suspect that he spends much of his time away from the home, where his odd habits cannot be observed.”

     That would add up, Hakuji supposes. He has no clue how Muzan’s human child form gets away with it. His ‘parents’ would surely worry about their son’s lack of an appetite. Unfortunately, Hakuji is growing more and more certain that Muzan does not have a natural resistance to human food. The strength of his demonic blood can’t have anything to do with it if Hakuji’s current state is any clue. Either Muzan is excellent at crafting excuses to skip meals, or has some other method of doing things, because there is no way that Hakuji has inherited any sort of ability to keep this down.

     “Keep talking,” He insists again. “I need you to distract me, or I won’t be able to stomach any more of this shit.”

     Shinobu sighs. “Well,” she says, “I can tell you more about the new bloodwork I’ve been trying?”

     “Please.”

      Shinobu launches into an explanation about wisteria concentrate versus the strength of demonic cells, spouting a bunch of nonsensical scientific words that Hakuji doesn’t know. She sounds like she knows what she’s doing though, so he listens diligently through the nausea spinning in his gut. Thank everything good for Shinobu’s medical passion. If anyone is going to figure out a way to eradicate Muzan, it’s gonna be her.

     Hakuji clings to this comforting thought as his stomach muscles spasm threateningly, and he fumbles for the bucket. Shinobu looks up in surprise, her gaze shooting to the clock—Goddamnit, was she timing him?—and scribbles down a stream of information that is probably crucial.

      Whatever information Shinobu will glean from his suffering better make it all worth it in the end.

Chapter Text

     Today, Kyojuro decides, he has finally had enough. He refuses to rot in this cursed hospital bed any longer. No longer will he allow himself to be contained in this infernal room, which he has affectionately named The Dungeon—as well as The Cell, The Isolation Chamber, The Old County Jail, and, in Hakuji’s eloquent words, The Shit Castle. The demon had been quite proud of himself for that one. Despite chiding him for his blatant profanity, Kyojuro was admittedly quite amused by the name, so it had stuck. It’s become their little secret.

     Despite the strangely fond memories that have formed in this room, Kyojuro’s sanity has finally worn thin. He was born to be a Hashira; he was born to run and to fight and to stay on his feet until he dropped. Remaining stagnant in bed for even one more day is simply not an option.

     It’s not as if he hasn’t tried to keep himself busy. He’s written more letters over the past two weeks than he has in the last year. His father and Senjuro have been the most common recipients. Father is doing better, although he’s being beaten to hell by withdrawals, and Senjuro thinks they ought to come check in with Shinobu soon to make sure he’ll be alright. Otherwise, the two have been researching diligently for information on Hinokami Kagura. Shinjuro has proposed a meeting with Tanjiro upon their visit to teach him what he knows. Kyojuro’s heart is full with pride.

     The other Hashira have also graciously been his pen pals. Tengen and Mitsuri write him as often as possible, and his crow is always excited to arrive back at Kyojuro’s window with a new letter from one of his dearest friends. Surprisingly, Giyuu writes him as well. He checks in on the Hakuji situation fairly often, and asks after the well-being of the Kamado children. His awkwardness shines through even in writing, in a way that is somehow endearing. Obanai writes occasionally, though his letters tend to be short and clipped. Even Gyomei has orated his well wishes to be delivered by crow, and Yesterday, Kyojuro recieved a mysterious sweet potato bento that Tanjiro had insisted carried the scent of Sanemi. Muichiro does not write, but Kyojuro holds no hard feelings. The boy has most likely forgotten.

     Kyojuro props himself up on his elbows, fighting with the blankets for a moment to free his legs before hoisting himself out of bed. This is not the first time, of course—he did have that whole escapade to the Ubuyashiki mansion—but the muscles of his upper torso still pang in warning. Kyojuro promptly ignores them. Normally, when he gets himself up, Kyojuro spends a few minutes pacing around impatiently before growing bored and tired and returning to bed. His steps are a bit unsteady at times, but surely not enough to warrant more bed rest.

     Today, he makes a beeline for the door. He’s fully prepared to face Aoi or Hakuji prowling in the hallway. He even has a speech declaring his innocence prepared. Yet, when Kyojuro slides the door open, perhaps a bit more forcefully than needed, he finds that there is nobody to be found. A slightly devious cackle escapes his lips, and Kyojuro promptly bites his tongue to suppress it. Oh, he really needs to get out of here.

     Ironically, Kyojuro’s destination is the belly of the beast: Shinobu’s office. What he needs more than anything is to march down there, prove his capability in terms of strength and mobility, and get cleared to start functional recovery training. Yes, that will do it! If he can convince Shinobu to clear him, Kyojuro’s days of being confined to The Dungeon will be over.

     The key word being ‘if’. In all honesty, Kyojuro cannot be one hundred percent certain that it will work. Shinobu is infamously stubborn, after all. But he is sure as all hell going to try. Besides, Tanjiro and his crew are all healed up from the Mugen train, and they have already finished their rehabilitation! Any time Kyojuro is not training them is time wasted. In his book, at least. He hopes that Shinobu will at least understand that much, having a tsuguko of her own.

     Kyojuro slinks past his pupil’s room, grateful for once to see no sign of his presence. Tanjiro would likely have sniffed out his intentions and ordered him back to bed. It seems, however, that the boy is off training with Zenitsu and Inosuke. Without him. He leaves the medical wing with a spring in his step. He’ll be joining them just as soon as he convinces Shinobu.

     He announces his presence with a polite knock on her door, and Kyojuro can practically sense the atmosphere shifting. Perhaps the Insect Hashira already knows it’s him?

     “Come in,” she calls cheerily, and Kyojuro steels himself to make his case.

     “Kocho-san,” he begins, infusing his voice with his usual confident timbre. “I have come here to discuss with you the possibility of—“

     Kyojuro pauses in his tracks rather uncharacteristically as he takes in the scene.

     Shinobu sits at her desk, happily scribbling away in her notebook as if nothing is wrong. Across the room, Hakuji sits cross-legged at his usual perch on the lab table. He makes eye contact with Kyojuro, blinking dumbly, before hunching over and vomiting primly into the bucket in his lap.

     “—What on earth is going on in here?” Kyojuro demands, his brilliant speech leaving his mind at the sight of the demon. “Kocho-san, what did you do to him?”

     Shinobu sighs, setting down her pen and turning to face him properly. “We’re determining how much time Muzan and the other upper ranks who pose as humans can realistically spend at home before being found out!” She announces brightly. Kyojuro feels his eyebrow twitch at her tone. “By judging how long powerful demons can keep down human food, we can estimate how long they would be able to spend around their human families before having to make a rather suspicious exit!”

      “Is this really necessary?” Kyojuro presses, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “This seems more on the side of cruel and unusual punishment.”

     Shinobu raises both eyebrows in surprise. “Nonsense, Rengoku-san! Judging by how quickly Hakuji-san became ill, I’ve determined that it’s unlikely that Muzan spends much time at home, if at all. So any efforts to track down his human strongholds would likely prove to be a waste of resources.”

     “W’re gon’ kill Douma,” slurs Hakuji helpfully, with a string of maniacal giggles that dissolve into a gag. Kyojuro cringes at the sound of liquid hitting the bottom of the bucket.

     “Damn straight we are,” Shinobu grins dangerously, and Kyojuro startles. She is not one to swear often. He risks a peek at the notebook over her shoulder, and the amount of information she has gained from such a seemingly stupid experiment is staggering. Leave it to Shinobu. It seems she can turn anything into a miracle of science.

     Shinobu glances at Hakuji, ensuring he’s occupied with emptying his guts before leaning in conspiratorially. Kyojuro mirrors her body language on instinct. “Also,” she mutters, “we had to check to see if Hakuji could process it, just in case.”

     Oh. Shinobu must suspect he will be hungry soon. Uneasiness blooms in Kyojuro’s bones. When the day comes that Hakuji begins to starve, the demon’s impressive willpower will be tested to the limits as his instincts fight to come through. “I see,” he says as gently as he can.

     “Anyway!” Shinobu snaps back to normal as if nothing had transpired. “What are you doing out of bed?” Her tone sounds chipper, but it sends ice through Kyojuro’s veins.

     “For the record,” Hakuji coughs, “I second that.”

     Kyojuro ignores them.

      “That’s what I am here to talk about,” Kyojuro announces, drawing his shoulders back and raising his chin. “Kocho-san, after two weeks of bed rest and a careful self evaluation of my physical well being, I have come to request that you consider letting me begin functional recovery training!”

     Shinobu sits back at her desk, Violet eyes sweeping over him critically. “I see,” she hums. “Respectfully, Rengoku-san, I do not recall making you the judge of that.”

     He bows slightly. “You did not! I simply feel that I will only deteriorate more the longer I spend in the…”

     “The Shit Castle,” Hakuji supplies with a grin. He sets the bucket aside, scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand, and Kyojuro feels the tension leave his shoulders as his concern for the demon is lifted.

     “The what?” Shinobu’s eyebrow snaps up as she levels her glare at Kyojuro. He holds up both hands in surrender, and her wrath circles back around to Hakuji.

     “Originally it was called The Kingdom,” he explains, “but Kyojuro pointed out that a Kingdom would insinuate land and people, so then it was The Castle, but it really wasn’t all that fancy, so—y’know what? Nevermind.”

     “Well, you seem to have recovered nicely, Hakuji-san,” Shinobu mumbles with a dramatic roll of her eyes. She turns to her desk to jot down some more notes. Kyojuro stands by, shifting his weight slightly as Hakuji watches.

     “So,” the demon pipes up. “What is functional recovery training, anyway?”

     “It’s essentially a period of rehabilitation to calibrate the senses and reflexes before reentering field training,” Kyojuro explains as Shinobu finishes her page. Hakuji’s eyes gleam with interest.

     “So it’s strength building?” He asks, trying and failing to hide the excitement in his tone. Shinobu sighs.

     “Yes,” she confirms, and Hakuji’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’ve actually been putting quite a bit of thought into this. Hakuji-san, as a butterfly nurse it is important that you know how to rehabilitate slayers.” The demon is practically vibrating in place. Kyojuro’s mouth twitches in amusement.

     “However, I do worry about you overpowering weakened slayers, what with your track record.” Shinobu closes her notepad with an air of finality. “Which is precisely why I’ve chosen your first rehabilitation patient to be a Hashira. Rengoku-san, I hereby clear you to commence functional recovery training and begin preparing to return to the field.”

     Kyojuro has never been high before, but he imagines that this may be a similar feeling. Elation swells in his chest, and a triumphant laugh bursts out of him as he throws his fists into the air. Shinobu chuckles softly to herself, immediately busying herself searching for something in her desk drawers.

     “Kyojuro!” Hakuji exclaims, leaping from the lab table and bounding up to him like an excited animal. “You did it! Holy shit!”

     “Yes!” Kyojuro cackles. The rush of adrenaline at the thought of leaving the house again, of fighting again, makes his head spin. Any residual aches in his muscles are gone. Perhaps it is this delirious giddiness that compels him to catch Hakuji in a crushing hug as the demon rushes to meet him.

     Hakuji gives a slight yelp, and then he is laughing too, spinning slightly off center with Kyojuro’s momentum. His body feels warm — more so than Kyojuro expected from the look of his demonic pallor. Hakuji’s strong arms wrap somewhat awkwardly around Kyojuro’s torso, causing the hashira to giggle harder. An hour ago, he was going crazy in his bed, and now here he is, locked in a spontaneous embrace with a demon. Somehow, Hakuji’s startled laughter makes it hard for him to mind.

     Kyojuro pulls back after a few moments of jubilation. Hakuji is flushed pink, looking mighty flustered, but his grin spans from ear to ear. Kyojuro, thankfully, is quite used to acting without shame. He simply reciprocates Hakuji’s bright smile, as if nothing out of the ordinary has just transpired at all.

     Shinobu is unimpressed. “If you two are done making merry, we could discuss how this is going to work.”

     Hakuji shifts sheepishly, and Kyojuro bites his lip to swallow a triumphant grin.

                                 ***

     Functional recovery training begins the next morning at dawn. As reported by Hakuji at their nightly meeting, the demon had spent the rest of the day learning the skills necessary to complete the rehabilitation. Some parts excited him more than others. He is apparently very unhappy about having to temper his speed and reflexes on Kyojuro’s behalf, and had given a very passionate speech about embracing natural strength and never folding for those unable to keep up.

     Kyojuro had done his best not to take it as an insult. After all, Hakuji seemed to be rambling mostly out of instinct. He has been nothing but gentle for weeks, diligently wrapping wounds and bending over backwards to help out the younger girls. For the sake of the demon’s pride, Kyojuro opted not to point this out.

     The rest of the night had been sleepless. Childish excitement had kept him awake, as if he were six years old again the night before a festival. He had simply laid there, eye closed, mind running at the speed of a steam engine. How long would it be between rehabilitation and active duty? Would he get a cool eyepatch to replace the bandages that had been covering his face since he awoke? Was Hakuji dreaming right now, deep under the influence of wisteria?

     By the time sunrise had finally come, Kyojuro was ready to sprint downstairs at the first sign of life.

     And so, here he is, standing outside of the dojo before the birds have even begun to sing.

     It is not empty. Kyojuro’s rusty senses can detect Hakuji’s presence within the room, and the hall echos with the sound of strikes and bare feet on the hard wooden floor. Hakuji is training. That, admittedly, is new. He surely must have had a dream. Kyojuro slides the door open a sliver to observe.

     Hakuji is not using his Blood Demon Art. Each strike stems from his own physical power, relying entirely on his body. Hakuji moves a bit like a Water breather, his forms fluid and light-footed. His strikes, however, come with the ferocity of Sound. His strength is pulled from his lower body, snapping up to attack the air with an explosive power. The graceful transitions cave in to airtight blows, an incredible mix of an unstoppable offense and a defense to match. Kyojuro has seen him fight before. He has been broken beneath those fists, bruised by that wicked heel. Yet, watching Hakuji train now, like a dancer rather than a weapon, instills in him no fear. It is simply mystifying.

     “Kyojuro,” Hakuji calls, and he startles. “You can come in, if you want. I’m just waiting on Aoi and the girls.”

     “Hmm, guilty,” Kyojuro muses, opening the door wider to slip inside. “What brought this on? I don’t recall ever hearing of you training before!” He settles down against the wall, cross legged, as Hakuji turns with a sigh to hurl another fist at an invisible enemy.

     “Had another dream,” he says simply, and Kyojuro hums knowingly. He had assumed that was the case. “My master and I were dueling with a rival dojo. They kept harassing us. My master went easy on them, but I was pissed to high heaven, and one of them tried to kill me with a sword.”

     Kyojuro’s heart skips a beat. “I see! You were not hurt, I hope?”

     Hakuji chuckles darkly, a smooth kick slicing through the air. “No, Kyojuro, I was fine. I broke his sword with my bare hands before he could do any damage.” A shiver prickles over Kyojuro’s skin at the thought. His own sword had been roughed up at the Mugen train, to the point where he would certainly need it to be repaired by a swordsmith. It had remained intact, but Kyojuro has not forgotten the thrill of fear he had felt at the possibility that it could shatter during the battle.

     “Impressive!” He praises. “So the recollection of old times sent you back into the training ring?”

     “Not quite,” Hakuji mumbles. He seems distant, stilling his motion to stare at the ceiling. “It’s just…something about that rival dojo made my hair stand on end. I can’t put my finger on it, but I just can’t shake the feeling that they’re bad news.”

     Kyojuro nods softly. Hakuji shakes his head briefly, as if snapping himself back to reality. “So, I guess I just needed to feel like I was…you know, doing something? To protect them.”

     “Your people?” Kyojuro asks, and Hakuji hums an agreement. He throws a few punches, but they all come out halfhearted. With a final sigh of defeat, Hakuji drops his stance and joins Kyojuro on the floor, leaning against the wall.

     “I still don’t know what happened to them,” He admits, voice strained and gaze awfully distant. “I just know they were there, and now…now they’re just gone.”

     “ I’m sorry,” Kyojuro says softly. His stomach feels tight, more so from sympathy than his residual injuries. “I wish things had turned out differently for you, Hakuji. You deserved the autonomy to remain human just as much as we all do.”

    Hakuji makes a strangled sound. “Yeah,” he chokes. “I wish things were different too. But, uh, thanks for taking a chance on me.”

     Genuine laughter bubbles from Kyojuro’s chest. “Indeed,” he grins. “Thank you for not killing me!” Hakuji rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch in a faint smile. Kyojuro leans forward, forcing the demon to meet his gaze. “Perhaps after recovery training, we could spar! Surely it would feel good to practice against a real opponent again.”

     That does the trick nicely. Hakuji straightens slightly, meeting Kyojuro’s gaze with those brilliant blue eyes, unmarred with kanji or cracked sclera. His expression is something gentle, brow soft and lips slightly parted. It makes something strange and unexplored stir in Kyojuro’s chest.

     “Thank you, Kyojuro,” Hakuji says, his voice carrying the syllables of his name like a gently flowing stream. “I would like that very much.”

     The door slides open, startling them both, and the moment slips away as quickly and unexpectedly as it had arrived.

     “Aoi,” Hakuji gasps in surprise. “You’re here!”

     The girl in question pauses, her critical glare sweeping over the two men as if trying to deduce what sort of trouble they could possibly be getting up to. “Yes,” she agrees pointedly. “It’s time to begin.” Aoi raises the tray of medicinal tea as if to accentuate her point, and Kyojuro’s heart swoops. Somehow, he even missed this part of recovery.

     “Alright,” Hakuji sighs, on his feet in a blink and reaching out to haul Kyojuro up as well. He flashes him a slightly maniacal grin.

     “Well, Mister Hashira,” Hakuji taunts. “Let’s get this show on the road.” Kyojuro beams back at him, nearly shaking with anticipation.

     He’s never been so excited to be splashed with tea in his life.

Chapter Text

     As it turns out, under a vicious combination of Hakuji’s harsh expectations and Aoi’s quick temper, rehabilitation training is far more difficult than Kyojuro remembers.

     It begins as usual, with stretching that he thinks may be more akin to rack torture. The muscles in Kyojuro’s chest and stomach are still a bit weak from injury and the emergency procedure, and his whole body is stiff from bed rest. He has to hold his breath to keep from screeching in agony as the youngest girls force his body to contort further and further backwards. All the while, Hakuji taunts him. It reminds Kyojuro of their battle at the train wreck; Hakuji’s jeering is endless, yet based in adrenaline rather than malicious intent. The demon is practically vibrating with poorly concealed anticipation.

     “You can do better than this, Kyojuro,” he insists as Kyojuro forces himself to bend against the will of his muscles. “You can’t even dream of fighting in this state!”

     What this really means is, ‘ You can do better than this, Kyojuro! Push yourself hard so we can fight again soon!’

     The thought makes Kyojuro’s lips twitch despite the pain. Hakuji’s heart is in the right place, but his delivery needs some work. Besides, as much as Kyojuro hates to admit it, the demon’s methods are working. After all, he is used to using criticism as motivation. He has to be, having grown up with the harsh tongue of his father and graduated into a generation of Hashira who were leagues ahead of him at the time. Some of them were equally critical. Sanemi, namely. Kyojuro had used the Wind Hashira’s hostility towards him as fuel to tear down the former Lower Moon Two, and he will do the same to defeat the dreaded rehabilitation stretches.

     When the Hakuji and Aoi finally deem him worthy, and the girls release him from their iron grips, Kyojuro is given a brief reprieve as the next phase is prepared. It requires all of his effort to refrain from keeling over onto the floor and laying there until he’s dragged up again. Instead, Kyojuro sits politely, observing with no small amount of amusement as Aoi smacks Hakuji over the head with a towel for disturbing the tea setup. He whines his disapproval, and Kyojuro chuckles at him.

     “You can do better than this, Hakuji,” Kyojuro mimics the demon’s taunts. He is rewarded with a glare strong enough to scare the piss out of a Junior slayer. The girls press their hands over their mouths, eyes bugging out to avoid laughing as Aoi herds them back to work. Kyojuro grins triumphantly, and Hakuji primly sticks out his tongue before turning back to the table.

     “Now then,” Aoi prompts as she finishes arranging the cups. A thrill of excitement shivers through Kyojuro’s veins. “Rengoku-sama. You have done your fair share of functional recovery training in the past; I trust you remember the rules?”

     “Of course!” Kyojuro beams. “We both have full power to block each other’s cups, and must strategize to be the first to splash the other!” Aoi nods her approval, beckoning him over to sit on one end of the table. She takes her place at the opposite end before Hakuji can claim it.

     “What— yo!” Hakuji barks. “You told me I got to do this part!”

     “Yep,” Aoi rolls her eyes. “Of course I’m going to let the ridiculously powerful first-timer go against an injured man before I do.” Hakuji squints at her.

     Kyojuro holds up his hands. “Now, Hakuji, don’t be childish! This is a learning experience, remember?”

     Hakuji sighs softly, seeming to deflate. He sits on the floor in front of the table instead, eyes wide and tracking Kyojuro’s every move. It’s somewhat endearing. Hakuji has been so quiet and uncertain since arriving at the mansion, and it’s somehow nice to see him acting more like the excitable, competitive side of himself that Kyojuro knows he’s been holding back.

