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SPRING
A sweet breeze drifted through the air, carrying the scent of blooming flowers to Akaza’s nose as it danced gently around him, stirring the hem of his haori with delicate insistence. Beneath his feet, the grass had grown lush and green; the trees, rousing from a deep slumber, trembled sleepily in the wind, their leaves quivering as if stretching after a long, quiet dream.
There was an overarching sense of calm in the night air. As time flowed like an endless river through Akaza’s existence, many things that symbolized the mortal side of life had long lost their meaning, including the seasons themselves. To a being like Akaza, the passing of spring into summer, the heat of midsummer or the chill of winter, carried no sensation at all; the succession of seasons was merely a mundane rhythm of his existence, so inconsequential that it often went unnoticed.
For humans, however, the seasons were like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass, a quiet reminder of how fleeting their time truly was. Would they still be alive when the next winter came? Where would their lives be in the spring that followed? As they harvested what they had sown with their own hands in the snow, what new wars would the greedy and privileged ones bring upon them? Just as they could not command the turning of the seasons, humans possessed only the slightest control over their own lives.
When Akaza reached his target, the crimson tips of his haori, the only sign of life in the dark night, was still rippling from the final echo of his last breathing technique he just performed. Kyojuro returned his sword to its sheath with a swift, careful motion, almost reverent in its precision. The haori settled once more, draping over his shoulders like a tranquil sea, swaying faintly in the wake of the gentle wind that had just carried serenity to Akaza.
“Good night, Kyojuro,” Akaza said, breaking the silence between them and the stillness of the night. As Kyojuro turned around, the scent of the fallen demon reached Akaza’s nose. Dead demons always left behind a melancholic fragrance, as if something whose decay had been delayed for years suddenly felt the weight of decades in a single instant, crumbling all at once.
Kyojuro’s eyes, like the sun defiantly shining against the darkness of night, had lost none of their brilliance, but when they met Akaza, their sharpness softened, blending seamlessly with the gentle curve of his smile. Sometimes, Akaza still found himself stunned by the change in him. When they first met, Kyojuro had possessed an unyielding strength and spirit. He was everything a Hashira should be: proud, selfless, courageous, and resolute. His gaze was always piercing, capturing every movement, every detail. Yet months later, as the winter sun gradually warmed into spring, Akaza began to see another side of him, and words failed him. The Hashira Kyojuro and the Kyojuro he now knew were almost two different beings.
When Kyojuro shed, even for a moment, the weight of his haori and the title it bore, his entire being softened, revealing just how emotional and vulnerable he was at his core. Showing such fragility to someone like Akaza, someone whose hands knew nothing but violence, who broke and shattered whatever he touched, shook him deeply, and even frightened him. It was as if a wild predator held a fragile fledgling between its teeth, burdened by the immense responsibility of handling it gently.
“Akaza!” Kyojuro’s voice rang through the forest with bright, infectious joy. It was impossible to miss how genuinely glad he was to see Akaza. Each time Kyojuro openly displayed how much he cared, it felt as if a warm pulse stirred within Akaza, something he had long believed frozen, beating in rhythm with the undeniable affection shining from Kyojuro without hesitation. “You’ve come just in time!”
“For what have I come just in time, Kyojuro?” Akaza’s voice emerged like a sweet, teasing joke.
The last fragments of the demon had been reduced to nothing, scattering into the air with a pitiful trace of ash. All Akaza wanted was to move closer to Kyojuro, yet his feet seemed rooted to the spot. Fortunately, it was no matter. In just three long strides, Kyojuro closed the distance, standing only a breath away. His hands, hardened and calloused from wielding a sword, found a home on Akaza’s cheeks, as if they had been destined to rest there. Ah, that warmth, the warmth of Kyojuro’s closeness. Perhaps Akaza could not feel the changing seasons, perhaps heat and cold meant nothing to him, but the heat radiating from Kyojuro seeped into him, every single time, unfailingly.
Instead of answering, Kyojuro leaned forward slowly, patiently tilting his head to the side. Though only a few centimeters taller than Akaza, he still bent slightly, drawing near. Akaza’s eyelids had lowered halfway under the weight of what he felt, watching as Kyojuro’s soft, thick hair cascaded from his shoulders like waves with the gentle movement.
