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Stray rays of moonlight filtered through the ancient cedar and cypress branches, casting a tapestry of dappled shadows on the cabin's weathered wooden walls. The rough-hewn planks, their grain deeply etched by countless seasons, seemed to come alive in the interplay of light and dark. The thatched roof shimmered silver under the soft light, creating an almost ethereal glow that contrasted with the ruggedness of the structure.
A cool breeze whispered through the trees and caressed the cabin's exterior, finding its way through tiny gaps in the walls. It carried the faint scent of the forest: the sharp, resinous aroma of pine mingling with the earthy richness of damp soil, hints of moss-covered stones, and the sweet decay of fallen leaves. The sound of rustling leaves and the distant stream of the river added to the serene ambiance.
Inside, the light spilled through the small windows, casting elongated shadows across the worn wooden floor. Zenitsu sat cross-legged on a worn zabuton cushion, its once-vibrant fabric now faded from use. Leaning slightly forward, his elbows found their familiar perch on the window's smooth wooden sill. Sleep had become a fickle companion over the years, eluding him most nights and others chastising him for all the things he had and hadn't done.
With practiced ease, he brought the kiseru back to his lips. The pipe, warm and familiar in his hand, was a constant companion on these kind of nights. Zenitsu inhaled deeply, feeling the aromatic tobacco smoke curl through his lungs. The rich, earthy scent mingled with the night air as he exhaled, watching the smoke drift lazily through the window opening, dissipating into the darkness.
From where he sat, Zenitsu's gaze traced the fragments of the shimenawa visible in the night. The thin straw rope wove its way through the forest, connecting one gnarled tree trunk to another in a protective circle around their humble cabin. Delicate shide—zigzag-shaped strips of pure white paper—hung from it, swaying gently in the night air, their movements hypnotic and otherworldly, as if dancing. Among the shide were small bronze suzu bells, once bright and new, now carrying the wisdom of age in their muted tones and weathered appearance. With each breath of wind, no matter how slight, the bells offered a soft, melodious tinkle.
Once, he had found the sound unsettling, almost sacrilegious. Driven by the unease, he had taken it upon himself to build a small and meek shrine behind the cabin, a gesture of respect and a plea for protection. Now, years later, the gentle chimes brought him an unexpected peace of mind. For although Muzan was long dead, in a world where the supernatural could strike at any moment, he figured it was better to be safe than sorry.
Zenitsu's drifting thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a snore, causing him to turn. As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior of the cabin, he found the source of the sound. There, sprawled across their shared futon, was Inosuke in all his unrestrained glory. The discarded kakebuton covers lay in a heap at his feet, rejected in sleep as they often were. Inosuke had always run hot, both in temperament and body temperature, rarely tolerating the confinement of blankets.
The soft, warm glow from the irori hearth bathed the room in a gentle, flickering light, contrasting with the cool moonlight outside. It highlighted the contours of Inosuke's well-defined muscles and unabashed nakedness. As Zenitsu's gaze traveled over his companion's body, his eyes were inevitably drawn to the network of scars that marred Inosuke's skin. There were long, jagged lines from sword strikes, puckered circles from impalement, and countless smaller nicks and cuts.
They'd known each other for almost ten years now, a span of time that felt both incredibly long and surprisingly short. The wild, untamed boy of their youth who had once driven Zenitsu up the wall with his brash manner and complete disregard for social norms, had grown into an equally hot-headed but surprisingly gentle man. He almost felt guilty for being the first to leave back then.
After that final, grueling battle against Muzan, Inosuke and Zenitsu had gone to live with Tanjiro and Nezuko in their childhood village. Those first couple years had been a balm to their battle-worn souls — peaceful days filled with laughter, healing, and the simple joys of friendship.
Zenitsu could still recall the scent of the mountain air, crisp and invigorating, carrying hints of pine and wildflowers. The sound of Nezuko's gentle humming as she tended the garden, her voice a soothing melody that seemed to make the plants grow stronger. And then there were Inosuke's attempts at 'helping' with household chores, which more often than not resulted in chaos and laughter.