     The trio of girls settle in to their spots next to Hakuji. Naho whispers something in his ear, and Hakuji covers a chuckle with a weak cough. Kiyo raises a hand.

     “Ready,” she calls out, and Kyojuro sucks in a Total Concentration Breath. A familiar heat alights in his chest, pooling in his stomach and flowing through his limbs. Goosebumps rush over his skin at the feeling. This is happening. Kyojuro is back on his feet, his lungs full of flame, ready to dance among the embers once more. He leans forward, time hanging still in the air as he prepares to pounce.

     “Begin!” shouts Kiyo, and Kyojuro explodes into action.

     Kyojuro shoots forward, snatching a cup in a split second. He’s noticeably slower than he used to be, however. It’s alarming—and Aoi is no slouch herself. Her small palm slams down over the mouth of his cup as her opposite arm scoops up her own. Kyojuro abandons his blocked cup, reaching quickly for hers instead. Kyojuro might outmatch her in battle experience and physical strength, but Aoi has been playing this game for years. She darts from cup to cup, Kyojuro following her hands across the table to stop her before she gets a chance to attack. Sumi and Naho squeal among themselves in excitement, and Kyojuro does not miss Hakuji’s thrilled cackle.

     Still, no matter how strong Kyojuro is, his muscles have atrophied from bed rest. His stamina has dropped as well. He struggles valiantly against Aoi’s expertise, but he is undeniably rusty. Kyojuro snatches a cup, triumph swelling in his chest as he raises it towards Aoi.

     Unfortunately, he has neglected to block. Aoi promptly grabs her own cup of the infernal tea, and Kyojuro takes it straight to the face.

     He yelps, scrubbing the warm liquid from his eyes with the butts of his palms. Their humble audience whoops their approval. Oh God, Kyojuro is going to smell like hot herbs for days. Tanjiro will be horrified. He shudders at the thought. The only solution is to prevent himself from meeting the same fate twice in a row.

     Now that he’s had a bitter taste of reality, Kyojuro is more prepared. He dives into the second round with a vengeance. He and Aoi resume their back-and-forth. He blocks three of her attempts in a row, and is narrowly caught by a block himself. It is coming easier to him now, his steady breathing sending warmth through his body and soothing his stiff muscles. The flame he knows and so dearly adores has returned to him once more. The gentle high of Flame Breathing sharpens his movements and quickens his reflexes as his pulse picks up and his body temperature rises. With a few more rounds of quick hands and heavy palms, Kyojuro finally breaks through her defenses. He pulls himself back at the last second, and gives Aoi a polite splash of the foul liquid.

     “Game!” Cries Sumi, and the group on the floor erupts into shouts of approval. Hakuji is grinning wildly, shoulders squared with pride, and—oh, when did Nezuko get here? She applauds furiously with her tiny hands, squealing in joy from her spot in Hakuji’s lap.

     Kyojuro raises his brows at him in surprise, as if to say, What on earth?

     Hakuji shrugs, glancing at the door and then down at himself. Who knows? She just showed up and climbed in.

     Kyojuro shakes his head slightly in disbelief, a bewildered grin matching the demon’s. He doesn’t know how they became so effective at nonverbal communication, but it’s fascinating.

     Aoi huffs in disdain, drying herself with the towel she had previously used as her anti-Hakuji weapon. “Ugh. That never stops being gross.” She stashes it back underneath the table, turning to Hakuji, who straightens and listens attentively.

     “So, that’s how the game works. Pretty simple, right?” He nods quickly in agreement, and Aoi beckons him over. “Come give it a try. I’ll be here to stop you if you mess up.”

     “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Aoi,” Hakuji says, but he’s grinning too wide to make it sound truly snarky. He transfers a giggling Nezuko to her. Aoi awkwardly sets the demon girl down as she joins the young trio on the floor. Nezuko quickly worms her way under Aoi’s arm to lean against her side, and she sighs in defeat.

     Hakuji settles down across from Kyojuro on his knees, eyes sweeping over the array of cups. “I won’t go easy, Kyojuro,” he hums, “and I expect you to rise to the occasion and beat me.”

     Kyojuro laughs heartily. “I would be offended if you did!” He replies, flexing his fingers as heat floods into his nimble hands. The both of them hover their palms over the tops of their cups as Kiyo raises a hand once more. “Ready,” she shouts, and across the table, Hakuji tenses in preparation. Kyojuro sucks in another deep breath. This is the real test. A raging flame of determination has sprung to life in his chest. He will not leave this table until he has defeated Hakuji. Suddenly, he understands the demon’s fierce competitive streak.

     “Begin!”

     Kyojuro blinks, and is instantly soaked.

     “Foul!” Cries Aoi. “What good will it do anyone to use your demonic reflexes to your advantage? Play like a nurse, not an Upper Moon!”

     Hakuji flinches almost unnoticeably at his old title. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I’ll do my best.” Kyojuro’s heart pangs as a tiny bit of the same lost expression he typically wears sinks into his face. He doesn’t want that to come back. Seeing joy on Hakuji’s face has brought him comfort vicariously.

     “Come on, Hakuji,” he blurts. “Do not back down! In fact, the wisteria has slowed your reflexes to a point where I believe I can catch you!” It’s partially true. Kyojuro doesn’t know if he can even get his hand on a cup with Hakuji’s unrelenting speed. Still, Hakuji’s face shifts back to a cautiously optimistic grin.

     “Are you sure?” He prods. “Because if you really want me to push you, I’ll gladly keep splashing you.”

     Kyojuro beams. A strange sense of pride settles in his chest. This is an entirely new sort of competitiveness. Just a few weeks ago, Hakuji had been near mad, raving feverishly about the horrors of the weak. Now, however, his tone is different. I’ll gladly keep splashing you sounds a whole lot more like I’ll stay right here with you until you’re on your feet again.

     “So splash me, Hakuji,” he breathes, and immediately prays that their audience didn’t pick up on the strange weight in his tone. He doesn’t quite know where it came from, and he definitely doesn’t know what it means. Hakuji’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. He’s saved from a response by the raise of Kiyo’s hand and her call to action.

     “Begin,” she cries, accompanied by an excited hum from Nezuko. Hakuji’s plan shoots out, and this time Kyojuro tracks his movements much better. He’s able to smack Hakuji’s cup back down onto the table before Hakuji grants him another face full of the infernal herbal tea.

     “Ooh, nice block, Rengoku-san!” Calls Tanjiro, and everyone whips around to see Tanjiro, Zenitsu, and Inosuke piling into the room. Kyojuro laughs in delight at the sight of them. They’re all a bit roughed up, clearly having been training hard.

     “NYAHA!” Inosuke hollers. “Goggle eyes! Jacuzzi! I’ll splash you both!” Zenitsu hauls him back by his fur lined pants, prompting a fresh scuffle between the two. Hakuji pulls a face at the awful butchering of his name, but valiantly holds his tongue with a placating glance from Kyojuro.

     “Wha—who invited you?” Aoi groans, and Tanjiro bows, grinning sheepishly. “I’m very sorry to interrupt, Aoi-san! We came looking for Nezuko. We will be on our way!”

     “Nonsense!” Kyojuro waves them over. “You all are welcome to stay!” He is always willing to spend time with his tsuguko and his friends. The bunch might be chaotic and a bit noisy, but they have good hearts, and they warm Kyojuro’s chest with fondness.

     “Thank you, Rengoku-san— ack, you’re choking me you goddamn imbecile— we won’t be too much trouble!” Gasps Zenitsu, prying at the boar boy’s forearm as he traps him in a chokehold. Kyojuro can’t stop himself from laughing at the sight. Aoi bends down to remove her sandal, raising it at Inosuke threateningly. In the end, it is Tanjiro who manages to calm the beast, and subdue a whining Zenitsu as well. Zenitsu settles down next to Nezuko, crooning all the way. She ignores him easily, clapping her little palms together and bouncing in place as a sort of nonverbal cheer. Kyojuro leans over to pat her hair, and Hakuji huffs in amusement.

      The next round prompts a greater back-and-forth. Kyojuro is warmed up now, and he is somehow accumulating a crowd of cheerleaders to motivate him. Inosuke is especially rowdy, hollering long strings of giddy nonsense as Tanjiro tries to calm him though his laughter. Admittedly, it appears that Nezuko is cheering for both teams. Hakuji flashes her a slightly shy smile. He had explained to Kyojuro their exchange about the goldfish and the box during one of their nightly chats. Kyojuro had been taken aback, not only by Nezuko’s eloquence, but Hakuji’s gentleness and willingness to listen. He never fails to amaze.

     Kyojuro’s offense is improving. He can see it by the slam of Hakuji’s wide palms over the mouths of his selected cups. He can feel it in the heat simmering in his blood and his heightened senses. The rounds get longer and longer as Kyojuro adapts. Each time, Inosuke and Zenitsu howl with laughter as Kyojuro takes cup after cup of liquid hell to the face. Hakuji is thoroughly enjoying himself, his cheeks flushed a rosy pink and his laughter high pitched with adrenaline. Kyojuro tears through his defenses, is pushed back again and again and still forces himself to keep up the pace.

    Another surprise splash to the face pulls an awfully embarrassing squeak out of Kyojuro, and the kids erupt into laughter. Even Aoi hides a snicker behind her hand. Hakuji’s composure finally falls, and he slumps forward in hysterics, burying his face in his palms. Kyojuro purses his lips tightly to keep any other noises at bay as he hurls a cupful of liquid into Hakuji’s hidden face. It’s still enough to penetrate the cracks between his fingers and soak his hair, so Kyojuro considers it a win. Grinning like a madman, he chucks the cup at him for good measure. It bounces off the demon’s forehead with a spectacular bing, and Hakuji fumbles to catch it before it hits the ground. His arm is halfway raised to return the throw, likely much harder than Kyojuro’s initial attack, when a new voice enters the room.

     “Aniue!” Calls Senjuro. “Are you serious? You’re all having a party in here without me!”

     Kyojuro’s heart skips a beat or six. He whirls around, impossible hope high in his chest. Sure enough, Senjuro stands in the doorway, wearing a sunflower yellow yukata that used to be Kyojuro’s. It had been his favorite when he was Senjuro’s age. The sight threatens to bring tears to his eyes.

     “Senjuro,” he gasps, and then the boy has barreled into his arms. Off to the side, Aoi mumbles something about the place being a goddamn zoo, but Kyojuro can’t bring himself to care. Quiet tears soak into his shoulder, and he buries his face in his little brother’s hair.

     “I was so worried about you, Aniue,” the boy whispers, low enough that nobody else can hear. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

     “I’m wonderful,” Kyojuro whispers back. It actually feels true this time. He hugs Senjuro a little tighter until the boy untangles from his grasp, scrubbing at his eyes.

     Tanjiro is next. Kyojuro’s eyebrows shoot up with a joyful surprise as Senjuro hurries to hug him as well. Judging by the delight clear on Tanjiro’s face, and Senjuro’s easy recognition and introductions to Zenitsu and Inosuke, the two have been keeping in touch. Inosuke, for his part, seems to be having an awful lot of trouble discerning the difference between Kyojuro and Senjuro. He keeps whipping his head back and forth, the pig nose of his mask pointing at one of the other at all times. It pulls a chuckle out of Kyojuro as Zenitsu makes a commendable effort to explain the concept of family resemblance.

     Even Hakuji gets a hug, which seems to shock him as much as it does Kyojuro. The two had met, after all, hadn’t they? Hakuji recovers quickly, allowing the boy to hug him fiercely.

     “Thank you for taking care of my brother,” Senjuro gushes.

     Hakuji turns beet red. “Uh, y-yeah. It’s, um, my pleasure?” Thankfully for his pride, Senjuro accepts that for an answer and is pulled quickly back into chattering with Tanjiro and the gang.

     Kyojuro’s blood runs cold. There is a presence in the doorway.

     If he’s being honest, he truly doesn’t want to look. Kyojuro knows who he will find when he turns his head. For years, he has felt such a presence lurking in the back of his mind every time he has returned home. His father is here. A childish fear squirms in his belly, and his pulse picks up. According to Senjuro, Shinjuro has committed to going sober. But now, after so many years of false hope and almost-theres…

     Can Kyojuro truly believe him?

     He takes a soothing breath, folding his arms across his chest to exude confidence. Kyojuro turns to observe his father with his chin held high.

     It still doesn’t prepare him for the sight. Shinjuro looks like a different person. His deep red Yukata is tied properly, and his hair has been brushed back from his face into the ponytail that Kyojuro remembers him wearing in his youth. Yet, his expression is filled with uncertainty and sadness. With guilt. Kyojuro recognizes that face. It’s the one that Shinjuro wore the day that Ruka died.

     “Kyojuro,” he says, and his voice is softer than it’s been for a long time. “Can I talk to you?”

     His voice is no longer so gravelly and raw from yelling. His words do not slur. Kyojuro feels like a deer in the headlights. The kids remain unaware of the situation, leaving him all alone to face his father. Nine-year-old Kyojuro bursts to life in the back of his mind, in tears and afraid. Don’t believe him, he cries. He’s lying, just like he did last time.

     Kyojuro’s eyes flick to Hakuji, who has moved across the room, and he’s startled to see the demon meeting his gaze. Hakuji isn’t exactly the trusting type, he knows, and for a moment he hopes that the demon will come force Shinjuro to leave. But there is something raw in his expression. Hakuji gives him a tiny nod, and once again, Kyojuro finds himself able to understand what he means.

     Hakuji had come to the corps, to the belly of the beast, blazing a trail through his fear to try and make things right. Perhaps it’s Kyojuro’s turn to do the same. And if something goes wrong, he knows in his heart that Hakuji will be there to back him up.

     Kyojuro looks back to his father, a bud of hope desperate to bloom in his chest.

     “Okay,” he breathes.

      And then he follows Shinjuro, the man who instills in him such a mix of love and fear, out of the room and into territory unexplored.

Chapter Text

     Kyojuro follows Shinjuro into the guest room he’s been granted, wary as all hell.

     All of the body language he has learned to look for in his father has shifted. Shinjuro no longer stumbles when he walks, and the typical aggression in his posture has been replaced with a tense sort of apprehension. Kyojuro doesn’t know what to make of it. After memorizing how to best behave around his father, he’s unsure what do do when those behaviors change. Anxiety flutters in his stomach, and Kyojuro double-checks himself to ensure that his usual confident exterior is still firmly in place.

     Shinjuro slumps into a chair in the corner, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looks tired. Kyojuro sits cautiously on the edge of the bed, gaze never leaving his father’s quiet form.

     For a long while, neither of them speak. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a sword. Kyojuro finds himself wishing it were that easy. He is good at swordsmanship. Not so much at emotional vulnerability, especially around his father.

     “I stopped drinking,” Shinjuro finally sighs, staring at the floor. “Senjuro kept insisting that I ought to come along—check in with Kocho about the withdrawls, ya know?” Kyojuro follows his father’s gaze to rest on the man’s shaking hands. His heart pangs. In the past, Shinjuro had never made it past this point whenever he tried to stop.

     “So, I figured I should. She’s good at what she does, surely she’ll know how to keep me in check.” He finally meets Kyojuro’s eye, gaze flickering remorsefully over to the bandages covering the left side of his face. “And, uh, I…I wanted to see you.”

     A hole opens up in Kyojuro’s chest. It aches, full of repressed grief and swallowed tears. It’s cold and lonely; it’s spiteful and bitter. It’s desperate to be loved in the way he’s always deserved.

     “That’s a first,” Kyojuro hears himself saying. A flash of pain alights in Shinjuro’s features, and a mild shock shivers under Kyojuro’s skin. He has never spoken back to his father. There was never any point. His attempts to stand up for himself and his little brother would be met with nothing but anger and drunken nonsense. Now, though, everything he’s never said bubbles uncomfortably in his stomach, rises up through his chest and into the back of his throat as if desperate to escape. He swallows thickly, trying to compose himself.

     The feeling does not go away.

     “I know,” Shinjuro croaks. “I…I was being selfish. I didn’t know how to cope with losing your mother. Losing Ruka. I guess…I guess I thought that if I had nothing more to love, it wouldn’t hurt me anymore when things were taken away.”

     “ Selfish, ” Kyojuro echos with a bitter laugh that doesn’t sound like himself. “That’s the understatement of the century , father. What, do you think we weren’t hurting too? You never stopped to think that—that maybe we needed someone to love us?” He sucks in a shuddering breath. His father is listening now, finally listening, and Kyojuro intends to capitalize off of it. “While you were wasting away in bed like a corpse , I was working day and night to keep this family together! I was just a kid, how was I supposed to provide for a family of three? A-and Senjuro and I had to figure it all out by ourselves!” Kyojuro throws his hands up in desperation. “He knew how to cook and clean by the time he was four! I learned how to sew, I taught myself how to fight through a bunch of goddamn books, and Senjuro was the one to stitch me up when I came back home! And neither of us ever complained, not even once! ”

     Kyojuro’s Total Concentration breaths have become labored. He presses a hand to his chest, squeezing his eye shut as he folds over, resting his free arm over his knee to hold himself up. The sudden inferno in his chest has died down, the fight draining from his body to make way for exhaustion and resignation.

     “I know,” Shinjuro rasps. “What I did to you boys was terrible. Unforgivable. I am ashamed to have wronged you so, and I—I know that there’s nothing I could possibly say to make it right.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I drowned myself in my own damn sorrow; I tried to convince myself that I—“ his voice cracks. “That I didn’t care about you. And that’s why I kept drinking more and more, because I did, and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you both too.”

     Kyojuro takes it about as well as a punch to the gut. He forces in a regulating breath, suddenly fighting tears. He hasn’t cried in front of his father since his mother died. In fact, it’s been years since he’s truly cried in front of anybody. He can’t afford to start now.

     “What about all the things you said about  me?” He gasps. “That I was worthless, that I was born without a trace of talent, that I should just give up on being a demon slayer before I got myself killed? All I was ever trying to do was make you proud, father! And yet, nothing either of us did was ever enough for you!” Tears are welling in his eye, and he blinks rapidly to force them back. “Ever since I was a child, I wanted to be like you. Like the strong, passionate person I remembered, not the cold man that you became.” Shinjuro’s features are twisted with sadness, mirroring the awful sludge of devastation stirring in Kyojuro’s gut. Kyojuro forces himself to make eye contact. He has ejected all of the anger and confusion from the hole in his chest, and scraped the bottom of the barrel; the final dregs of Pandora’s box. The last little trickle of sadness escapes from his lips, childish and despairing.

     “I don’t understand,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Why didn’t you love us?”

     “I did,” Shinjuro insists, shaky hands hanging in the air in front of him as if he wants to reach out but doesn’t know how. “I do. Everything I said to you both was some awful, convoluted attempt to protect you. I couldn’t take the thought of either of you following in my footsteps. The life of a demon slayer is full of so much pain, and danger, and death. I thought…” he shakes his head slowly, as if in disbelief at himself. “I thought if I could break the passion I had instilled in you as a child, that you would give up and live a normal life. One where I wouldn’t have to worry about losing you, where you could be happy and normal and safe.” Kyojuro no longer trusts himself to speak. The lump in his throat is choking him. He can only pull a face of disappointment and yearning, features twitching with the strain of keeping himself composed. He bites the inside of his bottom lip in an attempt to stop it from trembling.

     “I understand now that I was never protecting you,” Shinjuro admits. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “I was only protecting myself, and in doing so I lost the right to my family’s love. But I do love you, even if you can’t forgive me. And… God, Kyojuro, I’m so, so sorry.”

     And there it is, the one thing that Kyojuro hasn’t heard from his father’s lips since he was eight years old. The words that he’s desperately wanted to hear for years, that he has always pretended he’s just fine without.

     I love you. I’m sorry.

     The dam breaks.

     Kyojuro smacks a palm over his mouth to stifle a sob as hot tears finally spill over. He feels frozen, afraid to move lest he fall apart entirely. His brows draw tightly together, his throat aches. Kyojuro sucks in a sharp breath behind his palm, holding it painfully within his rib cage.

     A rustle of fabric signifies Shinjuro’s approach. Slowly, he kneels in front of the bed, looking up at Kyojuro with watery eyes. His expression is caring in a way that feels much more foreign than it should. He reaches up to gently cup Kyojuro’s trembling shoulders, slowly, as if asking for permission.

     Kyojuro lets him.

     The moment Shinjuro pulls him into his embrace, Kyojuro finally crumbles. He slumps forward into his father’s arms like he hasn’t since he was a child, and silently weeps into his shoulder. It’s a bit different than he caught himself imagining from time to time. Kyojuro is bigger now, and his father no longer feels like the strongest man he’s ever known. Now, his body mirrors Kyojuro’s in height and build, if not slightly frailer from disuse. And yet, his worn hands rub Kyojuro’s back as his tears stain his yukata, just like they did long ago.

     They stay like this for a long while, Kyojuro heaving all of his grief and loneliness into his father’s shoulders as Shinjuro strokes his hair and scrubs away his own tears.

     Kyojuro is the first to move away, digging the heel of his palm into his remaining eye. Salty tears burn against his wounded eye socket, and he runs a careful hand over the bandage. Shinjuro keeps a steadying hand on Kyojuro’s arm, watching him with sad eyes as Kyojuro rubs the tears from his cheeks.

     “Well, that was a long time coming, huh?” Shinjuro says, the corner of his mouth twitching in a hesitant smile. Kyojuro laughs wetly before he can stop himself.