Kyojuro’s soft lips parted, and Akaza’s followed suit, mirroring him, yearning for his lover’s touch, yet frozen in place like a statue carved from stone. At last, with gentle yet overwhelming passion and a profound expression of love, Kyojuro’s lips met Akaza’s. As Akaza’s eyes closed, his ink-stained fingers grasped the edges of Kyojuro’s haori, pulling him closer.
If time held no meaning for Akaza, then he could remain here forever, savoring the unspoken love that lingered between them, unhidden in their eyes, yet never voiced, through Kyojuro’s lips.
But Kyojuro seemed to have other plans. His hands still held Akaza’s cheeks, anchoring him in place, Kyojuro leaned back slightly and met Akaza’s eyes. Noticing the flicker of discontent and silent protest on his face, he smiled softly, placing a brief, sweet kiss on his lips before drawing back once more.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he finally said. Akaza raised his brows with interest as his hands slid from the collar of Kyojuro’s haori to rest gently on his shoulders. “I don’t know how interested you are in human traditions, but this weekend is the Kanda Matsuri, and I’ve never had the chance to be here for it before.” Kyojuro’s thumbs traced the tattooed marks on Akaza’s face with a thoughtful tenderness. “The celebrations and the parade usually take place in the morning, but if you like, we could go and see the festival stalls. Of course, that is, if blending in with the crowd doesn’t bother you.”
Akaza blinked and looked at Kyojuro for a moment before a calm smile spread across his face.
“Are you inviting me to the festival, Kyojuro? How romantic.”
“I thought we might spend some time together,” Kyojuro said, seemingly unfazed by Akaza’s gentle teasing. He had never fully voiced what he felt for Akaza, striving instead to love him as best he could under the weight of his legacy and duty, proud yet passionate. Yet he never seemed reluctant to show his feelings in gestures.
“It’s an odd-numbered year,” he continued, noticing the question flicker across Akaza’s face. “Which means the festival will be celebrated with extra fervor.” Seeing Akaza’s puzzled expression, he felt compelled to clarify. “In even-numbered years, the celebrations are smaller. So we’re lucky.”
“Very well, Kyojuro,” Akaza said, letting his hands slide slowly from Kyojuro’s shoulders to rest at his sides. A broad smile spread across his face as he looked at the man before him. “Show me the traditions of the humans you love so dearly.”
The sky had darkened not too long ago, and Kyojuro and Akaza managed to catch the parade’s finale at the shrine. The people around them lingered rather than dispersing, chatting animatedly. Some had gathered around performers dressed as characters from popular folk stories, laughing and enjoying themselves, while others drifted toward the festival stalls to continue the celebrations.
“Oh, look.” Kyojuro pointed toward a mikoshi. Before Akaza followed his gesture, his eyes lingered for a moment on the childlike excitement and delight shining across Kyojuro’s face. “This is for Daikokuten.”
“Nice.” Akaza’s voice sounded flat to himself. But Kyojuro paid him no mind, keeping his gaze fixed on the mikoshi.
“The god of fortune and harvest.” Akaza stood there, unsure of what to say, while Kyojuro, lost in thought, rested his index finger against his chin and lifted his eyes toward the sky. “But some also say he is a god of matrimony as well.”
“So, what is it, Kyojuro? Are you getting married or something?” Akaza asked. Though his voice still sounded flat, the sharp wit in his words was impossible for someone as perceptive as Kyojuro to miss.
“Depends… are you asking, Akaza?” Kyojuro’s voice was playful, yet Akaza couldn’t stop the breath from catching in his throat, as if he had been punched in the stomach. The shock on his face, combined with his sudden speechlessness, only made Kyojuro, who was watching him head tilted slightly, eyes shining, burst into a bright, hearty laugh he could not restrain.
“Come on.” Kyojuro reached out and took Akaza’s hand, tugging the still-shocked and speechless demon into the midst of the bustling crowd. “Let’s go get something to eat.”
Kyojuro leaned forward with keen interest, examining the yakitori at a stall, while Akaza observed the river of people flowing around them. Beneath the dark sky, these humans moved with the vitality of spring’s arrival, blissfully unaware of the lurking terrors, scurrying about in cheerful oblivion and striving to carve beautiful memories to lend their fleeting lives some semblance of meaning.
In the past, such efforts would have seemed utterly pitiful to Akaza. These fragile, decaying beings, growing weaker with each passing day, fought to live a single good day in a world they scarcely understood. Crushed beneath the weight of the fragile orders and systems they had constructed, they suffered, struggled, and flailed. And yet, without knowing if they would live to see the next festival, they savored each moment as if it were their last.
