Chapter Text
The minute he was born, everyone had already seen the only thing Kibutsuji Muzan would grow to be: a child that would never be able kiss the lips of true adulthood. The starting point would be the doctors checking his wrist, then his neck in hopes of finding a small, little beat from the child. A second passed, then another. They tried to bring back the breath that hadn't even entered his lungs beforehand, and inevitably failed.
Dead out the womb.
The servants were ordered to prepare the area in which a kasō prepared for him would take place. It was quite unfortunate, the first and only heir of the Kibutsuji family to have been a stillborn. It seemed all those who surrounded him after he was fresh out of the womb had been disappointed and dejected by the loss that had arrived right after the gain.
The stuffing was about to be set ablaze. As the onbo had begin lighting the torch, a small—nearly muffled—sound had squeezed from the site of the expected cremation. The people that were at the site had turned to the unexpected audio, confused on what that could be. The sound continued to grow louder, along with the “stillborn” child. The tiny little thing was wheezing; he was writhing and crying in the piles of shinnu— that would've been burned to ash if it weren't for the gently brash sound—filling the pit of the supposed funeral pyre.
Dead out the womb Alive.
The heir was alive. Immediately, the servants were ordered to wash the newborn off, to cleanse it from all the dirt and fuss that the misinformation had caused the child to harbor. The child of the Kibutsuji family that had come back to life—
Muzan.
As Muzan grew older, he hadn't grown stronger. In fact, he got sicker by the day. By the first year of life, there would be countless of sobs from the innocent baby, produced from each strange cure and procedure they had performed on him . Acupuncture, dried mugwort being flamed on his skin for his "tummy problems", or medicine that was too bitter for the tongue of a child. Their poor little bō had not yet comprehended the reason for all this pain; it was simply a part of his daily world. At three years old, he often looked at the older children playing outside. He'd often sit by his window, watching them run around and scream as they tried to keep a distance from one another, touching the other and saying "Ko o toro, ko o toro!" (Catch the child, catch the child!). Apparently, the one chasing them was an "oni", or a demon. He wondered why they had not banished such a creature yet, even allowing it to stay near his mansion.
By four years old, he was spoiled by his parents, quite an atoning way of making up for the "life" they've given him. He was living, yet he wasn't living. It was a habit for him at this point, watching the children by the window. At that time, the toddler still hadn't fully understood that he was different, even when he'd overhear the children of their servants talk about him:
“Should we invite Muzan-sama?”
“Him? No, mother says he's sick and that he'll make us sick too.”
“My mother says that we'll get 50 lashes if his mother finds a single scratch on him from us!”
He finds it strange. He is not much different from them— he is quite similar, in fact. He was a child like them, he was human like them, and they both wanted to play. So why could they play but not him? Was it because he was weak, because he was frail? Why did they talk like he was a priceless vase for merely breathing, even if improperly so?
By six he begins to resent how he is. He got all the items he could ever wish for— of course, mommy and daddy would get him all the toys Muzan could ever want in the entire world with a snap of their fingers, yet the child wasn't happy; because what if it wasn't toys he wanted?
What if he wanted to be able to walk outside without five servants by his side? What if he wanted to run around for hours on end without passing out? What if he wanted to become an "oni" to chase around the other kids, to laugh with the other kids? What if all he wanted was to be normal, even if poor? Instead, he was only able to stay in his room, to play with the odd shaped spinner thing his mom gave to him, and get his favourite meals served to him at a yell or two. What he wanted was what all children should have, while what he had was what all children would want.
All the disgust he felt at himself formed into pity to his parents, anger at the world. Why had his parents even keep him if he had to suffer like this? He would rather be dead; the only thing keeping him alive is the chance for him to feel like "Muzan, a normal human boy" instead of "Kibutsuji Muzan, a frail lord in need of protection". The sliver of hope that he might be able to feel normal one day was enough to calm the hatred for his life, but not the hatred for others'.
Lashing out was common for Muzan now. Once, he knocked a bowl of hot soup on a servant. The servant visibly flinched, as she let out a loud hiss of pain. Muzan's eyes widened slightly, looking at his shaky hands— the ones that had just hurt a servant for simply doing their job. His emotions were at conflict with one another— seeing someone in pain at his hands, seeing someone other than himself hurting... On one hand, the fact he had inflicted physical harm on another had caused guilt to rise in his chest. He was an angry child, not a cruel one. On the other, the dopamine and endorphins that had spiked up alongside the adrenaline and cortisol levels had made him realise that he was not weak. He wasn't as weak as they made him out to be, as everyone made him out to be.
So amidst the trembling and the panic he had felt, the corners of his lips moved upwards; a tremulous movement. His eyes frantically looked around before he had fully calmed down, the guilt washing over him once more. He wanted to be normal, not powerful— and he knew he couldn't be normal just by overpowering the rest.
