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Rengoku Kyojuro was the type of person that people were naturally drawn to, and he was proud of that. Humans were wonderful. It was only fair to reflect that energy back at them. And so. Everything he did for others and with others, he performed to his best ability, no matter how small the case was. It was an active effort. He doubted anyone noticed, and he didn’t expect them to. He also doubted people would appreciate him doing so but, by now, the need to be the best version of himself fitted him as naturally the haori resting upon his shoulders. Usually, it brought him great joy. A sense of fulfillment. 

Take Senjuro for example. The sweetest and most caring little brother in the world. He deserved only the best older brother. Someone he could be proud of, and someone who would offer him the wisest advice. Kyojuro would give him that brother. Anything less would be borderline insulting.

Or another example – the young Kamado boy, who was looking for a mentor. Someone he could look out for when in trouble, be it physical or existential. Someone who would teach him the way of the sword and the way of the word. Kyojuro recognized how harsh this lifestyle could be for young slayers with little to no support. He would rather perish than leave another soul, so shy into adolescence, alone and without help. Such a brave boy deserved only the best mentor.

Or even the people he met as he worked his way through the world. Kind helpers at the Butterfly Mansion. Or the Kakushi. Those who were neither civilians nor slayers – those who always helped from the shadows, hoping for someone to protect them as they supported those fighting outside the safe walls of their homes. Those people looked at him and saw a hashira with muscles trained into steel, eyes sharper than an eagle’s, and a kind heart honed into invincibility. They trusted his strength. Kyojuro promised himself to never fail that trust.

To have a reason to become a better version of himself was a blessing. 

But it was also a burden that sometimes seemed too heavy to carry. Dark nights when the responsibility hung upon Kyojuro’s shoulders weighing him down. Early mornings, dawns painting the world grey instead of gold, when it felt tempting to shrug the obligations off, the way he shrugged off his haori. Sunless dusks when the frame he had set for himself felt too big for the picture that he was.

Such thoughts plagued him like a disease but it wasn’t their very existence that bothered Kyojuro the most. It was the faith people put in him. Because, how could he admit to being so weak in front of men and women who viewed him as an unshakable pillar? How much nervousness and fear would that awake in their stomachs? How many of them would think “if a hashira hesitates, what does it mean for us; if it’s too much of a burden for a hero, what does it mean for humanity”?

How could he admit that ‘his best’ didn’t come to him naturally? That he was just a man for whom trying became second nature?

No, Kyojuro vowed to protect people even if the price was his own life. In his eyes, protection spread way beyond the range of his sword. Sometimes granting people ignorantness was a shield on its own.

He could maybe try talking about it with Tengen. Perhaps Mitsuri too. Surely, surely , they would understand. They were made out of similar clay, after all. But somehow, Kyujuro missed out on the right moment. The time to admit what haunted his soul had passed. He could no longer think of this as an option. The problem laid with him – he was aware of that. It didn’t make it any easier to work through it.

He had assumed that this frail invincibility and brittle strength would be an attire he would never take off. Simply because there was no place where he could walk bare.

That was until the Mugen Train incident when slowly each of his layers was peeled off. He could see that in the Upper Moon’s eyes. The way his menacing gaze assessed him, tore off everything that Kyojuro braced himself with, stripped him to his bones sending a chill down Kyojuro’s spine. And then, as the hashira stood naked in front of him, the demon said that his fighting spirit was strong, that it burned bright, and hot, that he admired Kyojuro for that.

Akaza had looked past the flaming armor that Kyojuro put upon himself, had seen his untouchable shell crack, enough to notice fear peaking through the gaps, and still put him on a pedestal. As if Kyojuro’s very human spirit still ranked him among the bests.

Kyojuro remembered how deeply it had shaken him back then – a mixture of hatred and something akin to shy gratitude, the one he was still not willing to accept. He remembered how much it spurred him to fight even more viciously, how it pushed the boundaries of his body further. 

The spasms of pain spreading across his body to the rhythm of the demon’s laughter.

He had thought himself to be as good as dead, especially as Akaza so openly admitted to despising weak people. He had assumed it to be his final judgment. He had felt life slipping away, as Akaza’a hand grazed his bones, the tips of his claws pushing Kyojuro’s body to the verge of death. Only for salvation to never come.

Instead, Kyojuro drowned in darkness for long days to come, a lethal murmur being his only companion.

He woke up hating himself and the demon even more. Sparing Kyojuro was a worse punishment than killing him would be.

Up to this day, Kyojuro wasn’t sure why he wasn’t granted death. He most certainly had lost the fight, and Akaza praised himself a merciless fighter. And yet, he refused to deliver the final punch. Not during the Mugen Train incident and not after that either.

He had sought Kyojuro out repeatedly during his recovery and once he was fully functioning hashira again. At first, he hadn’t engaged in a fight. Instead, he stripped him of his invisible layers over and over again. Until Kyojuro stood no longer a hero, a legend, but a human. Plain and bare. As if – despite his claims – he had found reading Kyojuro more than fighting him.

At first, it was unnerving to have those monstrous eyes following his every move, dissecting his every gesture. None of them spoke a word at first. Akaza watched, and Kyojuro kept ignoring that persistent and unwanted presence.

Soon, those instances become such a common occurrence that they schooled Kyojuro into passive indifference. That should have been the first red flag. Perhaps he had mistaken it for the tips of his own hair – missing out on the signs until it was too late.

At some point during their unprompted meetings (Kyojuro be damned if he could pinpoint when) his shoulders started sagging of their own accord, as he allowed the weight of responsibility to drag his body down, falling into a tired relaxation. What was the point of trying, if he was seen right through anyway? The human inside him, the one who was far away from “the best”, started meeting Akaza’s gaze halfway.