What once had seemed pitiful now, under Kyojuro’s influence, began to strike Akaza as a fascinating display of strength. In the midst of uncertainty, with no way to know what the next day might bring or whether one would even live to see it, the effort to imbue each day with meaning, to experience something new, to simply survive… perhaps this was the true power Kyojuro had been speaking of.
When Kyojuro approached, Akaza flinched as if waking from a deep dream. Kyojuro looked utterly innocent as he tore a piece of meat from the skewer in his hand. He was no longer the slayer who had faced him with such daring and majesty months ago on the train. He was simply… human.
Before, Akaza had seen the beauty in Kyojuro that made him burn with the desire to turn him into a demon. Yet now, on this spring evening, the harbinger of new beginnings, he wondered: was Kyojuro’s true beauty found in his humanity? Was this what Akaza had truly admired all along?
“Are you alright, Akaza?” Kyojuro asked, his attention fully on the demon before him. Akaza smiled, as if to ease Kyojuro’s concern.
“Yes, Kyojuro. Everything’s fine.”
SUMMER
In the early days, there had been a strange, unspoken dance between them, born of miscommunication. More often than not, it compelled Kyojuro to draw his sword, driven to both satisfy Akaza and keep him in check by giving him what he wanted. When Akaza realized this, a restless unease spread through his chest like ivy, refusing to let him be for a long time. He wanted Kyojuro to fight with him out of desire, not out of fear that Akaza would punish him by harming others. He did not want Kyojuro drawn into a battle he did not truly wish to fight, merely to appease him.
As their relationship deepened and they began to understand one another more fully, Kyojuro started expressing his feelings more openly, while Akaza became better at voicing his desires. They fought less often, yet each encounter grew increasingly exhilarating.
Now, in this forest clearing by the river’s edge, Akaza’s body thrummed with a surge of energy, and it was not born solely from the thrill of a good fight.
Kyojuro’s last strike lacked its usual sharpness. Breaking his stance, Akaza caught the blade with an open palm and looked at him, questioning.
“Ah, forgive me,” Kyojuro said with a laugh. “The heat is getting to me, and I’ve started to sweat. Would you mind if we stopped for a little bit?”
“As you wish, Kyojuro.” Akaza’s eyes followed the way Kyojuro slid his sword into its sheath with his usual care, and then watched as he started toward the river. Akaza trailed after him. With practiced ease, Kyojuro’s fingers worked the buckle of the belt at his waist, setting it aside along with his blade by the water’s edge. Then, to Akaza’s surprise, he began to unfasten the buttons of his uniform.
Akaza was uncertain whether he ought to speak, indeed, what words could there be? He remained silent, spellbound, his gaze caught as though in a dream, watching Kyojuro undo the buttons one by one.
“It’s so hot,” Kyojuro said, as though unaware of Akaza’s lingering gaze. “Usually these uniforms shield us from the whims of the weather, but after hours of battle beneath this heat, even they have surrendered.” He laughed lightly as he spoke.
Akaza held his tongue, his gaze devouring the graceful slope of Kyojuro’s neck. The slayer’s uniform, so often sealed to the very edge of his jaw, was a cage that kept his beauty veiled. Akaza’s eyes were often starved, granted only the fleeting mercy of Kyojuro’s face and hands. But here, beneath the loosening cloth, skin emerged; rare, luminous, and unbearably tempting, like a secret the night itself ached to conceal yet could not.
For a moment, even Akaza himself was startled by the hunger that surged within him for Kyojuro.
He had always desired Kyojuro, from the very beginning; drawn to him, inescapably, like a moth to a flame.
But it had never been like this. Kyojuro being so at ease in Akaza’s presence, revealing his most vulnerable parts, touched something deep within Akaza. He wanted more, craved Kyojuro’s willing gift of even more. And as a ravenous demon, he knew all too well that he would always hunger for more.
“Akaza?” Kyojuro’s slender fingers paused at the third button, his gaze soft and questioning as he noticed Akaza’s unfamiliar silence. “Are you alright?”
Akaza swallowed hard, trying to force down the lump in his throat; it was an effort to suppress all the emotions he felt but could not voice.
“Yes, Kyojuro. Everything’s fine.” For a moment, Kyojuro studied him with curious eyes, then the light in his gaze softened right before Akaza. He released the buttons and stepped two paces closer. Akaza remained rooted in place, and just as he had months ago on that festival night, Kyojuro’s hands found their way to his cheeks.
