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He knew.
He knew he knew, he knew.
Zenitsu knew this wasn't healthy. Acting like his gramps wasn't dead— acting like his older brother— his Aniki didn't die at his hands.
Speaking of which, he never even mentioned that part to his friends. All they knew was that the Upper Moon 6 died at his hands and that Zenitsu flinched whenever they brought it up so nobody ever pressed him about it.
Zenitsu absentmindedly dusted the cupboard in his and Kanao's shared home— well — technically his home now. Kanao got married to Nezuko last month. She moved out and Zenitsu warmly wished her luck.
Sometimes the scars hurt.
He remembered the looks on his friends' faces when they finally unwrapped the now uncracking skin. His face had dark scars, pitch black, it looked like burnt Lichtenberg figures.
Sometimes he could still feel his skin cracking. Sometimes he could still feel the weight of his sword in his hands, making his stance— before slashing his brother's neck.
Not even Kanao knew.
Nobody asked.
He didn't blame them. A whole war happened and he didn't blame them for forgetting Zenitsu. His body— besides the cracking skin— was basically destroyed from the inside. His muscles were torn and several ribs were broken. Though thanks to the then-newly decommissioned demon corps— it took him far less time to heal than his friends.
His hair grew, and as he led himself deeper into his delusion— only broken by pathetic sobs in his cold cold home in the middle of the night, he tied it up with his brother's necklace.
Kanao probably thought he liked the colour or something.
It's been a while since anyone visited, or replied to his letters. He was lonely. Zenitsu hadn't gone out of his way to visit anyone, so maybe he did this to himself. Who knows?
He wondered what Tanjirou was doing, living in the mountains. Zenitsu— maybe consciously— decided that village life wasn't for him and he'd move into a home nearer to the city. Kanao joined him because she was his best friend.
Tanjirou must be happy, even Inosuke decided to go live in the mountains. He had his family back. Maybe not in the way he would've wanted, but a family nonetheless.
Zenitsu hadn't eaten in a while. He'd always eaten with Kanao after all. He felt normal around her, like he wasn't putting off processing his trauma— but instead, just another young breathing 20-year-old talking about the locals' antics and novels.
And in the middle of the night, Zenitsu made the abrupt decision to leave. Not Japan, but to face the orchard he'd puke just thinking about.
To face the graves he knew existed but never saw. Because he used to be a coward.
But life flows like a river and it'll force you to move on anyways.
He packed, he didn't own much, to begin with. He'd already sold the home to some family that would come tomorrow. He picked up a floorboard and— Ah —
His beloved katana.
His yellow haori.
Zenitsu swallowed the urge to throw up and shoved it into his bag.
It was hours before daylight when Zenitsu started his journey. But it wasn't like there was anything to fear. The demons were all dead now, after all.
Like your brother.
He ignored the thought and walked faster as if trying to escape his mind.
Like your grandfather.
His legs didn't feel sore after walking so long. He couldn't help but keep the Total Concentration breathing active, it was a part of him. He'd never forget the near-decade he'd spent training, fighting, slaying and winning.
And never losing.
It shocked him to think he was only 20. Kanao was only 20. Tanjirou and Inosuke were 19 and— Nezuko was 18.
They were so young.
He absently wondered how they dealt with the nightmares.
A day passed. He was exhausted, and he wondered how long it would be before someone noticed Zenitsu had gone missing.
He never told anyone about the peach orchard.
Nobody asked.
Besides, his dark hood that covered him in the cold autumn months was more than enough to cover his more recognizable features. He entered an Inn, and he quietly deepened his voice, and when asked where he was going he only answered—
"Home."
Zenitsu lay on the futon, by all accounts he should be warm right now. He should be.
And yet all he wants is the maroon-haired man beside him. Holding his hand.
He felt so unbearably cold.
Sleep was empty, though Zenitsu should be thankful. It was better than the nightmares that woke him up and gasping but never screaming.
When was the last time he screamed anyways?
He crawled out, his skin felt prickly. He got dressed and left the Inn before anyone could see him. Good thing he'd paid when he arrived.
Foot after foot. He managed to choke down the food at the Inn for the sake of not dying of starvation. Kanao would be pissed at him.
Food just tasted better when you ate it with other people, otherwise, it had no taste at all. Could you blame him?
The air was chilly, and winter was coming soon.
Zenitsu remembered the hatred he felt towards snow. And some slayers had the audacity to say it was pretty.
It wasn't very pretty when you didn't have a home. Not very pretty when you're huddled in an alleyway with a torn blanket and a small fire, trying your best to not freeze to death.
Not very pretty when people looked at you like a disgusting worm begging for food in the winter.
"Food's hard enough to come by in winter already, brat! Stop being so greedy!"
"Ew, when was the last time you even showered— hey— don't even think about touching me!"
Food had no taste to him if it wasn't eaten by other people.
It'd be a few more hours before he reached the orchard.