Conflagration of the Self - Chapter 5 - fitzefitcher - 鬼滅の刃 (2024)

Chapter Text

He’s very sweet like this, Akaza thinks.

Of course, he’s always very sweet, his Kyojuro, but especially like this. For even when his cognizant mind was tucked into the farthest reaches of his very self, he could hardly be called feral. A mild, docile creature, he was. A messy eater, perhaps, but that just made him all the more endearing, Akaza thinks. He doesn’t mind the mess at all; not when Kyojuro had been nothing but sweet to him since sinking into this state, where the mind is blessedly quiet and the appeasem*nt of hunger’s tyranny rules the body.

It’s been several hours of this. Kyojuro has made some decent headway on the carcass, considering that it’s twice his body mass. Akaza has to coach him through it on occasion, has to remind him which organs he needs to eat before he fills up and the ones he needs to avoid, but overall it goes pretty well.

“We’re going to have to make sure you eat especially healthy, huh,” Akaza tells him, knowing full well that, in all likelihood, it was going in one ear and out the other. He can’t help it, really; even this way, Kyojuro has been nothing less than a perfect companion.

“Since you won’t eat humans, and all. Can’t have your teeth or claws falling out, can we,” Akaza explains a moment later. Kyojuro pauses in his gorging, and turns to look at him, an inquisitive rumble in his throat. His eyes are wide and his pupils are blown up to twice their usual size, but they’re hardly blank, gazing at the elder demon curiously. Akaza smiles at him, his heart light and airy, and strokes Kyojuro’s hair, a clear sign of praise if there ever was one. The younger demon leans into his hand, and his eyelids flutter close. Between this, the pleased rumbling in his ribs, and the sumptuous meal before him, Kyojuro is the very picture of contentment. And so well-behaved, too; most demons at their first meal were vicious, territorial little things. Himself included, apparently, though he has no memory of it. He only knows because Kokushibo told him so, and that man wouldn’t know how to lie if his life depended on it. He’d been the one largely responsible for “taming” Akaza of his wildness when he’d first been turned, and it was, according to Kokushibo, an “exhausting, harrowing, and altogether thankless” experience, which he only very, very occasionally held over Akaza’s head.

Akaza has to tamp down on the urge to sneer. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment. He’ll do better by Kyojuro than his elder did by him. Akaza may not be good for much beyond brute force, but he sure as hell can do that much, at least.

Kyojuro, a little unsure of what Akaza wants, offers him what he had just been eating and still held in his bloody hands: the liver, it looks like.

“Oh, sweet boy,” Akaza coos at him, warm affection rushing through his whole body. “You’re so good to me. You’re alright, sweet thing, you eat as much as you want. I’ll be fine.”

When Akaza doesn’t take the offered meat, Kyojuro retracts his hand and turns back to his meal, resuming with gusto. He supposes he could stand to be a little more fair to his own elder. Apparently, Akaza was among the unlucky few who remained feral for weeks and months, even after eating, and it took quite a lot of effort and patience on Kokushibo’s part to pull him from the buried depths of his own mind. Kyojuro, bless him, was perfect right out the gate, and only became more perfect with each passing day. Even when lost in the bliss of his first meal, Kyojuro is still the most darling companion anyone could ask for. The work was nothing of consequence if it was done for him.

That said, Akaza finds he likes taking care of him. Adores it, even. It’s something he takes to quite naturally, in his opinion. While he’d been unsure, at first- unsure in all things save for the knowledge that he and Kyojuro were meant to be together, really- he’d picked it up quickly, astonishing both himself and Kyojuro in the process. How simple a thing it was, to let his hands move of their own accord and do the thinking for him. He doesn’t remember a time where he’s ever had to care for someone else, but he must have, for how quickly it came back to him, as if this is all he had ever done.

It’s a ridiculous thought, he knows. He’s spent the last two centuries doing nothing but honing his strength, honing his skills, and doing his damnedest to find worthy opponents to face in combat. That’s all he’s ever done, and it’s simply absurd to think otherwise. He does not and has not remembered any portion of his human life, nor does he want to. Why would he? He couldn’t have been anything but slow, weak, and functionally useless, like every other human he’s ever had the misfortune of encountering.

That’s what makes Kyojuro so special. Even before his flawed ascension, his strength rivaled that of the divine. Akaza only wishes he could’ve seen the height of his human strength prior to his transformation, that he may properly gauge how much higher his apotheosis has raised him, compromised or not.

Although. Their master likely would not have allowed for that, would he.

Akaza’s mood sinks a bit, thinking of this. It would not have been the first time a prospective companion had been cut down by his own hands. He didn’t particularly like to remember it, or think about it. The more he did, the more it became clear that he wasn’t entirely in control of his actions.

He hadn’t told Kyojuro this, he’d been too ashamed to, but there had been times, more than a few, wherein the thought of granting his opponent mercy had crossed his mind. To pull back, allow them to recover, and push themselves to just high enough where he could return to them, could then turn them without fear of killing them. But… seemingly, as soon as the thought had entered his head, his master would make his presence known, and whatever hand he had attempted to retract would suddenly thrust forward, killing them instantly. He could feel it coming. He could feel it happening, as it happened, and still could not stop himself. The control of his body, all his limbs, surrendered to hands he could not see, a voice he could not hear. His master’s presence, pulsing cold and weighty in the back of his head, at the seat of his skull.

He didn’t care to ponder the skin-crawling notion that he was less a dog on a leash and more a puppet on a string for his master to pull at whenever he saw fit. He did not want to contemplate the background horror that it was not knowing if it was truly his master assuming control of him directly, or merely a simulacrum of himself that he had instilled in those he had favored the most. Either his master is a jealous god who would not tolerate even the faintest notion of idolatry, or a negligent one, only caring just enough to look at them when he had been displeased, and no other time. Akaza doesn’t know which one he would prefer.

This was possibly the only thing the other moons could empathize with, if they cared to at all. Akaza doesn’t imagine he’s the only one who doesn’t appreciate being held in bonds such as this, but. He had to wonder, occasionally, what could possibly make the others so fervent in their devotion. Were they not also wild things, barely restrained by the yoke of their master’s contempt?

Kyojuro turns to look at him again, mouth somehow bloodier than before. He co*cks his head to the side, a wordless question resting upon his face. Even when he isn’t fully present, he looks out for Akaza. How sweet, the demon thinks, and warmth slowly trickles through him, chasing away the sense-memory of their master’s cold rage.

“I’m alright, dearest heart,” he tells him, sighing with relief. Once again, Kyojuro is a warm and welcome balm. The younger demon does not move from his position in front of the boar, likely too enthralled by his own hunger, still, but he does chuff at Akaza, and beckon him over, patting the spot next to him with a hand that's wet and sticky with blood. The canvas stops it from reaching the tatami beneath, thankfully, but it does leave a stain, nonetheless. Akaza can't help but indulge him, and sits right in that exact spot, blood stain or not.