Despite the idyllic setting and the company of his dearest friends, Zenitsu could never fully settle in. The tranquil mountain life that seemed to suit Tanjiro and Nezuko so well felt like a stranger to him. He hated waking up early to the crowing of roosters, but when night fell, he could never fall asleep. His mind would race with memories of battles past, and he would feel a shiver travel all over his body, leaving his skin tingling like a tautly pulled string.
Hunting and catching fish was a torture in itself. His heightened senses, once crucial for survival, now seemed to work against him. The sounds of the animals haunted Zenitsu long after the hunt was over. When Inosuke caught them, there was always a moment - a fraction of a second that felt like an eternity to his ears. The sharp intake of breath, the frantic heartbeat, and then the final, desperate cry. Sometimes it was a shrill squeal from a boar, other times the panicked flapping of a pheasant's wings. But the worst was the wet, gurgling gasp of a fish flopping on dry land. Each one a reminder of the violence he longed to forget.
His leg would hurt most days, varying in intensity but never truly gone. The wound had healed imperfectly, leaving behind a web of scar tissue that pulled and ached with every movement. On good days, it was a dull throb, but after hours of physical labor — tilling fields, chopping wood, or hauling water — the pain became unbearable. It started as a sharp prickling sensation in his knee and ankle whenever he set his foot down, leaving behind a trail of heat. As the day progressed, the heat would intensify and spread like liquid fire in his veins, crawling up his calf and thigh.
By nightfall, his entire leg seemed to pulse with its own rhythm of pain. The joints felt as though they were being pulled apart, each movement sending sharp jolts through his body. Zenitsu would lie awake, biting the sheets to stifle his whimpers, his face contorted in agony. Even so, Tanjiro could always hear, attuned to the slightest discomfort of his friends. Inosuke, too, sensed his restlessness, his sharp eyes often flickering with concern. Their unspoken concern hung in the air like a thick fog, suffocating Zenitsu with guilt for causing them worry.
Most days, Zenitsu would stay cooped up in his room, writing from dawn till dusk. His brush flew across the pages, filling them with poetry, stories, and sometimes just jumbled thoughts. The scratch of bristles on paper became a soothing rhythm, drowning out the constant hum of anxiety in his mind. In those moments, lost in his words, he could almost forget the restlessness that plagued him.
But even as he found solace in his writing, Zenitsu was painfully aware of how it made him a lousy roommate. Outside, he could hear Tanjiro and Inosuke, their voices mingling with the sounds of daily chores and village life. The guilt would creep in, a persistent whisper reminding him of all the work he wasn't doing, all the conversations he wasn't part of. He knew his friends worried about him, their concern a palpable thing that seeped under his door like smoke.
Sometimes, late at night when the pain in his leg was at its worst, Zenitsu would reread his writings. The pages were filled with memories of their shared battles, with dreams of a future he couldn't quite grasp, and with a longing for something he couldn't name. It was in these quiet hours, with ink-stained fingers and a heavy heart, that Zenitsu began to realize that perhaps his restlessness wasn't just about physical discomfort or memories.
As the seasons changed and the two-year mark of them living together passed, Zenitsu's restlessness grew like an unruly vine, threatening to choke out any sense of belonging he might have fostered. He watched as Tanjiro and Nezuko flourished in their childhood home, their contentment as natural as the mountain air they breathed. Even Inosuke, once as wild as the forests surrounding them, had found unexpected joy in tending to household chores, his laughter echoing through the valleys as he tackled each task with his usual gusto.
For Zenitsu, however, each day felt like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. The peace that settled so easily on his friends' shoulders weighed on him like a heavy cloak, suffocating and cruel. Even in the company of Tanjiro, Nezuko, and Inosuke, he sometimes felt like an outsider, an intruder in their serene world.
It was on a crisp autumn morning, as golden leaves pirouetted around him in the gentle breeze, that Zenitsu finally made his decision. The air was sharp with the scent of approaching winter, carrying with it a promise of change that resonated deep within him. As he shouldered his pack, the familiar weight both comforting and terrifying, he prepared to set out into the unknown.