Once Kyojuro caught up on that, he had expected Akaza to strike, taking it as a victory.

He was wrong.

One night, from the corner of his eyes, he spotted Akaza moving, gracefully hopping off the tree with a silent thud, then moving forward quietly on his feet. His body fluid in its movement, unabashed in its presence. He had a predator stance, and yet nothing about his demeanor screamed danger. He loosely folded his fingers into a fist and raised his hand; his eyes met Kyojuro’s – curious, expectant, teasing.

“Fight me now, Kyojuro.”

Not a demand, certainly not a request. Merely a suggestion.

Still enough for the adrenaline to kick in. Kyojuro’s eye and memory with no trouble found similarities between this situation and the nightmares that haunted him during the darkest of nights. Curl of Akaza’s fingers grazing his ribs. Spark of crimson bloodlust behind his blue eyes. Destructible strength behind the shape of his muscles.

Kyojuro’s hands tightened around the hilt of his blade, and Akaza grinned at him with visceral satisfaction. 

“Just one more fight and he will leave me alone,” Kyojuro thought before lunging forward, his heart hammering inside his chest with humiliating fear and preposterous excitement alike.

He had thought it to be a one-time thing back then.

He was wrong.

For all his presence and personality, for the booming voice of his, and the energy that set noise into motion, Kyojuro liked silence quite a bit. Of course, he loved when chatter and laughter rang around him in the sweetest melody of happiness and innocent levity. He cherished moments when he could settle in the corner of a room, filled with a cacophony of voices, and simply drown in the dailiness of civilians around him. He relished in rare evenings he could fully dedicate to eating and praising the food, conversing with friends, and laughing carelessly.

Still, there were days, nights, when he welcomed silence with open arms, coaxing it to come closer and fit beneath his ribs as his quiet breath wheezed softly in his throat. He believed that these moments provided him with a certain balance. He believed they were possible to achieve only was he alone, only when no one talked to him.

But the line between being alone and loneliness is very thin, easy to cross, and devastating to discover. One day, Kyojuro found himself way past the border. His breath stuck in his throat at the revelation, his heart stuttered in his chest.

Hashiras usually led a very lonely life – it had drawn to him back then. Many chose to distance themselves for their own safety, which was understandable. It was hard to build relationships with people who might end up dead by the time you see them again. How many names that he would never use again had Kyojuro learned in the past? He wasn’t sure how many of these people were still alive to this day. He would most likely die unsure who he would see in the afterlife.

It was by a sheer miracle that he was still breathing.

His fingers twitched nervously, and he quickly balled them into fists and crossed his arms over his chest. A cold gust of wind slipped beneath his haori along with a few snowflakes whisked away from the ground. The snow was reaching his ankles but it wouldn’t be long until the drifts would grow bigger, making it harder to travel fast.

He would have to find a place to hide soon. Somewhere of safety where he could sit out the storm without worrying over breathing gasiform ice.

Kyojuro looked up at the sky. It was still mostly clear but when he looked to the left, he could see dark clouds slowly filling the firmament with a suggestion of an upcoming storm. He had been anticipating the weather to go bad since the early morning. Ever since the incident, his body was more perceptive to changes in weather.

“You’re growing old!” Tengen had laughed at him when Kyojuro shared his observations.

And in a way, he was right. Kyojuro was very well aware that his body would never reach its former potential. Not with the damage it had taken. Not with the strain that was constantly pulling at his muscles when his fingers gripped his sword. His body was weary, tired, and weren’t those synonyms for “growing old”?

That thought wasn’t saddening at all. Humans grow old, life is fleeting – that was what made each breath more precious and valuable. Instead of being mournful, the concept of growing old put him in a contemplative mood. “Growing old”... somewhere along the way, these words gained an extra layer of meaning; or rather – they became intertwined with memory. One Kyojuro hadn’t wished to carry in the first place.

Become a demon, Kyojuro. Akaza suggested that only one night – the night of their first fight. Never again. It bugged Kyojuro more than he liked to admit it. Did that mean that his fighting spirit was no longer the same? Had it been broken along with his body? Clipped and re-made to the point that it was no longer recognizable?

Kyojuro’s lips thinned, his eyebrows knitted into a frown, and he quickly pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind. There was no need to dwell over Akaza’s, a demon’s, reasonings. His kind was treacherous and wicked, following a logic of their own inhuman intuition. Kyojuro shouldn’t be thinking too much about this.

Thinking about Akaza in general never caused anything good.

He tugged his hands beneath his armpits, hoping that it would provide him with more heat, that it would protect him from the biting cold. Absently, he took notice that a while ago he should have turned left – if he had done so, he would reach the village in no time. He would easily find a warm inn with a cheerful innkeeper and kind villagers whose stories and laughter would perhaps fill the gaping hole in his stomach.

(Was it always there, or was it another invisible scar left by Akaza’s touch?)

Instead, he trusted his feet, he trusted the feeling in his guts that was pushing him deeper into the forest. Maybe he should have known better, maybe he should have made a different call. After all, what kind of fool would trust a feeling coming from a body that had been ripped open only to be stitched back together? How much of Kyojuro’s good intuition had dripped out of his wounds along with blood?

Something rustled in the bush nearby. Kyojuro’s hand instinctively moved to reach for his blade. His heart stopped for a second, fear freezing the muscle into a stone.

A tiny, white-furred rabbit jumped onto his path, and Kyojuro laughed under his breath. A puff of warm air slipped past his lips. His eye darted upwards once again. The sun was slowly disappearing behind the dark clouds but it was still daytime. He was getting paranoid.

There was still time to turn back and reach the village before the storm–

But the forest was calling for him.

Kyojuro adjusted the haori that was resting over his shoulders. The cloth itself felt heavy. He wasn’t sure if today he would be able to carry the additional weight of his good humor along with it. Completely emptying his mind, he ventured deeper into the forest.