Kyojuro chuffs at him again, pleased, and runs his fingers through Akaza's hair, stroking his head comfortingly, and undoubtedly smearing blood and gore everywhere he touches. Akaza couldn't care less, too flattered by the concern and attention given, and shamelessly leans into the offered hand. Kyojuro rumbles approvingly, and then very carefully cuts a section of fatty muscle from the carcass. Of course he would learn quickly how to master his claws; Akaza expected nothing less from him. He does surprise him, however, by offering the cut of meat to Akaza, insistently holding it under his nose, even when the elder demon could only stare at him blankly, completely taken aback by such an action. Kyojuro merely waits, giving him a look that can only be described as mulish. Akaza knows it well; it's one that means the younger demon will absolutely under no circ*mstances let this go. It's an endearing trait, everything about him was endearing, but it did prove troublesome on occasion.

Akaza sighs, but takes the cut of meat. Kyojuro continues to stare at him expectantly, and the elder demon realizes he's in over his head, taking a bite.

The taste is alright. It's been a while since he's eaten an animal; he wasn't sure what to expect. It's a little gamey, but it's not too far off from the taste of human flesh, in all honesty. He could work with that.

Besides, meals always tasted better when eaten together. He can’t remember when or what would have prompted him to indulge in such a thing, for certainly, he can remember none as a demon, but that doesn’t stop him from knowing this to be irrevocably true. The certainty of such an unfounded belief should be daunting, but. He finds he couldn’t care less where it came from. Especially not when it’s Kyojuro who reminded him of such an unshakable truth.

So there he stays for the rest of the evening, sitting in a comfortable, companionable silence with the younger demon, hardly a word passing between them as they break their bread together.

Kyojuro is insistent on him eating, too, of course, and to Akaza it's hardly a surprise. His Kyojuro has always been kind and generous, even to those who did not deserve it.

- - -

It’s half past midnight when Tanjiro attempts to make his escape.

“Attempts,” because while indeed it’s late enough that Miss Shinobu shouldn’t be awake, having long since been bullied to bed by the butterfly girls, the butterflies themselves could still be flitting around. Tanjiro was half-convinced that out of the four of them, none of them actually slept, and that, in addition to how busy and crowded the Butterfly Manor was during the day, made it extremely difficult to move about undetected. Hence, “attempts.” But with the recent news, he couldn’t just lay around and do nothing.

When Tanjiro receives this news, he’s still recovering from the incident at the Mugen Train. In the time since then, there had been no news of Rengoku, and the half-moon that had shone a dim silver overhead that night had waned black and empty, waxed yellow and full, and began to wane once more into a half moon. Though Tanjiro could not see it presently within the walls of the manor, he knew it lay just beyond, waiting to greet him once he stepped foot outside. A reminder of what they had yet to find.

Since then, he’d mostly been working through the regiment of physical therapy that Miss Shinobu set down for him, and steadily working back up to his usual training standards. It was the same thing for Inosuke and Zenitsu, though Zenitsu had been approved to go back to work already and cried about it multiple times. Tanjiro usually did his best to be patient with him every time he suddenly found himself with an armful of Zenitsu, but he had to admit, even with Zenitsu’s usual dramatics, this felt. Different. Quiet. More grim. Zenitsu held onto all of them- Inosuke, Nezuko, and himself- as though he feared them slipping through his fingers the moment he let go.

None of them would be particularly happy with him if they caught him right now, and he wouldn’t blame them for it, not with what had just happened, but surely Zenitsu would be just as understanding as he would be cross with Tanjiro for doing this. He wants to believe that Zenitsu, one of the two people most affected by this, wouldn’t begrudge him too badly. Maybe he would even help him, despite… despite everything.

Up ahead- the creaking floorboard. If his heartbeat hadn’t given him away, the old plank underfoot certainly would. Inosuke could probably be convinced to come with him if awoken at this hour, but Zenitsu is likely to wake up the whole building if he was startled hard enough. He might even do it on purpose, if he thought it would keep Tanjiro here and safe.

He wants to bring his friends along, he does, but Tanjiro can’t take that chance. Not when Inosuke could have been (and probably was) plied with sweets or threatened with violence by one of Miss Shinobu’s many assistants, not when Zenitsu’s anxious nature had been significantly agitated the way it was.

There was the incident with the train, yes, that certainly did not help with Zenitsu’s already rampant fear and paranoia, but it did not compare to a week or so ago when he received a letter from his teacher, written with what had to be a trembling hand, and since then, he’s been very nearly inconsolable.

His brother had gone missing.

Tanjiro sidesteps the creaking floorboard successfully, and the next, and the next. There’s a split second where he hears footsteps- one of the kakushi, maybe, or one of the butterfly girls- and he hastily presses himself into a shadowy corner, praying that they’ll pass.

Learning this was a bit of a shock for many reasons, number one being that Tanjiro had no idea that Zenitsu even had a brother, much less that he was a slayer, the same as he and Zenitsu themselves. His teacher wasn’t faring much better, and it was more luck than anything else that Mr. Kuwajima was not by himself when he received this news right after it happened. The old man’s heart broke right in two, and if Zenitsu’s initial reaction is anything to go off of- shock, followed by wildly ricochetting between despair, fear, and rage- it was probably very likely that Mr. Kuwajima could not be trusted to be by himself at the moment. Not without doing anything reckless, anyway.

The footsteps pass. Kakushi, probably- Tanjiro was very nearly convinced Aoi and her adopted sisters had developed a keen sense for sniffing out mischief and misconduct, specifically, and he doesn’t think he would have successfully evaded detection if it was any of them.

Mr. Kuwajima was set to arrive in a few days, and Mr. Urokodaki sometime after, to Tanjiro’s infinite relief. In light of recent happenings, Headquarters made the decision to consolidate as many of their slayers as they possibly could, retired and extended family included. After all, it was very unusual for a slayer to encounter any of the twelve moons, let alone survive that encounter. But for a trio waxing moons to all emerge from whatever shadowy corners they lurked in, all one right after the other- it could only be a baleful omen of things to come. For just as Rengoku had been turned and taken from them, it wasn’t very long at all between that, and Upper Moon One reappearing for the first time in hundreds of years, seemingly only to find a pet slayer of his very own. The number of those taken was only up to two, now, but that was already two too many, and only one more away from setting a terrifying precedent.

He was almost to the front gate, now. If he could make it out of the building itself without being stopped, then getting on the road would be a cinch. Yes, it was a little tricky to navigate the hallways and sneak around corners with Nezuko’s pack strapped firmly to his back, but leaving her behind was simply unthinkable.

