pastel ☀️

1.

“You should give up Flower Breathing,” Shinobu's voice carries across the training room, halting you mid-swing. Her small silhouette leans against the door frame, mofuku kimono draped across shoulders casting her in an even darker shadow. The faint scent of incense clings to her sleeve, a stark, bitter reminder of what you’d been trying so hard to avoid.

Just outside, bamboo wind chimes clack in the breeze, hollow as it echoes around the both of you — the sunlight pouring into the room dims, only by a little, but enough to warn you of the approaching storm before you smell it in the air.

“I can't, Shinobu. You know I can’t,” your voice is strained, a warning for her to back away. Your sister frowns, and she opens her mouth surely to scold —

Mercifully, a loud patter upon the roof tiles cuts her off. Your world is engulfed by sudden rain and the scent of damp earth.

If she was here, she’d laugh it off. Chide Shinobu for always being so brash in her manner of speech, yet agree your sister was right.

But Kanae is not.

There’ll be no more of her figure appearing by the doorway insisting you take a break and share a plate of ohagi. Her laughter, idyllic and assuring, no longer reverberates through the room.

Rainy days are meant for rest, your older sister would remind you as she pours you a fresh cup of tea. Everyone takes shelter during a thunderstorm, animals and humans alike.

(Her gentle voice is drowned out. Rainy days will never be the same.)

You grip the handle tighter, and with a harsh swing toward the wooden target — the bokken snaps into two with a resounding crack. An anguished cry rips from your throat as you toss the shattered sword onto the ground, crouching down, tucking your head into your hands. Blood from your ripped callouses smear across your face, the stinging of your open wounds do little to distract you.

It’s true that Kanae wasn’t related to you by blood — but she was family all the same.

“Neesan would be happy if you send her off before her cremation.”

Shinobu’s words are heavy, and despite there being no question, they demand an answer. She awaits a sign from you — perhaps to see you rise to your feet in silent compliance, like any human with a modicum of rationality would do. You don’t answer.

With a soft sigh, her footsteps retreat into the distance, blending in with the roar of the pouring rain.

Kanae’s echoed warning, even in your head, cuts through the white noise of the raindrops and your heavy breathing — a glass wind chime on a summer day.

You need to learn a different breathing style.

“I can’t, neechan,” you bite down on your bottom lip. Her phantom touches linger on your shoulder. “Kanao is still young. If she chooses to branch into her own technique, nobody will ever inherit Flower Breathing.”

Her gaze on you is pained, pitying. You picture it vividly as the very day you told her, determined — hands balled into fists as you adamantly declared your will to shoulder this alone. Flower Breathing has always been the core technique of the Butterfly Mansion. Someone had to carry it on.

It was the first time you’d seen her look so visibly troubled.

Your body can’t master it.

“I know. You’ve told me.”

You’ll never be able to reach Hashira.

“I know. Shinobu can be one in my place.”

If you keep going, you’ll die.

“I know.” You pause. “I know.”

Her expression is solemn, her usual carefree smile gone. You blink. Kanae’s visage is wiped from your mind — and once again, you’re left alone with your own thoughts.

The heavens are oblivious toward the tragic demise of your beloved sister. The rain storms on, uncaring of your plight.

_________________

The Flame Hashira has been awfully prickly as of late.

It's nothing new — you know his mind has deteriorated ever since the loss of his wife. Only as of late has he taken a turn for the worse after drowning himself in alcohol — and you pity him, really, you do. In comparison to him, it’s been a measly two years since you’d lost Kanae, yet the grief is still as fresh as the very day you watched her ashes rise with the smoke.

Even so, his increasingly erratic behaviour has been causing too many inconveniences to let it slide — how many more uninitiated mizunoto have to incur his wrath by just simply existing wrongly within his vicinity?

Ubuyashiki-sama is more than aware of the situation — you and plenty others have implored him to force the retirement of Rengoku Shinjuro, but it’s clear that as long as the Hashira continues to fulfill his role, the master has little to no say in this regard. It’s been going on for long enough that you can’t recall a time Shinjuro ever entered the battlefield without a sake jar in hand, and you’re not sure how long more you can stomach having to watch a heavily inebriated man wield his blade.

…which is why a shudder runs through your body when you spot the familiar head of golden hair in the backyard of the Butterfly Mansion.

You were on the way back after collecting your freshly sharpened blade from the blacksmith. The entire endeavour couldn't have taken more than ten minutes, give or take, so his sudden presence was uncomfortably jarring.

He’s facing toward the building, back to you — head tilted to the sky, observing the clouds as sunlight bounces off the curve of his cheekbone, leaving a faint glow along the bridge of his nose. You wish you could scurry away and pretend you saw nothing — though you know if you didn’t nip it in the bud now, the eventual trouble he’d cause would be an even greater headache. Besides, you'd have to walk past him to get into the mansion, anyway.

You pause at the back gate, squaring your shoulders. “Hashira-sama, can I help you?”

He jolts at your voice — obviously not expecting to be addressed.

When he whips around to face you, it is with a startling realization that you discover he’s somehow aged backwards — the creases on his forehead have vanished, and he’s shaved off that stubble of his, making his face look softer than it had been since you last saw him.

He blinks once at you, then twice — before raising his hands in defense.

“Ah! I’m not —” He clears his throat. “My name is Rengoku Kyojuro, the Flame Hashira's eldest son! I’m here to look for my father who was meant to return two days ago!”

The breeze picks up the edge of his distinctly non-flame patterned haori. You suddenly feel silly for mistaking the two in the first place — he was at most a head shorter, and even from first glance, you can tell they possessed completely different mannerisms. This one lacked the drunken sway of Shinjuro’s, clearly much steadier in his stance, and his shoulders are pushed back, the light in his eyes still bright with hopeful sparkles.

“I’m sorry for my mistake,” you bow back. “Hashira-sama has not been seen here, but I am confident he is safe. In my years of training, I have never once seen him grievously injured.”

His son lets out a booming laugh, folding his arms across his broad chest. It cuts through the tranquil quiet of the garden, bounces off the back wall of the building, dancing past your ears.

“Your assurance is appreciated! He must have taken a detour to buy sake from his favourite store in the next town again,” Kyojuro beams at you. His eyes catch the nichirin blade by your belt. “Are you a slayer?”

You nod. “I am.”

“Wonderful!” He chortles. “As am I! I assume it means I will be seeing you around, then!”

“I…” Your voice trails off, hesitant. An impulsive thought crosses your mind — that it’ll be easier if you lie and get it over with, before you think about the consequences of unnecessarily placing yourself in a difficult spot. A polite smile makes its way onto your face. “I rarely participate in missions. But I do live here — if you come by often, we’ll most likely run into each other.”

He opens his mouth to reply — but stops himself, eyes darting up to the sky. You follow his gaze, only to flinch when a raindrop hits your forehead.

The heavy downpour is abrupt, completely unforeseen given the sky was still blue just minutes ago. Both you and Kyojuro flee into the shelter of the mansion’s engawa, shaking the water from your hair and squeezing the rainwater from your haori.

A soft snarl of displeasure leaves your lips as you run your fingers through your damp locks. The rain has never served you well. It reminds you too much of Kanae — and has only left you drenched and pathetic, feeling no greater than a wet, sopping dog.

You peer up at your companion. He’s given up on his haori, the white fabric discarded on the floor beside him in a soaked pile, instead busying himself with twisting the hem of his uniform between his grasp. He’s somehow in a state even more miserable than you are — his fluffy, fiery hair is now a shade of molten gold, flattened to his skull, strands splayed across his cheeks and clinging onto the back of his neck. His uniform sticks to his skin, droplets gathering at his wrist and dripping steadily down onto the wooden floorboards beneath him — the poor guy even has a leaf sticking out from the side of his head.

Yet in spite of his current state, Kyojuro laughs.

“Ha!” He grins, all gleaming teeth and almost manic. “I knew it was going to rain! I felt it in the air!”

The reason for Kyojuro’s peculiar behaviour earlier now makes sense. He must’ve felt the oncoming rain in the air when you didn't.

Unwittingly, the polite smile on your lips turns into something a little more genuine. “Very impressive, Rengoku-san. I didn't smell it coming at all.”

He preens under your compliment, clearly proud of his feat. “It's a skill I've been training to pick up! I have a younger brother who's afraid of thunder, so I want to be able to warn him before it strikes!”

How sweet, you think softly. “You must love your younger brother very much.”

“I do! He's hard not to love — he's smart, diligent, and incredibly kind! I want him to attend university and achieve great things!”

A sharp pang of longing spikes through your heart. Did Kanae ever talk about you like that? — a question you've wondered many times, though you know it may forever remain unanswered.

You swallow the bitterness pooling under your tongue. “Your father must be proud to have both a budding scholar and a user of Flame Breathing as his sons. I know I would be.”

Something flickers across Kyojuro's eyes at the remark, so fleeting you nearly doubt your own observation. His grin remains unwavering, and he moves onto wringing the water from his other sleeve. He lets his gaze drift to the butterfly clip in your hair — you understand his message.

Instinctively, your hand darts out to touch your clip, acknowledging his silent redirect.

“I take it you're part of the Kocho family?” He cocks his head to the side inquisitively.

“Kanao and I are adopted siblings,” you clarify.

The Kocho lineage has been a steady presence in the Corps for decades. Every slayer is bound to visit the Butterfly Mansion at some point — which meant you’re more than familiar with handling this question. Kanae had adopted you into the family as an orphan, and you’ve lived in the Butterfly Mansion ever since.