Kyojuro didn’t need Tanjiro’s nose to smell that something about the hut he had found was certainly off. It looked neither abandoned nor lived in. Squeezed between an old camphor tree and the slope of a mountain, the house seemed both ancient and newly built. The shoji screens instead of being creamy white, appeared to be permanently tainted with the shadows. The wooden engawa creaked beneath Kyojuro’s feet before he had even stepped onto it.

His heart drummed inside his chest. A little bit of tension gathered beneath his skin, as he slowly slid the doors open. Logically speaking, Kyojuro knew that he should be gripping his sword. The place reeked of demon presence. Any other slayer would walk into the house expecting a fight. In the past, he would have walked into the house expecting a fight.

Now though… Something about the silence of the empty corners of the house; something about the hollow cleanliness, and the lack of dust across the floor; the nearly silent creak above his head… the subtle burn of hesitancy and promise in his air. Kyojuro found unsettling familiarity in this atmosphere.

He turned around to slide the shoji door shut, cutting off the source of light; locking himself into the dim room. The wind outside howled loudly, and the worn-out paper rustled faintly. Funny how Kyojuro’s heart jumped in his chest when he heard a rabbit in the bushes but now his heartbeat, though a bit more pronounced than usual, was stable. As if he had been expecting what was bound to happen. As if he had walked all the way here with a specific goal on his mind.

Kyojuro stepped further into the room. It was nearly empty. An open space with an irori right in the middle. The remaining lumps of coal were blanketed with dust. No one has lit a fire in here in a very long time. Kyojuro drew in a long breath. Right beneath the acidic scent of a demon, he could still smell a memory of life nestled in the old walls of the house.

He wanted to take one more step further but his body froze before his foot as much as landed on the floor. An unmistakable heat of someone’s gaze burning holes in the back of his head. Warmth zipped down Kyojuro’s spine, and his fingers twitched to rest at the hilt of his blade.

The aftermath of his thoughtless actions was slowly catching up to him.

He refused to raise his gaze; refused to look at the naked roof beams above his head. He feared he would rejoice at shadows that resided there.

Instead, he waited for the wood to creak again. The noise was quiet but the weight applied on the mucid wood was careful. He wanted to be heard. As if he was giving Kyojuro one last warning; a chance to turn around and leave.

(It was always the other way around. Without a fail. So that Kyojuro could pretend to complain over being stalked. A saving dignity for him as a reputable slayer.)

Kyojuro breathed slowly, closing his eye as if to savor the scent of air better. His senses were tingling. His fingers stopped twitching nervously. When he opened his eye again, it was with a smile on his lips, the sound of his thoughts pulling noise out of his lungs.

“That seems like a good place to wait the storm out!” he beamed to no one in particular. 

The scoff he received in response was hushed. Still, loud enough for the confused disbelief to be heard loud and clear. The smile on Kyojuro’s face widened a little bit. The adrenaline was running hot in his veins.

Perhaps he had a death wish.

A part of his brain was still screaming at him to draw out a sword when he was crouching down to set his stuff on the ground. A voice suspiciously similar to his father's laughed at him as he carefully spread his bedroll.

A click of a tongue. A flash of a crooked smile that Kyojuro didn’t have to search for to see it.

“Never took you for a fool, Kyojuro,” Akaza all but purred through the space between them, and Kyojuro’s eyes fluttered at the familiarity of mockery.

He was right, naturally. Kyojuro was a fool. Both of them were for allowing this to happen. (again.)

“Hm!” Kyojuro pretended to give it a breath of thought, “Perhaps you don’t know me well enough then!” he replied, coating his voice with usual vigor.

Akaza clicked his tongue again as Kyojuro settled next to the irori and blew on the coal, trying to get off the thick layer of dust.

“The wood’s in the corner,” Akaza said after a couple of moments, still securely hidden in the shadows right beneath the roof. Kyojuro straightened up. From the corner of his eye, he saw a leg, adorned with a pink beaded band around the ankle, dangling from one of the beams. He quickly turned his gaze away.

“Thank you!” Kyojuro replied reflexively, even though he shouldn’t – he really shouldn’t – ever thank a demon.

From the silence that echoed in the room, it was obvious that both of them were aware of that.

There were nights when Akaza visited him, and they fought for hours. Then there were nights when not a word had passed between them; not even one punch was exchanged. Kyojuro didn’t mind either. He could barely recall days when Akaza’s silence or chatter filled him with dread. Now they were calming, in a way grounding. He tried not to think about it too often. 

Emptying his thoughts, Kyojuro settled with firewood and started carefully arranging it in the middle of the irori. The winter chill was soaking through the floor, and the howling of the wind outside made the space even less hostile. Still, there was nowhere he would rather be right now. 

Didn’t mean that he was willing to freeze to death though.

When he was done, he quickly dug the box of matches from his pocket. The heat almost instantly caught at the dry twigs. He inhaled sharply and coaxed the hot air into his lungs. The taste of fire melted across his tongue. A small smile tugged at the corners of Kyojuro’s lips. As cliche as it was, he loved watching the fire. Loved feeling its warmth over his skin too. He leaned down, and his thick locks slipped past his shoulders, caging his face on each side. Now, the heavy weight of Akaza’s cracked eyes on his nape was even more pronounced. Its heat burned warmer than the fire crackling in front of him.

The room grew brighter, flames chasing away the initial darkness, and Kyojuro wondered how much longer until the sun outside set completely. He knew that Akaza wouldn’t go down before that happened. Still, the suggestion slipped past his teeth before he had a chance to incinerate it on his tongue.

“It would be much fairer if you came down,” Kyojuro stretched out his hands and spread his fingers open, letting the echo of flames lick his skin into warmth.