     “Yeah,” he admits. “A really, really long time.”

     Shinjuro sighs heavily. “Look, Kyojuro. I’m not stupid. I don’t expect you to forgive and forget everything just because we had one good day.” Kyojuro drops his gaze to the floor with a gentle nod. His father is right—as moved as he is by what has just happened, twelve years of foul words and drunken threats won’t go away quite so fast. His doubt and stress is numbed down now, smoothed over by hope and a foreign warmth, but it still pinches at the back of his skull.

     “I’ll tell you what,” Shinjuro proposes. He seems nervous. “I’m gonna go and talk to Kocho about a plan to stay off the sake—for good this time—and maybe, if you feel up to it, we can…we can talk some more? Give this a try?”

     Kyojuro takes a deep breath, straightening up to stand before his father. His smile is small and vulnerable, so unlike his typical expression.

     “I’d like that,” Kyojuro agrees, his voice sounding a bit shy.

     Shinjuro returns the grin, squeezing Kyojuro’s arm one last time before leaving the room. Kyojuro stares at the door from which he left, dumbfounded. A giddy feeling is slowly swelling in his chest. It’s the kind that blocks out all of the doubtful mutters he’s repressed for years and years. It’s the kind that leans in close and whispers, maybe this time.

     For once, Kyojuro believes it.

     He finally unfreezes himself, heading back towards the room of chatting teens.

     He might as well channel this energy into something useful. And besides, he has a tsuguko to train.

                                   ***

     Hakuji returns to his nursing duties in a spectacular mood. The adrenaline rush from the recovery training lingers in his body, leaving him with a soothing buzz. It’s a bit odd to feel such a way again. As a demon, he would ceaselessly track down the strongest opponents, desperate to chase the rush. But now, it feels a bit more like a domestic sort of happiness than a high. Hakuji quite likes it, even if it makes a strange shyness squirm in his gut.

     To his endless surprise, his patients notice. He has been gone for the past two days, after all, what with the rice test and the rehabilitation work. Hakuji had not expected a particularly upbeat reaction, or even a welcome-back. After all, he’s just another nurse at the mansion, one with abnormally steady hands and a bellyful of sin. But he is greeted warmly by those he tends on the regular, so much so that it makes him a bit uncomfortable. He has no idea what to do with the affection.

     “Well, somebody sure needed that day off!” A younger slayer had remarked earlier, her laugh genuine and light-hearted. “You’re practically glowing, Hakuji-san! Did you get some good rest? Go and see a sweetheart in town, maybe?” He had blushed deeper than he should have at the question. Of course he hadn’t! All he had done was spent the morning with Kyojuro. However, when he reported this to her, she had given him a grin and a knowing look, eyes twinkling.

     Hakuji still doesn’t understand what that one was supposed to mean, or why that particular moment keeps replaying in his head, but he does his best to let it go as he tends to his other patients.

     As the day goes on, he keeps a close eye on Kyojuro’s fighting spirit. It remains tense, sometimes swooping lower into grief and higher into hope, but the emotional turmoil is clear as day. It does put a damper on his enthusiasm. Hakuji still harbors plenty of fury for Shinjuro. No matter how much apologizing he does, and how much invaluable information he relays to Tanjiro about his breathing style, Hakuji will never forget the awful things he said about Kyojuro.

     He feels much better once Shinjuro’s spirit finally runs off to mingle with Kocho’s, and Kyojuro retreats out to the library with Tanjiro and Nezuko. Zenitsu and Inosuke tag along too, which makes Hakuji grin as their rowdy spirits follow the warmth of Kyojuro’s. The Flame Hashira is back in the field, and he has a lot of work to catch up on. Hakuji doesn’t suspect they’ll find much about Hinokami Kagura among Shinobu’s collection of medical journals and patient records, especially with the chaotic duo following along, but he supposes it’s a start.

     Hakuji has gotten much better at cooking. Aside from Aoi, who is capricious as ever, the girls are very patient with him. Kanao gently corrects his chopping form whenever she passes through, and the trio chatter away about seasonings and ingredients. Their lessons are very informative, and Hakuji does his best to follow along, but it probably doesn’t help that he doesn’t know what half of them are in the first place. Still, he manages to carry his weight and pull together a fairly decent batch of broth.

     Hakuji makes his usual rounds for meal delivery, mind only slightly occupied. He can feel the spirits of Kyojuro and the kids migrating to the outside courtyard, and he itches to join them. Thankfully, the boys’ room falls along his usual meal route, so he has an excuse to see them under the guise of delivering their dinner.

     Hakuji leaves the tray on the ground as he slides open the door to the courtyard, and his delivery is quickly forgotten.

     Zenitsu and Inosuke are locked in a classic scuffle, the latter whaling on him with jagged dual blades as Zenitsu screeches in fear. Kyojuro is injured still, Hakuji knows, so he and Tanjiro are not in combat like the others. Instead, Tanjiro slashes the evening air, spinning on his heels and running through a series of sword forms that Hakuji has not seen him perform before. They look like water breathing, which should not be under Kyojuro’s area of expertise. But as he watches, Kyojuro chuckles softly and steps forward to adjust Tanjiro’s posture. Kyojuro bends his body to mirror his tsuguko’s pose, gesturing to himself to demonstrate the subtle differences in their forms. Hakuji watches as if entranced.

     His latest dream renters his mind like water bubbling up from a spring, and sadness pools in his belly. Kyojuro’s gentle guidance and strong hands suddenly remind him painfully of Keizou. Teaching seems to come naturally to him, and Tanjiro nods excitably as he soaks in every word out of his master’s mouth.

     How Hakuji misses having a master. A real master, not the tyrannical monster that Muzan had been. He misses the way Keizou would guide him through the forms without a hint of impatience, the way he would ruffle Hakuji’s short hair proudly when he succeeded. He misses the feeling of having someone to help when he didn’t understand how to process something new.

     Hakuji’s fingertips brush against the prayer beads on his wrist. Kyojuro laughs brightly from the field, and suddenly the memories feel warm. Nostalgia, he thinks. How very like Kyojuro to remind him of all the good things in life yet again. In a way, Kyojuro has been teaching Hakuji as well. He’s been teaching him how to live again.

     Master, Hakuji whispers to the heavens. Thank you. I am doing as you wished, and I am in good hands. A gentle smile ghosts over his lips.

     Selfishly, he hopes that Keizou is proud of him for taking his fate into his own hands.

     Kyojuro turns then, meeting his gaze with his eye wife in surprise. “Hakuji!” He calls, breaking out into a breathtaking grin. “What brings you out here?”

     Hakuji shakes his head slightly, forcing himself back into reality as all of the boys turn their heads to observe him. “I have dinner,” he says simply, and Inosuke cackles loudly.

     “Very well,” Kyojuro nods. “Boys! Let us call it a night. I believe we may be able to speak with my brother and father about Hinokami Kagura while we eat.” Tanjiro’s face brightens with hope at the news, and he keeps pace as Inosuke and Zenitsu bound up to the porch and collect the tray Hakuji has left by the door.

     Kyojuro saunters after them, smiling fondly as their banter picks up. Hakuji raises his eyebrows in a silent question.

     “Father and I are going to try again,” Kyojuro whispers brightly, and Hakuji breaks into a grin.

     “I’m glad,” he whispers back, following Kyojuro inside.

     As Hakuji slides the door shut behind them, he finds there is nothing but gratitude in his heart.

     He hopes that by some miracle, this peace they have found might last forever.

Chapter Text

     Tengen, to his credit, is currently making a very flashy effort not to panic.

     As far as he knew, the mission to the Entertainment District to annihilate Upper Moon Six was scheduled to take place next week. That’s what he was told by Oyakata-sama, who had called him to the mansion to inform him of his role of an anti-poison buffer during the fight. He had been thrilled—Oyakata-sama had chosen him to be the first to kill an upper moon!—and, upon arriving home, sent his beloved wives to the scene to conduct some pre-mission research.

     For days, everything went quite smoothly. All three of his girls wrote back with daily reports, and Oyakata-sama requested that Tengen take a few days off leading up to the mission to rest and prepare. He had planned to go to the butterfly mansion and visit Kyojuro during this time. The Flame Hashira was one of his dearest friends, after all, and Tengen would be lying if he said he hadn’t been worrying himself sick over Kyojuro’s condition. Especially after his little stint at the pillar meeting. It wasn’t often that he had the chance to check up on an injured friend, and Tengen was jumping at the chance to do so.

     Then, because nothing can ever go perfectly in the Demon Slayer Corps, the letters from his wives stopped coming. This is what has led Tengen to his current predicament—a high speed mission to the nearest Slayer hotspot, in this case the butterfly mansion, to collect a band of nearby Junior slayers and go.

     It’s not that he particularly wants to disobey Oyakata-sama’s orders. Tengen respects the man immensely, and finds his soothing demeanor and endless resilience quite flashy indeed. But in Tengen’s book, nothing outweighs the safety of his wives. If they have missed their daily report, it means they are in danger, which means that the mission to kill Upper Six begins right fucking now.

     Tengen tears through the forest with speed unrivaled, sucking in a self-soothing breath. The midday sunlight feels too damn bright, and nerves have made it hard to think straight. His mind is occupied by the tender thought of Hinatsuru’s delicate smile, Makio’s sharp wit, and Suma’s bright laughter. Unwanted flashbacks of their Shinobi days threaten to seep through, and Tengen strangles them with all of his willpower. He can do nothing but sprint onward to alleviate the anxiety that sends his pulse racing and his stomach churning.

     A turn of the corner sends the soft purple flowers of the wisteria grove into view, and he forces his brain to switch from Tengen Uzui, Panicked Husband to Tengen Uzui, Sound Pillar, God of Festivals. He knows what he’s doing. He’ll get to the mansion, get some backup, and rescue his girls before even a scratch befalls them.

     Assuming they aren’t already dead, whispers a vile ghost in the back of his mind, and Tengen swallows back a mouthful of bile at the thought. He doesn’t have time for those kinds of un-flashy ideas.

     A plan. Fuck, he needs a plan. His wives are posing as Oirans at various pleasure houses around the city, but it’s not as if he can just waltz in and ask for time with them. There is protocol to consider for that sort of thing, and besides, it would be a useless way of gaining information if they weren’t there in the first place.

     That brings him to option B. Infiltration. Which, of course, brings about a whole new set of challenges. Mainly: Tengen cannot do this part himself. In order to achieve a believable front, he needs the junior slayers to be young women. Shinobu has a handful of those hanging around at the mansion anyway, right? He can’t remember their exact ages, but they’ve got to be close enough.

     Tengen has no idea what he’ll do otherwise. The most likely option seems to be having a massive coronary heart attack from the sheer frustration of it all, but he’s choosing to ignore that option for as long as he can.

     When he reaches the mansion after what feels like a hundred years of worrying, Tengen nearly rips the gate off its track in a desperate attempt to open it. His gaze sweeps over the courtyard, taking in the full extent of his surroundings in a heartbeat. The sunlight illuminates the greenery of the yard in a cheery, early autumn aesthetic. The cobblestone path is pristinely kept, there is a pair of kakushi leaving to the east, and off to the side, a collection of butterfly girls are hanging fresh laundry out to dry in the sun. They have their backs turned, but Tengen has already seen what he needs to.

     The one closest to him is wearing a Demon Slayer uniform under her nurse’s dress.

     Bingo.

     Tengen crosses the yard in three frenzied strides, and then the girl is tucked shrieking under his burly arm. He grabs the second closest as well without really getting a good look at her. All he sees are twin braids, and yep, she should work fine.

     What he didn’t account for is the sheer defiance from the two younger girls on the ground. They each scream with a shrillness that pierces his sensitive eardrums like a pair of needles, and Tengen flinches, disdain clear on his face.

     “Listen up,” he announces. “I’m gonna be taking these girls for a mission! You all go back to business as usual!”

     “KIDNAPPER!” Squeals the runt with stringy bangs, and Tengen rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts. These have got to be some of the unflashiest children he has ever met.

     “I’m not a kidnapper, brat; I’m a Hashira!” He counters, no small amount of indignation in his tone. Unfortunately for him, the girls don’t seem to be listening, and oh, great, a third one has appeared.

     This one, actually, he recognizes. Her blank stare and pink butterfly hairpin ring a bell somewhere in the back of his brain. That’s right—she’s Shinobu’s tsuguko. Which is terrible news, because that means he is legally not allowed to recruit the silent girl without Shinobu’s express permission. It seems the two he has will just have to do. Tengen sighs, turning to leave as the junior slayers thrash in his hold.

     “Let me down!” The girl with ponytails shrieks, kicking uselessly at his chest as he throws her over one shoulder. “Please, I’m begging you! We—this girl is—“

     “Just shut it already,” Tengen grumbles. All of the noise is giving him a killer headache. The girls on the ground are wailing as well, tears streaming down their faces. Shinobu’s tsuguko simply stares at him with wide eyes. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of her jaw.

     “Kanao!” Cries the pigtail girl, reaching a hand out to the tsuguko. Kanao, thankfully, does not move. Tengen lets out a tiny sigh of relief, and keeps walking.

     His moment of peace lasts for about ten seconds. Kanao darts forward, grabbing hold of the two girls in his arms and digging her heels stubbornly into the ground. Tengen grinds his teeth together to keep from screaming in frustration.

     “Stop that yanking,” he groans. “Could you be any less flashy? Did you forget that you just recieved orders from a superior? Oh, say something, Damnit!!”

     Kanao does not budge. It seems that her display of defiance has lit a fire under the feet of the other girls, because with a shrill battle cry from stringy-bangs, Tengen finds himself being swarmed. The girl in blue latches onto his ankles, and the other somehow manages to climb up his front and get a hold of his head.

     “Agh!” He chokes, thrashing about in an attempt to free himself from the child army. “Are you shitting me right now? Cut it out!”

The girls are relentless, hanging on for dear life as he writhes in their tiny grips. Eventually, he gives up and resumes his trek towards the gate, this time weighed down by an extra few hundred pounds of stubborn children.

     Fine, he thinks to himself. If these stupid kids want to try and stop me, they can go right ahead. Nothing on this planet is going to stop me from getting to this mission with the slayers I need.

     The second the thought finishes circling through his brain, he is instantly proven wrong. A presence spreads out across the courtyard, heavy and saturated with fury. The pressure of it squeezes Tengen’s body until he can no longer stand it, and he whips around to see who the hell dares to stand in his way this time.

     There, standing under the shade of the engawa, is Hakuji in all of his glory.

     He looks far less flashy than the last time Tengen saw him. His bright hair has dulled to a boring black, and the symmetrical tattoos lining his body have vanished. His outfit is plain black and white, the only bit of color a stitched purple butterfly on the left side of his chest. It’s honestly extremely underwhelming, and Tengen makes a mental note to talk to Shinobu about getting him a little more flamboyance in his outward appearance.

     Under different circumstances, Tengen would have shamelessly pointed this fact out to him. However, Hakuji’s face is set with fury, the hard angle of his jaw jutting out with his bared teeth. His form tremors slightly, vibrating with anger to his very core. The sight is jarring enough to give Tengen pause as he turns to fully face him.

     “What the hell are you doing?” Hakuji breathes, his voice the calm before the storm. “Let those girls go right now.”

     Tengen cracks his neck to release the pressure on his body. “I need these Junior slayers on my mission, moron. I’m going to go kill your old friends Upper Moon Six.”

     Oh, that was definitely the wrong answer. “Don’t fucking call them that,” Hakuji seethes. “The Sixes were never my friends, and those are our butterfly girls, not some fucking pawns for your mission! You aren’t even supposed to be having the mission yet, are you, you creep?”

     “Hakuji-san!” Wails the girl with braids. “Please help us!” Aoi struggles in his arms with renewed vigor, reaching out for Hakuji in desperation. Hakuji takes a few steps forward to the edge of the engawa, hovering at the sunlight line. He snarls, a primal sound, as he shifts his weight around. Tengen grins. Alas, daylight will eternally be Hakuji’s trump card, which means he can do as he pleases.

     “Have a good time nursing, Hakuji,” he calls cheerily as he turns to leave again.

     A shockwave tears past him, crashing into the gate and splintering it. Tengen freezes. Things have escalated.

     “Careful now,” he calls back, “you’ll hit one of the girls, and that’s bad news for both of us.”

     “Put them down,” Hakuji repeats. His tone has become increasingly dangerous, and Tengen catches himself wondering if this is how he sounded when he fought Kyojuro at the Mugen train. “Put them DOWN. Naho isn’t even a fucking slayer, she’s a child! They’re both kids, you fucking monster!”

     “Says the demon to the hashira,” Tengen spits back. He doesn’t have time for this. For all he knows, his wives could be bleeding out right now, could be dying, and he’s sitting here arguing with a demon who can’t physically reach him or hit him with a distanced attack. “I’m taking these girls, and that is final! I am a god, Hakuji, and I will do what I need to do!” Okay, maybe that last part was unnecessary, but it was fun, so Tengen lets himself off the hook.

     “MONSTER!” Hakuji howls again. “FUCKING COWARD! GET YOUR SORRY ASS BACK HERE AND GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF OUR GIRLS!” He is pacing now, snarling and darting along the edge of the engawa like a cornered, feral animal. His eyes are blown wide, and oh shit, the demon lines are beginning to bleed through Hakuji’s skin. In his fury, his human glamor is slipping, and he is reverting back to what he is. A beast.

     Tengen turns to walk away again as Hakuji hurls another shockwave into the cobblestone path behind his heels. The pristine landscaping around him is shaken as Hakuji’s air strikes slam threateningly into the ground.

     “SHINOBU!!” Hakuji screams, and the sound echos sharply in Tengen’s eardrums. Oh, fuck. This is bad news. Tengen picks up the pace, desperate to escape before Shinobu arrives.

     He’s at the very gate when he is suddenly wrenched backwards, the stinger of a blade pressed to the back of his neck.

     “Hello, Uzui-san,” Shinobu purrs. “How kind of you to join us today. Why don’t you come inside while we discuss what the hell you think you’re doing to my girls?”

     Tengen swallows a lump of anxiety in his throat. He’s been bested.

     As he turns reluctantly to follow the Insect Hashira back onto her turf, he catches sight of the small army that has assembled on the porch. Hakuji looks entirely demonic, his bright features having bled back through in his rage. Behind him, hands on the demon’s shoulders, is Kyojuro. He’s dressed in an autumn toned Yukata, his left eye covered with a simple black eyepatch, and Tengen feels a twinge of guilt in his gut as he remembers his original plan for coming here. Gathered around the pair are those three annoying boys, including the one from the trial a few months back. His demon sister even sits at his feet, looking a bit confused.

     Tengen sighs, shoulders slumping as he lets the girls down. They immediately bolt to the porch, latching onto anyone who will protect them. The nerves that have had him running on high are beginning to melt into cold, chest-aching dread.

As he surrenders himself to the judgement of the Butterfly Crew, he sends a brief prayer to anyone listening that his beloved wives will be alright for just a little while longer.

                                  ***

     Hakuji is reeling.

     He’s vaguely aware of Kyojuro’s strong hands resting on his shoulders, and of Naho’s presence as she clings to his leg, hiding behind him. Aoi quickly ushers her away to join the others. The boys are yammering loudly at Tengen as he begrudgingly follows Shinobu inside. It takes all of Hakuji’s willpower not to strangle the Hashira as he passes. Tanjiro is gesturing brightly to himself and his two companions, and from what Hakuji catches of their conversation, it sounds like he is volunteering the three of them to go in the girls’ stead.

     Still, Hakuji can’t think straight enough to wrap his head around what has just happened. He was just minding his business, wrapping a kakushi’s shoulder which had been dislocated on the site of his mission, when Hakuji had heard Aoi scream and bolted. He barely remembers the events of the past few minutes. There were the girls, their fighting spirits flaring bright with panic. There was Tengen, whose spirit was obnoxiously loud and dense, yet churned with a silent worry. Hakuji had screamed at him, he thinks, and then before he could form a logical alternative, his Blood Demon Art had flared up within him to hurl desperate attacks at Tengen’s retreating form.

     Ah, that explains it. He had used his Blood Art.

     Hakuji sucks in a shuddering breath as his head spins. His veins burn with a bitter heat, blood thrumming with the leftover effects. After not using it for so long, it’s no wonder that the power would overwhelm his reformed system. His vision is bleary as he looks down at his arms, and the sight of his demonic markings make him want to be sick.

     “Hakuji,” someone says, and then Kyojuro is right in front of him. His remaining eye burns into Hakuji’s own, captivating him as effortlessly as always. Kyojuro lets go of his shoulders to clutch each of his hands, forcing him to pay attention.

     “My demon marks,” Hakuji mutters, and his voice comes out slightly feverish.

     Kyojuro’s brows are set in a grim line. “Yes. I need you to take a deep breath for me, Hakuji; you are getting yourself far too worked up.” Hakuji does as he says, diaphragm spasming slightly as his chest expands and contracts with his breath.

     “I know that was stressful for you,” Kyojuro continues softly. “I appreciate your attempts to protect the girls. Thank you for alerting us to the situation! You did well.”

     Hakuji nods softly, taking another deep inhale. He focuses his mind inward, trying to reclaim the lingering traces of his Blood Art and disperse the extra energy throughout his body. It helps to settle his blood, and Hakuji feels his mind clear slowly as he comes back to himself.