Kyojuro listens attentively as you introduce every attendant who resided in the residence, taken under the wing of the Kocho sisters. Aoi, with her brash but kind demeanor, the three little girls saved from an attack who joined the mansion just the other day…

You grow fairly flustered the more you prattle, looking everywhere else but him. In contrast, his eyes are fixated on you — as if he were clinging onto every word that leaves your mouth. Your hands continue to wring out the water from your uniform in faux nonchalance.

Eventually your rambling trails off, placing the both of you into thoughtful silence. Kyojuro lowers his shoulders with a satisfied nod, “The Butterfly Mansion must be relieved to have someone carry on Flower Breathing!”

That makes you pause. Your hands freeze mid-squeeze, and your head snaps to him. Your mouth opens, closes, mind whirring with confusion.

“H-How did you know I use Flower Breathing?” You stammer once you find the words. “Most people assume I follow Shinobu’s…”

It made the most sense, after all. Shinobu was the Hashira and you weren't — too often being mistaken for her tsuguko. Even if you weren't, Flower Breathing was a style that nearly died with Kanae had you not insisted on carrying it on.

Kyojuro's expression is soft, as if he were recalling a fond memory. With a gentle lift of his arm, he taps the corner of his lips with his finger. “You have the same smile as the Flower Hashira’s! Though I’ve only seen her a few times, there’s no mistaking it!”

Your eyes widen. A breeze blows through the both of you, picking up the strands of your hair, lifting the edge of your haori.

“That’s… That’s the first time someone has ever told me that.”

“How peculiar!” He returns to squeezing the water from his shirt, as if he hadn’t just hit you with the most astounding revelation. “My memory of her mannerisms is a little fuzzy, but your stance and posture most definitely better suit that of Flower Breathing!”

You can only stare as Kyojuro picks up his own soaked haori from the floor, giving it a flap before glancing wistfully out toward the grey sky. “I’ll have to take my leave now — I wouldn’t want to leave my brother alone at home!”

“Ah, hold on! I’ll get you an umbrella so you—”

“No need, I’ll warm up in no time once I get back!” He looks over to grin at you, his eyes crinkling as he takes in your appearance. “You really don’t have to be so apprehensive about water! Flowers bloom the loveliest under a little rain, do they not?”

Before you can even register his words, Kyojuro tugs the haori over his head and sprints toward the back gate.

Heat creeps up the back of your neck and you cover your mouth. What did he mean by that? Was it simply a bout of overthinking that misinterpreted his words as something more — or was the eldest son of the Rengoku family… flirting with you?

Kyojuro, with his head of golden hair cutting across the monochrome background of the garden, looks as if he was the first ray of daylight that slips through the clouds after a heavy storm. You turn your head to follow the splash of yellow, a sunflower hypnotised by the promise of sun — even after he vanishes through the gate, your mouth is still left agape

Gingerly, you press your hand to your heart.

[ Goodness, how shameful… ]

It takes Tengen two beats to register your face, before he breaks into a knowing grin. “Well, fancy running into you again!” He pauses in his step, before taking a sharp right turn that you immediately catch up with. There’s no shaking you off that easily — not when you’re determined to capture this man’s affection.

[ It's so obvious, it's hard to watch… ]

The hushed whispers from kakushi and slayers alike brush past you, though you’re too focused on the current task at hand to pay them any mind. Your willpower isn’t so flimsy as to be shaken by something like a little gossip. This is only temporary. A marriage to Uzui would be forever, and you could live the rest of your life bragging to your family. He already has three spouses — what’s one more?

You let out a breathy laugh, covering your mouth with the back of your hand in an attempt to look mysterious, face lit only by the sunlight filtering through the leaves above. “Perhaps it is our fate as fellow Shinobi to run into each other like this?”

He grins. “Perhaps.”

Tengen leisurely strolls alongside you, entertaining your idle chitchat as you follow him around the courtyard like an incessant fly. Who cares if others found you annoying — your target hasn’t chased you away yet, so instead of wasting time fretting over nothing, you’re better off using it to find ways to—

“Hello there!”

[ Honestly, I nearly forgot how sickening… ]

You freeze, nearly tripping over your own foot at the sound of the familiar voice.

[ …how sickeningly sweet young love could be. ]

“R-” you choke. Steam pours out of your ears at the sight of the Flame Hashira. “R-Ren… R-Rengoku-sama!”

“That’s me!” Rengoku Kyojuro greets cheerfully from across the training grounds with a confident wave, before jogging over to your side. No — focus! This was the first time you've seen Tengen in weeks, so you have to—

The Sound Hashira claps his large hands over your shoulders firmly. “Well, I’ll be late for my mission. Toodles!”

With a blinding speed, your target leaps away, the displacement of the air stirring up a cloud of dust that obscures his trail. Kyojuro coughs once in the wake of the dust, somehow still managing to sound amiable — and you curse yourself for the unfortunate luck of running into him on the one day you'd finally managed to flag Tengen down. You stumble vaguely in the direction he'd escaped in, but with no luck.

Kyojuro follows after you, walking by your side as you gape at the sky, not too different from the listless goldfish in the Ubuyashiki mansion's pond. “How are you doing today?” He beams, radiant and oblivious all the same. “I haven't seen you in weeks!”

“I— um. Great, good?” You sputter, heat rising to your cheeks. “The weather… is nice.”

“We must spar at least once!” Kyojuro says, completely ignoring your currently malfunctioning state. “It's been ages since we've—”

He stops mid-sentence, his smile dropping. Your own lips pinch into a tight line as you freeze in response, eyes darting to his face. “Is- is there s-something wrong…?”

“There's something…”

His hand reaches out without warning. The warm pads of his fingers brush the side of your head, pulling a twig from between the strands of your hair. Kyojuro glances at it once, before tossing it into the nearby bushes with a quick flick.

“Ah—! I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched you without asking.”

His apology comes too late.

Oh, Gods, is the last coherent thought you formulate. It’s over for me.

You barely even notice Kyojuro’s quizzical stare, your body already kicked into autopilot. Nonsensical words spill from your lips as your mind goes into frenzy, staggering in a direction as you try to flee from his presence before you grow even more frazzled.

A proper Shinobi will not be caught like this, a proper Shinobi holds their head high, maintains composure, and —

When you blink, the ground is inches away from your face, and Kyojuro’s arm is wrapped around your waist.

…

…

One year ago…

…

“Excuse me!”

You shriek, flinging your head up and slamming it harshly against the underside of the table. It jolts the stack of books piled atop — and they all come cascading down upon you, pelting you with its harsh corners and fluttering papers.

“Damn it,” you groan, rubbing the crown of your head. “I just stacked that.”

As you turn to shoot a nasty glare at your intruder, your confidence immediately withers away upon recognition.

“My apologies! I didn’t mean to startle you like that,” the Flame Hashira grins dashingly at you.

The storehouse was nowhere dignified enough for a high-ranking slayer to grace their presence with. It's precisely the reason why you'd volunteered so quickly when Tengen offhandedly mentioned how he must've had stored the notes for the fundamentals of Sound Breathing somewhere in there, though you're beginning to wonder if it was all part of his master plan to be free of your presence for a decent amount of time.

“Ren— Rengoku-sama,” you smooth down the front of your uniform. “What brings you here?”

“I saw Uzui-san send you down here for an errand! I thought I could perhaps lend a hand!”

Mortified, you quickly wave him away. “No! No, I mean I appreciate the offer, but I couldn't do that to a Hashira.” Plus, the longer you dawdled in here, the less time you have left with Tengen.

With another wave, you turn back to your task at hand, and as you round the bend of the table to reach the next shelf —

— you slam the side of your hip against the corner.

It’s an ugly sound, too. The knock is hard enough that it makes Kyojuro visibly wince, and you crumple to the floor with a groan. He steps forward in alarm, but you're quick to raise your hand, stopping him, while the other clutches your throbbing bruise with a visible grimace on your face.

“It’s fine. I have to…” you wheeze, “…get back soon.” But the way you tighten your grip is clear evidence of the throbbing pain.

“…If you say so!”

After a few moments longer, you gather yourself and stand shakily. The pain radiates through your side in waves, throbbing and sharp, but you force yourself to up on the first rung of the ladder, fingers clutched tight as you rifle through the papers.

Kyojuro watches on in silence as you climb up the next, reaching further up onto the next shelf. When your search proves unfruitful, you take the third step.

And to nobody's surprise, the step snaps under your foot.

You weren't that far above the ground — at most you'd probably suffer a nasty bruise on your behind that makes sitting uncomfortable for the next few days. Arm out, face frozen, you braced for impact and for the shock of pain that would zip through you. That is, if you'd slammed into the ground.

Instead, somehow, and you're willing to bet it's those freaky inhuman capabilities the Hashira possess…

…you land safely in his arms.

Kyojuro was by the door just moments ago, there's no chance he would've sprinted over to catch you in just that split second. Yet, against your beliefs, here you were — enveloped in the scent of firewood and charcoal, tucked safely into the arms of the esteemed Flame Hashira of the Demon Slayer Corps.

…

Like you are now, one year later.

Immediately twisting out of his hold, you dip your head into a bow to avoid all possible eye contact with him, staring at the vivid flame patterns of his tabi. The action sends more blood rushing to your head, and you nearly pass out on the spot.

“Th—” Your eyes spin as you pray that you don’t black out before him. Taking a deep breath — “Thank you Rengoku-sama—I will be taking my leave now—I’m sorry to have bothered you—You really should not have inconvenienced yourself,” it comes out as one breathless, rushed string of words. You dip even lower. “Goodbye.”

Kyojuro, much regrettably, finds your response amusing. A thoughtful hum is the only warning you get before he crouches down with inhuman speed to look up at your lowered face, meeting your flustered gaze with his curious eyes.