“Akaza.” Kyojuro’s voice carried the same incredible warmth that shone in his eyes. Just as a surge of heat had coursed through him when they had fought moments ago, Akaza now felt it beneath Kyojuro’s gaze and gentle touch. This man, this human, with a single look or caress could wield the power to overwhelm Upper Moon Three, and yet, Akaza felt safer and more at home in Kyojuro’s hands than he ever had before. It was as if, here, together, they could exist apart from all the realities of the world.
“Kyojuro,” he answered simply. No other words were needed between them. Kyojuro drew a deep breath and leaned forward, and before Akaza could even react, his lips claimed Akaza’s. Akaza’s hands went to the nape of Kyojuro’s neck, just released to him. The skin and bone beneath his strong fingers were so delicate that, for a fleeting moment, he wanted to break the kiss and gasp for air.
But Kyojuro’s lips left no room for doubt or hesitation against his own.
Perhaps he was the stronger of the two, in flesh and power, but it had always been Kyojuro who carried the courage to bring them here; to this stillness, to this fragile peace. Akaza had witnessed firsthand the unyielding idealism that defined him, and so it should not surprise him that the same fierce resolve burned in every facet of Kyojuro’s life. His hands, when they touched Akaza, had never once trembled. And in the face of that unwavering warmth, that inexhaustible love, Akaza sometimes felt crushed, made small beneath the weight of it.
His fingers, driven by a need to be as brave as Kyojuro himself, wandered downward. They slipped past loosened buttons, brushing fabric aside with reverent care, until at last they touched the warmth of bare skin beneath.
A demon should not know longing other than hunger. A demon should not know worship other than his master. And yet, Akaza’s hands trembled with a hunger he could not name.
As a demon, Akaza was no stranger to human flesh.
How many skins had withered, crumpled, torn beneath his merciless hands? How many bodies had dissolved between his teeth, vanishing into nothing? Yet none of that savagery bore even the faintest resemblance to this gentleness.
Kyojuro’s skin beneath his touch was not meat, not prey, not something to consume. It was warmth. It was radiance. Every inch of it felt sanctified, as though he were pressing his palms to an altar he had no right to approach. To think of the two in the same breath left a taste of sin upon his tongue. Kyojuro’s skin was something else entirely; something consecrated, something sacred. He wanted more than touch, more than heat, more than closeness. He wanted to dissolve in him, to be remade in the fire of this mortal man.
When Kyojuro’s hands finally slipped from Akaza’s face, the demon almost mourned the absence, until those same strong, unyielding hands found his narrow waist. With deliberate certainty, Kyojuro drew him closer, erasing the fragile breath of distance left between them. He tilted his head, and the kiss deepened, no longer a tender question but an unrestrained claiming.
Akaza’s entire being shuddered. His hands, trembling with reverence and greed, wandered restlessly across the expanse of Kyojuro’s bared skin. Each touch was both worship and hunger, as if he sought to memorize the sacred warmth beneath his palms, to brand it into memory before the world could tear it from him.
The beat of Kyojuro’s heart thrummed against his fingers, wild and alive; so achingly human, so devastatingly fleeting. That rhythm undid him. It was the music of mortality, the song of everything Akaza had been cursed to devour but never cherish.
He wanted all of him; his kindness, his love, his laughter, his unshakable fire.
Perhaps the most shattering, the most terrifying truth was that at the meeting of their lips, Kyojuro returned every emotion to him like a mirror. Akaza had never been accustomed to loving someone, sure, yet to be loved, with equal ferocity, by someone else… it was like crumbling slowly beneath the sun, reduced to ash and scattered on the wind. It was as though every shadow he had ever carried within him fractured at the touch of Kyojuro’s light, leaving him exposed in a nakedness he had never known, stripped bare of all the darkness that once defined him.
Akaza’s thoughts scattered as Kyojuro reluctantly pulled back to breathe. He blinked and met Kyojuro’s smiling face. He was the demon—he who needed no breath, who remained untouched by mortal things, yet somehow, it was Kyojuro who seemed unshaken by the display of their shared love.
“I suppose summer is your favorite season, Akaza?” Kyojuro asked, his tone was playful.
“Why do you think so, Kyojuro?” Akaza asked, his voice low, though at times he felt as though he was always a step behind the flowing stream of Kyojuro’s thoughts, words spilling from him like sparks he could not always catch.