The strangest thing about it was that Zenitsu’s brother, Kaigaku, while accomplished in his own right, was nowhere near the level of skill nor power of that of a hashira, especially not one of Rengoku’s caliber. It took an awful lot for Tanjiro to truly despise something or someone, and he would certainly find no trouble holding a grudge against this “Lord Akaza” and “Lord Douma” for the rest of his days, but even he could admit (resentfully) that taking a slayer of hashira-rank made a certain amount of sense, from a demon’s point of view. If one were to target the Slayer Corps, then finding some way to be rid of the hashira would eliminate the biggest threat. Converting them to one’s side, should such a thing be possible, would grant the strongest and most useful of allies.

So to go after a slayer of a more middling rank, who could provide no information of vital importance nor was particularly powerful, was nothing short of terrifying. It sent a message, heavy with its crushing clarity: no one is safe. Anyone could be taken, and there wasn’t anything that anyone could do about it.

Headquarters had come to about the same conclusion that Tanjiro had, it seems, for all the hashira had been called back to meet and discuss it. He sorely wishes he’d somehow been able to memorize the route to the Ubuyashiki family estate, for if he had, surely his input in regards to this would’ve been invaluable. He’d been at the confrontation with two of the three rising moons that had appeared- surely, he could contribute something that would lead them to his dear teacher. He wasn’t dead- he just couldn’t be, Tanjiro had seen with his own two eyes the horror that washed over the two moons before they fled into the forest, Rengoku risen again and in hot pursuit.

The boy had seen that look far too many times to not recognize it for what it was: the unthinking, instinctive fear that compelled prey to run, even when they and their predator knew there was no escape. He’d seen this fear on every single animal he’d ever hunted for his family, and increasingly, on humans and demons both. Theirs is a brutal existence, for either side of it, and he’d known this, learned it from his mountain and its cold winters and frozen soil and howling winds, long before he’d ever become a slayer.

But that was just how he knew. Rengoku had everything to live for, and everything to lose. Tanjiro knew in his bones that Rengoku would cling to life with everything he had, if for nothing else, to protect all whom he cherished.

He doesn’t… know how becoming a demon would affect that, but. Holding onto that slim hope is all Tanjiro has. All he can do is hope. Hope that Rengoku kept his mind, that he did not become some wild beast after he turned, hope that he was not turned against them, hope that he found some way to survive without the consumption of human flesh. If Nezuko could do it, then so can Rengoku. There isn’t a single doubt in his mind about that. The issue at hand currently is whether or not anyone else held those doubts. Already, he suspects that not many held this same belief as him. It’s not as though it’s brought up too often, everyone around him treading too delicately to do that, but whenever it is, it’s not often that Tanjiro receives anything but confusion and pity for this sentiment. It couldn’t be completely impossible- he and Nezuko were living proof of that. Why couldn’t anyone else understand that?

And that brought him to now: doing his very best to sneak out of the Butterfly Manor, in order to speak to the Rengoku patriarch. Hoping against hope that he holds as much faith in his own son as Tanjiro does.

Tanjiro makes it to the road.

Looking behind him, all is quiet at the manor. What few lights there are, if any, are soft and flickering. Few and far between. Now is the time for rest, and under the cloak of night, it seems almost tranquil. Otherwise, there is no other light save for the faint flow of the ever-blooming wisteria lining the property, their petals ghostly and ethereal under the pale moonlight. Their soft, sweet fragrance drifting on the chill breeze, a whisper of the autumn soon to come.

They’ll be safe. He has to believe they’ll be safe, here, or he’ll have nothing left to believe in at all.

Tanjiro takes off down the road. He can’t quite do a sprint, not yet, but he can damn well try.

Rengoku has a brother too, he learned. Much, much younger than him. Younger than Tanjiro, even. Senjuro, as he was called, had arrived earlier that day, without him and Kyojuro’s father, Shinjuro. Tanjiro was able to put together quickly that their mother was no longer among the living, hadn’t been for some time, and it had just about destroyed their father, very nearly beyond repair. He hadn’t been able to speak to Senjuro for very long, unfortunately; the younger boy hadn’t arrived until later in the afternoon, and Tanjiro was still being put through his paces by Aoi and the other girls. From what he could glean, the Rengoku children still held out hope that their remaining parent would someday recover and return to the man he once was.

But it was a frail hope. Something worn and weary that didn’t have much left to give. Tanjiro could see it, in how the younger Rengoku’s eyes were red and puffy when he had arrived, in the way his expression shuttered off, his throat closed up, when his father’s absence was mentioned. He could hear it in how Senjuro’s voice became smaller and smaller until it was hardly above a whisper. He did not know what kind of man Shinjuro Rengoku was before to have produced such wonderfully kind and gentle sons, only to have the younger go quiet and still at his mention. But there had to be something there, Tanjiro thought. The man was the previous Flame Hashira. Surely he would not have gotten that far within the tanks of the corps, otherwise. The others wouldn’t have let it happen. There were certainly some in the corps that Tanjiro didn’t get along with, sure, and others he’d like to give a piece of his mind, but none of them were truly bad people.

So why, he wonders to himself, jogging down the dark, empty road, why did Shinjuro not come with his son to take shelter with the other slayers? Why did the mere mention of him cause his young son to freeze in place, as though he were a fawn hiding from its hunters in the underbrush?

His older son had not spoken of him at all, in the short time Tanjiro had known him, and the other slayers spoke of him only in hushed tones, around corners and in empty rooms. What could he have possibly done to deserve such estranged treatment?

Tanjiro had tried asking, of course. Senjuro had taken a moment to respond, visibly trying to compose himself as well as compose an articulate answer, but his scent went acrid and sour from a sudden surge of stress. He had not been expecting the question from Tanjiro, of all people, and had not been prepared for the confrontation, however well-intentioned it was.

“Father isn’t well,” Senjuro had told him, the words labored, his voice stilted. “He hasn’t been well for… a very long time.” And that was all he had given Tanjiro.

It was shortly thereafter that one of the hashira appeared- Mr. Uzui, he thinks, though he didn’t know him very well and had only heard his name all of once. He was apparently somebody Senjuro knew very well; a friend of Rengoku’s, perhaps? Or maybe a friend of his father’s, when he was still a hashira? Whatever the case, Senjuro was greeted with a voice as loud as a thundercrack calling his name, and he’d had maybe a second or two to jump a foot in the air from surprise before Mr. Uzui had crossed the room in a few quick strides and lifted him from the ground completely in a bone-crushing hug. He made a big show of how pleased he was to see Senjuro, lavishing him with brotherly teasing and affection, but Tanjiro can’t help but notice how thoroughly he’s cut off from the conversation. How quickly the topic changes, and Senjuro is distracted.

Mr. Uzui is big, and loud, and put an awful lot of effort into smiling and laughing and carrying on. But he carried the same acrid, sour scent that the youngest Rengoku did, and he was not as subtle as he likely thought he was when he flicked his gaze towards Tanjiro for a scant few seconds. Tanjiro isn’t sure why, the man is more than able to keep his facial expression in check even if he couldn’t quite keep himself from looking at Tanjiro. Was he trying to get the measure of the boy, perhaps? Was he trying to protect Senjuro from something? The younger slayer couldn’t say.