Curse his devilishly good looks. You’re momentarily stunned as he tilts his head toward you, the golden locks of his hair shifting with the movement, and the corners of his full lips curl up in a boyish, almost cheeky grin. His expression reminds you of an odd mix — like a puppy with its playful smirk paired with the wide, questioning stare of an owl.

This odd habit of his trudges up some unwarranted thoughts.

Who could blame you, really? For some reason, ever since that day one year ago, you’ve been crossing paths with the Flame Hashira more times than you could keep track of. Maybe it was just a form of bias — you never paid much attention to him in the first place, only after that incident in the storeroom did you begin to take note of his appearance.

It wasn’t as if you could ignore him anyway. You’ve worked with him a couple of times during missions, but it seems like he’s taken that very day as the start of a new friendship — he oftentimes joins you on your morning walks when you run into him, invites you for lunch at the nearby ramen restaurant, and even lent you his scarf on a particularly chilly evening.

You’re in no position to turn down one of the highest-ranking members of the Corps. That’s why you’ve been letting this go on for as long as it has — at least, that’s the reason you tell yourself.

Heat rises to your face, spreading itself along your cheeks and consumes your being whole —

A shrill caw for your name pierces through the air, making you jump. Your crow circles overhead, the stark white of the rolled letter tied around its leg is obvious against the obsidian plumage of your companion.

“I will take my leave now!” You squeak, still not looking at him, before sprinting toward the direction of the storehouse.

Finally — a breather from the disaster known as Kyojuro. You don’t think your mind would be able to handle another instance of him appearing in your line of sight, let alone interacting with you, so cooping up in here until he left for whatever mission he had would be the most optimal choice, for the sake of your sanity.

Your crow swoops in after you, and you slide the shoji door shut tightly just as your feathery friend perches atop the wooden table. With a squawk, he lifts his leg obediently, letting you untie the twine around his leg. He looks rather pleased with himself — you give him a good few scratches under his chin before reading the contents of the letter.

‘My dear child…’

You close the letter. This is the hundredth time your parents have written to you. It’s always the same song and dance — begging you to give up on your goal, to return back to your boring, uneventful, painfully small, unflamboyant village.

So of course, you rifle through the shelves for some scraps of paper, and get to work.

‘To my darling parents, with all due respect…

I am not going home.’

Whew. You loosen the collar of your uniform as a bead of sweat forms at the corner of your jaw. Since when was it so warm in here? You crack open the door slightly, enough to let a light breeze slip through the gap and cool your skin.

‘This is the lifelong dream of any Shinobi in our village. Nothing interesting ever happens in there, and I refuse to subject myself to that fate.’

The ventilation in the storehouse mustn’t be very good — it feels rather humid in here, your sleeves sticking to your arm. You reach over, pushing open the window to let a little more air in. Frustration only spurred on by the heat, you write your final, determined sentence.

‘I WILL MARRY UZUI TENGEN AND LIVE HAPPILY EVER AFTER!’

“Excuse me!”

Kyojuro slides open the door of the storehouse, bringing a burst of wind along with him.

The gust stirs up the papers on your table, flinging them across the room as if a typhoon had intruded on your sacred storehouse territory. Your crow flies out of the door, startled by Kyojuro’s sudden appearance — dragging out a stray page with him.

It hits Kyojuro right in the face — he takes a step back in surprise, which is the first time you’ve seen him caught off-guard since knowing him. You might’ve let out a laugh at the absurdity of it all, had you not immediately realized which page, of all the ones you’d written, had smacked itself onto him.

He pulls the paper away from his face. You watch on helplessly, time slowing down in the seconds it takes for your life to fall apart. His eyes flit down to the words scrawled across the page.

Like the gentleman he was, he immediately averts his gaze — it clearly wasn’t his intention to invade your personal space like that. Still, you can’t help but feel your stomach sink at the way his smile falters for that split moment, or at the way he almost gingerly steps into your room, arm outstretched.

“My apologies! I completely forgot how nasty the breeze here can get,” he hands you the paper. You stammer, fighting every bone in your body to not snatch it out of his hands, instead taking it with a reply that vaguely resembles ‘thank you’.

Quickly, you dart around the room and down under the table to retrieve the rest of the pages that have scattered there, wishing to hide your face. You feel horrible — for some reason, you don’t feel that much different to that of a child caught doing something inappropriate, the dread of having disappointed someone you admire deeply crawling along your skin, clinging onto the back of your neck with silent,  callous sneers.

Once you grab the final page, you shimmy backward out from underneath the table. In your haste you rise a little too fast — your head bumps into something soft and you flinch, looking up.

Kyojuro’s hand is placed under the edge of the table, his eyes trained on you with a soft smile. Another wave of embarrassment washes over you at the realization that it was his palm you’d bumped into, and you’d yet again inconvenienced the Hashira with your ungraceful behaviour.

But still…

“Thank… Thank you…” you utter, feeling somewhat lost. Was he going to ignore what he just saw? There was technically nothing to be ashamed of — you’re pretty sure half of the Corps already knew your ultimate goal of marrying into the Uzui clan, so Kyojuro must’ve been aware to some extent. Yet, you can’t stop the awful, crawling feeling along your gut…

He calls for your name. It makes you leap from your place, standing ram-rod straight as you meet his eyes with a shout of acknowledgement.

“I like you very much,” he confesses. “But I know your interest lies in Uzui-san.”

Huh?

You blink. Did… what did he just…?

“I’m— I’m sorry, Rengoku-sama.” Why are you apologizing? You don’t owe him anything, and yet you—

“That’s alright!” He laughs, and with that tone of his, you’d never imagine that he was being turned down. “I’ve known for quite some time! I just needed to get this off my chest.” His eyes twinkle as he beams at you. “I wish you all the best.”

He turns and walks away, and you can only watch as his figure recedes into the distance.

…

“Uzui-sama,” You pant, waving at him from down the road. “Uzui-sama!”

“Hey— whoa, why are you out of breath?” He stops, and you finally manage to catch up with him, doubled over as you gasp for air.

“Uzui-sama, I’m interested in you. Please take me into your marriage!”

There’s a beat of silence that passes between the both of you.

Tengen’s eyes scan your face briefly, and then he squints — his nose scrunches, and he leans in with a pointed look as if to ask if you were stupid.

“Are you stupid?” He asks. You puff your chest out, defiant. Nothing could make you feel any worse than you already do — watching Kyojuro vanish had already devastated you enough, so you might as well commit and rip the entire band-aid off.

Clearly Tengen wasn’t having any of that. He lowers himself to face you. “Okay, listen to me. Other than my charm, my well-defined muscles, and my obviously good looks, why do you like me?”

You waver. “Because… you’re all of the above…?”

“Have I done anything for you, even once?”

Done anything…? Tengen didn’t need to do anything for you, why would he? He’s of a completely different league, a hierarchy far above you, and if anything it should be you who does everything for him. Send him off during missions, bring him his favourite meal every dinner — you’d probably even fight off demons for him so he doesn’t have to lift a finger.

Yet, Kyojuro…

You swallow. Kyojuro has done countless things. He stands on the outside of the pathways when he walks beside you, and always makes sure to be behind you when climbing stairs. He moves branches away from your face when you traverse the forests, and shifts the potted plants of the training grounds when you bump into them one too many times.

He notices when you’ve missed lunch, and brings you to the ramen restaurant without asking. He pushes in his chairs a little tighter so you don’t crash into them. He brings a scarf during chilly weather even though he’s never needed one himself.

Your lips part as it finally registers in your brain.

“So tell me,” Tengen returns to standing at full height. “Do you actually like me?”

“Yes,” you reply instinctively.

“No, you don’t,” he deadpans. With a sigh, Tengen lifts his finger to point down the curved road, tilting his head as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “He’s been summoned to Oyakata-sama’s residence. They’ll most likely assign him the big mission in Fukuoka, and Kyojuro has right then and there to decide if he’s going to accept it or not.”

Your heart flies to your chest. “F— Fukuoka? That’s halfway across the country!”

“Yep — he won’t be back for months,” Tengen gives you a firm clap on the back. “You better go catch him before he’s gone!”

You don’t even think to ask how he knew of your fondness for the Flame Hashira. Your body moves before you can think, sprinting down the road — never mind that it’s a down slope — the only thought on your mind being Kyojuro leaving. He won’t be back for months, and there’s a very real chance he won’t be back at all. Kyojuro, the one who caught you when you fell. Kyojuro, the one who watched you enough to know your habits. Kyojuro, the one who loved you even knowing you were too dense to realize —

“Rengoku-san!”

Even though he’s still a distant figure, you can see the way his head snaps up upon recognition. He calls your name in shock, but the wind rushes past your ears far too loudly to hear him.

“Rengoku-san!” You cry out, still sprinting down the slope. “I’m sorry, I was so blind to both of our feelings. This whole time, I’ve just been lying to myself, and it’s so unfair to you—!”

You’re close enough to see the alarm that crosses his features.

“But—!”

Kyojuro’s arm darts out, and you trip over a stray rock, slamming straight into him. Your arms wrap around him as you crash into his body, nearly taking him down as you tangle your fingers into his golden hair.

“But turns out I really, really really like you, too!”

Bonus: How did Kyojuro come to like you?

It was a split second — Kyojuro’s eyes grew unfocused from the weariness that was beginning to wear down on him, and that split second was enough to turn the tides against him.

The two slayers that accompanied him on his first Hashira mission now lay in a puddle of their own blood, barely breathing, but clearly incapacitated. It was now or never to kill this Lower Moon, or he would have to face the burning shame of having to call in one of the senior Hashira to take over his role.

There’s a wet squelch as a blade forces its way through the demon’s chest. It lets out a disgusting gurgle.

“Rengoku-sama!”

Its head is immediately lopped off with the one opening you provided him with. As the body disintegrates to ash, he nearly collapses to the ground in exhaustion.

