Chapter Text
Longing.
That is the view that greets you as you gaze past the veranda of the Kibutsuji estate and into the vast gardens, at last finding the figure of your patient who stands motionless adjacent to the pond.
For what?
Although he has never discussed such matters with you, the answer is obvious.
The air is stagnant, saturated with a stillness that you almost mistake for tranquillity if not for the faintest of currents that nips at your cheeks, the sigh of a waning winter season.
While the draft is harmless to you, the same cannot be said for the man who stands in the midst of it. The thick fabric of his clothing drapes over his frame and brushes the grass as he stares ahead into oblivion, fixed within an impasse invisible to your eyes. There is no telling how long he has remained in such a state, but you surmise with fair certainty that he has seen both today’s sunrise and the moon and stars prior, as well as the forbidding temperatures that are only barely warded away by the weak winter sun.
Perhaps someone less astute than yourself might mistake him for a spirit, one of the forsaken condemned to a world that is entirely oblivious to their torment. However, you know better; voicing such an assumption would warrant anything between a glare of silent disdain to a blade embedded within your skull. Accustomed to navigating your patient’s volatile temperament, you have learned to tread lightly – at least around the areas that actually set him off.
“Kibutsuji-sama,” you call, more a weak fulfilment of courtesy than anything.
Unsurprisingly unheeded, you descend the wooden steps of the veranda and move carefully through the stagnant air and toward your patient who has so foolishly chosen to challenge the elements.
It feels as if you are intruding upon a standoff, but you opt to play arbitrator over the possibility of worsening his condition and [most importantly] making more work for yourself.
“Kibutsuji-sama,” you are close enough that you are sure he hears you approach, yet still he makes no move to acknowledge you. You stop when you are next to him, not quite brushing shoulders but close enough to discern the darkness that rims his eyes. They are no darker than you last saw them, but their presence is indicative of his ever-deteriorating condition and, by extension, the impotence of your treatments. Your lips press thinly. “Your medicine is ready for you now.”
Your patient meets your gaze, and you see your bitterness reflected in his own. The tip of his nose is faintly flushed where it is skimmed by the wintry breeze, softening the intensity of his visage into something that nears pitiable or even endearing. But as his physician, you only think he is foolish.
“Inept doctor,” he utters, but there is no true malice in his tone. Only the objectivity of truth.
“Troublesome patient,” you reply, just as impassively. “Unless your goal is to court an even earlier demise, I suggest you break this habit of venturing out into the cold. Your brooding would be best conducted within the comfort of four walls.”
Something you struggle to discern as either a huff of wry amusement or scoff of vague disdain escapes his lips. “I tread on death’s threshold already, doctor,” his words are laden with cynicism and detachment. “And your remedies and nagging have been useless thus far. But I suppose I can indulge your persistence to prolong the inevitable a little longer.”
With that, he walks past you, stirring the cold air which briefly brushes against your skin.
Even after weeks of regular checkups, this is the closest you have gotten to drawing anything close to mirth from the man: a bleak jest suspiciously adjacent to derision. But for all his subtle jabs to your dignity and ambiguous signals of disdain, you are grateful for his cooperation in your efforts, dutifully ingesting every foul concoction you have presented before him. This is unsurprising, however, considering you share a common goal that is to see his condition improve. Your subtle jabs and his candid retorts are the threads that bind you both in a state of mutual tolerance as the time ticks down to a deadline that hangs heavily over both of your heads. You can barely fault him for being cynical when he can do nothing much outside of stewing in his imminent fate, with you, an amateur barely his age, as his sole hope for survival.
As he steps inside, you cast a backward glance to where he once stood, atop the neatly maintained grass that never seems to grow taller and beneath the trees which continue to sway delicately against the endless expanse of the sky in his absence. You strain your eyes against the dry air of winter, blinking away at the bleariness and wondering how long it will be before you can glimpse the first emerging buds among the barren branches.