Akaza snorted with disbelief. Kyojuro heard him move, most likely from one beam to another. It took all the willpower to stop himself from searching the demon with his eyes. 

“And have you push me out of the window so that I could burn in the daylight?” Akaza asked laughter stretched over the entirety of the question. “No, thank you, Kyojuro.”

I would not do such thing, echoed inside Kyojuro’s head, providing an answer as too quick as too illicit to voice out.

“The sun’s hidden behind clouds!” Kyojuro pointed out instead, rubbing his hands against each other; his eyes fixed on the fire, cheeks catching the warmth it emanated.

There was a beat of silence. A breath of uncertainty. One of these moments when their conversations strayed into dangerous areas. When they were skimming a thin line between tentative trust and secrecy sewed into their souls.

Kyojuro breathed deeply. He brought up the topic therefore it was his duty to drop it before things got unpleasant. He had no wish for unpleasantries today.

“The snowstorm is fast approaching by the sounds of it,” he announced, listening intently to the sound of the wind.

“It’s been a long time coming,” Akaza complained from above, “The sky has been brimming with change for days now. Not a good time for traveling.”

Kyojuro hummed in agreement, “At least you don’t have to actually worry about the cold.”

“You wouldn’t either if–” Akaza stopped abruptly, and Kyojuro’s breath got stuck in his throat at the unspoken. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, the refusal already sitting at his tongue.

But the temptation didn’t come. Not in the form he had expected anyway.

“If you stopped in a village, you wouldn’t be cold either,” Akaza rephrased himself quickly.

Kyojuro swallowed the disappointment and subtly shook his head, his eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly.

“Not in the mood,” he replied quietly, carefully, giving shape to the words he wouldn’t say around anyone else. His voice coming from the booming, cheerful volume to the frail hesitancy.

“Ah,” Akaza sighed and that was it. That was all of his reply. All Kyojuro needed for the tendrils of tension to start loosening up.

Kyojuro’s shoulder sagged, as he pulled his knees to his chest. The challenges of the journey were finally settling in his bones, painting his body with fatigue. He blinked heavily, eyelids drooping slowly, heavy with exhaustion. He looked at the dark-colored shoji obscuring the outside world. Even through the grey paper, it was obvious that it was still fairly light outside. The night was yet to come. He rested his cheek on one of his knees – a position he grew accustomed to over the years being in constant travel. Quick naps were his forte.

“Akaza?” he called. 

Akaza hummed quietly from above. Kyojuro’s eye fell closed, and all warnings that used to go off inside his head years ago were shoved at the back of his mind. As he hooked his arms over his calves, he realized that he wasn’t even sure where he put his sword.

He was all defenseless and willing to become even more so.

“Do you mind if I rest a bit?” Kyojuro asked quietly. “Just until nightfall?” wake me up later.

Even without Tengen’s abnormal hearing, he picked up the choked-up gasp coming above. The corners of his lips lazily turned upwards. He liked surprising Akaza. The mere idea of doing so always sent a pleasant shudder down Kyojuro’s spine.

He had already started dozing off when Akaza finally murmured an answer.

“Sleep well.”

Sometimes Kyojuro wondered if the sound of the crackling fire was just as comforting to everyone else as it was to him. As far as his memory reached the softly sizzling air and the quiet noise made by puffing fire put him at ease, spread peace across his body. He wasn’t sure if it was one of the side effects of being raised in a household of a flame hashira, or if it was a feeling everyone experienced. It didn’t really matter.

When consciousness was slowly drawing to him, it was lined with the sound of a fire burning nearby; a promise of warmth and safety even outside his blissful dreams. Sometimes, when his mind was exceptionally weak, unwilling to keep up with his strong body and an even stronger sense of justice, the coziness of flames was enough to tempt him to sleep a little bit longer.

Today though, his eye itched to be opened. 

When the world came into vision, the first thing Kyojuro saw were golden irises staring at him from the opposite side of irori. The air above the flames was heated, bending and twisting the reality. The image of Akaza’s face coming a little bit wobbly. His eyes seemingly bleeding gold into the fire. The only sharp point was his teeth, revealed by a grin.

With fragments of subconsciousness still littered all over his mind, Kyojuro couldn’t help but mirror the smile. His own was much gentler in its nature, still a little bit drowsy.

The sharp edge of Akaza’s grin subdued. Now he was smiling that dangerous kind of smile that made him look almost human. Kyojuro quickly averted his gaze. Akaza was many dangers – sharps claws, abnormal strength, skills worthy of a warrior – but his smile was the only one Kyojuro had no idea how to fight. Color blossomed across his cheeks upon this realization and he quickly shook his head; the tips of his hair tickling his nose.

The night was pouring into the room through the tinted shoji. The sun must have set a long time ago. Kyojuro grimaced. It was a bad habit to sleep through the dusk. After all, that was the time when demons crawled out of their hiding. He once again glanced at Akaza, sitting just a couple of feet away, looking as placid as a demon could look.

Why didn’t you kill me? Kyojuro should ask. He should reach for his blade and stand steady on his feet, readying for a fight. But his senses was still slow with relaxation. His mouth still full of the syrupy sweetness of his dreams. His muscles still cottoned with respite. His heart still gentle with unrealistic what-ifs.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” he asked at last, his voice slurring a little bit.

He could feel Akaza’s eyes on himself but refused to raise his gaze. He should be looking at the demon, wary of the dangers that came with his kind. But, Kyojuro feared that if he as much as peeked at him, he would keep his eye fixed for an entirely different reason.

Akaza scoffed.

“No offense, Kyojuro but you looked exhausted,” he shrugged, and even though the statement clearly wasn’t meant as an insult, Kyojuro still bristled upon hearing it. “Figured you’d wake up on your own.” 