Kyojuro’s eyes dart to you. Somehow, even though he’d heard the way your ribs had crunched under the impact of the demon’s fist and he saw you vomit blood, you were still standing before him, albeit in a terrible state. Your right arm is mangled, bending oddly in places it wasn’t meant to bend.

Before he could thank you, you turn around, mumbling something along the lines of ‘checking on the other guy’. He watches you stagger, swaying with each step, and then —

You trip over a tree root and eat dirt.

Kyojuro would’ve rushed to your side by now, but the adrenaline is wearing off fast and he can barely think for himself. Still, he forces himself to watch, fascinated at your tenacity as you gnash your teeth, wiping the blood and mud away from your cheek as you force yourself up and toward the other guy on the ground, ripping the fabric from the bottom of his hakama to tie around a large gash on his bicep.

‘Uzui-sama will notice me if I do a good job,’ is what you were probably thinking.

The steady rattling of the train wheels under your feet lulls your grandmother to sleep.

Maple trees passing by colours the window red and orange, invoking an odd sense of nostalgia in you. Though you’re sure you’ve never seen much of them in the city, their vermilion leaves strike longing into your heart, painting a scene you feel like you’d once seen many moons ago. With the approaching sunset, it was the perfect view to fall asleep to —  unfortunately for you, the nervousness creeping along your veins refuses to lull you into a similar state as your grandmother.

Your fingers reach out for the scarlet cord around your left wrist, brushing its gold crimp bead with your thumb — seeking reassurance. You’d never thought much of it when your mother had presented the bracelet to you then — but after her death, you’ve grown terribly sentimental about it. A reminder of her presence, of better days spent in the city.

Sure, maybe there were times when the three of you struggled to get by, but at least you had each other. You grip the armrest tightly, knuckles turning white as you watch your grandmother's head droop to the side.

A child raised in the city knows of nothing but privilege, that much you admit. You’d been raised in the capital right as ships carrying all sorts of inventions docked their fleets in Japan, so convenience was all you’d ever known since young. Sheltered, naive, the world was simpler back when your biggest worry was the store forgetting to restock your favourite snack on the shelves.

But such complacency comes at a cost.

It is the reason why after your mother’s unexpected departure, you are nothing but a sheep who’d lost its way — thrown into independence all too suddenly after a life of relative comfort, left to care for your ailing grandmother alone.

You’d done your best to stay afloat, but it was all too overwhelming. There were too many adult things that your mother had worked hard to shield you from. Organizing her funeral alone, filing endless paperwork, attempting to understand bills, all coupled with your grandmother’s rapidly deteriorating health.

(Your breaking point came last week, when your grandmother wept non-stop throughout the entirety of the night, saying she wanted to ‘return home’ — but you know better than anyone else that she wasn’t always like this. Grandmother had been the one to teach you how to haggle at flea markets. How to identify the sweetest melons, the freshest fish, and the one to sing you stories of her village until you fell asleep in her lap. But now, you could do nothing as illness devastated her brain, reducing her into nothing but a hollow shell of her former self.)

Desperate, you spent the entirety of the next day sorting through each carefully stashed family document; your efforts rewarded with a singular letter received from a mysterious aunt. The letters are faded with time, most words blurred after being kept throughout the humidity of countless summers.

You do manage to make out a few phrases: ‘-ope you’re doing well’, ‘-e misses you-’, ‘Please-’. Most interestingly — you find your name nestled in somewhere between the paragraphs of kanji, as well.

Out of options, you’d written to her with little hope— but thankfully, a warm response finds its way into your stacks of mail the next week, eager for you to, as your aunt had put it, ‘come back home’.

Truth be told, you wished you shared the same sentiments as her. But you barely remember anything of the village you were born in. At most, snippets of old buildings and dirt paths would visit you in your dreams — of running under maple trees, chasing a friend around forest trees. But when apprehension crawls up your skin, the nervous chatter in your brain telling you to just stay home, you think of your grandmother. Of her pitiful wails, and the way she'd stare out the window, as if yearning for a place far beyond the city.

The train slows as it turns a bend, the carriage tilting gently. There was still the whole of the night to go. If you knew what was best for you, you’d be nodding off as well. Yet, the sickly off-white of the train’s wallpaper is foreign, and the flickering carriage lighting does nothing to assuage your fears. You tighten your hold on your only bag of belongings as you watch your grandmother snooze quietly from opposite you.

A rattle sounds from beneath your feet as the train rocks over another bump. If you closed your eyes, perhaps you could dream that you were swaddled once again in your mother’s arms, the oscillation of the carriages instead a gentle sway as she rocks you back and forth on her lap.

But when you finally let your mind drift off, you wonder if the crimson irises in your memory truly belonged to her.

_____________________________

Sunlight is just stretching over the horizon when the train brakes screech to a halt. You two are the only ones to alight — the chill of the autumn dawn nips at your cheeks the moment you set foot outside.

The station, a generous term considering its state, is surrounded by the red maple trees you’d been seeing throughout the ride. You glance about warily, your hand protectively wrapping itself around your grandmother's arm. A trail of ants trot along the station floor. Water trails down the side of a stained wall. Beyond it, the forest shudders in the breeze —  it breathes life into the otherwise inanimate trees, sending ripples down the thicket, much like an undulating ocean of fire. There was nothing else for you to do — prior to your arrival, you had already written a letter to your aunt informing her of the date written on the ticket stub.

“I want to go home,” your grandmother murmurs as you guide her to a seat. It creaks under her weight.

“I know, Grandmother. Just a little longer,” you say it to her — though you know your words were meant more for yourself.

For good reason, too — minutes, then hours go by without a soul in sight. The sun has risen high in the sky, casting a harsh shadow under the roof both you and your grandmother were huddled under. Dread pools at the bottom of your stomach — your fingers fidget with the cord around your wrist. No, you won't let yourself spiral like this. You were determined to stay strong, for grandmother, at least.

A faint crunch of a leaf makes you jolt. Something shifts from behind the maple — a blur of white darts behind a trunk, ducking out of your view. You leap to your feet, nearly dropping your belongings onto the ground — a traveler from a nearby village? You could ask them for directions; at this point, anything would be better than getting stuck here. 

Disregarding the goosebumps prickling down your neck, you call out. “Hello?”

The figure halts at the sound of your voice.

Once, years ago, you remember your elementary-school teacher mentioning animals native to the land of Japan. He'd handed the book off to you, instructing you to share it with your classmates once you were done flipping through, but you were fascinated by the illustrations for long enough you got complaints, your eyes glimmering as you could finally put a name to the fur scarves you've only seen peddled at markets.

From between the trees, a fox stares back at you.

But the book only contained black and white, ink-drawn illustrations. Your knowledge was rather limited — so you weren’t sure if there were foxes out there with fur as white as fresh snow, or if their paws all tapered off to gold at their toes. You don’t think you’ve ever seen any animal have such intricate scarlet markings curl around its forehead either.

A shudder runs down your spine — it clearly wasn’t human, yet its gaze, directed right at you no less, is much too intelligent to belong to that of a wild animal. You’re almost inclined to believe it was studying your face, gauging your reaction to its presence, which thrums through the quiet air, almost electrifying. Blazing crimson irises bear down on you.

(A faint memory flashes in your vision. Flaxen hair in the sunlight, yellow leaves falling into your cupped palms.)

Your thoughts are interrupted when you hear a voice call out your name. You turn to the entrance of the ratty station, locking eyes with a woman — she nearly trips over her geta as she sprints toward you both.

Her visage is a near perfect replica of your grandmother, only younger by some twenty odd years. Relief floods you — you immediately recognize who she must be. “Aunt.”

You glance at the woods— but the fox is gone, with not even so much as a rustle.

“Mother! And…” she takes both your hands in hers, palm warm and tender, seeping careful love into your body. “Oh, you sweet thing. You’ve grown so much,” her hand reaches out to brush the side of your head. “You’ve been such a good child, haven’t you? You did well taking care of your grandmother.”

And for the first time since your mother’s death, your walls crumble.

Tears well in your eyes, spilling down your cheeks. Aunt hugs you tightly, hands stroking your back as she lets you sob into her kimono.

“Welcome back home.”

_____________________________

It’s the first time you sit in a horse-led cart. Your backside smarts from the frequent jolts and bumps, but you’re grateful enough for the ride to know to keep your mouth shut. The one on the horse is a friend of your aunt’s — a farmer from the village, with sun-browned skin and a kind smile. The plains before you stretch far, sparsely populated by large patches of rice fields and houses — though the latter were few and far between. Your grandmother is quiet beside you, her eyes dreamily watching the scenery roll past.

You pat at the wooden platform below you. “I’ve never sat in a cart before— in the city, it’s usually rickshaws.”

“How delightful that must be,” your aunt sighs dreamily. “I’ve always wanted to go to the city at least once, but I heard it was awfully crowded all the time.”

You laugh. “It really isn't that impressive. There’s too many things happening, and it’s barren of any flora, much less woods as beautiful as here…” you recall your encounter this morning. “Speaking of which, I saw a fox for the first time today. I never knew there were foxes with white fur!”

The coach butts into your conversation amiably. “White fur?”

You nod. “Yes. Red markings on its face, as well.”

He bursts into delighted laughter at the comment. “Ya must’ve seen our guardian kitsune. Most foxes here’re orange!”

Your aunt lifts a hand over her mouth. “Amazing! It’s been years since we've last seen the guardian leave his shrine.”

Their answers raise more questions — Guardian? Years?— but exhaustion from the long ride wears heavy on your bones, and so you respond with a non-committal chuckle. You’ll have plenty of time to ask questions once you get to the village, anyway. For now, you simply lean back, embracing each bump of the cart as it rolls over the uneven path. Grandmother rests her head against your shoulder, and her eyes slip close.