∞
“Inept doctor,”
Muzan Kibutsuji lifts his gaze from the bowl cradled in his hand to regard you, who is seated dutifully before him in seiza, head bowed over the low table as you scrawl unintelligible notes on to the paper. You hum in acknowledgement, brush halting and head tilting upward before straightening up upon noticing the intensity of his gaze. Conflict brews within. “Kibutsuji-sama, is there something wrong?”
An elapse of silence. You have learned to be patient with him. Though he has no qualms with disparaging others he regards as unfavourable and making light of your shortcomings in response to your reprimands, his aversion to showing weakness continues to be an evident obstacle which limits the majority of his interactions to condescending demands and slander. Regardless of the resentment and fear that fester beneath his skin, to show vulnerability, to him, would be an admission of weakness, a crack in a carefully maintained front of stoicism.
“What will become of me…” his voice falters, “...if I don’t take this?”
To ask such an obvious question is rather unusual for him. Preferring to ruminate in silence, Kibutsuji is not one to spend words unnecessarily unless it is for his own amusement or to condemn the failures of those around him [though perhaps the two go hand in hand]. He is not one to seek the comfort of euphemisms and lies, either; his inquiry is more than likely a ruse. Perhaps he expects you to repeat the same inconvenient truths weighing upon you both so that he may, once again, foist the burden on you. He cannot punish the world for its inherent inequity or his family for their abandonment of their son; only you are there to bear his wrath, the doctor who has seen his worst days and knows his pain far more than she lets on.
You take a moment to study your patient. The paper in front of you draws pictures of an ailing man: dark circles under-eye, ashen skin, dwindling stamina, and poor appetite. Yet these bleak descriptions fail to capture the man in front of you in his entirety. His eyes are what you wonder most about in this moment, translucent glass beneath which a deep, decades-old something smothers his soul.
“As you know, you will not live to see your 20th birthday.” In response to his redundant question, you offer a redundant answer. “However, Kibutsuji-sama, your condition has not reached a point beyond redemption. The medicine I have prepared is not only an effort to alleviate your suffering but to extend your life. All that I ask is for you to show a fraction of the patience you expect from others.”
You leave your words to hang in the air, the easy, formulaic answer of your role that his deceptively simple question warrants. His visage darkens with contempt not only at the taunt you have woven in, but the silent implication of your eyes which pry into his intentions
You have seen the doubt that has brewed since your first meeting within his eyes. Whether knowingly or not, he has already consigned himself to a premature death, and from the beginning has refused to entrust the entirety of his fate to you. Though he does not show it, he is vexed by your seeming passivity as you present him with failing remedy after failing remedy, unhurried by the deterioration of his condition which you simply note in your growing collection of papers before moving on to the next failure. Gambling his mortality on trial and error, you’ve become the epitome of his frustration, a squandered chance to hope on top of the inequity of a world that rewards everything to those unworthy and nothing to him, the most worthy of all. And your assurances have begun to have a hollow ring to them, akin to the distant chime of a funeral bell.
He lowers the bowl, placing it aside all too deliberately. His voice is heavy with something you can’t quite decipher – fury? Pain? Sadness? Exhaustion?
“Patience?” he scoffs. “Spare me your worthless promises. Every remedy or lack thereof you’ve provided thus far has yielded nothing but the progression of my decay. You speak too boldly for someone who has not a single shred of evidence to justify your claims. Have you forgotten in all your useless dawdling, doctor, that you are to be working against a strict deadline? I am already eighteen. I cannot afford to be patient.”
The unspoken accusations are evident: to him, you are an inept nameless doctor, a fool who never smiles and only seeks to stall to continue to reap the benefits of his family’s wealth. Why else would you choose to spend the seasons hunched over useless concoctions for a man as good as dead, who has been all but forgotten by the world?
Perhaps your goals are indeed superficial in a sense: it is true that you desire recognition and validation, and you see in Muzan a means to those ends. However, he is entirely unaware of what your success – his survival – would truly mean for you. He is the canvas upon which you paint your aspirations, a vessel of your desire to transcend the limitations of your lineage. Suddenly it is apparent that the doubt he has harboured since the beginning has brewed into anger, and you realise the time has come to advocate your worth, before he and all the prospects that depend upon him cast you away.