     He spreads his focus over his pale, striped skin, trying to recreate the method of shifting his appearance that he used the first time. His appearance is more accurate this time, now that he actually remembers what he looked like. For a moment, Hakuji debates adding the tattoos he had gained around his wrists. After all, they look so wrong with the skin unmarred. Eventually, though, he decides against it. His patients would be incredibly suspicious if he suddenly reappeared with a number of Edo criminal tattoos, which had formed out of nowhere, perfectly healed. Reluctantly, Hakuji paints over his wrists, leaving them bare and pristine.

     “There you are,” Kyojuro says gently, and Hakuji opens his eyes to see him beaming from ear to ear. “Does that feel better?”

     Hakuji opens his mouth to agree, and is suddenly hit with a sensation he foolishly hoped he would never feel again. He closes his jaw slowly, giving Kyojuro a weak attempt at a smile and a silent nod. The slayer’s brow furrows slightly, but his grin does not fade as he ushers Hakuji inside with a palm against the small of his back.

     Hakuji’s heart is beginning to pound, cold fear leaking through his tense body. This can’t be happening. Not now, not yet. Shinobu still hasn’t come up with a solution! They still have so much research to do; surely they can find an answer if his stupid body will just hold on!

     Yet, as he follows Kyojuro’s lead into the sitting room, passing Tengen and the boys on the way out, he knows that there is no denying it. His well-wishes sound hollow as he sends the boys off. He can’t even find it in him to throw Tengen one last vile glare. A promise is made to keep them posted if Hakuji recalls any more pertinent information on Upper Six, and then the team is gone and Hakuji is left with the horrible feeling of self awareness.

     The sensation pools in the pit of his belly, pinching uncomfortably at the lining of his stomach and turning his head foggy. It’s the feeling that has caused so much pain at his hands in the past, and the same one with the potential to cause so much more.

     Hakuji swallows thickly, his shaking fingers brushing the prayer beads around his wrist. In a silent horror, he opens his mind in prayer to anyone who can save him from the monster slowly tossing its head within his belly.

     The beast has awoken, and with it has come hunger.

Chapter Text

     Ultimately, Hakuji leaves Kyojuro alone in the foyer as he stumbles out to find Shinobu.

      He mumbles something about private research as he goes. It’s a lame excuse, and Kyojuro can probably see right through it, but he allows Hakuji to leave nonetheless. A brief twinge of concern and hurt twinges in the Hashira’s spirit, and guilt adds itself helpfully to the churning in Hakuji’s stomach. A part of him knows that Kyojuro would be understanding if Hakuji told him the truth, knows that he would want to help, but the thought of admitting his hunger to such a brilliant human flushes him through with shame. Kyojuro is the very picture of human excellence, with strong morals and never ending empathy. He vouched for Hakuji with the understanding that he would not harm any more human beings. And now, here he is, dangerous once more.

     The route to Shinobu’s office has become muscle memory by this point, and Hakuji traverses it in a haze. A chill shudders through him at the thought of coming clean. He knows full well that Shinobu is his best hope, but he also knows that she is painfully aware of what strong demons can do when they get hungry. He chews nervously on his lip, shifting his weight uncertainly as he stands outside her door.

     If Shinobu sees in him the same light she saw Douma, as nothing but a hungry beast coiled to strike, he doesn’t think he will ever recover.

     Thankfully, Shinobu gets tired of his awkward lurking before he has to muster the strength to enter.

     “I can sense you loitering out there, Hakuji-san,” she calls. Her bright voice has taken on a sharp edge, and he prays that the anger is directed at Tengen’s little stunt and not at him. “If you’d like to come in, I would much rather talk to you face to face than keep marinating in second-hand anxious energy.”

     Oof. Hakuji slides open the door, retreating quietly to his usual perch on the lab table. He sits cross legged, staring down at his lap and fidgeting with his fingernails.

      Shinobu doesn’t look up from her work. She’s situated at her desk, writing what appears to be two letters at once. She gets a few calm lines at a time written on the first one before switching to scribble pure fury onto the second. Hakuji observes this process for awhile, trying to work up the nerve to confess.

     “What are you working on?” He asks instead, and Shinobu chuckles darkly to herself. She holds up the first paper. “This is a letter to Oyakata-sama, informing him that Uzui-san has just initiated the Entertainment District mission earlier than expected. And this…” She holds up the second. “…is a letter for Uzui-san to read when he gets settled in, detailing the exact torturous procedures he shall endure if he ever approaches one of my girls again!”

     Hakuji can’t help himself from giving a short cackle at the thought. “We should cut his dick off,” he grins, and Shinobu mirrors his pleased expression. “Already in there,” she agrees, shaking the paper proudly before turning back and grabbing her brush again.

     Hakuji clears his throat, looking down now that the moment has passed. “I…um. I was actually hoping I could talk to you about something.”

     Shinobu hums. “Can it wait until I send this letter out?”

     His heart spasms. Hakuji will probably have to tell Kagaya what happened as well. After all, as the leader of the Corps, he is the most likely to have extra knowledge on the subject of treating hunger in demons. Still, the mental image of the master’s gentle face hardened with disappointment makes him shiver. “Actually, I was hoping we could do it now?”

     A streak of irritation slithers through Shinobu’s spirit, and Hakuji cringes. “Hakuji-san,” she says patiently. “The fact that Uzui-san has begun the mission is very important, and Oyakata-sama needs to know immediately. Please hold your tongue until I have the information safely on its way.”

     Oh, no. That won’t do at all. “No—I mean, I have something important to say that I think he might need to hear as well. And Besides, I…” His voice cracks slightly as shame forms a lump in his throat. The rest of the phrase comes out much softer than before.

     “…I think I need help, Shinobu,” he finishes, feeling a desperate sting behind his eyes that he quickly blinks away. The woman in question turns slowly to face him, face set in an unreadable expression. She’s preparing for the worst, Hakuji realizes. Clearly hearing such a statement from a demon like himself does not have good implications. The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach.

     “Go on,” she prompts, her voice lower than usual. Her spirit flushes indigo with unease, clinging close to her skin. He looks away. It’s times like these when his ability to sense other’s auras feels a bit more like a curse.

     “I lost control in the courtyard today,” he begins, his voice sounding hollow. “I didn’t mean to get so worked up, I just…I was afraid for Aoi and Naho, and I hated the way that Tengen acted like they were worthless. I let out parts of myself that I’m not proud of. You know, the parts I’ve been tucking away since I got here.”

     “Your demonic attributes?” Shinobu clarifies, and he nods. “Yeah. My hair, my eyes, my stripes, my…my Blood Art. And I think in doing so, I, um. I guess I brought forth some other things I had been repressing too.”

     “What sorts of things?” Shinobu leans forward slightly, her spirit lightening with false hope. “New memories, perhaps?”

     Hakuji draws his arms around himself as his stomach twinges with longing. How he wishes that were the case. He would endure even the most horrible of wisteria-induced nightmares if it meant he could free himself from the curse of his demonic famine.

     “No,” he chokes out. “Shinobu, I…I’m hungry. A-and I’m scared that I’ll lose control again and hurt someone on accident. I don’t know what to do.” There are tears in his eyes as he stumbles over the last word. Shinobu is silent, her spirit turning over itself in enraged circles as she processes.

     “Alright,” she says finally. “Alright. It’s going to be okay, Hakuji-san. You proved your willpower at the Hashira meeting when you resisted Shinazugawa-san’s marechi blood, so I trust you can hold yourself together until I figure something out.”

     Hakuji’s head snaps up. “Really?” He breathes. “But—you seem so angry.”

     Shinobu gives a bitter laugh. “Of course I’m angry, Hakuji-san. I’m furious at Muzan for doing this to you, and admittedly, I’m a bit angry at Uzui-san for putting you in a position that triggered your hunger. I’m disappointed that I still don’t know how to free you from your status as a demon. But I’m not angry at you. You came to me as soon as something felt wrong, and we’re going to figure this out, alright?”

     Hakuji shuts his eyes against the emotions that threaten to spill over his cheeks. “Alright,” he agrees softly. “Thank you, Shinobu.”

     She gives him a reassuring smile, although it’s a bit tight at the edges. “Let me finish writing to Oyakata-sama, okay? He knows somebody who I think can help you. When he came over a few weeks ago to speak to us, he mentioned a demon who had successfully adjusted herself to live off of only blood.”

     Hakuji’s heart skips a beat. The ability to live off of blood alone would…well, it would change everything. A demon with such an ability  could feed without killing or perhaps even seriously harming anybody. If Hakuji could have his body altered to live in such a way, it could allow him to stay here without the fear of hurting his friends. He could coexist with humans better than ever before. Yearning pulls at his heartstrings, making his chest ache.

     “Please keep me posted,” Hakuji blurts out. “You know, when Kagaya-sama writes back.”

     “I will,” Shinobu promises, already turning back to her writing to add a footnote under the first letter. Hakuji extends his senses throughout the mansion, searching for the familiar blaze of Kyojuro’s fighting spirit for a scrap of selfish comfort. He finds it mingling in with Senjuro and Shinjuro, and a soft smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

     Shinobu whistles shrilly out the window, and her crow swoops in to carry Shinobu’s messages away. Hakuji watches as it flies off, a tiny flicker of hope alighting in the back of his mind.

     After all, if anyone knows what to do, it will be Kagaya.

                                 ***

     It’s fall, which means that the scarring over Kagaya’s eyes is slowly starting to get worse.

     He’s always attributed it to the change in seasons. After all, the way the cold infiltrates the gentle autumn winds and turns them bitter would bite at the skin of even a healthy person. In Kagaya’s case, this means that his curse-marred skin turns tender and is prone to cracking and bleeding should he raise his brow or twist his jaw too far. He has long since accepted the curse as a fact of his life. Still, it doesn’t stop him from regretting the way the extra pain draws his focus astray.

     Kagaya sighs, shaking his head slightly and brushing his thick hair back from his stinging forehead as he refocuses on the array of maps and letters in front of him. His vision is mostly gone by now. Kagaya can still see the stark contrasts of black ink on white paper, and his fading sight catches flashes of bright colors wherever they are present. This skill is mostly important during Hashira meetings, when he can track his beloved children through the muddled view of their bright hair and haoris. However, it does not help him read. The only way he can comprehend the literature in front of him is through a painstaking process of translation.

     It works like this: Amane orates letters, texts, and records that are sent to the estate aloud so he can hear. Meanwhile, Kagaya takes a needle and punches holes through the paper in a practiced pattern. Braille. This way, Kagaya can continue on with his duties by brushing his slender fingertips over the holes and piecing the message back together in his head for future reference.

     Currently, he is reviewing the sudden wave of reports on demonic activity. His deft right hand sweeps over the information on the records, tracking the dotted locations of his slayers on the maps with his left. The instances of young children vanishing in the woods falls under Muichiro’s territory. The multiple sightings of a supposed monster in a river are under Gyoumei’s patrol, although the case does not seem to require Hashira level coverage, so he will send a pair of Tsuchinotos and a Hinoe who are stationed nearby. The apparent serial killer on the outskirts of a city would typically be covered by Kyojuro, but he is still off of active duty while he recovers, so Kagaya dispatches a Kinoe and a Kinoto with Mitsuri on standby should the situation escalate.

     Kagaya has set the papers aside, preparing to record his decisions in his personal data book, when Amane enters with a new letter. His failing vision allows him a flash of pink from her kimono against the blue of her haori as she sits beside him at the table.

     “My love,” he greets her gently, and she takes his hand in hers, pressing it to her soft lips. Kagaya wishes he could see her now, her dark eyes carrying the sparkles of the sun within them. Instead, he settles for ghosting his hand over her shoulder.

     “Letter from the Butterfly Estate,” she says simply, and Kagaya hums, reluctantly withdrawing his hand to prepare to transcribe the message.

     “Thank you, Amane. I am ready.”

     His wife unfolds the paper, drawing in a breath, before pausing. Kagaya can sense shock radiating from her being without having to see it, and his stomach clenches with worry. “Amane? Is something wrong?”

     Her figure blurs as she presumably shakes her head, and then catches herself, speaking aloud this time. “No, Kagaya-sama. The letter comes from Kocho-sama directly.”

     When Amane reads the letter, her voice remains steady.

     Oyakata-sama,

     With this letter, I send my well wishes for the health and well-being of yourself, Amane-sama, and each of your children. I write to inform you that Uzui Tengen-san has just left for the Entertainment District to initiate the mission against Upper Moon Six, and has taken with him Kamado Tanjiro-kun, Agatsuma Zenitsu-kun, and Hashibira Inosuke-kun. When asked for the reason, he informed me that his wives had fallen out of contact, and he believes they could be in danger. Please forgive me for sending the three Junior slayers along without your permission, but it was necessary to prevent him from taking my Butterfly Nurses in their stead.

     Kagaya shakes his head slightly in astonishment. Tengen has always been a wild card, and Kagaya knows full well that his wives are his top priority. It should not come as a surprise that he has begun the mission early at the slightest sign of danger. He quickly punches down the names and location of the three boys. It seems that he and Amane will simply have to prepare for the mission quicker than they had thought.

     Additionally, Amane continues, I have information concerning the status of Hakuji-san, my newest Butterfly Nurse and the former Upper Moon Three.

     Kagaya’s heart stutters. If something has gone wrong, he will never forgive himself for having sanctioned Hakuji’s service at the estate. The decision was difficult enough in the first place, but he has since fully trusted in Hakuji’s reformation.

     Hakuji acted violently against Uzui-san today. However, none of his attacks connected or caused any harm, and all of his actions were in protection of the young girls who Uzui-san was kidnapping. I do not believe that Hakuji held any malicious intent, and therefore do not think it is necessary to punish him.

     Unfortunately, in the heat of the moment, Hakuji-san tapped into his Blood Demon Art, which he has not used since the fight at the Mugen Train. He came immediately to me after Uzui-san and the boys departed, and reported that the revival of his Blood Art has instilled within him the threat of hunger.

     As Kaygaya’s  brow furrows with alarm, his scarred skin splits slightly with the tension. He brushes away a bead of blood with the pad of his thumb. Amane’s small hand comes to rest on his shoulder, a tiny comfort. He forces himself to focus on the spot of warmth under her hand and not the terrifying possibilities that this situation could bring to light. This is no time for fear, and Kagaya must remember to remain collected should he need to act.

     So far, the situation has proven harmless. Hakuji-san still retains full control over his hunger and willpower, and he has made no move to hurt anybody, although he seems to be afraid of doing so. Whether this fear is rational or not is uncertain.

     I would like to request the input of Tamayo-san, the demon doctor that you told me of during our meeting a few weeks ago. I have no way of contacting her directly, but I believe that the only solution to Hakuji-san’s hunger is to attempt to alter his body in a similar way that she did hers. Please let me know if there is anything you can do to connect us with her services. You have my deepest gratitudes.

     Amane slowly lowers the letter. Kagaya stares straight ahead at the table, folding his hands together. He gently closes his eyes, breathing slowly to keep himself suspended in his perpetual calm. In all honesty, he is uncertain what to do. Just because he knows of Tamayo’s existence does not mean that he has any inkling of the exact location where she resides.     

     Kagaya pushes his consciousness backward into his mind, searching after any information he has on her in hopes of stirring something up. His skin must be bleeding again, for he feels Amane press something soft in between his eyes, her other hand situated soothingly on the small of his back. By now she is well accustomed to his habit of vanishing into his own thoughts. Kagaya’s presence steps fully back from his conscious body, opening his awareness to the innermost parts of his mind.

     Kagaya’s mental world greets him as gently as always. There is no imagery, no physical form. There is only the gentle breeze of early spring kissing his skin and the mountains of memories that clink softly against each other like the ringing of wind chimes. When he searches through them, there is no sensation in his fingertips. It is a strange feeling, excruciating and yet numb, and Kagaya dimly registers Amane shifting his trembling body to lean against her for support.

     He pushes himself further, deeper down, and there is a faint tingle at the back of his mind, pinching uncomfortably at his brain stem and slowly working through to his consciousness. A vision.

     It’s been awhile since Kagaya has had a premonition. They have run through his family for generations, and Kagaya’s visions have saved him from many perilous situations in the past. However, recently, his mind has remained frustratingly blank. Whether the curse is affecting his ability to process them or he has been managing fine without the need for intervention from his subconscious, he is not yet sure. Even this vision appears meekly, hanging around the corners of his brain, and Kagaya barely has the strength to force it into the light before it slips once again from his grasp.

     There is a woman with her back turned, her dark hair pinned in a simple updo and her kimono adorned with bright crimson flowers. Her house is nothing fancy, but it has an upstairs and a nice layout, and the street is quiet and unassuming. The building itself is quaint, charming but forgettable enough that nobody would likely pay it any mind.

     Perfect for a demon of her kind to hide.

     Kagaya comes to with a startled inhale, resurfacing in his body to the sensation of Amane supporting his head. His body has been growing weaker as of late, and it seems that even weak visions now impact him much harsher than before.

     “Ah, there you are,” Amane hums softly. She ghosts her fingertips over his neck, feeling for a temperature and checking his pulse. “Are you feeling better, Kagaya-sama? Did you have a vision?”

     “Yes,” he breathes, pushing himself up back to a proper sitting position. “Amane, will you transcribe a letter to Tamayo-san for me?”

     “Of course,” she agrees quickly, the rustling of paper announcing her preparedness. A warm smile finds its way to Kagaya’s lips at the sound.

     Dearest Amane, always at the ready. Sometimes Kagaya wonders which of the gods looked down upon him and sent him such a radiant human to be his wife.

     Amane copies down his message, and he whistles for his crow to deliver it to the building in his vision.

     There is nothing left to do but pray that Tamayo will oblige. In the meantime, the Ubuyashikis have a battle to prepare for.

Chapter Text

     Kyojuro tries to give Hakuji as much space as he can.

     To be honest, he’s not entirely sure what exactly is the matter. Hakuji is certainly still upset about the incident with Tengen and the butterfly girls, but Kyojuro has a nagging feeling in his gut that that’s not the issue. He had held Hakuji’s hands as the demon bled color back into his skin. Kyojuro could feel the air settle and diffuse as Hakuji reeled his energy back in. He had tempered his instincts, he had most certainly come back to himself.

     And then, moments later, Hakuji had stiffened, going pale and absently avoiding eye contact. It was no longer the same rage that had fueled him moments before, but a deep, primal fear that glued Hakuji in place. Kyojuro had felt his stomach drop at the sight as he guided Hakuji inside, and then the demon had run off, looking spooked like a deer in the headlights.

     It’s been a few hours now, and Kyojuro’s patience is beginning to thin. He has joined his father and brother in the foyer to read over some old family records, scouring the pages for mentions of the Hinokami Kagura. Senjuro is diligent in his work, taking way too many notes and reading cover to cover. Shinjuro’s leg bounces eternally, but he still carries his weight, calling out to Senjuro to write down anything he deems important.

     Meanwhile, Kyojuro has read the same page over and over at least a dozen times by now.

     “Aniue,” Senjuro giggles softly, and Kyojuro snaps his head up to see both of their gazes trained on him.

     “My apologies!” Kyojuro announces quickly, hoping that the burn over his cheeks is not as visible as it feels. “It seems that I’m a bit distracted!”

     “No kidding,” Shinjuro chuckles. “I can guarantee you that nothing on that page is interesting enough to warrant two reads, let alone ten.”

     Kyojuro sighs softly, closing the book with  one finger between the pages to mark his place. His smile feels more strained than usual.

     “Did something happen?” Senjuro asks softly. “I heard about what happened earlier. Sumi-chan told me that Hakuji-san was really mad.”

     Kyojuro nods thoughtfully. “Indeed. He ran off a few hours ago for research—“ he bends his fingers in false quotations. “—but he was acting strange, and has yet to return.”

     Shinjuro bristles. “I always thought there was something off about that boy,” he tuts. “When we met back at the house, he had this weird vibe about him.” Kyojuro cringes internally. He had forgotten that his family is still unaware of Hakuji’s demonic nature.

     “You were also atrociously drunk,” Senjuro reminds him bravely, and Shinjuro’s mouth twitches into a smile the way it would never have done a few months ago. Kyojuro huffs a quiet laugh. His family has already grown so much. The fact that they can even joke about it now is a greater improvement than he could have even dreamed of.

     “Hakuji has a good heart,” Kyojuro says simply. “Someday, I hope to introduce the two of you in a much more proper manner!”

     Kyojuro wishes that he missed the way his father’s brow quirked upward in amusement. He had certainly not meant for that statement to hold any…implications. Thankfully, Senjuro comes to his rescue.

     “Maybe you should go check in on him? You don’t think he’s gotten hurt or anything, do you?” Senjuro nibbles on his bottom lip, concern already settled into his soft features. Kyojuro reaches over to ruffle his hair.

     “I’m sure he’s alright,” he assures him. “Hakuji is a tough guy, I doubt that he would have been injured!” At least, Kyojuro hopes that this is the case. Hakuji’s regeneration prevents him from retaining any physical wounds, but it’s possible that the demon had recovered another traumatic memory, or perhaps the reversion to his true form was exhausting.

     “Kyojuro,” Shinjuro puts his book down, expression teasing. “Go check on your friend. It’ll do you some good, and god knows it’s hard for the rest of us to research when you’re worrying so damn hard.”