All the worrying turns out to be unfounded. Villagers swarm around the both of you as the wagon rolls into the roads, each one beaming and waving as if you were both war heroes returned victorious. Nearly everyone remembered your name, with many greeting your grandmother as well — unfortunately, you recognize none of them. Still, not wanting to come off as impolite, you plaster a smile on your face and bow to every call.

Mercifully, your aunt whisks you both away into her tea room just before your back could snap from the constant bowing. On the opposite end of the table, your uncle slides over a plate of mitarashi dango to you. He is a gruff man, deep-set lines running across his forehead and skin speckled with darkened spots, calloused hands giving away his profession. You’re a little nervous in front of his seemingly perpetual grimace— but soon realize that the intimidation only runs skin-deep when he lets your Aunt feed him a bite of the dango, the wedding bands on their wrists touching with a soft clink.

“I was a little late to pick you up this morning because we were cleaning up your old house!” Your aunt chirps as she finishes her own stick of dango. “Your poor thing, you look exhausted! I think you should rest here for today.”

It is only then your entire body grows sluggish, eyelids quite literally drooping under the mention of rest. Really, you swear you don’t intend on troubling them any further — but the offer of being able to sleep without worrying about tomorrow was just too enticing to turn down. You mumble a thank you, and after a reassuring pat on your grandmother’s arm, you get up to follow your aunt.

When she slides open the door to the guest room, your eyes are drawn to the small figurine atop the cabinet.

A fox-like statue carved of stone, snout tilted toward the ceiling. It bears a large smile on its snout, almost prideful. A bright red cord twined around its neck stands out against the grey stone of the body — the gold bead attached to it glints invitingly, beckoning you toward it.

Your aunt kneels down, laying out the futon for you. “Does the statue bother you?”

Shaking your head, you crouch down beside her to help smooth down the quilt. “No, it’s just... Mother gave me something that looked similar to that cord.” You gesture to the red bracelet on your wrist. “I was curious.”

She exhales, a small smile on her face, hand reaching out to pat your head. “This is the Rengoku kitsune we once prayed to for bountiful harvests. The red string on his neck means this house is under his protection.”

Again, this leaves you with more questions — but your aunt cuts you off before you can utter a word. “Don’t worry, the guardian is benevolent. He doesn't mean any harm — especially not to you.” With a wink, she leaves the room, the shoji door closing behind her with a thud.

You blink at the door as you wrack your brain for any reason behind that cryptic message — but nothing comes up. Did you happen to know the guardian? Your memories are fuzzy, and a vague sense of frustration fills you.

(A promise of something— sealed with hooked pinky fingers.)

Sun rays stream through the paper doors, dimmed with the nearing sunset, painting the room a warm shade of orange. From the top of the cabinet, the kitsune’s grin is unwavering— as if greeting you welcome home.

_____________________________

During the early morning, you learn just how drastically different the villagers live their lives. In the city, you’d been more of a night owl — fluorescent lamps of opposing buildings acted like false daylight, keeping you up past dark. You’d gone to sleep early last evening, having practically pulled an all-nighter on the train— but you quickly learn that ‘early’ was only by your definition, as it turned out that most of the villagers had gone to bed not long after you did, their schedules matching the rising and setting of the sun.

A burgundy-haired boy appears at the doorway of your aunt’s house just an hour past daybreak, waving enthusiastically and introducing himself as ‘the one who lives in the mountain house’. Your aunt insisted you ask him any questions you had, saying that it would do you good to be friendly with the locals— so you politely oblige, following behind him like a duckling would its mother.

“The Rengoku kitsune?” He tilts his head, pondering your question. “The worship died out just before I was born, and I rarely hear about him any longer. I’m not sure what happened myself…”

Clearly he doesn’t know any more than you do, so despite your burning curiosity, you drop the topic. There’s not much else to see in the village — he points you to some important landmarks, like the path leading down to the train station, and where certain water wells were located. But otherwise, there was nothing more to this place than endless stretches of rice paddies. Drastically different from the city.

You foresee yourself getting bored soon enough. Everything here was leisurely paced, everyone milling about and taking their time to strike conversation with the both of you even if they were in the middle of an errand. Some give you odd looks — a city-folk coming down to live in the countryside was unheard of, after all, so you couldn't exactly blame them. But the majority are polite to you regardless of your circumstances, giving you a wave goodbye as you two continue on your tour.

After an hour more of idle chatter and walking, the boy comes to a stop.

“And… according to your aunt, this is your old house!” He turns toward you. You flit your gaze toward the house, quaint, isolated. The structure stirs up a sense of nostalgia in you — of course it would. After all, you'd spent your childhood in this place (despite not recalling anything about it). It was a little further out than you'd liked, but the distance seemed unavoidable, seeing how abundant land was in the countryside. Though, on the optimistic side of things, it's nice to finally have so much space after being crammed in the city. Your house is situated pleasantly in the middle of a large patch of grass with plenty of breathing room, and behind it — the forest stretches wide, golden leaves of the maple trees scattered around the floor. Peeking through the treetops, mountains tower high, peaks obscured by clouds, their colours pale with distance.

The boy tucks his hand behind his back, beaming at you. "I heard that after your family left for the capital, everyone left it empty in hopes that you'd return! It would've been a waste if it was abandoned — the scenery behind is gorgeous."

You'd have to agree. With a view this stunning, it was hard to imagine why you would've even thought about leaving this place. 

"Ah!" The boy rummages through his bag, pulling out a handful of carefully wrapped onigiri. “Mother was disappointed that she wasn’t available to greet you personally, but she wanted you to have these!”

The gesture rubs at the tender spot of your heart. “Thank you. Please give my warmest regards to your mother.”

He grins at you, boyish, slightly bashful. With a bow, he takes off, waving at you with a shout of, ‘see you later!’. You reciprocate until his retreating figure vanishes into the distance, slotting the bundled onigiri into your sleeve. You’ll remember to have it for lunch later.

In your old house, everything… well, everything looked pretty normal. Aunt had mentioned she did do a little bit of clean-up, so it didn’t look particularly decrepit. But there was a sort of staleness in the air that made it clear that it had been uninhabited for a long while. The floorboards creak with each step, and the house groans with your presence under its roof. You slide open a door to what you assume must be the bedroom. A futon is neatly folded to the side, courtesy of your aunt, and in the corner, atop the cabinet…

…the kitsune statue. Its prideful, optimistic smile remains the same — but it is conspicuously missing the red cord around its neck.

You stare hard at it, cocking your head to the side. You’re somewhat aware of the kitsune's existence, yet it doesn't seem to be popular amongst the locals, judging from the boy’s response. Something must've happened between the guardian spirit and the villagers— enough to make the topic feel taboo to even mention.

Your hand unconsciously reaches out to caress the stone fox. The meat of your palm brushes the top of its head, tracing down to the side of its snout. When your hand smooths down to the neck of the kitsune— you realize with a jolt that the missing cord wasn't missing at all. The scarlet of the cord around your wrist perfectly complements the grey surface of the statue.

Your mother had given you a piece of your childhood all this while, without you even realizing. A bittersweet feeling grips your heart at the recognition.

Your feet carry you around the small space, fingers brushing every surface, as if aching to recall your lost memories. Bits and pieces come to your mind — scuff marks on the pillar when you would attempt to climb it, worn-down corners of tatami mats you’d picked at, and tattered shoji doors with holes that you’d slotted stems of wildflowers through — varying shades of white and yellow, freshly picked from the patch that would always grow right outside your backyard. Right by the forest.

(You'd gathered them in your arms during spring, petals spilling around your feet as you sprint as fast as you can down the winding forest path. "He's gonna love this," you laughed, giddy with excitement. "I can't wait!")

Just as that thought hits you, muscle memory kicks in— you throw open the shoji doors of your house that lead to the forest beyond.

There had been a dirt path right where the forest bordered the grass. You’d hiked up and down the road endlessly, geta digging into the dirt as you plodded through the ground with frivolous resilience only a child could possess. But where it once stood was now laden with overgrown shrubs and large rocks, as if haphazardly covered and left to fall into a state of neglect.

Your heart aches at the discovery. A significant part of your childhood, left abandoned — your shake your heads, clearing your mind. With a resolute nod, you begin prodding around the entrance, desperate for a clue. Daytime was still abundant, but you feel strangely hurried — a subconscious desire to look for a conclusion to a question you never knew you had, hidden behind the thicket of the maple trees. Thankfully, the brambles obstructing the path are forgiving, easily coming apart with light tugs — even better when you discover that the clutter had, strangely, congregated only at the front, leaving the rest of the path clear.

The trail ahead of you is surrounded by lofty maple trees, twisted trunks curving inward, as if sheltering you from the rest of the forest. From above you, birds chirrup in their nests of sticks and leaves. You’re drawn in further, heart in your throat, an inkling of anticipation in your gut as the leaves whisper incomprehensible revelations to you. The ground is painted in gradients of red leaves, each giving a delicious, crisp crunch as you tread on them.

Sunlight filters through the treetops, illuminating the path ahead of you, coaxing you further in with each step. Squirrels scurry along oaken trunks, cheeks stuffed with nuts as they begin to hoard their stash in preparation for the winter. The air carries with it peacefulness — relaxing your shoulders, bringing a sense of serenity with it.

A rustle from beside you makes you turn your head to the right. A white-speckled fawn which quickly flees from your field of view. But just behind the patch of grass where the deer had been — a large stone pillar is wedged halfway into the ground.

You recognize — the kitsune, though it has been worn down with time, ivy creeping down its sides and peppered with moss that have taken residence in its crevices.