Tanjiro comes up on the Rengoku estate fast; it was truly a stroke of luck to learn that it was so close to the Butterfly Manor. He likely wouldn’t be able to get away with this if it was much farther, and as it was, there was no doubt he was on limited time, now. Inosuke and Zenitsu almost certainly had to have noticed his absence by now, and he had to work fast.

Fortunately- or unfortunately, as he would later recall- he did not have to worry about getting the attention of the Rengoku patriarch, or even how to go about getting into the house. He had half a moment, maybe less, to linger outside the front gate and anxiously dilly-dally before the man himself slammed the front door open, battered sword in one hand and gold-red eyes ablaze with a wild fury.

Shinjuro charges towards the front gate.

“Ah,” Tanjiro says, belatedly realizing the perils of arriving unannounced to the home of a retired hashira in the middle of the night. One that he had never even met before, and could definitely sense the presence of an oncoming demon.

“Mr. Rengoku, wait!” he tries again, waving his hands in front of himself. He receives no response, at least not a verbal one, but he recognizes what will come next, can trace the familiar silhouette of Kyojuro’s form in that of his father’s, and the practiced movements that animate every muscle and sinew. He can taste it on the wind before he can see it, the flint-tinder-spark of flame bursting into being, the smoke and the kindling and a heat that sucks the air right out of his lungs. Tanjiro’s sword is in his hands before he even realizes it, before he has even registered the wild, amber gleam that flashes across Shinjuro’s eyes and then-

The boy deflects it, but barely, steam rising from the clash of metal between him and the sheer force of nature that was the man in front of him. He doesn’t remember weaving the river serpent into his breath, does not remember dancing the whirling steps to summon it, but he must have, for the pillar of flame Shinjuro had clearly intended to conjure is nowhere to be seen, absent but for the sweltering heat radiating from his sword and warping the air around them. His own conjuring, gone save for the wet mist rising from his own sword, and the faint scent of warm rain lingering in his nose. Tanjiro launches himself away, following the currents of his own body, the inhale-exhale of his lungs becoming the push and pull of its tide. He manages to buy himself a precious few seconds with this, and readies himself for a counterattack that does not come.

Shinjuro glowers at him with the same sheer intensity of a wildfire, blindingly bright and suffocating. The stark silver of the moonlight set against the shadow of night cloaking the landscape throws him into sharp relief, his face haggard, the bags under his eyes ruddy and bruised. His brow is deeply furrowed, his lip curling back in disgust, and that amber, wildfire glow still lingering in his eyes.

“To think one of our own would align themselves with a demon,” he spits, voice a gravelly snarl. “Are you really that stupid, boy? Did you really think I wouldn’t notice that thing you carry on your back?”

There’s a familiar scratching starting up just behind his ear, and panicking slightly, Tanjiro elects to keep moving, starting to circle the older man in hopes of appeasing somebody who is now awake and very, very unhappy that her brother is being scolded.

“Traitorous wretch,” Shinjuro growls, and moves to strike again, smoke and kindling on the wind. Fire blooms again, just as blinding as it was before.

“Nezuko is different!” Tanjiro insists, stepping in time with the unseen river’s flow, its path leading him away from the meteoric power of Shinjuro’s strikes, and the waves rising to douse his flames when it could not pull him out of their reach.

“She’s my sister-” Tanjiro attempts to explain.

“And you think that makes her different?” Shinjuro snaps, cutting him off. “That it makes her special?” Nezuko is growling, now, and Tanjiro can hear her fumbling with the latch.

“You’re not the first fool who kept a pet they should’ve put down,” he tells him, eyes full of fire and hate. His pursuit is relentless, never letting Tanjiro rest even once- fire tearing through drought-ravaged brushlands, leaving naught but smoke and ashes in its wake. It’s all he can do to keep up with the river’s tide.

“Do you know how many of those fools were denied a proper burial, when their pets inevitably bit the hands that fed them?” he growls. “The amount of beasts I’ve put in their graves is countless. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers- even children. None of it mattered, once the hunger took them.”

His blade falls with the weight of a guillotine, and the river Tanjiro weaves with his own cannot quite protect him from the stray flames that lick at his body. It hurts, badly, and he can’t quite help the little yelp of pain that leaves his mouth. Nezuko’s growling deepens to something inhuman and bestial, rattling her cage and rattling his resolve right down to the bone. The tide pulls him away before Shinjuro can strike again, and the older man pauses in his onslaught, both of them still at the ready.

“She’s a bloodthirsty monster, same as the rest of them. She’s not your sister anymore,” he sneers darkly. The boy’s rage surges, and the river rises with it.

“Yes, she is!” Tanjiro screams back angrily. Charging forward.

Shinjuro lunges, fire in his breath, and Nezuko opens the latch.

It is surprise more than anything else, Tanjiro thinks, that enables Nezuko to thrust herself between the two of them and eject the sword out of Shinjuro’s clenched fists with an auspiciously-placed kick. The older man lets out a surprised shout with a string of colorful if incoherent swears as his death grip goes involuntarily limp, his battle-worn sword tumbling from his hands. That made sense, Tanjiro thought. Nezuko kicks like a draft horse, and she’d probably bite like one too were her bit not securely in place. She wasn’t above fighting dirty and held no fear of man nor god, same as she’d always been. As it was, she probably struck a literal nerve in Shinjuro’s wrist, prompting him to drop the sword against his will when she smashed her heel into it. Her shoes are curiously missing, Tanjiro notes, watching her kick away the sword with bare feet and a persistent, warning growl.

He doesn’t think she’ll hurt him, not really, but what’s worrying is how when she turns her attention back to Shinjuro, she gets right up in his face like she did when she was about to lay into somebody. That was unusual, or at least post-transformation, it was unusual. What’s more unusual, however, is when she puts her hand on her hip and waggles a clawed finger at him. There are no words, Nezuko having long since been robbed of her speech, but not the lucidity required to know what a scolding should sound like, nor the perseverance to do so anyway. Because that’s what she’s doing- scolding Shinjuro as though he were a neighbor in the village market who was trying to cheat one of their younger siblings out of their pocket money. He can practically hear her now: you should be ashamed of yourself, you’re a grown-ass adult, and other such things of that nature. In all reality, becoming a demon hadn’t changed Nezuko all that much. Even if she couldn’t actually say the words she meant to say, the scolding leaving her securely plugged, jagged-toothed mouth in a series of growls, grunts, mumbles, and murmurs.

Shinjuro, meanwhile, merely stood there in shock, clutching his (hopefully unbroken) wrist and staring wide-eyed at Nezuko. She hasn’t paused once in her admonishing him, and at this point, there’s been more than enough, in Tanjiro’s opinion.