     Kyojuro laughs for real this time as Senjuro nods furiously. “Alright,” he relents, “alright. I’ll go and check on him.”

     Kyojuro leaves the book on the table, following the hallway to Shinobu’s lab. “Tell Hakuji-san I say hi,” Senjuro hollers at his retreating back, and Kyojuro waves in acknowledgment.

     The faint pull of Hakuji’s presence reaches Kyojuro’s senses before he even enters the room. It is no longer heavy like it was earlier, but the faint traces of intensity linger in the back of his mind. Perhaps a Junior slayer would have missed it, but it makes Kyojuro’s hair stand on end.

     There is no answer when he knocks, so Kyojuro lets himself in.

     Hakuji sits in his usual spot on the lab table, hugging his knees to his chest and hiding the bottom half of his face against them. His eyes slide to meet Kyojuro’s, and they are overflowing with guilt and fear. There’s something else in there too, something that makes Kyojuro’s heart drop. As a Rengoku, Kyojuro has never gone hungry. His family has always been quite well off, so he has never known the pain of starvation. But he has seen this look in the eyes of many civilians on his missions. Hakuji carries the same expression as the children in the street that Kyojuro shares rations with whenever he encounters them. It’s the expression of hunger, with eyes dull and sunken in shadows.

     “Oh, Hakuji,” Kyojuro breathes softly, heart aching, and the demon’s eyes immediately well with tears.

     “I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I didn’t mean to ditch you. I’m sorry if I upset you, I just didn’t want you to see me like this.”

     Kyojuro hums comfortingly, closing the door behind him. “You did not! I was simply worried about your well-being. Forgive me if this is presumptuous, but judging by your body language…”

     “I’m so hungry, Kyojuro,” Hakuji admits in a choked whisper, a fat tear trailing down his cheek. His voice is thick with guilt. “I don’t want to hurt anybody, but it’s like my stomach is eating itself, and I…I’m so fucking scared that I’ll lose myself. I mean, you could already sense it!”

     Kyojuro pushes himself up to sit next to him on the metal lab table, even as Hakuji scoots away with nerves. “Thank you for communicating with me,” Kyojuro says softly. “I could see it in your eyes. Hunger is something that we have expected to happen to you at some point, we just need to figure out how to help!” He gives Hakuji his brightest grin. “Besides, you know how to handle yourself now. If you can break free from Muzan’s curse, you can handle a little hunger without a problem! I believe in your ability to remain in control wholeheartedly.”

     Hakuji angrily scrubs away the tears that dampen his cheeks. His body is stiff, stress evident in each strained muscle. “I just hate this,” he whispers, his voice full of heart breaking vulnerability. “I felt like I was doing so well, and so much progress was taken away before I could even do anything.”

     A soft chuckle escaped Kyojuro’s lips. “Ah, Hakuji, this is progress!” He insists. “I’m sure Kocho has a plan, does she not? And as soon as that plan is put into action, you’ll never have to worry about getting hungry again!”

     “She wrote to Kagaya-sama,” Hakuji informs him. He sounds defeated. “He wrote back pretty quickly, telling us that he had contacted a special demon doctor called Tamayo. So…hopefully she shows up, because she’s our only hope.”

     Kyojuro’s heart sinks, and he tries not to let it show on his face. He has never heard of such a demon before, which clearly means she has been in hiding from the Corps. Therefore, the likelihood of her sauntering into a Slayer hotspot to help out is quite low. He forces himself to strangle that line of thought, lifting his smile back into place.     

     “She’ll show up,” Kyojuro insists, and as he speaks it out loud, he finds that he believes it. “She will. You’re an interesting case; I’m certain that Tamayo-san will want to study you!”

     “I hope so,” Hakuji mumbles, slumping forward into a cross-cross position. “I don’t know what I’ll do otherwise.”

     “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Kyojuro hums. “Until then, you ought to try to relax, yes?”

     Hakuji growls slightly in frustration. “I appreciate your attempts to help, Kyojuro, but that’s easy to say when you aren’t the one with the surprise craving for human flesh.”

     Kyojuro winces. “Touché. Still, you’re all stiff with nerves! That posture can’t be good for you!”

     “I’m a demon,” he sighs, dropping his chin to his chest and staring down at his bare wrists. “It won’t hurt me.”

     Still, as Kyojuro scoots closer to work the tension from his shoulders, he does not move away.

     The muscles crunch slightly as Kyojuro digs his thumbs in, and his eyes widen. “Oh,” Hakuji gasps in surprise, and Kyojuro laughs heartily. He had it coming. Just because the tension would theoretically not negatively impact him doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel good to relieve it. Hakuji’s body relaxes slowly, and it seems to be from defeat a bit more than comfort, but Kyojuro considers it a win anyway.

     “I used to do this for Koyuki,” Hakuji blurts out suddenly, and Kyojuro’s hands freeze momentarily. “She used to get sore from being stuck in bed all day, so I tried to help.”

     “That was kind of you,” Kyojuro says softly, running his hands gently along the dip of Hakuji’s shoulder blade. “Did it work?”

     He shrugs, slightly displacing Kyojuro’s thumbs. “I’m not sure. She would just get all stiff again anyway, so I never understood why she liked it so much. But…” Hakuji fiddles with his beads. “Nowadays, I wonder if maybe she just liked being close with me.”

     Physically, Kyojuro continues to work the kinks out of Hakuji’s toned shoulders. Mentally, he panics. An unfamiliar feeling alights in his chest, fluttery and warm. It’s not joy, not quite, but perhaps something adjacent.

     “I see!” He agrees, perhaps a bit too loudly. Kyojuro has never been great with social cues, and it’s highly likely that he’s misinterpreting Hakuji’s implications. Besides, even if he did mean that he enjoys being close with Kyojuro, Hakuji is under an immense amount of stress at the moment. Surely it’s just a small creature comfort in a time of need.

     The feeling in Kyojuro’s chest leans more toward disappointment. He stubbornly ignores it. There are greater things to worry about than whatever on earth that moment was.

     “Well, I’m glad that you were able to bring her comfort,” He says finally, and Hakuji hums in response. “Thanks for doing the same for me.” He sounds impossibly shy, and Kyojuro’s heart clenches.

     Before he can respond, the sliding door flies open, slamming against the end of the track. Kyojuro yanks his hands back like a child caught rummaging in the cupboard. In comes Shinobu in a frenzy, arms full of various glass jars and vials. She dumps them onto her desk, not bothering to go back when one of the lids pops off and tiny yellow flowers spill out across the surface.

     “Kocho?” Kyojuro asks, alarmed. Hakuji is immediately on high alert, muscles rigid with anticipation. There goes Kyojuro’s hard work.

     Shinobu looks up, brushing a piece of dark hair back from her face as she hurriedly straps on her sword. Clearly she had been interrupted in the middle of something, if the stress and vague irritation in her body language is any indicator.

     “She’s here,” Shinobu declares. A brief moment of brilliant hope floods through Kyojuro’s veins, and is quickly smothered by Shinobu’s wariness. Hakuji sits frozen, tensed up with nervous energy as if unsure whether to get up and follow her or not. His brow is tense with conflict, and Kyojuro’s heart pangs at the sight of a stray tear in his thick lashes.

     As soon as her sheath is fixed in place, Shinobu makes a beeline back to the door. She pauses in the doorway, whipping around to point sharply at the pair. Kyojuro jumps slightly at the sudden movement.

     “You stay right there, Hakuji-san,” she orders, and he reels back as if he’s been stung. And then Shinobu is gone, leaving Hakuji and Kyojuro alone in a room full of painful anticipation.

     “You were right,” Hakuji mumbles into the tense air. “She did come.”

     Kyojuro’s gaze drifts to the floor, humming in agreement. Part of him is ecstatic, truthfully. Tamayo’s arrival could signify the end of an era of suffering. However, it also surely brings along the painful type of change. Kyojuro does not know what the procedure of modifying a demon’s body entails, but he’s positive that it will not be pleasant.

     “Perhaps I should go,” he thinks aloud, and Hakuji snaps his head up to look at him in surprise. “After all, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of Kocho-san and Tamayo-san’s procedure! It may be for the best to eliminate any distractions.” He pushes himself off of the lab table, straightening the wrinkles from his yukata. Hakuji nods slowly, looking almost dazed. The sight makes something ache within Kyojuro’s gut as he turns to go.

     Hakuji’s iron grip latches onto his wrist before he can take another step. Kyojuro’s heart skips a beat like he’s accidentally missed a step on a staircase. He turns to see Hakuji’s blue eyes wide with fear.

     “Please stay,” he begs. “I don’t want to do this alone.”

     A fierce protectiveness roars to life in Kyojuro’s ribcage. Hakuji is not supposed to look this small. He does not deserve to feel this lost. If Kyojuro can do anything to fix it, he finds himself desiring to with all of his heart.

     He wonders when exactly the unlikely acquaintanceship between the two of them, demon and slayer, evolved into something much more akin to affection. Kyojuro quite likes Hakuji, he realizes. He likes the friendship that has formed right under their noses. Perhaps that explains the odd sensations in his chest from earlier.

     “Alright,” Kyojuro assents, allowing Hakuji to pull him back to sit at his side again. “If you wish to have me here, I will stay with you!”

     The demon’s relief is practically tangible in the way his body relaxes. Hakuji releases Kyojuro’s wrist, but his hand lingers unconsciously nearby. “They’re coming back,” Hakuji informs him quietly. “Shinobu is unnerved. There are two demons, not one.”

     “I’m sorry, there’s two?”

     “Mhm. One of them seems pissed.”

     The door slides open before Kyojuro has the chance to process this information.

     The woman who enters alongside Shinobu is absolutely stunning. Tamayo, Kyojuro recalls. The dark kimono she wears contrasts with her fair skin, and the red flowers adorning it bring out the shade of her lips. Her sleek black hair is pinned into a classic updo, and her violet eyes are framed by thick lashes and softened with kindness. Still, despite her youthful appearance, there is an aura about her that speaks of dignity and ancient wisdom. Kyojuro gets the distinct impression that his mother would have enjoyed her company.

     Behind Tamayo is a young man with silver hair and catlike eyes, who is squinting at him with no small amount of contempt. Hakuji bristles a bit at the display of hostility, and Kyojuro nudges him gently on the arm to placate him. The silver haired boy draws pointedly closer to Tamayo, hackles raised. It’s like he fancies himself to be her personal bodyguard, Kyojuro notes with amusement. His arms are full with a bag of medical supplies, and he distributes them unceremoniously onto the table next to Shinobu’s pile of jars.

     Shinobu turns to face them, her pleasant expression a bit tight with distrust. “Hakuji-san,” she announces. “Rengoku-san. This is Tamayo-san, the doctor who will be carrying out the procedure today, and Yushiro-kun, her loyal assistant.” She gestures to the pair on the lab table. “Tamayo-san, this is Hakuji-san, the former Upper Moon Three and my newest butterfly nurse, as well as our Flame Hashira, Rengoku-san.”

     Kyojuro bows politely, repressing the urge to greet her enthusiastically. He may be unapologetically bombastic, but he knows when he needs to take a step back from the center of attention. Instead, he turns to watch as Hakuji shyly dips his head to the two guests.

     “Tamayo-san, Yushiro, I’ll be in your care,” he says softly. Tamayo bows deeply in return. Yushiro does not, because of course he doesn’t. This boy clearly has no respect for anybody except Tamayo.

     “It is a pleasure to meet you both,” Tamayo greets them. The timbre of her voice is naturally soothing. “I very much look forward to working with you, Hakuji-san. It is my understanding that we are attempting to rewrite your body to live off of only blood?”

     “Yes, ma’am,” Hakuji agrees, and Kyojuro’s lip twitches upward at his sudden manners.

     Tamayo nods, giving him a gentle smile. “Alright. I have already received and processed a blood sample from Tanjiro-san, so my hope is that we may begin the procedure as soon as possible.”

     Hakuji’s brow raises slightly in surprise. “You have my blood?”

     “Yes,” Tamayo chuckles. “I have been in contact with Tanjiro-san for many months now as we work towards a cure for his sister. I asked him for blood samples from stronger demons to assist me with my research. I hope you do not mind.”

     “Uh, no!” Hakuji stammers. “Just unexpected, that’s all.”

     “I gave it to him, Hakuji-san,” Shinobu laughs. “It’s not like he stole it from you in your sleep!” Yushiro snorts openly at Hakuji’s embarrassment, and Kyojuro nibbles on his lip to hide a grin.

     “Anyway,” Tamayo interjects, “ I need you to understand this procedure could potentially be dangerous. I have only successfully replicated it with Yushiro, and, there is a very real possibility that it will not be successful.”

     The brief lightheartedness of the moment dissipates instantly. Shinobu suddenly becomes very interested in sweeping the flowers from earlier back into their jar. It seems that she perhaps knows something that Hakuji and Kyojuro don’t.

     Hakuji stares at her with large, nervous eyes. “Oh. And…what happens if it doesn’t work? Or if it goes wrong?”

     Tamayo holds his gaze with sympathy, but her words are clear and concise. “To be fully honest with you, Hakuji-san, the most common result is death.”

     Ice floods through Kyojuro’s veins, pooling in his belly as cold fear. That cannot happen. They will not lose Hakuji. He refuses to accept it.

     To his credit, Hakuji takes the news quite well. He simply stares ahead, looking a bit far away. His muscular form suddenly looks far too timid. “I see,” he sighs. “I thought that might be the case. But I…I don’t want to hurt anybody anymore, and…I guess that wish will come true either way.”

     Kyojuro’s heart shatters at his words, and he finds himself wanting to gather Hakuji into his arms and not let go until all his pain has gone away.

     “Very well,” Tamayo concurs. “In that case, do you feel ready to begin?”

     In this moment, Hakuji should be reflecting within himself. He should be thinking of all of the people who he is doing this for, of all the people he loves and wants to protect.

     Instead, in what may very well be some of his last moments of life, Hakuji turns to Kyojuro.

     His expression is vulnerable, his eyes slightly damp and brow creased with pain. But there is something else there too, that Kyojuro does not think either of them truly understand. It gives him goosebumps.

     Hakuji’s blue eyes lock with Kyojuro’s, and his defenses are down as he tells Tamayo, “I do.”

Chapter Text

     The procedure’s beginning is relatively painless.

     Tamayo has already studied Hakuji’s blood, which saves plenty of time and effort that would otherwise be spent analyzing it. Instead, she performs a quick physical. Hakuji finds himself fiddling anxiously with his bracelets as he is weighed, measured, and poked about in every which way. Tamayo even pulls down his lip to observe his fangs, which he allows to grow to their full length for her critical observation. The doctor exchanges data with Shinobu in a surprisingly civil manner, and Hakuji learns that he has lost weight. Not by much; only a pound or two, but the decrease is still notable. His stomach is well and truly empty, and it seems that his body has begun to pull energy from other sources in the absence of a proper meal.

     At some point, Kyojuro moves off of the lab table to take over the chair at Shinobu’s desk. It makes sense, Hakuji knows, to keep him out of the way. But an irrational fear still wells within him at the thought of being alone on the table again. He misses Kyojuro’s gentle touch from earlier, the way it traced over his aching shoulders and filled his body with warmth. Thankfully, though, Kyojuro is at least still in the room. The bright blaze of his fighting spirit keeps Hakuji grounded, as does the encouraging smile he offers whenever Hakuji looks his way.

     The real scary part doesn’t begin until Tamayo sets down the stethoscope she had been using to track his pulse.

     “Yushiro,” she calls, and the boy instantly stands at attention. “Do you have eyes on Chachamaru?”

     “Of course, Tamayo-sama!” He exclaims, his voice significantly more upbeat than when he had stared Kyojuro down earlier. “He’s on his way right now.”

     Shinobu bristles. “I’m sorry, there is a third?”

     Tamayo appears surprised for a minute, before covering her mouth with a delicate laugh. “Oh, goodness, no! He is only our cat. Chachamaru is to us as crows are to Demon Slayers, I believe.”

     “You have a messenger cat?” Hakuji blurts out in disbelief. He’s never heard of such a thing in his life. Come to think of it, he doesn’t know if he’s even met that many cats in his lifetime. He vaguely recalls a snippet from his most recent wisteria dream, in which he had raced home to show Koyuki a particularly grumpy-looking cat he discovered on the roadside. The thought brings a nostalgic smile to his face. It helps alleviate the awful nerves that have been chewing at him for the past few hours.

     Kyojuro laughs, thoroughly amused. “That must be one efficient feline!” Yushiro glares at him with disdain. “Of course he is,” he spits. “He operates with the help of my Blood Demon Art. Chachamaru is the best damn boy you’ll ever meet.”

     “Yushiro,” Tamayo warns, although her tone sounds quite entertained. Yushiro apologizes quickly, bowing deeply in a way the reminds Hakuji vaguely of Tanjiro. He would never say such a thing aloud, of course. He doesn’t doubt that Yushiro might sabotage the whole thing if he heard himself compared to checker-boy.

     “Ah,” Shinobu says, her voice strained. “A cat? In my lab?” Her signature smile looks as if it has been glued to her cheeks, and Shinobu’s complexion has gone a bit pale. Her fighting spirit churns a deep green with disgust and a stray bit of fear.

     Kyojuro chuckles. “Ah, yes, I have heard that you dislike furry animals! If I recall, Kanroji-san and Himejima-san were quite appalled by your aversion to them.”

     “That is certainly not true!” Shinobu insists brightly, but Hakuji catches the way she shudders at the thought.

     A strange noise sounds through the room, and as Hakuji whips his head around, he discovers that it was a meow. A calico cat emerges through the wall onto the desk, causing Shinobu to jump. He has a bag tied to his back, and on his chest is a paper with a strange eye-like symbol drawn on it.

     “Ah, there you are!” Tamayo exclaims. The cat trots happily toward her, and Shinobu all but flattens herself against the wall as it passes her by.

     “He came through the wall,” Hakuji blurts dumbly, as Kyojuro likewise stares in alarm. “That cat just came through the goddamn wall!”

     Yushiro rolls his eyes hard enough that Hakuji worries they may fall out. “I told you, genius,” he snarks, “Chachamaru uses my Blood Art. He shows up wherever we need him.”

     “ Yushiro,” Tamayo says again, “please do not insult our patient!” Chachamaru rubs his chin lovingly against her outstretched hand, weaving slowly around her arm and flicking the tip of his tail. It’s as if he’s saying, see! I did it! Please reward me now! Hakuji swallows back a smile as Tamayo scratches his ears with one dainty hand. With the other, she reaches into the bag and extracts a series of vials that intimidate Hakuji much more than he would prefer to admit.

     “Alright, Hakuji-san, we have a total of four injections here,” Tamayo announces, suddenly sounding very professional. Shinobu bends over to read the labels as she speaks, nodding her approval. “The first one is just a light relaxant to help calm your body down. The second won’t feel like anything until it’s activated by the third injection, which I must warn you will be a quite uncomfortable feeling. Some possible side effects that you may experience include difficulty breathing, heightened anxiety, numbness of the limbs, dizziness, vertigo, stomachache or nausea, excess perspiration, elevated heart rate, intense emotional reactions, sore muscles, chills or heat flashes, fever, and confusion.”

     Hakuji stares back dumbly, nerves mixing with the hunger that pinches at his belly. “ Shit, that’s a lot,” he groans, at the same time as Shinobu chirps “Ah, that’s it?” Kyojuro quickly shoots her a look that screams, shh, don’t say that in front of Hakuji! Her nostrils twitch as she smiles back at him. Considering they’re making an exception for Kyojuro to stay, he has no right to complain, and he knows it. Finally, he surrenders, scooping Chachamaru into his lap instead.

     “Anyhow,” Tamayo continues as she begins to prep the syringes. “Any unpleasant symptoms that you experience will only last for a couple of minutes. Once the third injection has had some time to set in, the fourth will put you to sleep. After you are unconscious, Yushiro and I will administer a few more drugs that will begin the process of modifying your body. Do you have any questions?”

     Hakuji blinks once, twice. He fiddles with his beads.

     “Will I dream like I do with Wisteria?” He asks finally, and Shinobu looks away in what might be guilt. Tamayo hums thoughtfully, nibbling on her bottom lip. “It’s hard to say. I did. Yushiro did not. My theory is that the experience is different for every demon.” Hakuji nods slowly. Judging by his track record, he should probably expect another memory of his past. Hopefully this time will be one of the good ones. After all, Koyuki has been looking much healthier in his recent memories.

     Tamayo puts a hand on Hakuji’s shoulder, gently pressing him back. “If you could lie down for me please, Hakuji-san, I will administer the first injection.” His chest heats up as his heart stutters with anxiety. Still, Hakuji follows her lead, laying back upon the same lab table on which he weathers his wisteria induced dreams. Tamayo turns over his left arm to rest palm-up, gently pressing at his inner elbow. Yushiro appears at her side, first syringe in hand. Shinobu draws closer to watch, eyes bright with intrigue.

     “Here we go,” Tamayo says softly, and Hakuji sucks in a deep breath. There is a sharp pinch, and something warm spills into his veins. Hakuji gasps in alarm at the foreign sensation. Like Tamayo had said, Hakuji feels his muscles relax slightly. His body feels warmer and heavier than he’s used to, and he’s not quite sure he likes the feeling. It makes him feel vulnerable, and not in the gentle, intimate way he had felt with Kyojuro earlier. He must have made a face, because he feels Shinobu’s cold fingers smooth over his brow. “You’re doing great,” she mumbles, and Hakuji clings onto the reassurance.