It’s not alone. You look up, squinting. Further ahead, there are more similar statues littered in the forest. They’re in varying states of neglect, some with crumbled ears and cracked bodies. But they’re identifiable all the same — each bearing the proud smirk you’ve grown familiar with by now.

It is just then, when you spot a roof. The scarlet tiling of it makes you stop dead in your tracks. That design — clearly, unmistakably, that of a shrine.

Maybe you really should turn back now— this could only mean it belonged to…

No. You shouldn’t get caught up in this feud between the villagers and the guardian. For all you know, it could be dangerous for an outsider like you to even be here, let alone interfere.

But even so, against your better judgement, you approach the structure.

Despite the years that have gone by, the compound remains the same as it did in your memory. A vast courtyard spans across the front, shielded by low walls surrounding it, decorated with patterns carefully carved into the polished granite. Pine trees dot the edges of the courtyard, casting soft shadows. In the middle of it all, vibrant red pillars adorn the shrine's sides, gold trimmings tracing along the edges of the roof. You stand stock still at the torii, feeling quite small as its presence looms over you — yet, you have never once felt threatened by its height. The only noticeable difference was that the white of the walls have yellowed slightly, but despite its age, you feel like —

(— like you’ve returned home.)

Your hand grips the side of your head in confusion. Why do you suddenly remember it so clearly, when you barely knew of its existence just a minute ago…?

Adjacent to the gate, two fox statues sit atop stone slabs. Their eyes are keen, knowing — almost intelligent, despite being carved from nothing but stone.

(The statues beckon you toward it.)

You can't leave now, not when you're so close to finding out.

“Pardon my presence,” you announce as you bow low toward the torii, moving as if it were second nature. Cautiously, you enter the compound, a breeze ghosting across the surface of your skin as you pass under the gate.

Then, like a veil lifted off your eyes — a figure materializes in the courtyard.

Clad in pure white robes and hakama, a man stands in the middle of the seichu, back turned toward you and a broom clutched in both hands as he sweeps the fallen leaves beneath him. You would’ve mistaken him for a ghost, had it not been for the striking yellows of his hair— like a wild, untamed flame that stuck out in all directions, tapering off into a bold shade of red. Against the backdrop of the autumn leaves, he looked as if he belonged to the scenery himself. But what stood out the most— a large, bushy tail swaying in the breeze, and the pair of clearly fox-like ears, perched atop his head.

He freezes upon your entrance, whipping around to face you.

“Who goes there!” His demand booms through the air, authoritative — terrifying. It roots you to the spot by its sound alone. The kitsune drops his broom — and marches toward you.

“I'm sorr—!” Your hand flies up to your neck as you gasp — but words escape you, as if some form of miasma was wrapping itself around your throat, robbing you of your voice.

Each ominous knock of his asagutsu against the pavement sets your nerves alight, every hair on the back of your neck prickling in alarm. His thick brows furrow, forming a crease in the center of his forehead, and you swear his canines grow sharper with every step — the mere look of it so intense that blood drains from your face at the sight of it.

You have to flee — right now.

He’s tall — a wall of muscle defined enough you can tell even through the loose fabric of his wear. The clack of lacquered wood against the concrete is heavy, foreboding, sending waves of panic down to your bones, making you break out in cold sweat. Your mind is telling you to make a break for it right this instant, screaming at your body to get out — but not a single muscle in your body listens.

He bares his fangs. “State your reason, city—!”

Just inches away from you, he halts. The kitsune has his nose raised into the air, sniffing twice— and his expression transforms into one of surprise, eyes darting down to the cord around your wrist.

As quickly as it had appeared, the menacing aura vanishes. The pressure around your neck releases, and you suck in a sharp breath, doubling over. The kitsune’s ears twitch, and he circles around you, sniffing at your wrists, your shoulder. Only when you feel his breath on your neck do you finally snap out of your shock, letting out an ear-piercing shriek, throwing yourself forward and away from him.

“Wh-what—!?" You swing around, face red as you clutch your neck. He only leans back, an unbothered grin on his face as he crosses his arms.

The guardian shouts your name with a volume so loud you see it leave his mouth. Behind you, birds squawk as they flee from their roosting tree in fright. The sprightly wag of his tail behind him, paired with his sparkling eyes — it melts away the frightening atmosphere earlier instantaneously.

“It’s me, Kyojuro!” He points to himself, nodding. “We’d played together, a long time ago!”

(A murky memory of a golden-haired boy, partial glimpses of smiles, unabashed laughter— the pure joy of carefree bygones, unburdened by the weight of life just yet.)

“Are you the guardian kitsune of the village?” You ask cautiously. He nods excitedly, his tail wagging even harder. That would mean…

The Rengoku guardian.

A cold jolt runs down your back, as you realize who you’re truly facing. Knowing that a literal deity stood before you should probably intensify his intimidation — but with his expression, he currently looks more akin to an overeager puppy than anything else. The kitsune waits expectantly for your response.

“Kitsune-sama,” you say, slowly.

He shakes his head, pointing to himself again. “No! Kyojuro-kun!”

Your eyes dart down. “Rengoku-san.”

“No!” The grin on his face doesn’t falter, still. “Just Kyojuro!”

“Ky—” You clear your throat. Were you really doing this? “Kyojuro-kun.”

Not five minutes after setting foot into the shrine, you were now apparently on a first-name basis with the guardian spirit of the village. It finally made sense why Aunt had made it sound like you were especially close to him, because you were. To the extent that you had called each other by your first names.

But that was over a decade ago, and you recall nothing of the sort any longer. Whatever friendly affection you had toward him has now gone stale and awkward, an old friendship blemished by distance, time, and your inability to remember. Surely he did not expect you to play with him just like back then, would he?

“I’m glad you’ve returned! Shall we have a seat?” He beams at you. You’re in no position to turn him down, so you settle for a timid nod — Kyojuro is happy to lead you to a bench just behind the chōzu-ya.

Uncomfortable silence fills the air between the both of you— though you’re fairly sure it's a one-sided feeling, seeing as he seems to be humming contentedly to himself.

Taking this chance to sneak a peek at him, you only know one thing for sure: even without his kitsune features, your eyes would have been instantly drawn to him in a crowd. His presence alone was domineering — enough that though you had plenty of space on the bench, you feel yourself reflexively pressing back, as if he was occupying the entire width despite the spaciousness of the seats.

“Apologies for earlier! I must’ve frightened you!”

“No, it was my bad,” you shake your head, still frazzled. “I was intruding, I deserved it.”

“Nonsense! It was entirely my fault — I thought you might’ve sneaked in from the city, but I recognized the smell of your cord,” he disagrees firmly. “If I knew it was you, I’d have given you a warmer welcome.”

Guilt swirls at the base of your stomach, your tongue darting out to wet your lips as you struggle to think of what to say next. Apologize for forgetting? Bow and sprint out before he has a chance to smite you?

(But somewhere in the back of your mind, you know you’ve seen a boy in the same white fabric and with the same yellow hair, too. He just seems so lonely, you think, so you’d ran up to him, food in hand — it had always been how you two passed slow afternoons together.)

“Ah—” You clear your throat, pulling out the onigiri you brought along. “The villagers gifted me far too many snacks on my way here, and I wouldn't be able to finish them all. Would you like to have some?”

Kyojuro’s eyes light up — animatedly, he barks out a ‘if you do not mind!’, before accepting your offer without hesitation. It’s a somewhat funny sight — you never thought you would see a deity so enchanted by simple onigiri, and you watch as he spends a good few moments admiring the handicraft, taking a large bite out of it.

“Umeboshi onigiri! Delicious! I haven't had human offerings in so long!” He chews mirthfully. The corners of your lips lift, thankful that you’ve at least gotten on his good side. “Delicious!”

You partake in your own share, swinging your feet. “That's great, I'm glad you enjoy it.”

“Delicious!”

Okay. You got the point. But he keeps going — expressing his happiness with each chew until the rice ball fully settles in his stomach, before letting out a contented huff. Your ears are ringing by the time he swallows it down, too bashful to say anything about it. For some reason, you acknowledge with quiet amusement that he’s always been like this. Eccentric, but appreciative of all the little things in life.

It takes you far too long to gather your courage and finally address him. “Kyojuro-san—”

“—kun!” He corrects you.

“—Kyojuro-kun,” you scrunch your face nervously. “I— I’m sorry, but my memories of being here are a little muddled. Truth be told, I only remember bits and pieces, but not much else…”

You’d half-expected him to lash out in rage, or worse — a clear display of disappointment, but Kyojuro doesn’t let the admission lower his spirits. Instead, he mulls over the response — it takes a few moments before he shoots up from the bench, tail swishing behind him.

“Please do not apologize!” The kitsune folds his arms across his chest, letting out a harrumph — a declaration of determination. He glances down at you, a grin stretching from ear to ear. “Would you care to join me for a walk? Perhaps it may jog your memory!”

Nodding, you stand up beside him, nervously smoothing down the front of your own wear. You feel out of place with your disheveled appearance— in contrast to you, Kyojuro’s robes were a pristine white, almost fluorescent even in the daytime. You trail behind him as he strolls around the courtyard, eyes unconsciously drawn to the steady sway of his snow-white tail behind him, tipped with golden yellow — a shade similar to that of his ears, which twitch occasionally as he picks up on bird chatter.

“What brought you back here?” He asks, turning his head toward you.

You must have reacted poorly to his question— because Kyojuro screeches to a halt, spinning toward you with his body dipped low in a bow. “My apologies for asking such a question! Please do not answer if you are uncomfortable!”

“No!” You throw your hands up in defense. “No— it’s no problem at all!” Now, your face was red, embarrassed at having made him react in such a manner. You continue walking forward sheepishly, your fingers aimlessly playing with the hem of your sleeves. “My grandmother… she suffers from an illness of the mind. I thought I would return to the village to seek assistance… and to give her some comfort.”