“Kibutsuji-sama,” you begin, pulse a steady rhythm in your ears. The tension in the air is palpable, and the weight of his scrutiny falls upon you, seeking to cut though your words before anything is even said.
“While I cannot promise you an unequivocal guarantee of survival, I can assure you I am fighting a battle against time as fervently as you are. I have come to understand life’s fleeting nature all too well.”
You straighten your spine and meet Kibutsuji’s eyes. You cannot read them, but the contempt from before has dissipated.
“Kibutsuji-sama, my reasons are simple,” you conclude. “I aim to prove that within the confines of a society that relegates me to insignificance, I can rise beyond these limitations. And in extending that opportunity to you, I offer a chance to conquer the destiny that has held us captive.”
You cannot promise recovery to him, and you cannot promise success to yourself; with cultivated pragmatism, you speak around the uncertainties that you have struggled to swallow for all your life. But your proposition, carefully stripped of sentimentality and laced with purpose, is tailored to his ideals, acknowledging his disdain for flowery ideals and his affinity for tangible goals.
He says nothing, and for a moment you are left to wonder what runs through his mind, for his expression has lost its familiar edge and lies in the valley of inscrutable neutrality. The medicinal liquid that lies forlorn between the both of you is still.
You remember catching glimpses of the longing that surfaces once in a while on his face when nobody is watching, and wonder if he now sees the same deprivation reflected in your own.
“Interesting. It seems you are not as much of a disappointment as I initially perceived.” A twitch of his lips, though still a far cry from warmth. It’s a backhanded compliment, but nonetheless a crack in the wall he has stubbornly built between you that suggests perhaps a hint of trust. The air between you feels less stifling, and you wonder what part of your proposition has warranted such a change.
“Kibutsuji-sama,” you offer once more. “It is true that I may not have all the answers, but I am willing to challenge the odds. Your survival is my test, if anything my selfish battle against my own fate.”
He regards you for another long moment. The both of you navigate the conversation with caution, stretching silences into unspoken exchanges from which an unspoken understanding, a fragile bud unfurling amidst the harshness of reality, has begun to blossom. Muzan studies the lines of your face, the set of your jaw, and for the first time glimpses a fire that seems to burn beneath your composed exterior.
Kibutsuji’s movement is swift and unexpected as he rises, crouching directly in front of where you sit. The hand that tilts your face upward is cold against your skin, but you continue to hold his gaze with a quiet resolve in spite of the uncharacteristic gesture. Never before has he voluntarily narrowed the distance between you, much less touched you. You are taken aback by the sudden clarity of his eyes.
“Your self-interest is refreshing,” he finally responds as he withdraws his hand, a semblance of begrudging approval. It is far more palatable than the empty platitudes of sympathy or altruism that others have offered in the past. “If you are so willing to stake your ambitions on my survival, then I suppose we do share a common ground. Under the condition that your dedication matches your words, I will grant you the patience you have demanded.”
∞
Spring abounds in Japan, breathing new life into once-barren branches and decorating the boundary between the estate and the world with pink blossoms. No longer are the temperatures cold enough for your patient to foolishly test the limits of his endurance to spite his illness [and you, apparently]. Ironically, it is now you who urges Kibutsuji to venture into the gardens instead of stewing in the coldness of the estate. In the absence of words, the two of you surround yourselves with the ambiance of new life.
From where he stands on the bridge overlooking the pond, Muzan casts a sidelong glance to where you sit in the shade beneath a tree, deeply immersed as you transcribe something onto the paper nestled on your lap. Against the backdrop of vibrant pink and green hues, your sunlight-dappled form is deceptively idyllic; an outsider may assume you to be a noble composing poetry or painting flowers. But having watched you pour neurotically over pages and pages of your own unintelligible scrawl, Muzan knows better. He has observed the intensity in your eyes, the furrow of your brows, the way your fingers tap impatiently against the paper as you occasionally pause to ponder. It is a sight he has grown accustomed to, a scene of focus that has become almost comforting in its constancy.