“Nezuko, hey, that’s enough,” he tells her in a delicate tone, gently nudging her to the side. She rolls her eyes at him and loudly huffs, crossing her arms, and this only seems to confuse Shinjuro even more.

“Mr. Rengoku,” Tanjiro tries again, this time successfully getting his attention. The older man’s focus snaps onto him in hardly a blink, clearly still on high alert. “I’m Tanjiro Kamado, I’m a student of your son’s? I know it’s late, but I need to talk to you about him-”

“Save your breath,” Shinjuro interrupts in a clipped tone. “I already know he’s as good as dead.” He clicks his tongue, annoyed, and shakes out his wrist. “I can’t believe they sent you out here in the middle of the night to tell me that.” Tanjiro stalls out for a moment, confused.

“Who?” he says first, and then, rapidfire, “oh,” and “oh, you thought,” finally starting back up again with, “The corps didn’t send me, sir, it’s just me. I need to talk to you.” Shinjuro quirks an eyebrow at him before both furrow down into a sneer.

“Nothing to talk about,” he growls, and before Tanjiro can even say anything in response, Nezuko growls right back, meeting his supposed challenge right then and there. She’s inserted herself between the two of them again, shoulders squared back and pulling herself up to her full height. Nezuko barely comes to Shinjuro’s shoulder but that doesn’t seem to matter to her at all.

“Nezuko,” Tanjiro scolds, and she stops growling, she doesn’t budge an inch when Tanjiro tries to move her again, nor does she stop glaring at him. Shinjuro’s still sneering but it’s an expression that is swiftly withering upon observing the two siblings, confusion once again taking its place.

“I’m so sorry, normally she’s much better behaved than this,” he explains apologetically. Any ounce of true contempt on Shinjuro’s face is long gone in the wake of his increasing confusion. Nezuko lets out an unhappy little harrumph, folds her arms over her chest, and turns away from both of them. She does not, however, remove herself from her position between them. Tanjiro isn’t entirely sure why the older man is so perplexed by this; he’s raised multiple children, surely he must know the little spats that families have from time to time.

They’re getting nowhere fast, so Tanjiro cuts right to the point.

“Sir, your son is not dead,” he tells him, and before Shinjuro can argue it, he continues with, “I don’t know what the slayer corps told you, but he’s not dead, I saw him. I was there, at the train. He protected everyone, even when he-”

“You were there?” Shinjuro asks curtly. Tanjiro nods. “Then you know this is a waste of time, boy.” The younger slayer sputters, taken aback by the man’s coldness.

“If Kyojuro was fool enough to go after two of the twelve moons, then he’s good as dead,” he says, deep and dark as a great, black pit. Tanjiro can only stand there, stunned, in complete disbelief of this man. Shinjuro takes that as his cue to leave.

He turns back around, grumbling, “That’s that,” and starts towards the house. His voice betrays nothing but discontent and resentment. His scent, however- behind the cloud of stale, long-absent liquor and old sweat and constant stress, beneath the sour notes of rage and the cold salt of a tearful grief, both acting the shield to a wound that’s never healed, underneath all of that- there are the barest notes of something warm, something sweet and bitter at once. It reminds him of burnt sugar, of tea steeped too long, or coffee roasted too hot. And he realizes something.

“...Mr. Rengoku, if you think your son is dead, then,” Tanjiro starts, slowly stringing the words together. “...then why are you waiting for him to come home?”

Shinjuro stops dead in his tracks.

Everything intensifies- the sour of his rage, the salt of his grief, and the burnt, bittersweet something that Tanjiro has only just started to identify. But just as the older man starts to turn back around to answer, his expression hidden by the shadow of night, Zenitsu and Inosuke arrive, and make their presence known. Very, very loudly. They make it easy for him; he hears them long before he ever sees them, Zenitsu practically howling his name down the empty road like an animal. Not any animal Tanjiro has ever heard, mind, but there is nothing human in his voice.

“TANJIRO!!” Zenitsu shrieks. His ears only ring for a moment or two after, so he’s probably about as many blocks away. As if on cue, there’s a brief, bright flash in the distance, followed by a thunderclap a second later as Zenitsu streaks down the road towards them, lightning trailing behind him. Inosuke arrives not very long after, having no trouble keeping up with their high strung friend. He also calls out his name, or some endearingly mangled variant of it, he’s not entirely sure. It’s hard to hear him over Zenitsu’s screaming and Inosuke’s own cackling.

“I cannot believe you would do this to us, Tanjiro! And right after Miss Shinobu specifically told you not to!!” Zenitsu wails, shaking him. He stops a moment, muttering darkly, “What am I saying, of course you would.”

Zenitsu finally seems to notice where they are, and the swords in he and the eldest Rengoku’s hands. Then, with rapidly mounting panic, he notices two more things: one, that Nezuko is not in her box, and two, that Nezuko, a demon, is awfully close to the previously mentioned demon-slaying swords. The panic trips and plummets into hysterical rage, as is his wont.

“You took sweet little Nezuko with you to pick a fight with a hashira?!” Zenitsu accuses, starting as a disgruntled murmur and building once again to a shriek. He smacks at Tanjiro’s arm, totally harmless. It doesn’t even really hurt, not after the sort of ordeals they’ve been through.

“What on earth is wrong with you?! Idiot!!” he yells, continuing to bat at his arm.

“I wasn’t trying to pick a fight!” Tanjiro replies, a little defensively. “I just wanted to talk to him!”

“Yes, because that’s how you talk, with your stupid sword!!” Zenitsu shouts back sarcastically. His eyes are starting to well up with angry tears. “Idiot, idiot, idiot!!”

“Hey, hey, lil’ rabbit, lookit what I got,” Inosuke says, presumably to Nezuko, and when Tanjiro glances behind Zenitsu to check on them (much to the boy’s baffled rage), he’s holding out a handful of flat, smooth stones in his palm, all perfectly circular. Nezuko, despite her sulking, is easily drawn away by the allure of Cool Rocks, her expression brightening as she looks over Inosuke’s haul.

“You look at me when I’m talking to you, young man,” Zenitsu shouts approximately three inches away from Tanjiro’s face, which is now being clutched in one of his hands and redirected towards him with a forceful strength that often belies his rage. Tanjiro smiles sheepishly, and Zenitsu glares at him.

“You can’t ‘oh golly gee’ your way out of this one, Tanjiro, I’m telling Miss Shinobu the second we get back, and you better hope I don’t tell Miss Aoi, too,” Zenitsu threatens. Tanjiro just keeps smiling, and Zenitsu grumbles and rolls his eyes at him.

“Typical, just typical,” he mutters none too quietly.

“I got a lot of good ones today,” Inosuke says, letting Nezuko sift through them with surprising patience. This seems to reignite Zenitsu.

“And you!” he exclaims, pointing an accusing finger in Inosuke’s direction. “We could’ve stopped this whole thing right at the start if someone hadn’t kept stopping to pick up rocks!!” Inosuke scoffs at him haughtily.