Kyojuro doubted he would ever get used to his gained weakness being addressed so openly. Everyone mentioned that even if it was just in passing. Mitsuri would gently turn down his propositions to arm wrestle. Tomioka would volunteer for missions that required more strength. Tengen would joke about Kyojuro following in his footsteps and retiring. Even Senjuro would go the extra mile just to ensure that Kyojuro wouldn’t have to carry heavy buckets of water at home.

Kyojuro’s fists tightened. He was angry at himself. Not for growing weak after getting injured – that was a part of his job description – but for showing his deficiency so easily.

He raised his head higher, tilting his chin upwards because he could allow a little bit of self-loathing when no one but Akaza was looking.

“I’m not feeble,” he declared loud and firm. As soon as the sentence left his mouth, he felt a wave of embarrassment fill his veins, shame creeping upon his cheeks. He jolted, his throat tightened and he parted his lips again, an apology, a denial ready to rush out of him. 

His eye widened frantically as his gaze met Akaza’s. The words died in his throat as if Akaza personally crashed his windpipe even though he hadn’t moved an inch.

The demon was no longer smiling. Instead, he was eyeing Kyojuro both disbelieving and affronted. As if Kyojuro had said something that personally offended him. For a moment they stared at each other like that, and it was the closest to terror Kyojuro had felt in Akaza’s presence in months. He could feel himself being dissected yet again. Every twitch of his muscles, every spasm of emotion across his face. Akaza piecing his feelings together had always been an uncomfortable experience.

Kyojuro bit his lips and Akaza’s attention wavered, his eyes falling to the arch of his upper lip. The marked gold in his eyes darkened for one single crackle of the fire. Kyojuro blinked at the moment was gone.

“No one is saying that you’re feeble, Kyojuro,” Akaza said slowly, his tongue licking the row of perfectly white teeth. “Least me.”

Kyojuro wasn’t a violent man at his heart. That was why he jolted with surprise when his own fist collided with the wooden floor, the crack sounding dull and empty. Hollow too. Akaza didn’t even flinch, and somehow that made Kyojuro’s anger burn even hotter.

“Least you?” He spat out, and the venom on his tongue was so unfamiliar that the muscle twisted on its own, sharpening his tone and unrevealing the truth that was kept behind his teeth. “Then why did you stop asking me to become a demon, hm? You were so persistent about it, it seemed that not even the threat of death could make you abandon the idea, until I–” A sudden outburst of pain sprung from the bottom of his stomach, binding his entire body with tension. Kyojuro grunted, his hand moving instinctively to wrap around his abdomen. 

It wasn’t a real pain. He was aware of that. Just an ache of an unhealed memory. Trauma was still coiling inside his mind, ready to pounce at his body the moment an opportunity arose. Some injuries run deeper than broken bones and bruised skin.

Kyojuro’s eye fell shut and he drew in a long shattering breath, the air hissing beneath the roof of his mouth. When he stabilized his breathing, and the pain subdued enough for him to let go of his stomach, he wasn’t surprised at all to sense that Akaza moved closer. As if he wanted to peer into Kyojuro’s struggles. Bracing himself for the sight of these menacing eyes, Kyojuro opened his eye again. 

Akaza’s head was tilted to the side as if he was assessing the situation. Fogged by blinding pain that wasn’t there in the first place, all Kyojuro could really see on his tattooed face was pity. His stomach clenched uncomfortably; the insecurity creeping on him like a fever.

“Is that why?” he asked, and the question crunched under the pressure of his teeth, “Is that why you stopped asking?”

Akaza blinked. The beginnings of his signature fanged grin started making their way back to his face. Somehow, on Kyojuro it worked like a bucket of cold water.

There was no pity in the way Akaza looked at him. Just raw curiosity. Kyojuro’s own fears conjured nightmare-like visions upon reality. 

“Would your answer be different if I asked now? Have you changed your mind?” Akaza’s tongue darted to lick his lips. His voice dropped, and his body lowered as he positioned himself to look at Kyojuro through the curtain of his pink lashes, “Will you become a demon, Kyojuro?” Akaza asked, keeping his eyes on Kyojuro, his voice sultry and darkened – worthy of a demon he was.

An unexpected burst of flame seized Kyojuro’s veins; fire rushed across his body with the speed of light; the waves of heat overtook his cheeks, making the blood pound inside his head.

Kyojuro leaned forward a little, the frame of his body casting a shadow over half of Akaza’s face. His eyes seemed to glow even brighter now.

The answer rang in the space between them before Kyojuro as much as opened his mouth.

“Never!” he answered truthfully. He aimed to say it with unwavering firmness but there was something akin to a cheerfulness behind all that unyielding refusal.

Akaza must have picked on that because his sharp grin grew broader, with a hint of poorly disgusted delight. The corners of his eyes crinkled a little, and it was all Kyojuro needed to completely forget about his anger. Oh, how he hated when it happened. When Akaza’s features softened unknowingly to his will; reminding Kyojuro that the demon in front of him used to be a human once.

“See, Kyojuro,” Akaza’s voice threaded through Kyojuro’s brain as if it wanted to reach its deepest corners. “This is why I see no point in asking,” his grin sharpened at the edge. “For now at least. I can tell when I have to halt my attacks, give my opponent a moment to breathe, allow them to realize that they’re on the losing side.”

And just like that, the moment was gone. And Kyojuro could be mad again, he really could. But all he did was huff with disbelief.

“You never give up, do you?” he asked, shaking his head; forcefully tearing his attention away from the amusement so clear on the demon’s face.

“I have eternity to try,” Akaza shrugged and crossed his legs. “I’m in no rush, you should be though. You’re not getting any younger, you know…”

Laughter bubbled at the back of Kyojuro’s throat.