Muzan was born hungry, hungry for a life that would never be his. He knew, everyone knew. Yet, even at that, Muzan still fought.
Even when he grew tired of the nearly gruesome treatments given to him; the process, the side effects, and the absolute fact that nothing worked. Nothing had ever worked for Muzan.
Even when he couldn't walk properly without wobbling, falling over twice and hearing his caretakers being yelled at for leaving him unattended. He still held hope, a small light in his chest that would flicker every other day.
At his boyish age of nine, the years where he should've been playing, wondering why the sky is blue, he was wondering the use of his existence. Wondering if he would ever be like the kids his age, wondering if he'd grow up to be a sick, restless old man too. If he ever grew up, that is. A lot of doctors had already told him it was near impossible; improbable that he would even make it past twenty, let alone reach peak adulthood.
Muzan watched his parents and all the other aristocratic, high-status people that had gathered in the ceremonial hall. His parents had taught him earlier that he would have to memorise odd poems, and learn to write Kanji in specific orders and motions to form literature (any other way was apparently "wrong"... why? They're still letters after all. But who was he to question tradition).
Muzan had simply sat in an empty, private room as he watched his parents eat at one of the long tables, reaching almost from the door to the opposite wall. There were loads of nobles lined up on the two tables, as well as lots of dishes. They were honestly quite loud, laughter and whispers (that were definitely not subtle) filling the air, as well as the delicious aroma of auspicious morsels. As he continued to silently observe through how whelmed (not over nor under) he was, he saw the adults casually having their own conversations, the children playing different kinds of games. At the sight of the children being relatively unruly, some scolded by their parents, he simply turned his head down. There was rage in his heart, piles and piles of anger— nearly mountains— yet beneath those mountains, buried in the core of his heart... was a large, resentful wound.
It was unfair, he wanted to sit with his parents and play with them too. Yet, he couldn't even hold a spoon by himself.
ABSURD!
Absurd how his parents raised him this way, it was an utter hollow pretense that they were "helping" him by making him more fragile than he already was-
"Muzan-kun." A man with white hair greeted calmly, breaking through the Gagaku music. He let out a low hum, staring at him with eyes full of judgement. "Tell me, young one, is your mind as feeble as your legs," he said, the cane supporting his own weak bones as the senior ironically poked the sickly child's legs. "or does this sick, ghostly child actually have the brains to memorise a few benedictory verses?" the white-haired man asked, scratching his cleanly kept beard. "Come, recite a waka for our yearly aging. Something about... longevity, perhaps the Gods will care to listen to our words if it had come from boy that had practically previously rolled in a grave before being dug out."
Muzan, already pale, had blanched slightly. Then, all the white had manifested into a red glare in his eyes. At the insult, the servants could see him grit his teeth. Some could even hear the sound of enamel against enamel. He looked around, seeing the nobles that were close to him grow silent; you could hear a pin drop. His parents, ever so loving, stared at him with an unnamed sternness in their eyes. If he couldn't recite this, people would talk. They'd say he was a clear product of weak, improper breeding. The rest that had seen only offered apologetic glances at the boy, already knowing he would not speak.
Then, as his eyes met the elder's double-sided smile, he let out a small cough. Then another, causing the uncle to laugh. "Oh dear, how meek. Path-"
"Y-... yuki tokete,
Waka- wakaba ni kaware,
Saka- sa- sakanu to mo,
Nagaki yo wo h... hete,
Koka wa chiru... chiruran."
(The snow melts away,
Turning into the young leaves,
Even if they don't bloom,
Passing through a long, long life,
While the old flowers will fall.)
The elder's face contorted comically, from a smug red to a blanched white. It seems Muzan had turned the tables rather quickly. He found it quite interesting as well, wondering if the man had even noticed his "subtle" jab towards him
At the thought, one side of his mouth quirked up shakily, forming a smirk of triumph. He felt the same way he had when he'd spilled the soup over to his servant— strong. Muzan had just beat a wise man at his own game. His tired eyes glanced around at the other nobles; the men were stunned, the women's fans freezing in place. Even his birth givers had seemed stunned.
Then, a loud sound. Brash, almost harsh to the ears, despite sounding like it came from small, absurdly soft, plump palms hitting on one another. The sound was looped, repeating in a cycle that seemed fast-paced and never ending.
Applause? Applause for him?
His and the elder's eyes searched the sound of the noise, dropping onto an elegant, refined young lady. A very young lady actually, one they heard had just turned eleven this New-years celebration as well. She seemed to be radiating a warmth that no aristocratic, stuck up child should have, eyes of pure admiration and pride for his accomplishment. Who... who even was this idiotic little preteen that had the audacity to clap for him? He let out a huff, already used to the praise. Yet, being applauded when everybody else has took the elder's side, simply for his age... the tension in his shoulders calmed slightly. Especially after other kids had joined in on the clapping, then adults, which left the old man flustered as he rushed off to leave with mutters of "insolence".