“You just don’t get it, Monitsu, not like me and lil’ rabbit,” he tells him matter-of-factly, Nezuko nodding along with him. Zenitsu’s expression goes dark as a looming thunderhead. He starts muttering to himself, so lowly that Tanjiro can only hear every other word, but upon hearing “stupid boar” and “I’ll kill him,” he gets the picture.

While Zenitsu strides over to Inosuke, no doubt to pick a fight, Tanjiro turns his attention back to Shinjuro. He's got a handful of minutes before Nezuko scruffs one or both of them and drags them all home.

Shinjuro, surprisingly, still remains by the front gate. He either must have closed it behind him or leapt over the garden wall, and given how ready he was for combat, Tanjiro is inclined to think it's the latter. The older man stands there, utterly stunned by the younger slayers' (apparently befuddling) antics. However, it quickly becomes clear that the only one he’s interested in is Nezuko, watching her as though he were in a trance. It wasn’t as though she was doing anything threatening or violent. Though, that’s probably what drew his gaze in the first place; her claws are sharp and painted in blazing amber, and all she uses them for is to delicately hold the stones between them, careful not to leave any scratches on either the stones or the hands that held them. Shinjuro stands at the precipice of something he likely thought he’d never have to face, and now, the weight of that realization, that knowing, threatens to topple him over that edge. For why wouldn’t it. Why wouldn’t he be pulled in by the weight of his sins.

"Mr. Rengoku," Tanjiro tries for the final time. "I know... I know it's been a long time since anyone's seen your son..."

"Thirty-four days," Shinjuro mumbles, through no volition of his own, judging by how his red eyes go dim and shuttered, haunted by something neither of them can see.

"...but I know he's not dead. I saw him, he got up again, he," and Tanjiro hesitates, here, just for the briefest moment, for how could he even begin to explain. But Shinjuro takes that moment, just the same.

"I know you saw him," he tells him gravely. "It was in the report. I know nobody saw him die." There's an uncomfortable twinge, here, one that doesn't leave when it very well should, and he's left feeling caged and restless. What is he meant to do in the face of this? What is he meant to say? The words dry up in his mouth, his voice stays lodged in his throat.

"It's been over a month," Shinjuro says, as if the date his son had disappeared was not carved into his bones. "They're calling off the search. They can't afford to waste any more time on it. He's." And here, Shinjuro hesitates, now, the words caught in his throat as though the very idea of it pains him.

"He's being pronounced Missing In Action," he says, the barest hint of a sardonic smile curling at one side of his mouth. A wounded, ugly thing, more akin to the gritting of teeth through a pain that cannot possibly be borne.

"So unless you know something I don't..." he continues, looking Tanjiro dead in the eye. Daring him to say something, what the older man suspected and what the boy already knew.

"...I don't see how this is anything but a death sentence," Shinjuro finishes. He grimaces as though he's still angry, still trying to cling to what petty little victories he can, but the boy knows better. Tanjuro can still taste the cold salt of his grief on the air, and smell the curdled, stale sweat of his stress. Meanwhile, the sour, metallic tang of boiling blood and anger shrinks more and more, no matter how the older man tries to brandish it as both sword and shield.

Tanjiro looks to the face of the old warrior once more. Tries to see whatever wounds he couldn't before, and get the measure of their aching. Shinjuro's eyes do not retain their fiery glow, but they do shine wetly in the dark. They do not overflow with the tears welling up there, at the edges and in the corners, but it wouldn't be long until they do. The bags under his eyes are somehow deeper than they were before, the bruising darker. His breathing has become shallow and thin, and his hands tremble. Shinjuro is a man on the verge of collapse. And with what Tanjiro has to tell him- ruination is imminent.

His comrades and kinsmen have gone quiet behind him, and a little hand squeezing around his own lets him know that Nezuko is with him, again. He can still scent Zenitsu and Inosuke on the breeze- Zenitsu's preference for sweet things and tendency to gravitate towards the kitchen has him constantly smelling of fruit and confection, of candied peaches, layered with the rain and ozone of thunderstorms. Inosuke's affinity for the outside had him smelling of sweat, of beasts and soil and green things, somehow carrying the pine scent of his mountain with him wherever he went.

"Sir, can I..." Nezuko squeezes his hand again. "...Can we come in? It's... a lot to explain." He can feel Zenitsu glaring at the back of his head, no doubt because suddenly the possibility of them getting back that night at all was now up in the air. He doesn’t contradict him, however.

Shinjuro watches them, and doesn’t say anything, for a long, long time. Night veils his face again, his expression unreadable. His scent reveals nothing- too much is going on, too much is changing too rapidly, for Tanjiro to pick out any one thing.

Finally, he barks out, “Fine,” and then, “Make it quick,” before turning back around, and heading into the darkened, empty house behind him.

Tanjiro does not hesitate to follow.

- - -

All told, it takes them about three days to eat the whole thing.

Kyojuro takes the lion's share, of course, while Akaza mostly just picks at it, but his beloved companion, ever dutiful, tolerates this less and less the longer it takes them to eat the gigantic, mountainous boar. He puts his foot down and digs his heels in, refusing to eat any more until he's determined that Akaza has eaten "enough." It was rather endearing of him to do so, to be so concerned over Akaza's well being even when he's far from being in his right mind, but then again, everything about Kyojuro is endearing.

It's three days from start to finish, from when Kyojuro began to dress down the boar, to now, where all that remains is a scattered assortment of bones, already broken open and the marrow sucked clean out of it. That's including breaks, to sleep and bathe and hold each other close, all of which Kyojuro insisted upon despite having no words to say this. To be fair, he could say plenty with what limited means he had. There was much that he could say, in fact, using only the various grunts, rumblings, purrs, and huffs that he had been using. It was a particularly blessed moment if Kyojuro gave him a chirp or mewl, and if Akaza could capture these moments in time to keep for all eternity, he would.

But yes, despite having no sapient mind to speak of, Kyojuro keeps them to a schedule. After Seirou brings them the boar, the younger demon does not move from his place in front of it for hours- for half the night, at least. When Kyojuro is just full enough to not be enthralled by it- or maybe he grew bored of it, who's to say- he gets up and pulls the both of them to the washroom. He shucks his clothing and insists Akaza does the same, tugging on his vest and grunting at him emphatically until he understood. He insists on bathing himself, and insists on bathing Akaza, all of this so natural to him that he can do it even while he's like this.

Akaza had resisted, at first; he didn't want help with just about anything and didn't take kindly to any sort of implication that he needed the help or was too incompetent to do it by himself. He also didn't imagine that Kyojuro would be too thrilled at the prospect of doing this when he wasn't fully in control of himself, but the Kyojuro that stood before him then had been stewing in the pot of his own instincts for weeks, and this Kyojuro would not take "no" for an answer. In fact, this Kyojuro looked at Akaza as though he were acting like a petulant child and proceeded to shove him into the bath, anyway. The older demon had been so shocked by the proceedings that by the time he could attempt to get a hold of the situation again, Kyojuro had already gotten both of their clothes off, gotten them into the tub, and was partway through the process of washing Akaza's hair. By that point, there was no longer any use in resisting, as he didn't imagine Kyojuro would take too well to him attempting to exit the tub.