Tanjiro stood in the doorway, his encouraging smile tinged with understanding and a hint of sadness. Nezuko, her eyes brimming with tears, offered a supportive embrace that spoke volumes of her love and acceptance. And Inosuke, in his typical fashion, made a gruff attempt at hiding his emotions, his crossed arms and averted gaze betraying his feelings.
Zenitsu had wandered far and wide, his feet carrying him to bustling cities and quiet villages alike. He'd seen the ocean for the first time, marveling at its vastness and the salty tang of its air. He'd walked through fields of flowers that stretched as far as the eye could see, their colors more vibrant than any palette he'd ever imagined. Each new sight and sound had found its way onto the pages of his journals, filling them with poetry and prose alike.
The restlessness that had plagued him on the mountain had eased, replaced by a different kind of energy — a hunger for new experiences, new stories to tell. His leg still ached, especially on cold nights or after long days of travel, but the pain seemed more manageable now, a reminder of his past rather than a shackle to it.
Yet for all the wonders he'd seen, for all the stories he'd collected and told, there was still a part of Zenitsu that longed for the warmth of friendship he'd left behind. On quiet nights, as he sat by campfires or in small inns, he would find himself wondering about Tanjiro's encouraging smile, Nezuko's gentle humming, and even Inosuke's antics.
It was on one such night, as he sat penning his latest thoughts under the light of a waning moon, that he heard a familiar chirp. Zenitsu looked up to see Chuntaro fluttering through the open window of the inn. The bird carried a small scroll tied to its leg, a familiar sight that usually brought a smile to Zenitsu's face. He and Tanjiro often exchanged letters this way.
But as Zenitsu unrolled the parchment, his eyes widened as he read its contents — Inosuke, too, had left the mountain village.
With trembling hands, Zenitsu reached for his fountain pen, the nib scratching softly against the parchment as he poured out his thoughts to Inosuke for the first time. He filled the paper with heartfelt expressions of concern, detailed recountings of his daily experiences, and emotions that flowed more freely onto the page than they ever did in conversation. He knew Inosuke couldn't read well, but he still wanted him to know.
Weeks later, Inosuke, in his own inimitable way, had responded. The reply came in the form of crude drawings: stick figures engaged in exaggerated battles and rough sketches of animals he'd encountered. Surprisingly, hidden in the folds of the paper, Zenitsu found pressed flowers and weeds — silent testaments to the places Inosuke had been. As Zenitsu carefully extracted each dried plant, a smile tugged at his lips, imagining Inosuke pausing in his wild adventures to carefully pick and press these plants. It was so unlike the Inosuke he had known, yet somehow perfectly fitting.
Soon they were seeing each other often, their separate journeys somehow converging with increasing frequency. Their meetings were often hurried affairs — a few precious hours snatched between travels in far-flung towns, or brief encounters in the bustling streets of cities where they'd crossed paths by chance or design. He could almost taste the sake they'd shared in countless izakayas, the warm, slightly bitter flavor mixing with the memory of Inosuke's flushed face after one too many cups. The familiar scent of alcohol mingled with the earthy musk that always seemed to cling to Inosuke.
Inosuke's boisterous laughter would echo in the night, drawing attention and sometimes ire from other patrons, but Zenitsu found he didn't mind. In fact, he'd grown to love that laugh, so full of life and unrestrained joy. In those moments, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them, sharing drinks and stories, their knees touching under the table.
As they traded tales of their adventures, Zenitsu noticed how Inosuke's eyes sparkled with excitement, his hands gesticulating wildly as he described battles with bandits or encounters with strange beasts. And when it was Zenitsu's turn to speak, he was surprised to find Inosuke listening intently, his usual impatience tempered by genuine interest.
Teaching Inosuke to read and write during their brief meetings had been a monumental challenge that tested Zenitsu's limited patience. Countless shouting matches and moments of utter despair had convinced Zenitsu at times that it was a hopeless endeavor. Inosuke's frustration with his own slow progress clashed with his stubborn ego, making each lesson a battle of wills.