Kyojuro only laughed, a sound bright and effortless, and slipped his hands from Akaza’s waist. He took a few steps back, and though every instinct in Akaza urged him to protest, he let him go, the air between them trembling with a quiet hunger still.
With a careless grace, Kyojuro pulled the tie from his hair, gathering his bright hair in one hand, twisting it into a loose bun. The gesture was simple, but to Akaza’s ravenous gaze it was a vision.
“You seem in better spirits these days,” Kyojuro said, his eyes warm, his smile boyish as he began to unfasten the buttons left undone after the interruption of their shared kiss. “It feels as if summer has suited you well.”
“On the contrary,” Akaza muttered. “I prefer the winter. In summer the light lingers too long, and people swarm the streets; too loud, too restless, their laughter spilling everywhere, running about without end.” Kyojuro gave a soft hum of agreement. “But in winter,” Akaza continued, “darkness falls early. The sun withdraws, and with it, people retreat into their homes. A hush settles over the world then. It’s peaceful.”
“Well,” Kyojuro said, having finished undoing the last of his uniform’s buttons, turning to face him fully, “I like winter, too. Though for us slayers it is a harsh season, demanding longer hours than ever, it has its own peculiar beauty. I love the snow.”
“You… like the snow,” Akaza repeated, almost foolishly. How mundane, how utterly trivial to know such a thing about a human, and yet, how intimate it felt. Knowing that Kyojuro loved snow changed nothing for him. It would not alter their fights, it would not aid him in convincing Kyojuro to become a demon, it was utterly worthless from a practical standpoint.
And yet… that knowledge, so singularly personal, stirred a tremor deep within him. To know Kyojuro not as a Hashira, but as Kyojuro, to be granted the privilege of seeing him simply as he was… it was intoxicating, suffusing him with a warmth he could neither name nor resist.
“Perhaps this year we’ll see the first snow together,” Kyojuro said, laughing softly. Then, before Akaza could even respond, he drew him toward the river, into the water, into a world where nothing else existed but them, where every worry and every shadow could be left behind and forgotten as their lips and bodies melted into one.
Yes, Akaza thought, perhaps the turning of the seasons held meaning for him now, perhaps they reminded him that one day Kyojuro would die, that their time was limited, but for this moment, at least, they had time.
AUTUMN
Crunch. Crunch. Dead leaves snapped beneath his feet like fragile bones, their brittle whispers echoing through the still night, scratching at Akaza’s ears. The rage that was not truly his, which was left behind by Muzan, still coursed through his veins like poison, filling him with a fury he longed to hurl outwards upon the world. He curled his hands into fists and held them at his sides, a conscious restraint, lest, in a single slip of temper, the poor trees around him become the victims of that unleashed fury.
Kyojuro was waiting for him. Normally, after a meeting with Muzan, Akaza would delay returning to Kyojuro for several days, as if meeting the two of them in such close succession would cause their very essences to mingle, and Muzan’s poison would seep into Kyojuro as well, leaving him diminished and fading.
But today, he could not afford such luxuries of worry.
Kyojuro was waiting for him around Fukagawa: Akaza would join him on patrol, and together they would spend the night hunting demons. Before the morning light could spill over them and turn Akaza into a whirlwind of dust, they would find refuge in a quiet inn, spending the first hours of dawn away from the sun, wrapped in each other’s arms.
At least, that had been the plan but Muzan’s sudden summon had shattered it all. His fury had seeped into Akaza’s very marrow, and the message he shared weighed upon him like a shroud of black cloth, smothering every thought. With a desperate, clawing need, Akaza longed to reach Kyojuro: to speak to him, to find a way—any way—to persuade him, to bind him here for eternity, to keep him at his side. And yet, tangled with that desperate longing was a fear so sharp it made him want to turn away, to flee before Kyojuro’s answer could strike him down.
“Good night, Kyojuro.” The words slipped from his lips by rote, so rehearsed they had become stitched into his very being, yet to his own ears, they rang hollow, lifeless, a poor echo of the storm within him.
“Good night, Akaza!” Kyojuro greeted him in his usual bright, unshakable cheer, and for a fleeting moment Akaza felt himself recoil from it. Perhaps it was the lingering poison of Muzan’s influence, but that irrepressible joy, so at odds with the storm raging in his own chest, seemed only to drive him deeper into the shadows of his own mind.