Under the shock, however, under the incredulous disbelief that this was apparently so important to Kyojuro that he could not be stopped from maintaining his routine even while he had no mind to speak of, sitting under the lid of his skull, a peculiar itch sprouted, and grew wings. Bouncing around the narrow spaces between the inner walls of his head and the surface of his brain, as persistent as a buzzing horsefly. No other sensation accompanies it, no other indicator of what it could be beyond the restlessness that settles over him like an unshed skin waiting to be torn asunder. He mistakes it for annoyance at first, annoyance with his companion for thinking so lowly of him that didn't have the competence to care for himself properly. What else could it possibly be? It wasn't as though anyone else in the castle had any faith in him-

-But then, but then, Kyojuro finished washing his hair, scrubbing his back, then turned around and looked back at Akaza, clearly asking him to return the favor. Oh.

How foolish of him, Akaza thought. Of course Kyojuro held no doubts of him; this was merely an equal exchange between companions. The younger demon would never think so lowly of him. So Akaza does return the favor, and washed the blood and gore from his body. The buzzing remained, trickling down from the unseen corners of his head to the tips of his dyed fingers. The ink that has painted his form for centuries suddenly felt out-of-place and unfamiliar; his skin was too smooth, too flawless, unmarred by scars and uncalloused from tireless work. He must have paused at some point, staring at them for too long while his mind began to slip the bonds of his now foreign skin, but Kyojuro turned around and looked at him again, a questioning chirrup leaving his mouth, and Akaza was brought back down to his body.

They finished bathing quickly after that, but Kyojuro made sure to be especially doting, lying back in the tub and holding Akaza to his larger body, rumbling soothingly until Akaza was nearly lulled to sleep. The buzzing receded then and did not return, at least for now.

A while later, Kyojuro stirred the both of them from their impromptu dozing, lifted himself and Akaza from the tub, put them in clean clothes, and put them to bed. If there were any remaining doubts that Kyojuro did this for any reason beyond his own charitable, caring nature, they were gone, then. Burned away by the hypnotic warmth perpetually radiating from the strength and give of his larger body. Truly, it was foolish of Akaza to have any doubts about him at all.

The second day goes very much the same. Kyojuro keeps them to whatever schedule he has mapped out in his head, and Akaza is more-or-less there for the ride. The boar is the source of each of their meals, and when Kyojuro is either full or tired of it, Akaza isn’t sure, he takes them to the washroom, bathes them both, and they eventually meander back to the living room and lounge together. Kyojuro mostly dozes and Akaza mostly reads, trying to catch up on the books lent to him by Kokushibo, Mx. Kawase, and Gyokko, until eventually, Kyojuro decides it’s time for their next meal and pulls them both back to the dojo. They repeat this cycle a half dozen or so times, until late into the third day, when there is no meat left to speak of and the bones lay in splintered pieces on the floor. They’ve been back in the living room for what was probably a couple hours by this point, and Kyojuro had very insistently bullied his way into draping himself over Akaza’s lap, using his legs as a pillow. Akaza didn’t mind; Kyojuro made for an excellent blanket, and didn’t seem to care when the older demon started using his back as a place to rest his hands and his books.

Kyojuro had been dozing an awfully long time, though. Perhaps it’s because he was no longer holding them to an imposed, bizarrely domestic schedule like clockwork, and it wasn’t as though he slept through an entire night from moonrise to moonset, but it was lonely without him. The elder demon had gone so, so long without a close companion, and now that he had one, he’d become rather spoiled. He wishes Kyojuro would hurry up. It’s difficult not to be impatient; he dislikes lying around indoors on a good day, and he’s rapidly running out of books to read. There were only so many times he could read The Tale of Genji without getting sick of it, and Upper Moon One’s unsubtle attempts to give him a “higher education” via history books were becoming tiresome. Kawase had lent him some of the Sherlock Holmes novels, assuring him they’d been translated, but neglected to remember that the current alphabet was not the same as the one that had been used when he’d first been alive, rendering the text an incoherent jumble for one such as himself. The herbology books Gyokko had acquired for him via art industry connections (Akaza isn’t going to pretend he understands how that works) weren’t quite so bad on that front; at least they had pictures.

His idle thoughts are interrupted when Kyojuro grumbles in complaint and rubs his forehead into Akaza’s leg. Perhaps “against” was more accurate; this didn’t appear to be an affectionate nuzzle, the younger demon’s mouth set in an unhappy grimace and his brow furrowed. What’s strangest, however, is when something catches on Akaza’s clothing and tugs on the fabric.

“What’s the matter, sweet thing?” he croons. Kyojuro grumbles and whines in response, and Akaza’s heart swells at the sound. He can’t help it.

When Kyojuro continues to rub his forehead into his leg with increasing pressure and insistence, however, Akaza begins to worry slightly.

“Let me see, dear,” he tells Kyojuro, and lifts his head to look. The younger demon lets him with only minimal complaint, and the issue becomes clear quickly. Just below his hairline, just to the side of each of his temples, two little nubs have begun to push their way out of his skull, one on each side. Akaza carefully traces the underside of one, testing it, and Kyojuro flinches a little.

“Oh I’m sorry, honey,” he coos apologetically. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. Let me make it better.” Akaza peers down at him, eyebrows pinching together, and sees in his mind’s eye, the many spokes of the compass wheel laid out before him. He lets it push his mind and his hands down the singular correct path he needs to travel amongst the countless he could be misled, and soon enough, he can see where the hurt blooms the brightest under Kyojuro’s skin. The underside of his nascent horns flare hot and painful, too sensitive to withstand touch, but the top and the sides? Those could be soothed with a tender hand.

Akaza lightly presses the pad of his thumb to the tip of one of them, and while Kyojuro tenses, he doesn’t flinch away. Akaza rewards his companion for his trust with careful, delicate strokes around the topside of the base of his tiny bamboo shoot of a horn, and Kyojuro goes deadweight in his lap. Akaza chuckles, and when he proceeds to give his other horn the same attention, Kyojuro sighs and purrs like some lazy, contented housecat. The thanks is clear enough, even without his words.

The tranquility doesn’t last long, though.

It isn’t too long before there’s knocking at the front door, and Akaza, without looking up, calls, “It’s open.” He cannot be bothered to move, not with Kyojuro cuddling up on him. He wasn’t expecting anyone but it might be Kawase come to collect their books, or maybe Mr. Masato coming to check on them again. He doesn’t expect it to be related to his work in any way; if that was the case, one of Miss Nakime’s assistants would have already come and fetched him.