Failure, after failure, after failure, he had once dubbed your efforts. At that time, he had only fixated on the fruits of your labours [or rather lack thereof]. But perhaps it is the changing of seasons or the trick of the light unhindered by the walls of the estate that changes your fixation from something maddening to something strangely and utterly fulfilling to witness.
He watches as rub fervently at your eyes, shaking the exhaustion away before moving the paper closer to discern your chicken scratch, eyes searching up and down through each line. He watches as your eyes begin to flutter, your grip on your brush slackening as you slip dangerously close to slumber before regaining your senses and beginning the cycle again.
You are devoted tirelessly to his cure to the extent of sacrificing your own well-being, and only now he has realised he has taken this for granted. Even as he spites the world and everyone in it beyond the gardens for deserting him, he realises that in the perfect world he imagines, wherein he is bestowed with all the strength and reverence he has been robbed of, you are the only person who has given while the world has taken, the sole being who he does not wish to suffer. But even so, a part of himself revels in your self-destruction for his sake.
The months elapse, and the colours of spring mature into the viridescent hues of summer. But as the world grows brighter, Kibutsuji’s pallor worsens and his vitality gradually deteriorates. All the while, your brushwork grows sloppier and your studies grow less efficient as you struggle to maintain focus, the perpetually dim estate doing nothing to bolster your motivation. Even so, neither of you can bring yourselves to visit the gardens, with you perpetually hunched over papers and remedies and your patient lethargic and bedridden. The beauty of the new season is lost on both of you.
Sleep has eluded you for days on end, and you feel as if you are hanging on by a thread. Your mind lags behind your intentions, and it becomes increasingly difficult to maintain your routine. The occasional banter between you and your patient has grown stagnant, falling into silences that lengthen into days. Even so, you do your best to steady your movements and conceal the tremor in your hands as you set down tray after tray each day by Kibutsuji’s bedside.
When you enter his room in the early morning, you find Kibutsuji still, his form almost blending into the sheets of his futon as he gazes listlessly at some distant point beyond the curtains. You do not notice when his eyes are immediately drawn to you as you sit at his bedside with your head hanging. Your mind buzzes, overrun with formulas and vocabulary that you struggle to remember the meanings of, wondering if you have them written down in your notes somewhere…
“Damn inept doctor!”
Jolting, you look around feverishly before settling on Kibutsuji, who glowers at you from where he sits. His long hair falls over his face in waves, obscuring the nuances of his expression as the lines between your exhaustion and reality blur.
“What’s the matter?” you manage to mumble, your voice as faint as your body feels.
He doesn’t answer immediately, gaze scrutinising you in a way that is uncomfortably intense. After days on end in which you seem to almost have forgotten he exists, he finally sees your eyes refocus on him, even if they are clouded uncharacteristically.
“The medicine,” he hisses. “You’ve brewed it wrong, haven’t you?”
Your heart sinks as his words register. Have you really? Such a simple oversight, after all your efforts? You would never doubt yourself in better circumstances. But the days have clouded your judgement and compromised your precision. No, you think. You cannot afford to falter now.
You rise with a shaky determination, fully intending to rebrew the medicine. But your legs betray you, giving way beneath you as you collapse onto Kibutsuji’s futon, suddenly too heavy to support yourself. Strangely, you cannot even bring yourself to panic as you will yourself to move, to find your strength, but it is as if your limbs have turned to lead.
Head reeling, you wait for Kibutsuji to strike you, to shove you from where you lay sprawled over his legs and tear mercilessly into your every fault. Instead, he only watches the frenzied light leave your eyes with the same morbid fascination that fills his eyes when you are making long-winded declarations or working tirelessly toward his salvation.
“What a pitiful mess you’ve become,” he mutters. And rather than kicking away the inept doctor who is only supposed to be his means to an end, he spends precious energy hauling your body to lie beside him and draping his covers over your form. Turning back to the medication at his bedside, he brings it close to his face and drinks, bearing the odour that grows more sickening by the day.
∞
In the delicate tapestry of Heian era Japan, where beauty and grace are woven into every thread of society’s fabric, the aristocracy revels in the worship of elegance and refinement. The exclusive Heian court is a realm where life unfolds in meticulously crafted prose and the pursuit of artistic excellence.