Inosuke's stubbornness, which had so often been a source of conflict between them, had won out in the end. His pride in mastering even the most basic literacy was evident in every letter he sent thereafter. His handwriting was rough and often barely legible, but to Zenitsu, those crudely formed characters were more beautiful than the most elegant calligraphy. Each misspelled word and grammatically incorrect sentence filled him with a peculiar glee.
Zenitsu often found himself treasuring those letters, running his fingers over the indentations left by Inosuke's heavy-handed writing. Every time he read them, he would picture Inosuke hunched over a piece of paper, tongue sticking out in concentration as he painstakingly formed each character. In spite of that, true to his nature, Inosuke never completely abandoned his old ways. The letters might now contain words, but pressed between the pages, Zenitsu would still find flowers and leaves.
Still, it was the memory of that night years ago that sent a warmth spreading through Zenitsu's cheeks, a feeling that had nothing to do with the tobacco he was smoking. They had met in the Red Light District, a place that held both painful and triumphant memories for both of them.
The garish lights painted the streets in a kaleidoscope of colors, while the raucous sounds of laughter, music, and bartering created a cacophony that would usually set Zenitsu's nerves on edge. Walking side by side,however, they seemed to fade into the background. Zenitsu found himself hyper-aware of Inosuke's presence beside him — the slight brush of their shoulders as they navigated the crowded streets, the familiar scent of earth and wild places that always clung to Inosuke's skin.
Then, amidst the chaos and color, Inosuke turned to him. With uncharacteristic hesitation, his voice barely audible above the district's din, he asked Zenitsu to stay the night in his hotel room.
What followed had been a passionate yet extremely clumsy exploration of feelings that had been unattended for long. Their usual bravado and posturing had given way to nervous laughter and the gentle trembling of hands. It was messy and awkward, filled with fumbling touches and whispered apologies, but it was also beautiful in its raw honesty.
Zenitsu found himself smiling around his pipe. That night had changed everything, yet in many ways, nothing had changed at all. They were still Zenitsu and Inosuke, their relationship evolving from reluctant companions to trusted partners, to... whatever they were now—bickering, fighting, and supporting each other through their rather unorthodox way of living.
They began traveling together, basking in quiet moments around campfires, and the gradual, almost imperceptible shift from 'me' to 'us' in their thoughts and plans.
Their wanderings took them far and wide, but they always found time to reconnect with the people who had become their family. They made the trek to Tanjiro and Nezuko's mountain home for Nezuko's wedding, a joyous occasion filled with laughter, tears, and the warm glow of happiness. Zenitsu had felt a pang of his old crush, as he watched Nezuko, resplendent in her wedding kimono. For a moment, he was transported back to the days when he would loudly proclaim his love for her, his younger self's dramatic antics now a source of fond embarrassment.
Except it was quickly overshadowed by the genuine joy he felt for Nezuko. She deserved this joy, this normal life that had once seemed so far out of reach. And as he glanced at Inosuke beside him, feeling the comforting warmth of his presence, Zenitsu realized that he, too, had found a happiness he never expected.
They joined Tengen and his wives at the hot springs, a lively affair that left Zenitsu's ears ringing but his heart brimming. The moment they arrived, the air was filled with a cacophony of voices — Tengen's booming laughter, which could be heard echoing off the rocky cliffs; his wives' playful banter, teasing each other and recounting tales of their adventures with equal fervor; and Inosuke's excited shouts, punctuated by bursts of laughter and exclamations of triumph.
Inosuke and Tengen's competitive spirit turned what was meant to be relaxation into an impromptu contest of feats and endurance. From daring dives off the highest rocks to tests of strength in friendly wrestling matches, their antics filled the air with energy and laughter, much to the delight of everyone else gathered at the springs.
When they visited Aoi and Kanao at the Butterfly Estate they made sure to always bring gifts. Each visit was a carefully chosen memento — a vibrant silk scarf from a distant market for Aoi, a rare medicinal herb for Kanao's studies. The Butterfly Estate, once a place of frantic healing and hurried training, had transformed. The gardens, always beautiful, now bloomed with a peaceful vitality. The halls, once echoing with the groans of the injured, now rang with the laughter of students and the quiet discussions of healers.