So of course, when it’s Kokushibo that comes through the door, it’s difficult to keep the disappointment and irritation off his face.

“Lord Akaza,” he greets, tipping his head briefly.

“Upper One,” Akaza greets in turn, just barely not a sneer. He doesn’t move a muscle, not wanting to disturb Kyojuro, but the younger demon stirs all the same. He slowly sits up and turns to face the other waxing moon, a growl already on his breath and fire dripping from his lips. When Kokushibo turns all six of his eyes on him with a distinctly weighted stare, Kyojuro meets this challenge for what it is and doesn’t back down, holding his dreadful gaze without wavering, without fear. Kokushibo frowns slightly. Good.

“You have finally succeeded in getting him to eat,” he says a little brusquely, his usual flat affect a bit forced. “How fortunate. He should be far more manageable for you, now.” Akaza scoffs, bristling.

“He doesn’t need to be managed, he’s not a goddamn dog,” he snaps back. “We were doing just fine before you showed up.” Kokushibo looks down at him and blinks, confused and annoyed.

“...Are you telling me you find this behavior to be acceptable?” he replies sternly, as though he were scolding a child. Something about the treatment makes Akaza’s skin crawl, and the buzzing from before returns, bouncing around the inside of his skull, nipping at his heels. Kyojuro doesn’t take kindly to the harsh tones, or perhaps senses Akaza’s unease in his own body, and Akaza has to quickly grab him before he stands up fully and decides to make himself a problem like he’s currently threatening to, his growl deepening to a thunderous rumble that fills the whole room. In the back of his mind, Akaza knows he isn’t just some mangy hound in need of discipline, but this display of aggression isn’t doing either of them any favors. It didn’t matter to his betters how strong of spirit his Kyojuro was; all that mattered to them was how quickly and how mindlessly he would obey.

“He’s only acting this way because you showed up unannounced to our home,” Akaza bites out defensively. Kokushibo tilts his head.

“So the rumors of him acting this way in public, they’re to be taken as mere exaggerations, then?” he asks, unamused. His facial expression doesn’t change all that much- in all the time that he’s known him, Akaza isn’t sure if it’s a matter of him being physically unable to or it simply being in his nature not to- but it doesn’t really need to. Kokushibo makes his emotional state ever-present and smothering by simply existing. So when, in his unchanging countenance there is the most minute of twinges, each of his six monstrous eyes narrowing the slightest bit, he might as well have expressed the utmost disgust and anger. In his mind’s eye, Akaza can see the black, flickering core of him convulse and writhe, insect-like in its twitching, many-legged furious dance.

When Akaza hesitates to respond, Kokushibo continues with, “If it was somehow not explicitly clear, Akaza, this is completely unacceptable. He cannot stay in the castle if he continues to act out like this. There are multiple instances of him threatening the safety and well-being of its citizens, and if he does not improve, his presence will no longer be tolerated within its walls.” The younger demon sputters.

“Wh- What am I supposed to do, then?” he demands, the question bursting out of him. “I’m not allowed to take him outside the castle. Where are we supposed to go, then?” The elder demon’s miniscule eyebrows knit together, somewhat. Frustration, but also worry? Akaza cannot stand it. The buzzing builds and builds.

Time starts again, and Akaza sputters, incapable of letting it lie.

"Wait- But that's-" he tries. But nothing sticks. He can't get any words to form. None enter his head, none leave his mouth. The terrible, buzzing drone fills any and every empty space in his skull, drowning out all else.

He is somehow aware, very, very dimly, of Kyojuro turning to look at him, an inquisitive sort of grunt leaving his throat. When Akaza has nothing for him in reply, not a thought, not a word, nothing, Kyojuro elects to wrap his large hands around the other's waist and pull him into his lap. Akaza finds his face pressed into the crook of Kyojuro's neck, the back of his head cradled by one of those hands, and the other remaining wrapped around him. The heat radiating from them is just shy of too much, overwhelming and addictive as the warmth of a hearth on a cold winter morning. The sense-memory is so vivid, he can smell the iron, the firewood, the flint and tinder. He hasn't the faintest inkling of where this memory comes from, just that the crackling flames, the closeness and warmth, burn away all traces of the terrible droning.

He knows not how long they remain there, it could've been seconds or hours, and Kyojuro holds him through all of it.

"Of course..." Kokushibo continues, startling Akaza slightly. There's an irritated little growl from Kyojuro. "...this is only if his temperament does not improve. If what you say is true, then there should be no issue at all in regards to this. I trust your judgment. But I digress."

Akaza manages to wiggle out of Kyojuro's grasp, but not for long. He hasn't even managed to leave his lap before the other demon has captured him again, arms snaking around his waist before Akaza even realizes they're there. He's managed to face Kokushibo this time, though, so there's not a lot Kyojuro can do to cover his face, much to his grumbling complaint. Kokushibo is thoroughly unamused and exhausted by the sight. Akaza just rolls his eyes at him. He knew Kyojuro was exhibiting some feral behaviors before he even came in, and it's Akaza's goddamn house. What did he expect?

"What do you want, then?" Akaza asks, tired and annoyed. Kyojuro rumbles and nuzzles into the back of his neck. Kokushibo, to his credit, does not look away or flinch like he expected him to, the weird old prude.

"Now that your charge has had his first meal and is a bit more stable," he starts. Akaza already doesn't like where this is going. "It's high time you return to your appointed task." Akaza ends up sputtering, again.

"Wh- What are you talking about? Look at him!" Akaza protests, gesturing over his shoulder. "He's doing a lot better, yeah, but that doesn't mean he's ready to be left alone." Kokushibo blinks at him.

"You believe him unable to fend for himself?" he asks.

"No," Akaza argues, offended. "Of course he can take care of himself. I just don't want him to be by himself in case somebody else tries to come to the house."

He only means one specific person when he says "somebody," of course. He knew it, Kokushibo knew it, they've argued over the topic far too many times for him to not know it. The elder demon levels him with a weary look.

"...Akaza," he starts, in an absolutely irritating tone that says without saying you're being ridiculous. "You misunderstand me. This is not a request. Consider this a mandate from on high." The younger demon bristles, again. This statement, too, carries the unsaid words, This doesn't come from me, this comes from That Man, and There's nothing we can do.

Sometimes, when they speak like this and it's only the two of them, Akaza can also hear words like, I did my best, and I'm sorry. It doesn't make the actual words and their impact any easier to swallow, but it helps. It makes the hurts easier to bear.

"...Fine," he bites out, finally. "I'll figure something out. Just. Just let us have the rest of today." Kokushibo blinks at him slowly, languidly, and nods.

This, the elder demon says-but-does-not-say, this I can give you. Akaza sighs quietly, the most tired he has ever been. Kyojuro gently nips at the back of his neck, toothless and tender. Doting.

Akaza returns the languid blink.

Thank you, he does not say.