“You seem to be in a very good mood, Kyojuro.” Akaza said, his tone laced with forced playfulness, though perhaps a trace of venom, too, had slipped into his voice. Because Kyojuro’s smile faltered, leaving behind an expression tinged with confusion. “Things must be going well for you.”
“Is everything all right, Akaza?” Kyojuro asked, his steps halting at once. He had continued walking all this time, certain the demon would follow, but the instant he sensed the change in Akaza’s spirit, he turned fully to face him.
“I should be the one asking you that, Kyojuro. Have you received any interesting letters lately?” Usually, they spoke little of the Corps; Kyojuro out of a refusal to betray and share their secrets, Akaza out of genuine indifference. But now, with the demon so blatantly alluding to something concerning them, a grave expression settled over Kyojuro’s features.
“What do you mean, Akaza?”
“Oh, come now, Kyojuro. Upper Moons don’t fall every day. Surely that must be the talk of the Corps. Especially when it’s not just one… but two.” A proud expression unfurled across Kyojuro’s face.
"Yes! Kanro— the other Hashira did a splendid job." A hostile smile, one Akaza hadn’t shown Kyojuro since the day they first met, spread across his face.
“You let me fuck you, yet you can’t even speak your friends’ names in my presence. How funny, isn’t it, Kyojuro?” Kyojuro’s hand shot to his sword in an instinctive, reflexive motion, entirely unthinking, a habit honed over years, but to Akaza, it struck like a blade to the heart. Perhaps the fearsome aura of the demon had flared too intensely in that fleeting moment of anger.
“Why are you acting like this?” Kyojuro asked. The forced smile on Akaza’s face faltered, giving way to a shadowed, brooding expression.
“Have you forgotten, Kyojuro? No matter what we share on dark, quiet nights, we are always on opposite ends of a war. Your victories are our defeats.” His gaze fell to the hand resting on Kyojuro’s sword. “The leash around my neck is growing tighter, Kyojuro. This peace we are currently experiencing will not last forever. Don’t you feel it, too, that the end is drawing near?”
“Muzan is scheming something, isn’t he, Akaza? Whatever it is, we can face it.” Kyojuro’s voice carried that unshaken optimism, as if light itself spoke through him. His hand slipped away from the hilt, his body moving forward in a single, deliberate step. His arms rose between them, gentle and unthreatening, the way one might reach toward a wild and wounded creature. Fingers hovered in the night air, yearning to bridge the distance, to touch him but uncertain whether Akaza would receive it as solace or as trespass. “We can overcome it, Akaza.”
In less than the flutter of an eye, with a speed no mortal could ever hope to match, a speed that showed his true nature, Akaza closed the distance between them and seized Kyojuro’s wrist between his fingers. Kyojuro did not resist; though surprise flickered across his face for the briefest instant, he stood his ground. Akaza knew he must have looked feral, predatory, the very image of the demon he was. And yet, even in this moment, Kyojuro did not fear him, did not retreat. He allowed Akaza to touch the fragile pulse of his wrist, that most vulnerable place.
And that truth, that unbearable trust, struck Akaza’s heart like a brutal, silent blow.
“Yes, Kyojuro,” Akaza said, his voice raw, edged with a desperation that tasted like betrayal even as it left his lips, as though the very question itself defiled everything they had shared. “We can solve this. Become a demon, Kyojuro.”
“Akaza.” Kyojuro’s voice emerged weary, not with the weight of the decision itself, but with the exhaustion of having to repeat an answer so simple, so unyielding, over and over again; as though each time the question returned, it pressed upon him like a mountain, not in doubt, but in sheer fatigue.
“You want to solve this problem? This is the only way, Kyojuro.” Kyojuro lifted his other hand and gently rested it atop Akaza’s, the one gripping his wrist. His touch was warm, as it always was, as if trying to banish the lingering chill Muzan had left behind, flooding the space between them with a quiet, human heat.
“I refuse to believe that, Akaza.” With a strength that stood in stark defiance of the weakness Akaza felt, Kyojuro spoke, his voice steady and unyielding. “I will never become a demon, you know this as well as I do. But neither do I believe this is our end.”
Akaza’s hand slipped from between Kyojuro’s, falling to his side. His eyes, heavy with defeat, lingered wearily on Kyojuro.
“You’re far too optimistic, Kyojuro. You don’t truly believe you can defeat him, do you?”