Aoi, her stern demeanor softened by time, would welcome them with a small smile and freshly brewed tea. Kanao, more talkative now, would eagerly share her latest discoveries in medicine, her eyes shining with the passion for her work.
Perhaps most surprisingly, they found themselves sharing a meal with Sanemi and Giyuu when the four happened to be in the same town. The dinner was a strange mix of awkward silences and unexpected moments of camaraderie, as they reminisced about old battles and shared stories of their current lives.
Sanemi still carried an edge of his old intensity. But there was a calmness to him now, a peace that seemed to have settled into his bones. And Giyuu seemed more comfortable in his silence, occasionally offering a dry comment that would startle a laugh from the group.
As they parted ways, promises to meet again were exchanged with a sincerity that surprised them all. But fate, it seemed, had other plans. Just a couple of months after their meeting, news reached them that both Giyuu and Sanemi had passed away. The Demon Slayer mark had exacted its final, cruel price from the former Hashira.
They had all known about the mark and its consequences, of course. Yet it had always seemed so distant, an abstract threat that belonged to some far-off future. They didn't think to count the days, didn't realize how quickly time was slipping away from their friends.
The funeral was torturous. Under a sky that seemed too bright for such a somber occasion, Zenitsu couldn't seem to stop crying. His sobs echoed in the quiet gathering, a raw expression of grief that spoke for many of the attendees.
It pained him that beneath the sadness, a deeper, more insidious emotion took root — betrayal. They had all seen the knife that cut many lives short in the relentless struggle against demons, he just wasn’t expecting it to come back and stab them in the back.
The cruel twist of fate that had taken Sanemi and Giyuu left a bitter taste in Zenitsu's mouth. Both had given so much, had sacrificed their youth, their bodies, and nearly their souls to end the threat of demons. And in spite of that, it seemed like it wasn't enough. The very power that had allowed them to protect humanity had become their undoing, a poison that had slowly eaten away at them from the inside.
He watched the incense smoke curl towards the sky while his mind raced. He remembered their last meal together, how alive they had seemed, how full of potential their futures had appeared. Now, all that potential lay buried with them, snuffed out like candle flames in a gust of wind. The sun's cheerful rays felt like a mockery of their loss, highlighting the cruel indifference of the world they had fought to protect.
Maybe he was mad at himself too, because all he could think about looking at their newly erected headstones was Inosuke and himself. Was this to be their fate as well? Would they also be cut down in their prime, robbed of the peace they had fought so hard to achieve? The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a cold that seemed to seep into his very bones.
Zenitsu's gaze darted to Inosuke, standing stoically beside him. What else was he to give before he could rest?
As the ceremony drew to a close, Zenitsu felt a hand slip into his. Inosuke's grip was firm, grounding him amidst the sea of grief threatening to pull him under. “Monitsu,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft but filled with determination. "I'm going to build you a house."
Zenitsu blinked, momentarily startled out of his grief. It was such an Inosuke thing to say — practical, unexpected, and oddly touching. The simplicity of the statement, so at odds with the complex emotions swirling in his head, caught him off guard.
Zenitsu felt a lump form in his throat as he looked at Inosuke. There were many things Inosuke still struggled to understand; connotations often escaped him with the same ease sleep did Zenitsu. Yet somehow, he always seemed to know exactly what Zenitsu needed, even when Zenitsu himself didn't.
"A house?" Zenitsu had managed to whisper, his voice wet with emotion.
Inosuke nodded firmly, his grip on Zenitsu's hand tightening. "Yeah. A strong one. The strongest." His voice grew even softer, taking on a quality he had rarely heard before. "In the forest, where we can hear the trees and the river. Where we can live and... and be together."
The unspoken words hung in the air between them: 'For as long as we have.'