Yet within this meticulously curated world of appearances, beneath the veneer of perfection, lies the reality of hidden struggles and unspoken shame. In the hidden corners of high society, where families go to great lengths to uphold their illustrious lineage, two unsightly weak links of the inviolable conspire quietly to subvert the totality of preordained fate, daring to wrestle ever-beloved excellence from their persecutors with every ounce of their withering beings.
When you awaken, the room is bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight. Cicadas buzz and leaves rustle, the symphony of summer that filters through the windows from outside.
“You know, Kibutsuji-sama…” you mutter into the darkness, words slipping through the cracks of your consciousness. “I may never be more than a worthless, inept doctor to you, but I’ve always wanted to be more.” Your voice trembles slightly, the fatigue stripping away your guarded demeanour. After days without speaking a word, your voice is raw against Muzan’s sensitive ears. Lying side by side, he fixes you with a stare while you look sightlessly ahead, half-wondering if you are simply speaking to the void, sprawled stupidly on your sleeping patient’s bed.
“I come from a family known for its brilliance,” you continue, “Yet, beneath that brilliance lies a curse. An illness much like yours taints our lineage like a festering wound.”
Your words are quiet and sluggish, strung together by delirious memories, but they spill like a dam that has burst, an outpour that makes the most of a miniscule leak.
“My mother was a beautiful and kind woman,” you murmur, gaze distant as you conjure her image in the darkness. “But because she was also cursed with this illness, she was hidden away just the same. She was never allowed to be anything more than a vessel to add to their image of perfection, to pass down her beauty to someone worthy of being human.
“But even so, she was never bitter to anyone. She lived a life with no purpose, no meaning, accepting her own worthlessness without resistance. When the illness finally took her, it was almost as if nothing was missing at all. She was so hollow by then that there was nothing more to take.”
For the first time, Muzan realises, your voice takes on a note of derision, not solely mourning the memory of your mother but looking down upon her for her weakness.
“For the longest time I resented her for passing her illness on to me, for bringing me into this world and then leaving me alone to suffer the consequences. I promised myself that I would not let my life be a reflection of hers. I refused to roll over, to be hidden away and forgotten.”
Suddenly it reappears, the embers beneath the white noise of a primal greed hungering to reclaim the finite resource of glory. But it is not nearly as bright as before, like gazing at the afterimage of something great and wishing he could experience it again.
“I refused to be confined to darkness, waiting to die when I was more than capable of eclipsing those who are only allowed to roam free because of the sheer luck of the draw, who squander their bountiful time parading around nothing in the light. I wanted to become more, to force them to realise that even with all of these constraints, I could achieve far more than they ever would.”
And just as fast as it rekindles, the life in your eyes washes away. Muzan stiffens; even when your head rolls to face him, you are looking through him and meeting the eyes of the inconvenient truth you have fought so hard to overtake.
“But now, I’m starting to realise that my refusal means nothing in the grand tapestry of fate. I suppose I am more like my mother than I care to admit.” you reach out, cold fingers tucking away the locks that obscure Muzan’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Kibutsuji-sama, but it seems all my words are worthless after all. I shall still dedicate the rest of my days to your cure as promised, but…”
You give him a smile that etches permanently into his memory, a mirror image of the one your mother has engraved into your own.
“Please don’t waste your patience on me any longer, and find someone less inept to replace me.”
In spite of the summer heat, the icy shroud that clings to Muzan’s skin is frigid. You grow weak in the prime of the world’s vitality, in the season that celebrates the endurance of the human spirit, and he cannot do anything except sink back into old habits, resenting the world that will never glance his way for taking what rightfully belongs to him, and what should have been shared with you.
And barely a week passes before you succumb to a world that relentlessly takes, leaving behind an irreparable void.
∞
Though everything is written in second person POV, the switching between "Kibutsuji" and "Muzan" indicate a shift in perspective!
As for love interests, please refer to the character tags! The majority of characters in the show are included in one way or another haha
Lastly, as this is my first [second if you count the first draft] time writing a story in years, any feedback is greatly appreciated :> Thank you for reading!