     True to what Tamayo said, the second injection feels like nothing at all. There is the same prick from before, but when Hakuji braces himself for another round of the strange warm sensation, it never comes. Tamayo dabs a bead of blood from the needle wound, and Yushiro hands her the third syringe. Hakuji eyes it warily.

     “Alright, this one is the big one,” Tamayo warns. “Just try and stay as relaxed as possible for me, okay? You’re in good hands.” Yushiro grunts in what may have been a show of support, and Hakuji takes a deep breath, letting out a calming exhale.”

     “I’m ready,” he murmurs, and another pinch sends a brief flash of pain into his arm.

     For a few minutes, nothing really happens. Hakuji breathes deeply, falling into a rhythm to quell his nerves. Tamayo and Yushiro mumble to each other in low voices, and Shinobu asks a few questions about his blood work. Hakuji listens in, keeping himself grounded with the buzz of their voices and the thrum of Kyojuro’s spirit in the background.

     An uncomfortable heat breaks out over Hakuji’s skin, bringing with it an itch that leaves him rubbing at the skin on his arms. Tamayo pushes his arms back down to rest at his sides, and Hakuji grits his teeth against the tingling that has set into his limbs. The itch has invaded his mouth as well, scratching infuriatingly at the back of his throat and making his tongue feel swollen. He doesn’t like it. His cheeks feel far too hot. A bead of sweat drips off Hakuji’s temple and into his ear, and he winces at the nasty sensation.

     His heart palpitates rather suddenly, and Hakuji gasps before he can stop himself. He reaches up to rub at his chest unconsciously, brow twisting in discomfort at the awful fluttering in his ribcage. When Hakuji goes to take another deep inhale, he discovers that it takes a spectacular effort to breathe. Hot panic immediately bursts to life in his belly, making him sweat and squirm on the table. Tamayo pushes his arms down once again, asking him to please remain still, and Hakuji’s limbs feel too heavy to disobey.

     Hakuji twists his head to the side to look up at her, and dizziness slams into him like a blow to the head. He groans as it sends his stomach into a sickly churn. Someone—Shinobu?—wipes sweat off of his brow with a cool cloth. She says something to him, but Hakuji cannot hear her over the sound of his heart hammering away in his aching chest. His lungs burn as he gasps for breath. Fear is beginning to cloud his thoughts, and suddenly Hakuji is not sure exactly what is happening. A strange boy leans over him, checking his pulse, and Hakuji can’t remember his name. He tries to squirm away, but Shinobu holds him in place, a strange expression on her face.

     “Shinobu,” Hakuji chokes, a childish panic twisting his insides. “Why does it hurt? Why are you hurting me? I thought I was doing good! I did what I was supposed to do!” Shinobu’s eyes flash with pain at his words, and for a split second, he thinks she might be teary. Or perhaps it is he who is crying. Who is the woman with red lips and a syringe in her hand? He doesn’t want her to stick him. He doesn’t want her to inject him with anything.

     “Shinobu, help me,” Hakuji sobs, and she squeezes her eyes shut, gently stroking his hair. “I’m sorry,” she whispers as a stabbing pain alights into Hakuji’s arm. “I know you’re confused, but this will help, I promise.” He tries to thrash around, but his body feels as if it has been injected with concrete. Something thick spreads through his veins, and Hakuji whimpers. His vision has grown too blurry to make out anything of the world around him. There is a brief commotion behind him, a familiar spirit lighting up with sympathy.

     “Kyojuro?” He cries, terror making his voice tremble and rise in pitch. “Kyojuro!”

     Warm, calloused skin presses against his palm as someone takes his hand. Hakuji clings to it as best he can.

     “I’m here,” Kyojuro hums softly, resting his other hand over Hakuji’s racing heart. “I’m right here, Hakuji, just try and relax. You’re gonna fall asleep in a minute, okay?”

     “No,” Hakuji begs. “Don’t go.” The dizziness is starting to fade into a heavy, thick warmth. It tugs at the back of his mind, and Hakuji finds his heartbeat beginning to slow.

     “I’m not going anywhere,” Kyojuro promises. He removes his hand from Hakuji’s chest, instead brushing his fingertips gently over Hakuji’s eyelids to close them. He finds himself too exhausted to open them again.

     Something small and four-legged trots over Hakuji’s chest and curls up on his belly, sending strange vibrations through his body. It’s soothing, and Hakuji doesn’t know why.

     “Wha’s on m’tummy right now?” Hakuji slurs, and Kyojuro laughs warmly.

     “That is a cat,” he informs him, squeezing his palm. “Chachamaru is trying to help you get some sleep, alright? We’ll all be right here when you wake up.”

     Hakuji can only grunt in agreement. Warmth settles over him like a weighted blanket, and Hakuji finally lets the darkness at the edges of his mind come to take him in its embrace.

     He falls asleep to the sensation of Kyojuro’s thumb ghosting over his knuckles and the cat purring soothingly on his stomach.

     He’s not sure exactly what’s happening to him, but in this moment, Hakuji feels wonderfully and undeniably safe.

                                  ***

      The day that Koyuki asks Hakuji to marry her is the same day that they finally go to see the fireworks.

     The two have never been able to before, waiting patiently at home on festival nights while Koyuki’s health fluctuated from bad to decent and back again. Now, though,  she is finally healthy . Not just decent, healthy . She can walk on her own now, and carry out daily chores by Hakuji’s side. Koyuki is aglow with the thrill of freedom, and Hakuji loves her all the more for it.

     Technically, Keizou has already given Hakuji permission to take Koyuki’s hand in marriage. This morning, he had called Hakuji in to the main room and promptly asked him to take over the dojo, as well as marry his daughter. Hakuji had been absolutely mortified at his bluntness, and Koyuki’s flushed cheeks told him she felt the same. Still, the radiant smile of relief she gave him when Hakuji bowed in acceptance made up for it. A fierce protectiveness and a thrill of hope had burned in his chest, and Hakuji had sworn to himself that he would protect them until the day he died.

     And yet, since this morning, they have not talked about it again. Koyuki had asked him to accompany her to the field on the hill to see the fireworks, and on the way there, they spoke casually about anything and everything that came to mind. Except, of course, the proposal. It’s not as if they’ve been ignoring it. It’s clear in Koyuki’s constant blush and giddy smile that she is absolutely ecstatic. Hakuji has spent the past few hours with a bellyful of butterflies, laughing louder than usual and relaxing his posture. The two have been simply savoring their time together, hesitant to bring up such a huge topic. Hakuji suspects that they are both waiting for the other to start, to ensure that they both truly want this.

     He is about to take one for the team and bring it up when Koyuki sucks in a nervous breath and turns to face him. Hakuji instantly gives her his full attention, heart racing and palms sweating.

     “Do you remember talking about seeing the fireworks when we were kids?” She blurts out. Hakuji’s cheeks heat up. He does not.

     Thankfully, Koyuki seems unbothered by his forgetfulness. “It was just a small conversation we had one night, but it made me really happy,” she admits with a small giggle. “You told me that even if we couldn’t go see the fireworks this year, there was always next year and the year after.” Koyuki looks up at the night sky, and a flash of gold light reflects in her pupils. “It’s just that I never thought I would live to see a future. One where there would be a next year. My mother killed herself because of it, and my father…I always knew that somewhere in his heart, he had given up hope of me ever getting better.”

     Hakuji’s heart aches for her as she takes his hand in both of hers. As she stares down at his hand, the sight of the tattoos lining his wrist is met with nothing but tender adoration. “You saw my future,” she murmurs, ghosting her thumbs over his knuckles. “You told me that there was a next year as if it were natural to believe so, with no doubt in your voice, and it gave me so much hope. You amaze me, Hakuji-san.”

     Koyuki looks up to meet his gaze, and she looks ethereal in the colored light of the fireworks. Her eyes sparkle with unshed tears as she asks him, “will you be my husband?”

     In that moment, Hakuji would give the entire world just to see her smile. His chest is warm with a love more intense than anything he has ever felt, and it threatens to make him tear up as well. He takes her other hand in his, drawing her close. “Yes,” he whispers, voice trembling through his grin. “I will become the strongest, more than anyone else, and I will protect you for my entire life. I promise.”

     A wet laugh escapes Koyuki’s lips, and then she is in his arms, joyful tears staining his kimono. Hakuji squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his lips to the top of her head and breathing in the soft floral scent of her hair. Never in his life has he felt so overjoyed than this very moment, as he sways in the dark with his lover, her heart beating in time with his.

     Tomorrow, he thinks, he will go visit his father to tell him of their marriage. But as another round of fireworks goes off above their heads, Hakuji is content to stay right here until the sunrise comes to greet them.

Chapter Text

     The next morning, Hakuji prays at his father’s grave until the sun has travelled across the sky towards the opposite horizon.

     It’s the first time that he has returned to his hometown since he was banished at eleven years old. Although he feels horribly guilty for waiting so long to visit his father, Hakuji has not had the drive to return until now. Even on a joyous occasion such as this, though, the sight of the town that shunned him still turns Hakuji’s stomach. He purposely avoids looking in the direction of the magistrate’s house. He has no space for such vile memories today.

     Hakuji steers clear of the crowded city center where people might recognize him, instead reaching the cemetery by slinking through the alleyways. His tattoos are covered up by long sleeves, which Koyuki had fussed over until he had waved her off with a laugh, insisting he would be fine. Still, he can practically feel them burning into his skin. Hakuji keeps the fabric tucked down with his fists just to be safe.

     The graveyard itself is decrepit and careless, headstones unmarked and leaning with age. Hakuji remembers which is his father’s anyway. It’s the one off to the right, by the trees, surrounded by other low-class citizens buried there without any remorse. He kneels in front of it slowly, feeling almost awkward. It’s been so long since he’s seen his father that he isn’t sure how to even begin.

     “Hi Dad,” he says finally, and his voice cracks slightly with emotion. He folds his hands together, lowering his head. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come and see you. I left town a long time ago, and I…I haven’t come back until now.” He chuckles to himself, not really sure if it’s funny. “For good reason I guess, huh? I’m pretty glad I didn’t get my hands cut off by the magistrate. That means I can still pray for you.”

     Hakuji sighs, drinking in the feeling of sunlight warming his back. If he doesn’t think about it too hard, he can almost pretend it’s his father’s frail hand resting over his shoulder.

     “You were right,” he admits. “I guess maybe I did deserve another chance. I got out of town, you know, lived on the streets for awhile. But then a man named Keizou found me, and he took me to put my fighting skills to work at his dojo. And also, he wanted me to take care of his sick daughter.” A soft smile breaks out across his face. “Her name is Koyuki. After a few years, she got better, and last night, she asked me to marry her.” Hakuji has never said the words out loud before, and a thrill of excitement shivers through him. He chuckles softly to himself.

     “You would have loved her, Dad,” he sighs, fondness warm in his ribcage. “She and her father are the kindest people I have ever met. They taught me how to be kind again too. I hope I can make you proud.”

     As the sun passes overhead, Hakuji tells his father about his newfound family. Koyuki’s gentle smile and passion for the beauty of nature, Keizou’s bold laughter and mastery of the martial arts. He speaks of the first time Koyuki was healthy enough to accompany him to market, and the time that Keizou brought a toad inside to place graciously on the back of Hakuji’s bare neck, effectively scaring his soul out of his body. Hakuji finds himself grinning until his cheeks are sore. As he speaks, he almost forgets that his father is not here to join him in his laughter.

     Hakuji finally leaves as the sky takes on the gentle glow of golden hour. He intends to be back home at the dojo before sunset. Koyuki had asked to watch it together, and Hakuji’s cheeks heat up at the thought. He leaves the town behind with no remorse. Confronting the place that had hurt him so as a child and emerging unscathed feels more empowering than Hakuji expected, and as much as he will miss his father, he does not mourn the town that shrinks smaller and smaller on the horizon behind him.

     The road to the dojo is a peaceful one, winding through their little village and up the hill. Typically, it is bustling with activity as the neighbors complete their evening chores, chattering with each other and laughing about the latest town gossip. Hakuji often stops to help out, putting his strength to good use by carrying baskets of groceries or laundry and hauling water for the elderly and the busy mothers in town. The people have grown quite fond of him as a result, and greet him kindly as he passes them by on his way home.

     Tonight, the village is empty. Everyone’s doors are closed, and no lanterns illuminate their windows despite the early hours. It’s as if everyone has simply hidden themselves away. The air hangs heavy and thick against Hakuji’s frame, and a bead of sweat trickles down his back.

     Something is wrong.

     Goosebumps rush over Hakuji’s skin, and he shudders. He has long since learned to detect when trouble is on the horizon, and now, all of his instincts are blaring in his head. Hurry, they scream. Hurry, hurry, get home, get home now.

     Hakuji breaks into a cautious jog towards the dojo as his limbs start to shake. A nervous sweat pours down his brow. He feels horribly sick to his stomach. The panic and paranoia is throwing his systems all out of whack, and Hakuji gasps as his diaphragm begins to spasm. He fights to keep his breathing even as his body shudders again and again.

     When Hakuji reaches the dojo,there are three men standing at the gate. Two stand petrified, staring at him as if they have seen a ghost. The third is in tears, and runs to him as soon as he enters their field of vision.

     Hakuji swallows thickly, and his throat feels like he’s swallowed a handful of gravel. He wants to vomit. Why are there people at his door? Where is his master? Where is his wife? What has happened to his family?

     The man who had approached Hakuji is suddenly upon him, hands clutched in desperate fists. “Someone poisoned the well!” He wails. “All because they couldn’t defeat you or Keizou-San in a fair fight! T-those monsters, it’s gruesome ; it’s just too much!” The man sucks in shuddering gasp of air. Hakuji’s chest feels like it’s going to explode from the terror that’s pounding in his heart.

     “Even Koyuki-chan was killed!” The man cries.

     Every feeling that Hakuji has ever known smashes into his body with the force of the greatest wave, shredding the inside of his skull like a dying scream. It’s like he has shattered on the ground at the bottom of a cliff. It is every sparkle in Koyuki’s eye, every touch of Keizou’s strong hand as he corrects Hakuji’s fighting posture. It is the blue of the summer sky reflected in the well as he and Keizou fill buckets with water. It is the pink of Koyuki’s kimono that matches her cheeks as she shakes with laughter. It is the snowflake pin in her hair. It is the fall of autumn rain washing over his skin as Keizou calls to him to come inside lest he catch a chill. It is Koyuki’s soft whisper in the night, and her frail fingertips as they trace the tattoos over his wrists.

    And then, in an awful, painful heartbeat, it is nothing at all.

     Hakuji is not aware of the men who follow him as he stumbles through the gate. He cannot hear them over the rush of blood in his ears. He trembles and trembles but does not feel his limbs. His vision blurs as he throws open the door to the main room. It’s as if some cruel god has thrown a blanket over his senses, leaving him drowning in nothing but a deep, primal ache that he could never in a thousand years begin to describe.

     There are two bodies on the ground in front of him, their faces covered with white sheets and their collars stained crimson with their own blood. Hakuji kneels between them, something hot and agonizing building in his veins. His brain feels too big for his head as his trembling hands gather Koyuki’s body into his arms. She is cold, so cold, and impossibly still. The cloth slips off of her face, and her skin is porcelain white against the flash of bright red on her chin.

     Hakuji feels his bottom lip tremble, and tears well in his eyes as he tries to swipe the blood off of her chin. He only succeeds in smearing it further.

     He’s made it worse. Just like everything else he has tried to fix . Like every broken promise he has made.

     A choked whimper escapes from his lips, and then it is all over.

     Hakuji doubles over with gut wrenching sobs, holding her head to his chest as he heaves. He buries his face in her hair, and he finally finds the strength to wail aloud. It’s a ghastly sound, like the throes of a dying beast. Hakuji blindly fumbles for Keizou’s cold hand with one of his own, and he clutches it like a child clinging to his father for comfort.

     For hours, Hakuji does not move from this position. He simply kneels there, defeated, and cries every ounce of agony out, his tears falling onto Koyuki’s lifeless face and trailing down pale cheeks as if they were her own. He stays until people come to take them away, to prepare for the burial. He stays there even after his family has been carried away, and the soul-deep misery that  plagues him melts away into sickening vengeance.

     Hakuji stays in his spot until the sight of his uniform folded on the table burns too intensely to ignore.

     When Hakuji puts on the uniform that Keizou gave him so many years ago, it is with trembling hands and tear stained cheeks. But Hakuji is not crying anymore. No, he will not cry now. What he is to do now is travel to the rival dojo and inflict back upon them every ounce of torture that they have unleashed upon Hakuji’s soul. The murderers at the Kenjutsu dojo will be brought to justice. Keizou and Koyuki will be avenged.

     Hakuji leaves the dojo for the second time that morning, and for the first time in his life, it is with the sheer, unbridled urge to destroy.

                                    ***

     The sensation of hot, sticky blood coating Hakuji’s body hangs heavily on his shoulders as he stumbles back onto the road. It’s matted in his hair, smeared over his forearms, dripping down his back. The bitter taste of iron is sharp on Hakuji’s tongue. He can barely breathe through the adrenaline and the gore that is splattered over his face. It’s too much, all of it. At some point, after sobbing over Koyuki’s corpse until his voice gave out, Hakuji had fallen into a daze. No, more like a trance. And in this trance-like state, he had calmly walked to the Kenjutsu dojo and murdered all sixty-seven people in it. He still hasn’t fully recovered his grip on his sanity. Reality does not feel real. He does not feel like himself. All he can focus on is the sensory nightmare of the blood and filth that is crusting over his skin and uniform.

     Hakuji does not know where he’s going when he reaches the bridge. He is simply stumbling away from everything, away from his family dojo to which he can never return, and the neighboring dojo which no longer has anybody to return to it. His feet stain the ground red, a trail of blood which follows Hakuji like a manifestation of his sin. Hakuji’s white uniform is stained a deep wine red, just like Keizou’s had been around his collar. Hakuji feels no guilt, no shame.

     He feels absolutely nothing at all.

     “I don’t remember sending any demons to this area,” a deep voice hums. There is a man on the bridge. His hair is long, and it frames his face in dark waves. The fabric of his yukata is expensive and intricately designed. There is a pressuring aura about him, the air of a man with too much power for his own good. Hakuji immediately wants him dead.

     “But after hearing all of the commotion and making my way all the way here, I find nothing but a mere human.” The man’s plum red eyes narrow, a chilling grin tugging at his lips. “How disappointing.”

     “Move it,” Hakuji rasps. He can barely hear himself speak over the ringing in his eardrums. “Or you’re dead.”

     The man smiles, and too quickly for Hakuji’s eyes to track, he is in front of him. Hakuji throws up an arm. Whether it is meant to strike or to defend, he is unsure. He never gets to find out.

     A hand slices through Hakuji’s skull like a knife through butter, sinking in up to the forearm. Hakuji’s vision blacks out as his eyes are destroyed, and his systems immediately begin to shut down. His brain has been pierced straight through. Hakuji’s body is frozen in time, not quite limp but not functioning either. His heart rate rapidly dips, and suddenly Hakuji wants to sob. He will die for his sins, and then he will go to hell where he can never see his family again. There is nothing left for Hakuji; nothing at all.

     “I have been experimenting with the creation of twelve especially strong demons to serve me,” the man announces, and he sounds as if he is underwater. “Can you withstand the amount of blood that I will grant to you?”

     Hakuji does not understand what he means. He is slipping away, his body going numb and his mind beginning to empty. There is nothing that this man could say that would mean anything to him in this moment.

     “I—“ Hakuji croaks, choking as something hot and heavy begins to fill his skull. “I don’t…I just don’t care anymore.”

     “Good,” purrs the man. “Then allow me to give you something to care about.”

     Hakuji is beginning to feel strange. He was dying, he’s sure of it, but now his veins feel uncomfortably full as liquid continues to flow into his body. He doesn’t know what is happening to him. All he knows is that he has failed everyone who he loves, and he wants this all to be over. Hakuji wants to die.

     His blood begins to boil, and as the man pulls his hand out of Hakuji’s skull, he falls to his knees in agony. He pitches forward and vomits crimson, writhing as his body begins to break apart. This must be hell, he wonders distantly. He hopes that he will suffer like this for eternity to make up for the pain that he has caused. Hakuji howls as his brain begins to stitch itself back together, burning like fire. Something is being constructed inside of his head, almost like walls that close in around his consciousness. He chokes, rolling over and digging his claws into the ground. He needs this to stop so he can go home and take care of her.

     His brain constricts tighter, and he gasps aloud, tears streaming down his face.

     Who is she again?

     Suddenly, he doesn’t feel quite so bad. It’s like his mind has closed off the part of him that hurt so horribly. A weight has been lifted from his heart. He does not know what it was, but he is glad it’s gone.

     He lays on his belly, panting into the wood of the bridge as the agony finally begins to burn away. He feels feverish, and his mind is foggy beyond belief, but he is no longer enduring the hellish torture from before. Who saved him? He wishes to show them his gratitude.