Inosuke threw himself into the task with his typical boundless energy. He felled trees, shaped logs, and wrestled with roof thatching. Zenitsu helped where he could, but often found himself watching in awe as Inosuke's strength and determination shaped their new cabin. Two weeks after the last log was put into place the shimenawa was put up, marking the completion of their new home
Zenitsu felt tears forming as he took in the sight. "It's perfect," he had whispered to himself, overwhelmed by the realization of what Inosuke had accomplished. The rough-hewn logs, the funky-looking roof, every imperfection spoke of Inosuke's hands, his effort, and his care.
Inosuke's keen ears caught the soft words. He turned to Zenitsu, his chest puffing out with pride, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Of course it is! I built it!" he declared, his voice ringing with satisfaction. His eyes gleamed with the same intensity they had that fateful night when Zenitsu had agreed to go up to his room — a mixture of excitement, satisfaction, and something deeper, something that made Zenitsu's heart skip a beat.
They would still travel from time to time, but there was something particularly calming about having a place to call their own. The burdensome feelings Zenitsu had harbored when they lived with Tanjiro and Nezuko never made themselves known in this space that was uniquely theirs. Perhaps it was Inosuke's surprising eagerness to take on most of the household chores. Or maybe it was the way their lives seemed to intertwine more naturally with each passing day.
The image of him and Inosuke growing old together became clearer in Zenitsu's mind, no longer a far-off dream but a tangible possibility. Zenitsu would often find himself pausing in doorways, watching with a mixture of amusement and fondness as Inosuke tackled cleaning with the same ferocity he had shown in battle. There was something endearing about seeing the wild man meticulously sweeping the floor and washing clothes
Through it all, Inosuke found contentment in having Zenitsu write all day. He'd often pause in his work around the cabin or yard to watch Zenitsu, hunched over his desk by the window, brush or pen flying across paper. He had learned to move more quietly, to save his boisterous outbursts for when they ventured into the forest. And sometimes, he'd leave small gifts on Zenitsu's desk — an interesting leaf, a shiny pebble, or a freshly picked wildflower. Silent tokens of affection that tugged at Zenitsu’s heart strings.
The cabin itself seemed to grow with them, accumulating small touches that made it uniquely theirs. A chip in the doorframe from one of Inosuke's overenthusiastic entrances. The collection of interesting rocks and feathers Inosuke would bring back from his explorations, proudly displayed on a crude shelf he had built himself. The soft yellow blanket Zenitsu had bartered for in a nearby village, now draped over a chair.
Zenitsu found himself treasuring the quiet moments most of all. Mornings where he'd wake to find Inosuke already up, silhouetted against the window as he watched the forest come alive. Evenings spent by the hearth, Inosuke's head resting in his lap as Zenitsu absently ran fingers through his wild hair.
The novel Zenitsu managed to finish was born from this tranquility, a story that seemed to capture the essence of their new life together. It wove tales of friendship, courage, and finding peace in unexpected places – themes that resonated deeply with readers across the country. The success of the book brought in enough money to sustain their humble way of living.
Zenitsu's newfound confidence as a writer brought subtle changes to their relationship. He stood a little taller, smiled a little easier, and even managed to quell some of his anxious tendencies. Inosuke, in turn, found himself oddly proud of Zenitsu's accomplishments, bragging about "his Monitsu's book" to anyone who would listen (and some who wouldn't).
After dinner, Zenitsu would often read aloud from his latest work, his voice soft but steady. Inosuke, sprawled on the floor or curled up next to him, would listen intently, occasionally interrupting with questions or enthusiastic proclamations about which character he liked best. Far from annoying Zenitsu, it delighted him.
The word "love" floated in Zenitsu's mind some days—not all—but he never spoke it into existence, and neither did Inosuke. To name it felt dangerous, like tempting fate in a world that had already taken so much from them. They had both seen how quickly happiness could be snatched away, how fragile life could be in the face of demonic threats. Perhaps there was a part of them that feared acknowledging their feelings would make them vulnerable, would give the cruel world another target to aim for.