“I’m not that old, Akaza,” he replied cheerfully as if similar concerns – though coming from completely different places – hadn’t plagued him in the past.

“You humans,” Akaza gestured in Kyojuro’s general direction, “Sometimes it’s hard to tell how much time you have left.”

“Well, then I am pleased to assure you that you should not fret,” Kyojuro declared lightly, “By human measure, I’m still quite young.”

Akaza’s eyes shot to him, his kanji-shaped pupils zeroed on Kyojuro’s body. Deliberately Akaza’s attention slipped away from his face, as he took in the rest of his body. There was no hidden intention behind this look, at least as much as Kyojuro could tell, only cold calculation.

Still, it was enough to make him shiver; as if someone ignited a fire beneath his clothes. He should say something; turn it into a joke somehow. But his mouth was filled with cotton, his throat clogged with unexpected self-consciousness.

“But how much for a hashira…?”

Kyojuro blinked, startled.

“How much what?” he asked, feeling just a tiny bit dumb.

“You said it yourself,” Akaza started slowly, “By human measure, you’re still young. But you, hashira, demon slayers even… time passes differently for you, doesn’t it? You don’t grow old because you don’t have enough time, isn’t that true?”

Kyojuro parted his lips and promptly sealed it back but Akaza hadn’t seemed to take notice of that, a waterfall of words flowing out of him.

“I’ve fought enough of your kind to know this. There are hardly any old hashira. Your hair grows grey due to stress, not due to age. Your body weakness not under the pressure of years but under the strain you put upon yourself,” Akaza snarled as if it offended him personally. “You’re fools, all of you. You purposely weaken yourself in a name of an idea. You are shy to admit it but you chase strength, oblivious to the fact that reaching your full potential is the equivalent of breaking yourself in half. Had you more time, had your bodies been stronger, so many of you could become something so much better. Wasted potential,” he all but spat out the last two words, as if everything they represented made him recoil in disgust.

In theory, Akaza didn’t say a thing that he hadn’t alluded to in the past. His obsession with honing one’s strength, his aversion to the idea of growing older and weaker, and his openly hostile demeanor towards characteristics of humanity in general. And yet. This time his speech made Kyojuro uneasy in his skin. Not because it revisioned something in his own beliefs but because, as ridiculous as it sounded, it almost felt as if Akaza’a tirade was coming from a different place. It was much more personal.

“There are more ways to measure one’s life…” Kyojuro sat straighter, slowly crossing his legs, fingers twisting the fabric of his pants. “Our deeds define it just as well as time does. And there are hardly better acts we could commit to than protecting others. Slayers’ lives are fleeting, but there’s beauty to that ephemerality,” he wracked his brain trying to find a matching analogy. His eye met Akaza’s. The fractured blue and scarred by cursed kanji yellow. Kyojuro’s breath got caught in his chest. “Like fireworks!” he exclaimed, “Brief but memorable.”

He had thought it to be a good metaphor. Simple and alluring in its imagery. But as soon as the words were out something odd flashed beneath Akaza’s skin; something Kyojuro would tentatively call nostalgia and confusion.

“Fireworks,” Akaza echoed.

“Ah, I– yes, fireworks,” Kyojuro repeated though less sure of himself than he was before.

Akaza’s nose scrunched.

“They are beautiful…” Akaza agreed slowly, his sharp teeth worrying his bottom lip. “But they are also gone very soon,” he added a little bit faster, forcing words to surge out of him as if he worried about the tenderness that could sprout otherwise.

Kyojuro’s fingers twitched, and for the first time that day, it wasn’t for the blade. Many times in the past he had tried to imagine what would it feel like to touch Akaza without violence. Never had the desire been so great as right now. Hastily, Kyojuro tugged his hands under his thighs, pressing them into the cold floor, stopping himself from reaching out of fear that his gentleness could be the most brutal crime yet.

“They flicker, and then they are gone,” Akaza continued, his eyes staring unseeingly into the bright fire burning in the middle of the room. “Nothing is left of them. Not even a shadow.”

Kyojuro swallowed the lump growing at the back of his throat.

“What’s left are memories,” he opposed quietly but Akaza waved him off.

“Memories grow hazy with time; only the general impression stays,” he turned his gaze back to Kyojuro, pinning him with the weight of his eyes, “Do you remember the colors of your fireworks? Their shape? Can you describe how they cut the night? Where did their path start before they bloomed in front of you? Or are you trying to say that these are not important details?”

Kyojuro wished he had never come up with the firework comparison. He laughed awkwardly and summoned a smile onto his own face. Reaching for cheerfulness came to him almost as naturally as pretending to be fearless.

“I hope to last a bit longer than a span of a firework,” he argued, warming his voice into faux glee. He had fooled many using this tone.

Not Akaza though. The demon sneered loudly in response.

“Don’t smile when you talk about things that scare you, Kyojuro.”

“Death doesn’t scare me,” he replied instinctively.

“No, but everything that comes with your death does,” to Kyojuro’s utter horror, Akaza continued, harshly biting sounds into words. All of them sharp-edged, all of them like a blade that Akaza never yielded in a fight, “Because that’s what terrifies you the most, doesn’t it? Thinking about what would happen to your brother when you’re gone. Or to your father who should have never been your responsibility but you decided to carry that burden anyway. You worry how your little slayer community would react to the flame pillar falling, just when they started thinking he was invincible. After all, he had survived facing an upper moon, is that not true?” Akaza’s teeth flashed but there was no humor in his smile; just anger.

Suddenly the demon was on his fours, his hands planted on each side of Kyojuro’s hips, his presence invading Kyojuro’s space. The heat coming from his body was palpable, scorching hot where his skin almost brushed against Kyojuro’s body. 