"Muzan-san! Bravo, that was such a good poem!" A voice perched up. Informal, something that wasn't as elegant as this whole fiest was. The boy let out a huff, the tremors in his hands not stopping. His nails digged into the mat below him. Her praise seemed like an absolute mockery in his eyes. "Do not mistake my resilience for a mere performance of entertainment, kisama." He nearly growled out.
The other kids began to whisper to eachother, some concerned on why he had decided to insult her. Who even was she? He's asked this to himself twice now. Everybody seemed to adore her for no apparent reason. Oh, this must be yet another child born into nobility, one who had never tasted the charcoal stove of hard work because everything had been served to her on a silver platter her whole life, he bet. Instead of being repulsed like the elder, she instead smiled, walking forward. He saw the adults had already continued having their own conversation, although the tension in the air was not to be ignored. With each step she took, he had simply spoke more. His vicious wit was faced at him, acting like a wolfdog would had just bared its teeth at her.
"I do not recall you speaking on my behalf. Your voice is a grating dissonance, a trembling ephemera at it's finest."
"Do you imagine yourself a heroine? Simply because of a small praise you'd given to me? Do you expect a prize for pitying an ill child?"
"Stop it. Keep your legs back, orokamono! Do you truly believe a scrap of confection can muzzle me? It is an absolute travesty—to treat my fury as if it were the hunger of a caged beast. Be gone, before the very stench of your mediocrity makes y-"
Then, she gave a glare to the children. It wasn't cold, wasn't aggressive, no. It was simply a smile, a raise of her eyebrows and a tilt of her head, and a wave of her hand before they scurried off. She stared at him, brow raised. "Your tongue is sharp, Muzan-san. Though, the delivery of your waka's third line was far too forlorn. If you want them to actually tremble, you should lower your pitch on the final syllable." She said simply, no sugar that had coated her words at all.
She pulled a small, odd piece of item from her out of nowhere. It was wrapped in a bamboo sheath, tucked inside the husks and tied with a cord made from twisted rice straw. She opened it in front of him; there in the palms which previously applauded for him lied a dense, amber-gold block. It was matte and clay-like— Muzan knew this. This was a cure for elderly people, "So"— she was insulting him. Was this a joke? The fact she likely thought that infuriated him, the sickly blood in his veins boiling.
"Do... Do you find this entertaining? You are a parasitic spectator to my pain, aren't you? You horrendous, gilded hypocrite. I-"
"Oh, save your breath, Muzan-san." She said, tone slightly flat compared to before. The girl didn't flinch at the indignant snarl at all, she held the odd yellow block steady in her hands. She split it in half, eating one of the halves in front of him and chewing like it was a rare delicacy. "It isn't the bitter salt you're used to. I'll make it known that I've stayed up until the moon had failed to make these; stirring the sweet essence of the mountain grapes into the mixture until my arms felt as heavy as yours."
He paused, listening to her tone soft and flat, yet words so sharp. He glared at her, before shakily taking one piece and popping it into his mouth, her hand not yet retracting, as if reaching out. A moment of suspense had filled Muzan, almost hoping it would be bitter to call her an idiot. Instead, a cloying, deep sweetness bloomed across his tongue—the concentrated essence of autumn grapes and caramelized cream.
"This... is not as bitter as the wretched powdery pieces given to me by those doctors, those idiots think that those items are best shoved down my throat." He mumbled, chewing. His eyes caught her smile, before his hands caught her hands as well.
"We're playing Uta-kai." She said, observing his eyebrow cocking up with confusion, then furrowing with curiousity. "One shell holds the first three lines of a waka—the 'upper phrase'—while its twin holds the remaining two. They are separated, scattered like fallen petals across the silk mat."
"A childish pursuit," he hissed, his voice a piteous rasp. "You expect me to scramble on the floor for scraps of poetry like a parasitic spectator?"
"Childish? You are a child, Muzan." She said, eyes simmering in the light with fire hidden behind the waters of patience. "I expect you to listen. When the reader chants the opening lines, you must find the ending before the echo dies. It requires a mind of enamel—hard, fast, and unforgiving. Most of these zako," she gestured vaguely to the other children, far away and running around, "are too slow to hear the poem before it's over. But you have nothing but time to memorize the ageless refrains. Or are you afraid a trembling ephemera like me might actually beat you?"
His lip trembled, alongside his throat. Despite himself, he held her hand as she pulled him up, smiling. "Challenges are no challenge for me. Contradictory, aren't I?"