     “There you are,” a voice says, and he looks up to see red eyes staring back at him. This man is all he knows, all that he has to care about. He forces himself up into a respectful kneel as the man bends down to cup his cheeks. He turns his head from one side to the other, fingertips tracing lines over his eyes.

     “Very well done,” he grins, and his chest puffs up with pride at the praise. He has made the man happy. That is the only thing that matters.

     “Come along now,” the man says breezily as he turns to walk away. He drags himself to his feet, and feels beads click against his ankles. His arms are covered in deep blue stripes that make his head hurt for a minute, before something constricts in his skull and he remembers. Ah, yes, they have always been like that. That Man blessed him with such a form, didn’t he? He is eternally in debt.

     “Muzan-sama,” he croaks as he follows obediently. He knows that name, he has always known it. “Thank you for granting me this body. I will follow any orders you give me.”

     A slow, dark grin stretches across Muzan’s face as he turns back to look at him. “I know,” he says. “That is all that you are good for, Akaza.”

     Akaza. Of course, that is his name. Akaza isn’t sure why he couldn’t remember that before.

     The twang of a Biwa rings through the air, and a door opens from the air in front of them. Muzan pays this no mind, so Akaza does not question it.

     “Now then,” Muzan beckons to him to follow through the door. “You must be hungry, Akaza.”

     Akaza groans as his stomach suddenly cramps up. He bites his lip against the urge to double over. Muzan is right. He is absolutely starving.

     He stumbles through the door onto a hill, looking down at a small village below. There are lights in the windows. Akaza can sense dozens of fighting spirits, frail and ugly things. The scent of meat makes his stomach cramp with desire, and a low, animalistic growl forms in Akaza’s throat.

     “I have given you lots of my blood. Surely wiping out a town as pathetic as this will be no problem for you, hmm?”

     “Yes, Muzan-sama,” Akaza gasps in agreement. Saliva pools in his mouth, and his fangs ache with the need to sink into flesh.

     “Then prove it,” Muzan commands, and Akaza recognizes instinctively that he has been given an order.

     He does not need to be told twice. A frenzy overtakes him as he tears down the hillside towards the town.

     There is an old man at the outskirts, presumably traveling home. He is disgustingly weak. Akaza rips his head off without a second thought, sinking his fangs into the man’s gory neck.

     The taste of blood on his tongue makes Akaza swoon, and he feels himself beginning to black out. There is nothing in his brain except feed, feed, feed. He must feed to make Muzan-sama proud. He must feed if he wants to get stronger.

     As Akaza takes his first bite of human, he silently vows to himself that he will become the strongest, more so than any other demon. He will fulfill his duty. He has no choice, anyway.

     He will protect Muzan-sama for the rest of his demonic eternity.

     For a half a second, Akaza thinks that he has made a similar promise to someone else before. But as he swallows and the first bite of flesh settles in his empty stomach, he is too caught up in bliss to care.

     Whoever it was meant nothing to him, anyway. The thought of making such a promise to anyone but his master is preposterous.

     It is nothing but a pathetic, worthless, uninteresting story.

Chapter Text

     Hakuji wakes up choking on a throat-ripping scream.

     Kyojuro jumps out of his skin, jolting back into consciousness from where he had been dozing on Shinobu’s desk. A piece of paper follows him, stuck to his cheek, and Kyojuro is distantly grateful that Shinobu is likewise startled enough not to notice that he has been sleeping on her research. Hakuji bolts up onto his elbows, chest heaving as he sucks in ragged, wheezing breaths.

     Kyojuro hurries to Hakuji’s side, heart clenching in his chest. This must be the aftermath of one of Hakuji’s dreams. The demon whips around to face him, and his eyes are wide and frenzied with fear.

     “Don’t!” Hakuji gasps. His voice is high pitched with stress. “Don’t get close to me!”

     Kyojuro freezes where he stands, pulse hammering away at his ribcage. Across the room, he sees Shinobu do the same. They’re in a stalemate.

     “Hakuji,” Kyojuro tries. “It was just a dream, like when you take wisteria. You’re safe, it’s okay.”

     Hakuji shakes his head violently. “No, you—you don’t understand, I killed them, Kyojuro, I—oh gods, I killed them!”

      Shinobu meets his gaze with a vaguely worried expression. “You are a demon, Hakuji,” she says lightly. “Of course you killed people, it was your instinct. You were not of your own mind.”

     “ No,” Hakuji breathes, and his voice is a low rasp. “I was a human . I knew what I was fucking doing. I killed them, all sixty seven of them, with my bare hands.” Hakuji’s body trembles harshly, and Kyojuro picks up traces of ancient rage in his body language. A shiver runs down Kyojuro’s spine.

     A human. Sixty-seven kills. Unarmed.

     The statement is preposterous—impossible, even—and yet Kyojuro does not doubt its validity for even a second. The absolute horror in Hakuji’s eyes is telling enough.

     “Who did you kill, Hakuji-san?” Shinobu asks, moving in just close enough to avoid distressing him. “Why did you do it?”

     Hakuji pulls his legs into his chest as if trying to protect himself. He still trembles, but the initial wild outburst is dulling down into a numb state. “I killed the students at the rival dojo,” he mumbles, voice barely louder than a whisper. “They hated my Master and I for being stronger than them, and the heir wanted Koyuki for himself.”

     Shinobu locks eyes with Kyojuro at the girl’s name, quirking a brow. Fiancée, Kyojuro mouths silently, and she gives a subtle nod of acknowledgment before turning back to Hakuji.

     “So you killed them to keep them away from your beloved?” Shinobu guesses, tapping her chin in hidden disdain. Hakuji looks at her with sad eyes and sunken cheeks, shoulders sagging as if he is carrying the world on his shoulders.

     “No,” he chokes out. “They poisoned the well when I was away, and they killed her and my master to get revenge on me. They murdered my family, even though they did nothing wrong.” Hakuji blinks rapidly, nails digging into the skin of his forearms. “ That’s why I killed them,” he gasps. “They…oh, fuck, they took them from me. They killed my family, they poisoned them, and then I tainted my master’s teachings by using the martial arts he trained me in to destroy those who took them from me.”

     Fat tears have begun to spill over Hakuji’s cheeks, and the dangerous energy that had radiated from him before crumbles. Slowly, Kyojuro steps forward, reaching out a hand experimentally. Hakuji stares at it, biting his trembling lip. He does not move away.

     Kyojuro pulls Hakuji into a gentle embrace, and the demon shakes silently in his arms. “I thought I was an okay person,” he admits, clutching his forearms so tightly his knuckles began to turn white. “I thought I  only killed because I was a demon, because he made me do it, but I was a monster this whole time, wasn’t I?”

     “No, Hakuji,” Kyojuro insists. “You were not. You a good person who was pushed to the point of snapping, and you did a terrible thing. That does not inherently make you a monster. Even some of our strongest swordsmen have killed people in their pasts. The lives of demons and slayers can never quite be so black and white, no matter how much most of us wish they could.” It’s true, despite how much Kyojuro’s head spins saying it. He has been learning much about the complexities of morality recently, and Hakuji never fails to make him rethink everything he knows.

     Hakuji shakes his head, leaning heavily against Kyojuro’s chest. “Oh, Kyojuro, what have I done?” He breathes shakily, and Kyojuro aches as something fierce tugs at his chest. Suddenly, he is eight years old again, losing his mother. He is eighteeen, in another universe, and his brother and father have been killed. The very thought makes him want to split in two. He can do nothing but hold Hakuji closer.

     “I understand,” Shinobu jumps in, her voice unusually flat. It takes Kyojuro a second to register that she is no longer keeping up her typical chipper act. Shinobu stares down at the edge of the table, something cold and broken in her expression. It gives him goosebumps.

     “My sister was killed when I was fourteen,” Shinobu says, “and I have since dedicated my life to destroying the demon that stole her from me.” She laughs darkly, shaking her head. “Considering that Douma is a demon, nobody thinks twice about my drive to kill him. But Hakuji-san, even if he had been a human…” her eyes flash with bitterness, and Hakuji stares at her in disbelief. “…the only difference would be that I would have murdered him years ago.”

     Kyojuro has no idea how to react to any of that. He has known about the death of Kanae, of course, but never before has he seen Shinobu so intense. Hakuji does not move, simply staring at something Kyojuro cannot see.

     Finally, Shinobu sighs, shaking her head slightly. “Look, Hakuji-san, I’m not saying that what you did was right. It was undeniably awful. But…I would be a hypocrite if I were to judge your character for it, seeing as if our situations were swapped, I believe I would have done the same.”

     Her expression is chilling as Shinobu holds his gaze. Hakuji opens his mouth as if to speak and then freezes, uncertain.

     “I don’t even feel bad,” he admits quietly. “All of the people who I killed as a demon…I feel awful for what I did to them. They didn’t deserve to die. But I don’t regret killing the people at that dojo. I just…I can’t. They took everything from me.” He rubs a stray tear away from his cheek. “How can I ever atone for the deaths of people who I cannot even forgive?”

     Kyojuro’s mind is doing somersaults. On the one hand, he has lived his whole life aiming to protect the innocent. Yet, the men at the dojo were murderers just as Hakuji was. Hakuji and his family had been victims, and only he was left alive to become the villain.

     “I do not think that you have to forgive them,” Kyojuro says finally. “What is done is done. You made your choice, and you have faced the consequences for over a century. Perhaps all you can do now is keep moving forward.”

     Shinobu nods softly. “Live the life your family would have wanted for you. You live now as a reformed man, Hakuji-san. To honor the values of your family now is to pursue peace with the ways you have broken them in the past.”

     “I didn’t want to become a demon,” Hakuji utters, and Kyojuro finds himself mildly surprised. “He took advantage of me because I didn’t have enough of a will to live to resist.“

     Hakuji looks up at Kyojuro, his big blue eyes wide with emotion. “My family was gone, and Muzan took me because I had nothing left to fight for. But maybe now I can fight for my family, and eradicate Muzan.” He laughs wetly. “God, that sounds so fucking dumb. I sound like you, Kyojuro.”

     Kyojuro can’t stop the surprised chuckle that escapes him. “I suppose you do,” he agrees, “although I don’t think that fighting on behalf of lost loved ones is dumb. I find it quite noble.”

     Hakuji nods miserably, resting his face in his palms. “I guess so. Ugh, my head hurts. This is all too much.”

     “I know,” Shinobu affirms, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Tamayo should be back soon to check on your condition. And Hakuji…you don’t have to process this all at once. Things like this take time. A lot of time.”

     “Sure,” Hakuji mumbles. He’s stopped crying, and Kyojuro would think that he had settled down if it weren’t for the small red crescents that his claws keep absently cutting into his palms. It’s as if he’s trying to hold himself together by hurting himself further.

     The door slides open, and Tamayo cautiously pokes her head in. Her features melt with relief when she sees Hakuji awake.

     “Hi, dear,” she hums soothingly. “How are you holding up? Are you feeling okay?”

     Kyojuro marvels at her. She had been so professional earlier, unfazed as Hakuji had writhed on the table, begging her to stop. Yet, here she is, easily falling into the role of a loving caretaker. Yushiro follows her into the room like a shadow, glaring at Hakuji for being on the receiving end of Tamayo’s affection.

     Hakuji gulps thickly, his gaze trained on the mug in Tamayo’s hand. Kyojuro can vaguely see a wine-dark liquid inside. Blood, he realizes.

     “I’m okay,” Hakuji mumbles eventually. Kyojuro becomes embarrassingly aware that he still holds Hakuji in his embrace, but his heart aches too much to let him go. Shinobu leans over, whispering faintly into Tamayo’s ear. I’ll fill you in later, she says. Kyojuro is suddenly grateful that the ear injury he had retained as a Mizunoto had taught him to read lips.

     “Do you have any immediate physical side effects?” Tamayo questions. “Any aches or pains?”

     Hakuji shakes his head slightly, gaze locked onto the mug. His stomach growls audibly, and he startled at the sound, wrapping an embarrassed arm around his middle. “I, um. I’m still starving,” he admits, voice choked with shame. “Is that supposed to happen?”

     Tamayo chuckles softly. “Yes,” she assured him. “Hunger is very normal in this situation. After all, the intention was not to erase it, but rather to redirect your needs from flesh to blood.” She sets the mug down on a side table, and Kyojuro finally steps back as Tamayo checks Hakuji’s pulse and the dilation of his pupils.

     “Alright, you seem to be holding up quite well,” Tamayo concludes, and Kyojuro doesn’t miss the relief in the droop of her shoulders. He heaves a sigh of gratitude himself. Hakuji is not only alive, but he is physically well. As overwhelming as the new dreams are, Kyojuro would much rather help him heal than lose him forever.

     “Yushiro, would you please write to Ubuyashiki-san and update him on the apparent success of the procedure?” Tamayo requests, and the boy nods immediately, hurrying to the desk to find paper. She turns back to Hakuji as Yushiro scurries around behind her. “Now, I’d like to see you drink some of this,” she asks. Hakuji does not look like he needs to be told twice. His eyes are wide like the full moon, and he nibbles on his lip with his sharp upper fangs.

     Tamayo hands him the mug, and Hakuji accepts with trembling hands. “Careful now,” she warns as he goes to raise it to his lips. “The goal of the procedure is to allow you to survive on as little blood as possible, but we aren’t sure where that limit will fall for you. If you start to feel full, please stop immediately and let me know so we can establish a baseline!”

     “Right,” Hakuji says noncommittally as he raises the glass and begins to chug its contents. Kyojuro prods him in the side, but Hakuji does not care. He is completely tuned out from reality, drinking the blood as if he’s a human man finding his first river outside of the desert. Tamayo shakes her head slightly in amusement at the display, and Yushiro huffs something about Hakuji being an entitled bastard, and how dare he ignore Tamayo-sama’s wishes!

     Surprisingly, though, Hakuji slows down rather quickly. He makes it halfway through the mug before his desperate gulps become relaxed sips, and just before the mug runs dry he lowers it with an expression of pure bewilderment. Shinobu takes the cup from him, and Hakuji stares at Tamayo in shock, one hand holding his belly.

     “Oh my god, It worked,” he gasps. “Holy shit. I feel, like…mostly full.”

     Tamayo laughs, grabbing Yushiro’s hand as she celebrates. He flushes a bright red, letting her pull him into a tight hug, and Hakuji leans back into Kyojuro’s side.

     “You’ll need to drink a few times a month,” Tamayo tells him as she composes herself. “It should not be a lethal amount, and drinking once every two weeks or so should be able to tide you over.”

     “Just like that?” Hakuji croaks. He looks extremely overwhelmed.

     “Just like that,” Shinobu agrees, And Hakuji sags with relief.

     Kyojuro feels as if a huge weight has been released from his shoulders. He is not stupid enough to think that Hakuji’s problems will all be solved now. But the threat of hunger wearing down Hakuji’s iron will has now been eliminated. Tamayo has had another success, and Hakuji is free to exist among his patients again without fear of hurting them. Small victories, Kyojuro supposes. Muzan’s upper ranks have decreased by one already. Hakuji is officially no longer a killer by nature, and he has committed to fighting alongside the corps. Next to go shall be upper six, and then five, and up the chain of command. They shall go step by step, and eventually, claw their way up the stairwell to Muzan’s fortress and burn it down.

     Perhaps someday, when this is all over, Kyojuro will retire, and the demon in his arms will find himself a family again.

     The thought brings Kyojuro peace.

                                      ***

     There is a demon nearby. Tanjiro is sure of it.

     A peculiar stench hangs in the air, sharp and sweet. It reeks of demonhood and burnt sugar, and it stings Tanjiro’s sinuses like he’s breathing in smoke. A shiver passes over his body as he sprints along the rooftops. He prays that Inosuke and Zenitsu are safe. He cannot smell them nearby at least, and Uzui-san’s scent is distant as well. A brief sigh of relief escapes his lips. So long as his friends are safe, he has no reason to panic. Besides, there is no reason to suspect that this demon is anything out of the ordinary. Its presence is strong, but demure. Surely the demon they are searching for will be more intense than this, but Tanjiro flags his crow to attention anyway.

     The smell reaches its peak from the roof of a relatively unassuming building down the road. He’s back at the pleasure house, Tanjiro realizes. Nezuko shifts in her box, nails scratching at the inside as the demonic presence reaches her. Tanjiro takes a deep breath, swinging off the roof and onto the top landing. He crawls up onto the windowsill, peering in through the thin screen windows.

     There is a woman inside with her back turned to him. Tanjiro can’t make out any of her features through the blur of the window, but his instincts tell him all he needs to know.

     Danger, they howl. The house is in danger.

     “Koinatsu-san,” Tanjiro cries, flinging open the window.

     His next breath catches in his throat at the sight.

     The woman inside is dressed in a way that is quite unbefitting for the autumn air, showing enough skin to give most humans a chill. Her long black hair is pinned back, and it flows around her as if unbound by gravity. Perhaps the most off putting is the multitude of patterned pink belts that are suspended in the air like seaweed swaying with the tide. They slither around each other with a rustle of fabric that gives Tanjiro goosebumps. He grips the handle of his sword as the gravity of the situation hits him.

     This is not an ordinary demon. The sweetness of her scent had thrown Tanjiro off from what he knows he is here to find. Briefly, he hopes that Uzui-san is somewhere near. The hashira’s raw power will be sorely needed is Tanjiro’s hunch is correct.

     “Are you a demon slayer?” The woman chirps. A devilish smirk plays at the corner of her mouth that Tanjiro can see from the tilt of her head. “So you came! Oh, but you aren’t all alone, are you? I know that hideous yellow haired brat is one of your friends.” Tanjiro’s heart skips a beat. The demon knows about Zenitsu. He fight back a wave of panic. Zenitsu is not dead. He can’t be, he’s just missing, he’ll be just fine. Tanjiro just needs to find him, and they will all be fine.

     “…And surely there’s a hashira with you!” The demon giggles to herself. “You’re far too weak to be one yourself, and I have no need for any weak, boring slayers like you.”

     The strands of her belt sway further as the demon shifts her body, and they part with the momentum to reveal a woman cocooned in the fabric. Koinatsu. Tanjiro grits his teeth, trying to assess the situation. It makes no sense; the way her body seems to vanish into the threads of the demon’s belts defies the laws of the human form. A Blood Demon Art, then. The scent of blood is noticeably absent, which helps to soothe Tanjiro’s racing pulse.

     “I never eat filthy, ugly people,” the demon woman croons, and turns her face to the moonlight for Tanjiro to see.

     Dread floods his body. His suspicions have been proven true. In trying to eliminate a lesser demon along the way, Tanjiro has encountered Upper Moon Six.

     In the distance, Tanjiro’s crow caws a warning as he flies off to report to the master.

     The battle is beginning.

Chapter Text

     Once Tamayo is satisfied with the results of her procedure, and she and Shinobu have run several tests of Hakuji’s well-being, they finally leave him alone. Their spirits retreat to the Library with Yushiro in tow.

     Kyojuro stays, and he does not pry. He simply settles back into the chair at Shinobu’s desk, his spirit a welcome warmth tingling at the edges of Hakuji’s senses. Eventually, he drifts back off into a silent sleep. It is the dead of night, after all. Hakuji can feel his instincts telling him that it’s safe to venture out.

     He has no plans to. Instead, Hakuji lays back on his table, spreads his limbs wide, and prays.

     Koyuki’s name lingers on his lips, sweet and familiar. He recalls what it felt like when that name was spoken lovingly under the sunlight, whispered into her hair as she shivered with fever, wailed into the void as he held her lifeless frame. He prays for Keizou, for his never-ending optimism and kindness which reminds him a bit of Tanjiro.

     Right, Tanjiro. He’s hunting Gyutaro and Daki right now, isn’t he? There’s been no news thus far, and apparently they were supposed to report in before initiating combat, so the crew must not have found Upper Six yet.

     Hakuji throws in an extra prayer for their safety just in case.

     He thinks of the men from the Kenjutsu dojo, and he feels cold. He has not forgotten the time that the heir left Koyuki to freeze in the winter snow. The moment one drew a real blade on Hakuji with the intent to kill him remains burned into his memory. And then, the poison. Hakuji never drank the polluted water, but he can practically feel the acid burning in his throat at the thought of it. It burns like anger. It burns like loss.

     There is no room left in Hakuji’s chest to mourn the souls of the dojo. Instead, he apologizes to his father. He had achieved the life that his father wished for him, and then thrown it all away with warm blood on his fists. Distantly, he wonders if his father knows what he has done. Hakuji hopes that he doesn’t, that his soul can rest blissfully unaware of the sin his only child has fallen back into.

    Somewhere in the back of his mind, he has a terrible feeling that his family knows exactly what he’s done. And yet, somehow, they are still around.

     Hakuji doesn’t know what that means. His head is already aching from stress, and he has no more capacity to ponder.

     Kyojuro stirs lightly across the room, squirming into a more comfortable position on the desk. Hakuji opens his eyes, tilting his head to watch the Hashira sleep. He is bent over Shinobu’s desk with his head resting on folded arms. Kyojuro’s brow furrows and he sighs softly before relaxing again. A weak smile tugs at Hakuji’s lips at the sight. He has a sudden urge to brush Kyojuro’s thick hair back from his face so it doesn’t get caught in his mouth, and restrains himself. That is, after all, an intimate gesture. Hakuji doesn’t understand the frustrating desire he feels to be close to him, and he doesn’t know what Kyojuro would think if he were to awaken with Hakuji’s touch.