“I see,” Kyojuro nods, catching up beside you. “I am sorry for not being able to help your grandmother!”

“It is of no matter at all, K…Kyojuro-kun,” you stammer. Despite its awkward delivery, the use of his name returns the smile onto his face. You swallow. “I felt that I would regret it if I didn’t bring grandmother here.”

“Well! Either way, I’m glad you’ve come home!” He barks. His tone is polite, obviously trying hard to not cross any boundaries lest you feel uncomfortable in his presence — but he immediately goes quiet right after.

You feel a little guilty both at his reply and his silence — Kyojuro clearly missed you a great deal, but you couldn't reciprocate at all. You both continue walking, the rustle of leaves overhead and bird songs filling the quiet for you. It wasn't terribly awkward, with your head occupied with too many questions meant for him. How did we meet? How did you come to this village? Why are you hidden all the way in here?

Of all the questions, only one makes it past your lips.

“Were we… truly good friends as children?” You murmur.

He doesn’t look at you when he answers, but it's sincere.

“The best!”

Your heart tightens at his admission. He truly did seem like he would have been a sweet child, with a disposition so endearing it made you want to thank him for even smiling at you. It makes the guilt tugging at your chest even more prominent.

Nonetheless, Kyojuro takes no offense to your question— instead, he peers over his shoulder at you, with the same unrelenting smile on his face. “If you’ve forgotten our past, we just simply have to make new memories!”

You halt. “Wh— What do you mean?”

Kyojuro stands before you, with that piercing gaze of his. “I’m sure you haven’t truly lost them — your memories, I mean!” He tilts his head. “But even if you have, I’d be happy to make new ones with you!”

Quiet fills the air as you contemplate his offer. If it had been anyone else, you would’ve immediately turned tail and ran — no rational being would make such a shady proposition. But this was not just anyone — Kyojuro is, or was, the guardian of the village, and your aunt herself had implied there was some sort of past between the both of you.

An odd sensation tugs you toward him. Your wrist — the one with the red bracelet — involuntarily twitches, compelled by a force beyond you. Somewhere in the back of your head — you think of your mother, who’d loved you enough to have brought the cord all the way from your house to the city, to tie it around your wrist on the last birthday you’d spent with her. Who’d trusted the guardian enough to place you in his protection.

The silence stretches out long enough for Kyojuro to think he might’ve been too assertive. “I’m sorry if that was too much, please let me retract the—”

“If you say so!” You cut him off. In any case, your aunt had mentioned it would do you some good to make friends with the locals. “I would be happy to be in your care!”

His expression lights up, clearly delighted at your response. “It would be my pleasure!”

Kyojuro walks you to the edge of the shrine, just until the entrance of the torii. The guardian was right to send you off then— the sky was indeed getting darker by the minute, and you were most definitely not keen to navigate the winding forest paths in the night. As soon as you step through the gate, his figure vanishes, as if draped behind an invisible blanket.

You make it back to your aunt’s house just in time for dinner — she brings out a large pot of rice as you seat yourself beside your uncle, who is currently talking to your grandmother. Her responses are mostly incoherent mumbles, but it’s the closest you’ve seen her get to a real conversation, so your heart warms anyway.

“Did you have a nice tour around the village today?” She strikes conversation over dinner, placing a wedge of squash into your bowl.

You nod. “The village is a wonderful change of pace from the city!” You hesitate. “But…”

“What’s wrong, dear?” Your aunt places another wedge of squash into your bowl.

“I have been wondering about it the whole day. Why do the villagers no longer pray to the Rengoku kitsune?”

She pauses.

Then, the tiniest of sighs escapes her lips. “The guardian kitsune…” She mutters, as if trying to find the right words. “Years ago, just before you’d left — noblemen from the city came to our village, threatening us. Rengoku-sama retaliated, which eventually ended in the death of one of the noblemen. I guess you don’t remember since it’s been so long.”

Your hand flies up to your mouth. His smiling visage comes to your mind. Wide grin and playful eyes— Kyojuro had killed a human? You think back to when you’d first stepped foot inside the compound — and then when he’d apologized to you. Because you smelled like someone from the city.

“But because he’s killed a human, they still had to seal his main body away in the shrine. All villagers are forbidden from visiting him — the talismans we’d placed made sure of that,” she picks at her rice. “Only a few of us still worship him.”

That would explain why your aunt had hid away his effigy in the guest room, instead of displaying it out in the open. It would explain why the boy had mentioned he hadn’t seen the kitsune statues as well. And it would explain the reason for the odd barricade in front of the path leading to the shrine.

“Actually,” you swallow nervously. “I paid a visit to the shrine earlier today.”

Chopsticks clatter to the tatami flooring. Your uncle sets down his rice bowl.

“You did?” Your aunt immediately rounds the table to sit by you, her hands planting themselves firmly on your shoulder. “Child, were you able to enter? Did the torii repel you?”

You nod your head. “N-No. I mean— I just walked in, and the kitsune was there. He was surprised by me, too, but otherwise seemed to be in good health.”

She raises her hand to her mouth, eyes welling up with tears. “Oh, I’m so glad that Rengoku-sama is faring well!” She grasps your hands. “It must be because you were raised in the city that the curse doesn’t work on you. Us locals aren’t even able to even enter the forest without being turned back!”

Your head spins with the newfound intel. You don’t think you’d spotted anything amiss when you entered— in fact, if you knew Kyojuro was labeled an evil spirit, you probably wouldn’t even have set foot into the forest.

“This is great news,” your aunt titters about the house, her dinner long forgotten. “Tomorrow— I will prepare lunch for you to bring over! Stay here again for tonight. Don’t leave!”

She vanishes into the kitchen, followed by the sound of clanging pots and lids. You’re still bewildered by the sudden change of events, frozen in place with the bowl in your hand. Beside you, your uncle wipes the fallen chopsticks off with the edge of his sleeve, and feeds a slice of sweet potato to your grandmother— before resuming his meal quietly.

_____________________________

With daybreak, rooster crows echo from all corners, jolting you awake as you attempt to blink away sleep from your eyes. Back in the city, rest had always been a scarce resource— you always fought for a chance to get some extra shut-eye before you had to run off for your appointment of the day. However in the village, daytime was even scarcer, so now you fought to stay awake, if only to make the most out of the sunlight.

After checking in on your grandmother, you spend the rest of dawn traversing roads, striking conversation with passing farmers. The locals are nothing but friendly to you, sharing the bounties of their harvest by shoving it into your arms. By the sixth farmer you’d chatted with, you’re balancing a handful of sweet potatoes, a large squash, and dragging behind you an even larger sack of rice. You have to apologetically turn down the next offering when it becomes clear that nothing else will fit in your hold.

You heave your harvest to your aunt’s house, nearly collapsing from the weight of carrying it all. She wastes no time in scooping it all up in her arms, cooing at you for being a friendly, lovely child— before running off to the kitchen to prepare your lunch. You let yourself collapse onto the tatami, arms aching from the weight.

Perhaps this place isn’t too bad at all. You could get used to the friendly smiles and being spoiled rotten by the older folk. Not to mention — you were pretty excited to see Kyojuro again, the possibility of reliving your childhood past was only an added bonus. You let your tongue roll over your teeth, gazing up at the wooden beams on the ceiling as the clink of utensils from the kitchen fill the air.

The sound of shuffling from behind the main entrance interrupts your daydream. Then, a shout — “Pay up, old hag!”

You sit up, confused. Your eyes dart to the inside of the house, but only your grandmother sits by the table, not the least bit bothered by the commission.

“We know you’re in there!”

You dust off your clothes, walking to the entrance. But your aunt finally notices their presence as you begin to slide the doors open, with a panicked shout of — “Ignore them!”

It’s too late. You come face to face with two men, clothes clearly that of a well-to-do from the capital — one sports a neatly trimmed goatee, the other, golden accessory cuffs that line the shell of his ear. Their wear, clearly tailored by expert craftsmen with wool of fine quality, stands out starkly against the muddy path they stand on.

But what makes you realize your mistake is their faces. You’ve seen a handful of these in the city before, when your mother and grandmother would duck their heads and hurry you along if you had the unfortunate luck of crossing paths with them. Multiple scars line their foreheads and cheeks, gnarled, white marks of jagged cuts from weapons of all kinds. That would mean that they weren’t just city folk who came down, demanding for money — they were paid an obscene amount to carry out dirty business.

“Can I help you?” You ask, apprehensive. They’re taken aback, clearly not expecting someone of your age to answer the door. But before they can reply, your aunt is by your side, pushing you out of their view.

“I already told you we have nothing!” Her tone is sharp, final. “Leave! You don’t even need our money, seeing as you’re doing plenty fine yourself,” her eyes dart down to their clothes in contempt.

The man on the right scoffs, stroking the goatee on his chin. “Like we said, it’s not about the monetary compensation,” he leans toward your aunt, getting right into her face, pulling his lips back into a mocking grin. “It’s about the psychological damages. Psy-cho-lo-gi-cal! Is that too big of a word for your uneducated brain to understand?”

“Buzz off!” She slides the door shut in their faces. You hear them yell something along the lines of ‘we’ll be back!’ from outside, but you’re too shaken up.

“Who were they?” You look to your aunt, your fingers laced together in a portrayal of your worry. Her face softens at your visible fear, and she wraps an arm around your shoulder, smoothing down the plane of your upper back.

“Just some men from the capital, seeking revenge for the nobleman that Rengoku-sama attacked. Some of them come once in a while to threaten us, but they’re still too afraid of Rengoku-sama to do anything,” she sighs, pulling back and scanning your face to make sure you hadn’t been injured. “That’s why it’s just best to ignore them, alright?”