So they continued in this limbo, their feelings as clear as day to each other but never spoken aloud. Even if unnamed—was expressed in actions rather than words. It wasn't perfect, and it certainly wasn't conventional, but it was theirs. And for Zenitsu, that was more than enough.
As the night wore on, Zenitsu began to feel the strain of his prolonged vigil. Old wounds, reminders of battles past, started to ache in protest of his seated position. The dull pain in his leg finally urged him to move.
With a quiet sigh, Zenitsu carefully extinguished his kiseru. He placed the pipe gently on the window sill, the warm wood a stark contrast to the cool night air. And for a moment, he watched the last wisps of smoke dissipate into the moonlit night, carrying with them the lingering scent of tobacco.
Turning away from the window, Zenitsu's gaze once again fell on Inosuke's sleeping form. Despite the ache in his muscles, he couldn't help but smile at the sight. Inosuke was sprawled across the futon in his characteristic manner, limbs akimbo as if claiming the entire sleeping area for himself.
Moving with the quiet grace that had served him well as a demon slayer, Zenitsu made his way to the futon. Navigating around Inosuke's outstretched arms and legs, and trying to find a space for himself in the midst of his partner's chaos. He settled down between Inosuke's splayed limbs, feeling the warmth radiating from his body, and finally fell asleep.
...
A sudden sharp ringing cut through the air, the suzu bells sounding in unison with an urgency that shattered the pre-dawn stillness. The unexpected cacophony sent a jolt through Zenitsu, his body instantly tensing as his heightened senses snapped to full alert. Years of training and survival instincts kicked in, overriding the lingering drowsiness of near-sleep.
Simultaneously, Inosuke's eyes flew open, his relaxed posture vanishing in an instant. He rolled to his feet with the fluid grace of a predator, his body moving before his mind had fully awakened. The morning sun was barely peeking over the horizon, casting long shadows and bathing the cabin in a pale, ethereal light. Both young men's hands instinctively reached for their swords, muscles coiled and ready for action. Zenitsu's fingers curled around the hilt of his blade, the familiar touch grounding him in the moment.
For a breathless moment, they stood poised for battle, the cabin filled with a palpable tension. Their eyes darted around, searching for any sign of threat, bodies humming with adrenaline. Then, as quickly as it had risen, the tension dissipated. Zenitsu and Inosuke's eyes met, a flash of mutual understanding passing between them.
Zenitsu's exceptional hearing had picked up on something beyond the ringing bells — the sound of familiar footsteps approaching. Inosuke, too, eased his stance.
"Tanjiro," they both murmured simultaneously, the name hanging in the air like a spell.
"Put some pants on, Inosuke," Zenitsu said, his voice a familiar mixture of exasperation and fondness. He was already in motion, eyes darting around the room in search of his haori.
Inosuke huffed, his posture shifting from battle-ready to merely defiant in the blink of an eye. "Why?" he challenged, crossing his muscular arms over his bare chest. The scars that crisscrossed his skin seemed to stand out more prominently in the dim light. "He's the one coming without warning."
Zenitsu paused in his search, turning to give Inosuke a look that was equal parts amusement and frustration. It was a well-worn expression, one that spoke of years of similar exchanges. "Because," he started, then sighed. "Just... because, okay? Tanjiro doesn't need to see all of that." He gestured vaguely at Inosuke's unclothed form, a faint blush coloring his cheeks.
Inosuke's frown deepened, the expression exaggerated on his striking features. But there was a glint in his eye that Zenitsu recognized all too well — a spark that suggested he was being difficult more out of habit than genuine resistance. "Fine," he grumbled, the word drawn out and petulant. Yet he made no move to actually follow through.
"Don't just say fine, do it," Zenitsu retorted, locating a nearby pair of hakama and tossing them at Inosuke's head with practiced aim.
Catching the hakama with ease, his reflexes as sharp as ever, Inosuke finally relented. He began to pull them on with exaggerated reluctance, every movement a theatrical display of protest. "Happy now?" he grumbled, fumbling with the ties in a way that suggested he was making it more difficult than necessary.