     Instead, he tilts his face back to the ceiling, closing his eyes again to wallow some more in his own guilt.

     The door slams against the frame as it is flung open for the second time today, sending Hakuji scrambling bolt upright. Kyojuro wakes with a startled groan. There are the beginnings of shadows under his eyes. Shinobu, the culprit of the wake-up call, appears equally frazzled. Her crow clings to her haori for dear life as she marches into the room.

     Shinobu holds up a piece of paper, clearing her throat, and Hakuji is suddenly very intrigued.

     “Kocho Shinobu-san,” she reads aloud. “This is Ubuyashiki Amane transcribing the will of Oyakata-sama. He sends his congratulations on a successful procedure, but further action on the topic will have to be postponed due to a new development.”

     Hakuji freezes. He’s getting that feeling again, the one that warns him something big is about to happen.

     “In an unexpected turn of events, Kamado Tanjiro-san has initiated the battle with Upper Moon Six. For informational purposes, Oyakata-sama has requested the presence of Rengoku Kyojuro-san to give any input he has on the art of fighting an Upper Moon. Additionally, he requests that Hakuji-san report as well to supply any additional details that could be useful in such a fight. Please ask them to report to the Demon Slayer Headquarters immediately. You have our highest gratitude.”

     Shinobu lowers the paper, meeting their dumbfounded gazes. Hakuji’s heart is racing. This was not supposed to happen before they had time to prepare. Judging by the intensity in Kyojuro’s posture, he reciprocates the worry. Damn Tanjiro’s never ending sense of justice. Hakuji can only hope it won’t bite them in the ass too hard.

     “Go,” Shinobu orders, and Hakuji realizes Kyojuro is already on his feet, apparently used to surprise summons. “That means you, Hakuji-san, Oyakata-sama needs you there now.”

     Hakuji throws himself to his feet, following as Kyojuro sprints to his room to retrieve his sword. Shinobu hurries them along to the doorway, muttering encouragements and demanding that Kyojuro be careful on his injuries.

     “Wait,” someone gasps, snatching Shinobu’s arm. It’s Tamayo. Hakuji sincerely hopes that she isn’t trying to stop him from going for some obscure health reason.

     “I’m very sorry for eavesdropping,” she pleads, “but you must take Yushiro with you. His blood demon art allows him to share his vision, which could be helpful to watch what’s happening on the battlefield.”

     Shinobu narrows her eyes, her fighting spirit curdling with suspicion. “And by ‘share his vision,’ you mean…?”

     “It’s a bit like a blindfold,” Yushiro explains. “It can hide things from view of enemies, but it can also work the opposite way. If we keep a crow circling overhead, I can create a link between the the bird and Ubuyashiki-san that will allow him to borrow it’s vision.”

     Hakuji’s brows shoot up, and he can feel the disbelief ripple through the Hashira around him.

     “Respectfully,” Kyojuro butts in, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why should we believe you? I commend your incredible work on Hakuji’s procedure, but you are still a demon claiming to have a skill that entitles him to a spot in the Slayer Headquarters! Surely you must understand why that is suspicious!”

     Yushiro rolls his eyes, throwing up his hands. “How do you think Chachamaru got here? I peeked into his sight and led him here, moron. I know what I’m doing.”

     “ Yushiro,” Tamayo reprimands, “you mustn’t say such things!” He shuts his mouth with an audible click, and Tamayo presses her hands together.

     “I know that this must be an unpleasant notion for Hashira such as yourselves, but I fully believe that Yushiro would be capable of turning the tides in this battle,” she says, bowing respectfully. “Ubuyashiki-san has known of me for a long time, this I am sure of. I ask that if you cannot trust my word, please trust his judgement of me instead.”

     Shinobu and Kyojuro lock skeptical gazes. Conflict smolders in their spirits, and Shinobu bites her lower lip as she considers.

     “Go,” she says finally, “before I change my mind. Tamayo-san, I would like you to stay here with me and tell me everything you can that could point us toward a cure.”

     “Understood,” Tamayo nods, straightening. “Thank you very much for your pardon. Yushiro, please behave yourself.”

     Shinobu turns on Yushiro and her spirit flares with intensity. It almost makes Hakuji take a step back himself. “If you set one toe out of line, or do anything to hurt my Master, I will eradicate you with my most agonizing of poisons.”

     Yushiro glares right back at her. He must have balls of steel, Hakuji thinks. Or perhaps he has no care for anything at all except Tamayo’s word.

     “The feeling is mutual,” he spits back, and Shinobu gives him a terse smile.

     “I wish you luck on your mission,” she says, and then she is shoving the three of them out the door and Hakuji is sprinting after Kyojuro through the dark of night.

     Surprisingly, Yushiro is able to keep up fairly well. It seems that his lack of particular physical strength is made up for by his remarkable willpower. As they charge through the wisteria field, Hakuji hears him groan in pain as the poison sinks into his body. Hakuji is getting better and better at forcing his way through the vile flowers, and his own demonic power rivals that of Yushiro by far, so he ends up tugging the boy onward for a minute as he stumbles. Still, Yushiro straightens and presses on faster than Hakuji had expected. They emerge on the other side with nothing but a lingering cough. When Kyojuro looks back to check on them, Hakuji flashes him a thumbs up, and they continue their journey.

     As much as Kyojuro’s form screams with worry, Hakuji can sense a tiny flash of exhilaration in his spirit. This is the first time he is back on the field, Hakuji realizes. Kyojuro thrives when he feels helpful, and the way he charges ahead with a confident pace betrays the thrill within his heart at having a purpose again.

     Upon arrival at the Ubuyashiki Mansion, the three are greeted once more by a pair of those creepy children. This time, however, they seem more unsettled than usual. Hakuji’s chest pangs with sympathy as he senses the panic in the children’s spirits. It is unlikely that they know exactly what is going on, and the white haired one’s spirit trembles like she’s about to burst into tears.

     “In here,” says the black haired twin, her voice more strained than last time. Hakuji gets the distinct impression that there is more to this one than meets the eye.

     Kyojuro takes the lead, following the two without question, and Yushiro and Hakuji follow behind. Hakuji finds himself getting nervous. Perhaps it’s the sense of urgency sitting heavily over the house. Or maybe it’s the fact that Hakuji hasn’t seen the Master since Kagaya was coughing up blood in his arms, and he has yet to work with him in a battle setting. Against an Upper Moon, no less. Either way, he brushes his prayer beads for luck as the children slide open the doors to the Master’s study.

     Kagaya kneels on the floor in front of a low table that is strewn with maps and records, an unfamiliar, white haired woman at his side. This must be Ubuyashiki Amane, the master’s wife. She looks up at them with the same dark eyes as her children.

     “Welcome,” she says softly. “Rengoku-san, Hakuji-san, we are very glad you could make it.” Her brow furrows slightly as she observes the new addition. “And you must be Tamayo-san’s assistant? She informed us that you would be accompanied by a younger demon by the name of Yushiro.”

     “Yes, Ma’am,” Yushiro says with shocking politeness. He joins Kyojuro in a deep bow, and Hakuji scrambles to do the same.

     “Hello, my Children; please come closer,” Kagaya beckons, and as they oblige Hakuji is able to get a better look at the state he is in.

     It’s clear that the spontaneous beginning of such an important battle has come as a shock to the Ubuyashikis just as much as the rest of them. Both Kagaya and Amane are in sleep robes, and his hair is slightly ruffled from sleep. Kagaya’s curse has progressed, to Hakuji’s dismay. The scarred skin has spread down one high cheek bone and to the side of his neck, and as Kagaya scans the braille on pages with his fingertips, purple skin becomes visible on his hands as well. Amane has shadows under her eyes as she smiles politely at them, and Hakuji notices that her pinky is linked with her husband’s under the table for support. Seeing the exhaustion clear on the couple’s features fills him with a fresh wave of resentment towards Muzan’s creations. The pain that they—that he— has caused the Ubuyashiki family over the years is a special hell that Hakuji would not wish upon anybody.

     “Oyakata-sama, we apologize for any delay,” Kyojuro says. “We arrived as quickly as we could, and Tamayo-san sent Yushiro-san along with us to assist you in surveilling the fight!”

     Despite the situation, Kagaya’s voice is clear of any stress or fatigue as he smiles softly.

     “Yes, Tamayo-san sent me a crow to explain your ability to me while you made the journey here,” he says, and Hakuji feels his muscles relax unconsciously as the master speaks. He had forgotten how enchanting his presence is. “I greatly appreciate your willingness to assist us. If I understand correctly, we need to send out a crow first?”

     “Yes sir,” Yushiro confirms. “If the crow carries my eye emblem, and you will allow me to bestow one of my eyes upon you, I can form a link which allows you to borrow his sight. And…” he looks to the ground, seeming almost sheepish. “Forgive my rudeness, sir, but the nature of my Blood Art means that your blindness should not be an issue. The bird’s sight will translate as if it were your own, regardless of the state of your own vision.”

     Kagaya’s eyes widen slightly, and Hakuji detects a shift in his spirit. Something kept quiet and forgotten burns within him with a sparkle of gold. Kagaya’s expression does not falter, but Hakuji is long familiar with the sensation he has detected. It is the burn of a forbidden hope, a desire to regain something that has long been lost. Hakuji understands that feeling better than he wishes he did.

     “Is that so,” Kagaya hums, perfectly composed on the outside. “In that case, let us send out my crow first, and then I would like to hear from Kyojuro and Hakuji.”

     Amane hurries to the engawa as he speaks, poking her face out into the moonlight and whistling for their messenger. The crow that arrives is one that Hakuji has never met before, and he is adorned with regal purple ropes that give him an air of importance. She mutters an explanation to the bird as it perched on her wrist, and she carries him back to the Master.

     “This is our messenger crow,” Kagaya explains. “He is specially trained and of the highest intelligence, so he should be best equipped for the job.”

     “Hello, hello,” the crow squawks, bobbing his head in greeting. Hakuji smiles softly. He has never met such an expressive bird before.

     Yushiro nods sharply, turning over his palms as if he has performed a card trick. An innocent looking paper lays inside, seemingly materialized out of thin air. It bears the vague shape of an eye, inked out with dark concentric lines. The crow bends its head forward, and Yushiro attaches it to the top of its head.

     “I’m on my way, Oyakata-sama,” he squawks, and the bird is gone with the rustle of feathers in flight.

     “Is it working?” Kagaya questions, turning his face toward the retreating sound.

     “Yes, sir. I’ll tell you when I’m ready to set up the link.” Yushiro bows stiffly, scooting back to give them space.

     “Very well,” Kagaya agrees. Next to him, Amane pulls out a new map and lays it over the table. It appears to be of a city, Hakuji thinks. She must be attempting to calculate the location of the fight.

     “Now, then,” he prompts, turning to Hakuji and Kyojuro. “We know that there are two demons in one, and that the brother fights with poison. Hakuji has told me that they must be decapitated simultaneously. What else should I know going into this?”

     “Is there backup nearby?” Kyojuro asks immediately. “When Hakuji and I fought, I was alone, through no fault of anyone’s own! However, I believe that had the sun not risen in time, the lack of reinforcements would have spelled my defeat.”

     “Sorry,” Hakuji nibbles on his lip. “My bad.”

     Kagaya nods an affirmative, unaware of the way Hakuji bumps the hashira apologetically with his shoulder. Kyojuro pats his knee seemingly on reflex.

     “I have already sent a crow to Obanai,” Kagaya informs them. “He is currently on standby.”

     “Will that be enough?” Hakuji presses. “I mean, Daki and Gyutaro are no joke. Once the poison kicks in, it works fast.”

     “We shall hope,” Kagaya hums. “I wish to involve as few fighters as possible for this exact reason. Tengen has incredible poison resistance, but that is not the case for my other swordsmen. If I can prevent Obanai or anyone else from being poisoned, I wish to do so.”

     “What about me?” Hakuji blurts without thinking. “Send me in. I can break their poison down no problem, and I’m stronger than Upper Six, so I can protect the slayers while they kill them!”

     “Unfortunately, that is not an option,” Kagaya sighs, shaking his head slightly as he traces a new page of records. “Should Upper Six lay eyes on you, it will not only confirm your treasonous survival, but Muzan will be able to judge your exact location through their sight, no?”

     “Yes, but…am I really just going to sit here on the sidelines? I know that I can take them down, Kagaya-sama!” Hakuji tries. Guilt squirms in his belly. He doesn’t like contradicting Kagaya’s wishes, but he especially dislikes the idea of being useless.

     A sad smile tugs at the corner of Kagaya’s lips. “I am certain that you can. Unfortunately, you know far too much, Hakuji. If Muzan has confirmation that you are working with the Demon Slayer Corps, he will attempt to eradicate you before you can do any more damage to his agenda.” Kagaya’s spirit flutters with unease that clings heavy against his skin. “In order to do so, I believe he would send Upper Moon One or Two to the scene to take you down. This would not only spell your defeat, but that of the Corps members on site, and it would endanger thousands of human lives. It is just not a risk that we are able to take, Hakuji. As frustrating as it may be, I would like to conceal your presence from Muzan for as long as possible.”

     Hakuji nods lamely. “Understood,” he mutters, unconsciously popping his knuckles. A deep-rooted restlessness has sprung up within him. The old desire for an adrenaline filled fight returns to him, leaving Hakuji to take deep breaths in order to recenter. Kyojuro meets his gaze with a knowing look.

     “It is for the best,” Kyojuro tells him. “For now, the both of us must offer as much as we can from behind the scenes! It is quite an honor to be able to assist in the destruction of Upped Six at all, considering our current states.” He laughs brightly, and the tension in Hakuji’s gut eases slightly.

     “Ubuyashiki-san,” Yushiro interrupts, and Kagaya looks up towards his voice. “Your crow has arrived on site. It’s time to establish a link.”

     Kagaya’s spirit pulses with determination, and Hakuji sees Amane squeeze his hand under the table.

     “Very well,” he says. “I am ready.”

     Yushiro holds up the second paper, and Hakuji’s heart pounds in his chest. Once the link is established, the real work starts. They will be tuned into the exact details of the battle, and he finds himself oddly nervous to hear what is transpiring.

     Hakuji can only hope that Tengen and Tanjiro’s squad have the strength to defeat Upper Six in his stead.

Chapter Text

     Kyojuro feels as if there is a fire burning in his chest.

     He hasn’t been on duty for weeks now, perhaps almost a month, and all of a sudden here he is helping to orchestrate an attack on an Upper Moon. It doesn’t compare to field work, of course. Nothing can beat the sheer thrill of a successful mission, with a cold night breeze and adrenaline fueling the body and breath. Still, if this is what Kyojuro must do to be useful to his cause, he will do so gladly.

     Kagaya seems uncharacteristically rattled. It doesn’t show in his expression or his confident body language, but Kyojuro sees the way his hair is out of place and the sleep yukata which exposes more of his neck than is typical. It pains him to see the scars have spread. He has witnessed his Master’s decline over the years, so this progression is nothing new. Somehow, though, it never gets any easier.

      “I’ll give my sight to you first, Ubuyashiki-san,” Yushiro says. “Once you have your bearings, I can administer sight to Rengoku-san and Hakuji-san if you wish.”

     Kagaya nods his consent. “I think the both of you should have access if possible,” he proposes, “and Amane as well. The more sets of eyes we have, the less likely it is that something will be missed or misinterpreted.”

     Yushiro scoots up close to Kagaya, bowing his head slightly in apology. “This may feel a bit weird,” he warns. “Seeing as you’re borrowing vision from a crow, it won’t be exactly like human sight, but it will work. And it will happen quite fast, so I apologize if it is overwhelming.”

     Kagaya’s gentle smile quirks upward a bit at the edge. “I’ll be alright,” he promises. “I have faith in you, Yushiro. Whenever you are ready.”

      “Alright,” Yushiro says, and he reaches forward to press the paper against Kagaya’s forehead. Kyojuro watches in fascination as the Master’s eyes flutter shut instinctively as the symbol of one wide eye is attached to his forehead.

     “Did it work, Yushiro-san?” Amane asks, and there is a hint of anxiety in the way her hands hover over her husband’s shoulder. Kyojuro steals a glance at Hakuji, who is chewing on his lip with concern.

     Kagaya lifts his head slowly, thick lashes twitching against his cheeks. His lavender eyes open, half squinting as if he is seeing the sun for the first time. Kyojuro sees him shudder like he never has before as his eternally calm exterior slips. Kagaya’s soft smile has fallen, lips parted slightly in shock, and his eyes are wide with something painfully tender. He can see, Kyojuro realizes. There is no other explanation. For the first time in years, his Master can see. It may not be his vision, but it is vision nonetheless.

      Kagaya’s hands freeze on the map, trembling slightly. Emotion floods his features for a split second as he registers what is happening.

     And then, Kyojuro watches in agony as Kagaya is overtaken by wild, naïve hope, and with his first seconds of new sight, he turns desperately to look for the face of his wife.

     The moment hangs heavily in the air for a split second. Amane stares back at him, eyes glassy with sudden tears. There is no flash of recognition in Kagaya’s eyes. Only his eternally blank stare greets her. The only vision he has is tied to a crow that is too far away to be of any help.

     He cannot see her. Even now, blessed with the sight of another, Kagaya can not look upon the face of his lover.

     Kyojuro’s stomach turns with sympathy as the spell breaks. Both Ubuyashikis collect themselves instantaneously and in unison, tearing their faces away from each other. Hakuji makes a strangled sound as Kagaya’s face relaxes instinctively back into the same mysterious smile that he always wears. Their shoulders straighten, their hands steady. It’s almost unnerving how easily they have trained themselves to conceal any traces of pain. It makes Kyojuro want to cry, and he has to swallow a lump in his throat.

     “Well done, Yushiro-san,” Kagaya says lightly, giving him a gentle grin. “Your Blood Demon Art is very effective! My crow’s sight translates almost as if it is my own.”

     Yushiro flushes slightly at the praise. “Thank you, sir,” he says, a bit gruffly. “Should I share it with the others?”

     “Yes,” Kagaya agrees. “I have eyes on Tanjiro. He is battling Upper Moon Six.”

     Kyojuro’s heart drops down to his toes, cold fear snaking through him. “Alone?” He asks, his voice high with horror.

     “Alone,” Kagaya confirms grimly, and Kyojuro wants to scream. That is his tsuguko. His tsuguko, who Kyojuro should be loving and protecting and absolutely not be allowing to end up in such a situation.

     “Fuck,” Hakuji swears, before slapping a hand over his mouth with a mumbled apology. Kyojuro almost laughs. Yep, that about sums it up. Suddenly, he is back at the site of the Mugen Train, facing a beast against whom he has no chance of winning. It’s shocking, the abrupt feeling of hopelessness that washes over him. That is not how Kyojuro views the world. He shakes his head slightly, crossing his arms over his chest as he forces the thoughts away.

     “Kamado-shounen is strong,” he exclaims. “If anyone can hold out until help arrives, it will be him!” Hakuji casts him a nervous look, and Kyojuro vehemently ignores the way it reciprocates his own worry.

     “Here,” Yushiro says shortly, and suddenly a paper is slapped onto Kyojuro’s forehead. He jumps at the contact, and has to squeeze his eyes shut as a second field of vision crowds his senses. He is outside, surrounded by the shroud of a night sky.

It’s like he’s observing from—well, from a bird’s eye view. Below him, on the street, is Tanjiro, and across from him, a strange female demon with long strands of her belt flowing around her. Tanjiro is breathing heavily, dust covering his haori, and his knuckles are white on the grip of his sword. The sight makes Kyojuro’s stomach churn.

     “Is this Upper Six?” Amane asks, now donning an eye of her own. Kagaya nods slowly. “It would seem so. I can’t get a good look at her face, but on the basis of Tanjiro’s body language, this must be her.”

     Hakuji gasps, and Kyojuro looks over in the real world to see Yushiro slapping a paper onto his forehead. He shivers, probably adjusting to the dizzying sensation of having two sights in one. “Yeah,” he confirms, voice dripping with malice. “That’s Daki. She’s not nearly as tough as her brother, but if Tanjiro doesn’t get his shit together quick, she could still kill him.”

     Kyojuro’s pulse picks up as Tanjiro lunges forward. The sound of Hinokami Kagura whistling through the air rebounds shrilly inside his skull. It’s not quite hearing, but the echo of metal on thick demon skin exists within his mind as if he has ears of his own on site.

     “Where are the others?” Kagaya asks, leaning forward as if it will help him see better. “Do any of you have eyes on them?”

     “No,” Amane hums. “They are nowhere to be found.”

     “Alright, that’s our priority.” Kagaya taps a single finger on the desk, tracing quickly back over the braille on his map. “Yushiro-san, how many eyes can I look through at once?”

     Yushiro’s eyebrows shoot up. “Do you have more crows? Because I can give you more eyes, but it won’t be easy. We’ll have to send them out separately, and you’ll have to balance the confusion of multiple sets of vision at once.”

     Amane is already on her feet, rushing back to the door to whistle for crow backup. “I’m already lacking sight in my natural form, so I should be able to handle more of them,” Kagaya presses. “Is there a way to switch between the different eyes, like surveillance?”

     “I suppose so,” Yushiro furrows his brow. “What exactly are you proposing, sir?”