They never really touched each other for longer than a duration of a punch. Not since the train.

“What are you doing?” Kyojuro asked numbly and the words tasted like dust on his tongue. 

Like a fool, he didn’t move back. He had been feeling quite lonely after all. The kind of loneliness that only Akaza seemed to fill, his shape fitting perfectly into the gaping hole inside Kyojuro’s stomach, the same way his handprint matched the scar running across his skin.

Akaza hummed, long and low. He blinked slowly, his eyelashes casting long shadows across his grey cheeks. Sometimes his inhumanity worked in his favor.

“Making your firework-life a little bit harder,” he replied quietly, his voice pitch dark. His breath was fanning Kyojuro’s lips.

“You are?”

“I sure do hope so,” Akaza laughed. “See, Kyojuro, I’m also not sure what would happen to me if you died.”

Kyojuro’s heart hammered inside his chest. It was embarrassing because there was no doubt that Akaza must have heard it. Or at least seen the nervousness that was glimmering behind Kyojuro’s uncovered eye.

“You’d find another hashira to torment,” he theorized weakly.

Akaza scoffed as if the mere idea was ridiculous.

“You’re irreplaceable.”

A shiver slithered down Kyojuro’s spine and goosebumps raised all over his skin. Of course, he had always known himself to be an important factor in the lives of many. But to hear it being addressed so openly… By Akaza too; By Akaza who had never quite fit into the faceless “many” category. By Akaza of all people – a person who was not even a person in the strict sense of that word.

Had he really survived facing an upper moon?

Kyojuro straightened up without a warning and Akaza, as if he was a like pole to Kyojuro’s magnet, instantly inched back; keeping the safe distance of being two breaths away.

“You tried to kill me,” Kyojuro pointed out because what else could he reply to a confession like that?

You’re irreplaceable.

Akaza shrugged, completely unphased.

“You tried to kill me too,” his fingers teased the side of his own neck, skimming over the grey skin, as if he chased up the feeling of Kyojuro’s blade kissing his skin, tearing his flesh apart. 

It had never occurred to Kyojuro that Akaza could remember it so vividly. His own hand subconsciously rested over his stomach, his fingers curling into a fist. Where he felt pain, Akaza seemed to feel a memory of a caress.

“It’s–” he started but the ‘different’ he wanted to say quickly died on his tongue.

Akaza’s eyebrow cocked and his tongue darted out to lick at the corner of his lips. Looking into his eyes, Kyojuro was sure that the demon knew how this sentence was supposed to go. Now, both of them were wondering why it was cut short. Internally Kyojuro grimaced. 

It wouldn’t be the first time this idea had haunted his brain but he hated it just the same every single time. Different, different . Akaza and he were natural enemies, two sides of the same coin. During the Mugen Train incident Akaza was the first one who threw a punch but if he didn’t – Kyojuro undoubtedly would. It was rooted deep inside their hearts, in their mindsets – to clash until one of them inevitably dropped dead. This was how it was supposed to go.

So how was it possible that right now their knees were almost touching, their body heats were practically blending with each other, and their breaths were nearly mingling? Akaza was so close but the last thing Kyojuro had in mind was reaching for his sword. All he could think about was that Akaza didn’t smell like blood, sweat, and violence. Instead, he smelled like a little peace offering.

Kyojuro hadn’t realized when he started to lean forward until his forehead rested on Akaza’s shoulder. The demon stiffened but made no gesture to move away. The warmth coming from his body was bleeding through his vest, reminding Kyojuro that despite years of repressing this fact – demons were living, breathing creatures. No matter how vile.

(And killing is killing, after all. Stealing a life never feels right for people blessed with tender souls. No matter how justified the act is.)

Akaza drew in a shallow breath, and Kyojuro sank further. He would topple over, mind tired and body powerless if Akaza wasn’t there to support his weight.

“Your heart’s racing,” the demon noted, his voice barely above the crackle of fire. Before Kyojuro managed to say anything, he added quickly, “Relax, I’m not going to snap your neck.”

“I know,” obvious, plain, simple.

He was close enough to feel the exact moment Akaza’s breath got stuck in his throat. It couldn’t last longer than a few seconds. But it was long enough for at least some of the tension gathering in Kyojuro’s muscles to dissolve.

Eventually, Akaza’s fingers find their way to Kyojuro’s unruly golden mane. They slipped tentatively through the tangled hair, trying to work through the knots. His touch was delicate, hesitant in a way Akaza rarely was. Even as he pulled at the tangled tips there was barely any strength behind the gesture.

The same very hand that almost tore Kyojuro into shreds was now gently running through his hair. And Kyojuro was allowing that.

He shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was, flashed through his mind suddenly but before his body acted upon that, Akaza’s hand halted, applying the faintest amount of pressure, as if to keep Kyojuro in place.

“Don’t overthink that,” Akaza’s voice was void of that smooth silkiness it usually possessed. His tone colored with something strange, something Kyojuro couldn’t put a finger on until–

desperation

And now wasn’t that a bizarre concept? A desperate demon. No, not a demon. Akaza. Despair seemed so mismatched with his personality. Maybe that was why it sounded so authentic, a bleeding honesty whispered hotly into Kyojuro’s pulse.

Kyojuro swallowed thickly.

“I shouldn’t have come here today,” he confessed, a bitter truth heavy on his tongue.

“You shouldn’t,” Akaza agreed, resuming his attempts to detangle Kyojuro’s hair.

“And you should have never stalked me in the past,” he added quickly.

Akaza huffed with amusement. Other than that he made no noise to protest. After all, Kyojuro was undeniably right.

It would be the right moment to move away from each other. None of them made a motion to do so. Akaza’s fingers were still slowly working through the knots hidden between the thick locks of Kyojuro’s hair. The fire was still crackling right next to them. Pushed away, out of their sight, Kyojuro’s blade was catching the light cast by the flames.