“I do!” Kyojuro spoke, a smile lighting his face, his voice soaring through the forest like sunlight through the trees; strong, unwavering, certain. “That is not the only thing I believe in. I believe in you as well, Akaza.” Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, enveloping Akaza’s hand in the warmth of his own. And then, with a reverent tenderness, he lifted the demon’s inked fingers to his lips, pressing them with a kiss that was at once gentle and searing, leaving the air between them charged with unspoken devotion.
“In me?” Akaza asked, almost foolishly. It was not Akaza who teetered on the edge of danger, no, it was Kyojuro, destined to be swallowed in agonizing waves should Muzan’s wrath crash down upon them like a merciless tsunami.
“Yes.” The gentleness in Kyojuro’s gaze pressed against Akaza’s chest, constricting his heart with a tender, undeniable weight. “I think you are far stronger than you realize, Akaza.”
Months later, when Muzan’s claws sank viciously into his scalp, coiling like a python as they assaulted his mind, Akaza would remember Kyojuro’s words, and with a bitter pang, he would burn a little more at the thought of how wrong Kyojuro had been, and the agony of how Akaza disappointed him.
But here today, all he could do was cling to Kyojuro’s words, letting himself be held, surrendering to the warmth of Kyojuro’s embrace, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and convincing himself—if only for this moment—that they were both still alive and that there was hope.
WINTER
Green. Everywhere, nothing but green. A deep, unyielding green; cold, piercingly cold. He does not feel it, yet he knows, it is cold.
His feet carry him across this world, walking, traversing mountains, hills, rivers—a river, yes, but which river?
He searches, for something. What was it? Oh! A flower. Yellow and red—no, that’s not right. Blue. The flower must be blue.
Red and yellow; what was red and yellow? The sun? No. Warmth? Yes, warmth. Hands. Warm hands. Whose hands?
A touch. So light. So tender. It cannot be. A demon. He is a demon. Then what seeks gentleness in him?
Dead. Who is dead? Someone died. Did he kill them? Yes, he killed them. Who? A slayer? Which slayer? What does it matter? He always kills slayers.
Red and yellow. Like the blood. Like the sun. Like the warmth.
White.
Oh. Snow. Snow is falling. It must be the first snow of the year. Oh, the first snow of the year. Waiting. He’s waiting for what? For whom? He’s waiting for someone. No, he’s searching for someone. Whom? Yellow and red. No—not someone, it must be a flower he’s searching for.
He stops. Waiting. Snowflakes drift down slowly, floating in the air, and his eyes trace their delicate patterns. Each one unique, never the same. He watches them fall. Why does he stop? Why does he watch? He loves the snow. No—this is not right. The snow does not matter. Someone else. Someone else loves the snow. Who loves the snow? What difference does it make? It does not matter to him.
Yet still, he opens his palm, as if he could hold a single snowflake within it, and keep it safe to show to the one who loves the snow.
A snowflake drifts into his palm, and instantly melts. Of course it does. Nothing ever lasts.
Everything melts and dies.
Dies. Died. Someone died. Who?
Snap. A branch. Beneath his foot. It broke.
Broken. What is broken? A promise? A neck? Was it him who broke it?
The night is dark. He walks, searching—what? A human? A flower? He continues. Nearby, the sound of a river drifts to him. What could a river mean to him? Summer. But it is not summer now. Seasons hold no meaning to him. They flow past, at a speed that would terrify a mortal life. But he is immortal. There is nothing to fear. Dead. Who is dead? It does not matter. Humans always die.
Yet he still lingers.
Waits.
Snow drifts softly around him, the first snowfall of winter.
Perhaps this year we’ll see the first snow together.
With whom? Alone. He had always been alone.
With the one who loves the snow. But who was it that loved the snow?
He had forgotten again. Something? Someone? He had forgotten someone.
Yellow and red. Warmth. Hands. He was waiting—for someone. Searching—for someone.
It does not matter. People always die. Their lives drift by in the background, like the passing seasons, fading, wilting like flowers. A flower. Ah, yes. He must continue searching for the flower.
The only thing worth remembering is his master and his wishes.
Whoever he has forgotten cannot have been worth remembering at all.
After all, he has no need for warmth; the cold can never touch him anyway.
He continues.
He wanders.
Repeating it to himself, over and over: not yellow and red. Blue.
Because yellow and red have died—in his hands.
Now he wanders alone.