As Inosuke struggled into his pants, Zenitsu found his haori and slipped it on. He glanced over at Inosuke, who was still making a production out of dressing, muttering under his breath about the unnecessary fuss. The scene was so familiar, so quintessentially them, that made Zenitsu's heart swell in a way he never thought he'd experience.
"You know," Zenitsu said, tinged with a hint of nostalgia, "it's been a while since we've seen him."
Inosuke paused in his dressing, his eyes meeting Zenitsu's. There was a moment of shared understanding, a flicker of emotion passing between them. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice gruff but carrying an undercurrent of anticipation. "Wonder what he wants."
"Don't be rude," Zenitsu chastised, but it lacked any real bite. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he added, "He is our friend. Besides, you're the one that follows him around every time he comes to visit."
Inosuke's face flushed slightly, a mix of embarrassment and indignation. "I do not!" he protested, tugging at the hakama with renewed vigor. They both knew it was true – for all his bluster, Inosuke had always harbored a deep admiration for their friend.
Zenitsu chuckled softly, moving closer to help Inosuke with the complex folds and ties of the hakama. His fingers worked deftly, brushing against Inosuke's skin in a gesture that was both practical and intimate. "Here, let me help you with that. You'll end up tearing it if you keep yanking on it like that," he murmured, his voice warm with affection. "I think it's cute how excited you get."
Inosuke huffed, but didn't pull away from Zenitsu's touch. Instead, he leaned in slightly, their foreheads almost touching. "Just don't tell him that," he grumbled, but there was a softness in his eyes that belied his tone.
Suddenly, the cabin door slid open with a creak. "Good morning!" Tanjiro's cheerful voice rang out, filling the small space. "I hope it's not too early, but I couldn't wait to see you both!"
There stood Tanjiro, framed in the doorway, the soft morning light casting a warm glow around him. If he noticed the intimate atmosphere he had interrupted, he gave no sign of it. His smile, so achingly familiar, was the same one that had often graced his features in their younger days — kind, genuine, but now tinged with a wisdom born of years and hardships. His blind eye, a permanent reminder of the sacrifices they had all made, seemed to peer into Zenitsu's very soul. Yet his other eye looked at Zenitsu with the same kindness and warmth it always had.
As Tanjiro moved further into the cabin, chatting easily about his trip and asking questions about their life, his presence seemed to fill the space. His eye wandered, taking in the details of their shared life. Zenitsu found himself seeing the cabin through his friend's eyes, suddenly aware of how much their living space revealed about his and Inosuke’s life together.
A low table where they shared meals, a tansu chest filled with their modest belongings, the futon still on the ground, evidence of their recent awakening. A shamisen resting silently against the wall, its long, slender neck and snakeskin-covered body catching a faint glimmer from the irori. Beside it, the larger koto lying horizontally on the floor, its paulownia wood body polished by years of use.
Zenitsu felt a sudden surge of self-consciousness. It was painstakingly homey for two men that had spent a big chunk of their childhood flailing swords around and their teens fighting demons. Yet, each item spoke of the life they'd built together, of quiet evenings filled with music and shared moments of peace.
The cabin filled with the sounds of friendly chatter and laughter, the three friends falling easily into the rhythms of their long-standing bond. Inosuke regaled Tanjiro with tales of his latest hunting exploits. Zenitsu busied himself preparing tea, adding his own comments to the conversation.
As he set the tea before them, Tanjiro's smile widened, his eyes shining with barely contained excitement. He took a deep breath as if steeling himself for something momentous.
"Kanao and I are getting married," Tanjiro announced.
The words hung in the air for a moment, a happy shock that momentarily silenced the room. Zenitsu's eyes widened, his hand freezing midway to passing Inosuke his tea. Then, as if a dam had broken, the cabin erupted in a flurry of exclamations and congratulations.
"Tanjiro! That's wonderful!" Zenitsu cried, his voice cracking with emotion as he lunged forward to embrace his friend.
"Hah! About time!" Inosuke bellowed, slapping Tanjiro on the back with enough force to make him stumble.
Zenitsu now couldn't imagine his life any other way.