“Akaza?”

“Hmm…?”

A burst of a gleeful giggle bubbled in Kyojuro’s throat; the sound feathery on his lips. He had heard Mitsuri laugh like that in the past, never suspecting that he was capable of such lighthearted noise. His laughter always ran deep, twisting his guts and straining his vocal cords. 

“Akaza,” Kyojuro repeated, followed by yet another airy giggle. This time he tasted the sound on his tongue; it melted sweetly all the way down his throat.

Akaza grumbled, “What?”

Kyojuro twisted his head until his cheek was resting on Akaza’s shoulder and he could look at him through his eyelashes, smiling stupidly. His heart was still pounding, the fear was still deeply rooted in his bones but the absurd tranquility of the situation, the naive joy roaring in his body was a little bit stronger.

“Nothing,” he beamed at the demon, “I just wanted to say your name.”

Akaza’s face was unreadable. Only his nose… – it scrunched a little bit as if he had smelled something weird. Seconds were passing and his expression wasn’t changing, and after a while Kyojuro started growing antsy, a new kind of worry nestling inside his chest.

Perhaps, the warmth of the fire had made him drowsy enough to confuse dreams with reality. Perhaps, the weariness started playing tricks on his mind. Perhaps, he had mistaken weakness for affection; misplaced his emotions, and–

“You're trying to kill me, aren’t you?” Akaza asked. His voice sounded funny. Half-embarrassed and half-teasing, wiping any concerns Kyojuro had bore over time.

“Well, at least there is one constant in our encounters!” he laughed boisterously, his body shaking with the passion behind his smile. Carefree and loud, completely unapologetic.

It wasn’t until a moment later that he realized that Akaza was trembling too, his clawed hand clasped over his mouth, his fractured eyes closed tight. Worriedly, Kyojuro tried to pull away but almost instantly, the hand that was still tangled in his hair slid down to rest on his nape, pressing Kyojuro’s face into Akaza’a neck. As if to shelter him from the potential sight.

That was when Kyojuro heard it. Nearly silent, almost completely muffled, slivers of laughter dripping through Akaza’s fangs and fingers. Neither sharp teeth nor pointed claws managed to clasp these sounds, clip them neatly enough to strip the sound of its unexpected sweetness.

Kyojuro’s heart stuttered.

“Don’t die on me, Kyojuro,” Akaza warned, an echo of an old threat, a reminder that not even one beat coming from Kyojuro’s chest would go unnoticed by him.

Kyojuro shook his head, his smooth locks tickling Akaza’s nearly bare chest and shoulders. Over the moonlight silver of the demon’s skin, his hair looked like wisps of sun. Oddly complementary.

“Say it again.”

“What?” Akaza rolled his eyes, “Don’t die on me?”

“No, not that,” Kyojuro slowly straightened up, he wanted to see it. He wanted to memorize how Akaza’s lips moved when he– “My name. Say my name.”

His hands were shaking a little bit when he put them on Akaza’s shoulder. A ghost touch meant to keep him in place. Secure him for one precious moment.

“But I say your name all the time, I–”

Kyojuro’s fingertips pressed a little bit harder into the smooth silk of Akaza’s vest. Just barely. He’d hate to ruin this brief moment of wonder with miscalculated violence. Not when the rampage ran a constant through their lives.

“Not like that though,” was the only explanation Kyojuro would provide. Dared to provide.

Akaza blinked, his eyelashes sweeping over his cheeks. The deep shadows blended with the dark stripes running across his face. Kyojuro watched that darkness catch at the corner of Akaza’s lips, only to be licked away by his tongue. Sharp teeth flashed at him but Akaza’s voice was strikingly soft when, at last, he spoke.

“Kyojuro.” his lips involuntarily twitched into a smile around the name. Kyojuro suspected that Akaza wasn’t quite aware that he was smiling. Which was… cute, adorable even.

Another giggle spilled down Kyojuro’s tongue; his chest unbearably light where it used to be heavy and dark, where it used to drip with loneliness. He tried to blink away the tears that started gathering behind his eyelids, quickly wiping them into the sleeve of his uniform. The fabric instantly sucked up the liquid, leaving damp stains. They would be gone until the morning. Just like Akaza.

“You should say my name like that more often!” Kyojuro declared, without raising his gaze from the sleeve of his uniform.

“Should I?” Akaza’s voice heady enough to make Kyojuro’s head jerk up instinctively.

The demon’s eyes looked glazed with smoke. Murky at the bottom, the cracks running through the inhuman blue, losing their sharpness in favor of liquid-like flexibility. If Kyojuro hadn’t known better he would say that Akaza looked half-dipped in a day-dream. If it wasn’t for the fanged smile, he would say that he reminded more of an angel than a demon.

Whatever answer Kyojuro was concocting was wiped clean, when he focused on Akaza’s pupils. In the past, his attention was always unavoidably drawn to the kanji signs seemingly carved into the gleaming gold of Akaza’s eyes. It served Kyojuro as a reminder – why he never reached out to touch, and why it was safer to step back whenever the comfort settled a bit too deep into his bones.

Now though… he didn’t even realize that he was looking past the words sewn into Akaza’s appearance. Like it was nothing, Kyojuro was staring right into the twisted maze of Akaza’s soul. An unvoiced cacophony of traits, emotions, and feelings.

Droplets of adrenaline trickled into Kyojuro’s blood.

That was how he recognized the danger.

It grazed his skin, it laced his heart even before Akaza parted his lips once again; his mouth curving into a private smile.

“Kyojuro,” he repeated.

And just like during the night of the Mugen Train, Kyojuro realized that he was destined to fall.