You can only swallow and nod, watching as she flutters back into the kitchen, humming to herself. Your grandmother’s head droops to the side, having fallen asleep through the ruckus.

“You’re here!” Kyojuro greets right as you walk through the torii. You jolt, still not used to having him appear out of thin air. He lifts his head— closing his eyes, sniffing the air around you, before he leans in a little too close to your face.

“You smell like charcoal! Does that have anything to do with your lunch!”

“My aunt made lunch for both of us,” you reply. A genuine expression of surprise crosses his features — and he’s quick to follow behind you as you walk over to your seats, unwrapping the furoshiki to reveal two wooden bento. Instantly, his mouth salivates at the sight of the food, and you can hear him gulp as you lift the lid.

“Rice with grilled sweet potato and squash?” He phrases it like a question, but he most definitely knows.

“Aunt said that sweet potatoes were your favourite when you were a child.”

Kyojuro goes quiet. His expression is unreadable — a mix of surprise, gratitude. But his grin reappears again, with brightness tenfold. “I’m touched that she remembers after all these years!”

Again, you both take your places on the same bench as yesterday, with you reflexively moving to the corner as you watch him stare in amazement at the bento. Kyojuro scarfs down the rice like he hasn’t eaten in decades, shouting ‘Delicious!’ into the air after each bite (scaring off the nearby critters in the process), eyes twinkling with mirth as chunks of sweet potato graces his tongue.

Not even five minutes later — “Thank you for the meal!” He clasps his hands together after polishing off the last grain of rice.

You’d barely even gotten through half your own meal. “I’ll be sure to convey your compliments to her,” you chuckle.

You munch down on your own portion, chewing for a few moments. Kyojuro lets himself lean back, hands wrapped protectively around the empty lunchbox as he admires the golden leaves swaying in the autumn breeze. It was odd seeing him so at peace — not when the Kyojuro you knew had always been more of the rambunctious kind.

Was he, now? Your eyebrows crease in thought — you don’t remember, but the impression comes to you as clear as day either way.

Clearing your throat, you turn to him. “Is something the matter, Kyojuro-kun? You seem lost in thought.”

“Yes!” He says, straightforward. You’re taken aback by his direct answer, but find amusement in his honesty nonetheless. “I'm just touched your aunt prepared this bento for me! It’s been a while since any villagers have done so!” Then, as if sensing he’s made a mistake, Kyojuro clamps his mouth shut, smile dropping.

Clearly, he didn’t seem proud of his actions, but he must know that there are villagers who don’t resent him for it. Now you feel obligated to disclose to him that you didn’t, either. “Ah, aunt had mentioned to me about why the villagers stopped visiting…”

As the admission slips out from your mouth, you wonder if explaining would end up spelling out your demise. Instead, Kyojuro freezes beside you.

In an uncharacteristically softer tone, he asks — “Do you fear me now, like the rest of them?”

A surge of possessiveness slams into you, sending you to your feet.

“No!” You yell with a vigor that surprises even yourself. “I could never hate you! How could you say that, after all you did to save the villagers, and after all you did for me!”

What did he do? He did something for you, you know it— right before you left, he’d helped you in exchange for a promise. A pinky finger wrapped around the other’s, and the whisper of a vow made in your name.

Kyojuro is still watching you with large, round eyes. A glimmer of hope behind them, surely that’s what it is — but your shoulders slump in resignation, and you sit back down beside him.

“I’m sorry. I know I must’ve promised something to you back then — but I can’t recall it right now,” you sigh, placing your palm against your forehead. “This is frustrating.”

The kitsune smiles at you with a gentle look in his eyes. “That’s okay! We’ll get there slowly!”

You press your palms against your cheeks, letting out a huff. “Kyojuro-san—”

“—kun!”

“—kun,” you repeat. His interjection brings forth a feeling of subdued amusement. “Is it true? Everything my aunt said?”

“Yes! Sweet potatoes were, and still are my favourite food!”

Kyojuro’s attempt to divert the topic finally manages to pull a weak chuckle from you. “Unfortunately, that’s not my question.”

He fidgets — clearly scrambling for something else to tell you. An excuse, maybe, but you both know it’s not in his nature to lie, and every stab he takes to try and steer the topic in another direction is just delaying the inevitable. Though the smile on his face stays, you know he’s reluctant to speak about it when the ears atop his head tilt downward.

“I did,” he finally brings himself to speak. Your fists curl into a tight ball at his admission. As if sensing your anger, Kyojuro shakes his head. “I could not live with myself if I faced no consequences for my actions! If they hadn’t sealed me off here, I would have done so myself!”

“But weren’t you just a child?” You murmur, clutching tightly the bento in your hands.

“I was! But being a child is no excuse for attempting to avoid punishment!” His tail swishes a little more aggressively. “In fact, I did it willingly, and I stand by my past actions!”

Bitterness curls inside your chest. You know that they meant well— but you can’t help the animosity that’s beginning to build up toward the villagers. Kyojuro protected them, and they knew that — how could they do that to him?

A warm hand envelops yours. It makes you leap out of your skin, but the touch does as he intended— it breaks your focus, redirects it back to him.

“They were lenient with me,” he admits. “They should’ve locked my entire being away! But instead, they took pity and simply bound my soul to the shrine — if I travel too far out, I grow weak!”

The image of the white fox flashes in your mind. “Was it you I saw at the station? When I first arrived here?”

“Most likely,” he flashes a grin at you. “Though from that distance, I tend to remember people by their mannerisms! You have changed plenty since then!”

Your heart aches at the remark. Kyojuro was clearly holding onto the past you, someone you had no recollection of. He’s been through enough— having been punished for his duties of protecting the villagers, and now having a childhood friend forget nearly everything about him. A cruel fate that has been cast upon the guardian who has sacrificed his freedom to save others.

Sensing your distress, his grip on your hand tightens. “The villagers did nothing wrong, please do not be angered at them! If one has killed, the likelihood it shall happen again raises significantly— I do not know what I would do with myself if I ended up hurting one of my people!” He repeats, firmer.

Your lips pull up into a pout as you turn to him. “But—”

“It is alright!” He nods. “I’m glad there are still a few out there who pray to me! Their presence comforts me greatly!”

You blink. “You can hear the prayers of the locals?”

“Not in the sense that you are most probably thinking of!” He laughs, a loud, booming sound that wipes the air off of its solemness. “An example…” he lifts his eyes, ears twitching as he thinks of an anecdote.

“I hear a whisper from someone in the back of my head asking me what they should have for dinner. Then, I simply bestow upon them a strong craving for sweet potatoes!”

The ridiculousness of the statement pulls out a laughter from you, lightens the load on your shoulders.

Just like that — you feel much better, the smile easily finding its way onto your face. Something tells you that Kyojuro had always held this sort of effect over you— finds all the weak spots in your wall of frustrations, and takes it down with a lopsided grin that disarms you all at once.

You only just realize that his hand is still on yours, and he doesn’t seem to make any effort to move it away. Its warmth is comforting, though there’s a voice at the back of your head that insists that such contact would be inappropriate between a god and a mortal if anyone should chance upon the both of you.

But out here, in the vast forest, under the protection of the shrine, who would— or who could— wander far in enough to encounter the both of you? You let your eyes follow to where Kyojuro is gazing upon, watching two sparrows chirp at each other atop a branch, partially obscured by the vibrant hues of the reds and yellows of maple leaves. The touch of his palm crawls its way into your chest, and you’re almost enticed to lean into the heat emanating from him, spurred on by the oncoming chill of the autumn.

Early evening approaches faster than you’d liked— unfortunately, despite both of your efforts, nothing else seems to bring any sort of revelation to you. Kyojuro eventually tells you to head back before the sun sets. You’re surprisingly exhausted, so you agree easily, a little disappointed to end on an anti-climactic note— but the guardian insists that you’ve made great headway, and you both part with a touch that lingers a little too long. You know he knows, too, because you still feel his crimson eyes staring at your back, even as you tread down the path back to the village.

_____________________________

As simple as that, you fall into a routine.

Not wanting to bother your aunt any further, you’ve taken to learning to live in your old house. That’s part of the reason, at least — the kitsune statue by your room brings you much comfort, as if knowing Kyojuro was residing in the same building, watching over you.

When morning comes, you’d greet everyone on the way to visit her. If your grandmother has risen as well, you’d bring her out for a walk, greeting the locals. Sometimes, you’d head back to your own house, armed with fresh crops and recipes from your aunt to attempt some new dish— before bringing it over to the shrine, where Kyojuro would await you with boisterous laughter and words of comfort if you’d burnt his sweet potato rice that day.

He would attempt to bring up snippets of the past— anything to jog your memory. Sometimes it works. You remember fuzzy bits of it— chasing someone around the corridors of the shrine’s engawa. Climbing thick, gnarled branches of oak trees and hanging upside down. Attempting to catch every sakura petal fluttering to the ground after a gust of wind dances its way through the forest.

It wasn’t just visions, either. Some unexpected scents rekindles emotions, like when you stand too close to him, catching a whiff of cedar and firewood. When he lights wisteria incense to hang by the shrine entrance, you think you’d helped him light more of them around the courtyard back then. When he says certain phrases, you recall his voice from back then — softer, with childish lilt to his tone, but you know that it belongs to him because he still speaks with the same earnestness.

Everything returns to you in fragments. Everything except for your promise.

“May I try something new!” He asks, one day. You stop chewing on your stick of dango, looking up at him with curious eyes.

Your attempts thus far have been somewhat fruitless. And though you did remember vague, fuzzy visions of moments you’d played together, it was nowhere near enough to make you feel satisfied. There was a sort of information asymmetry at play that left you disgruntled — and you were determined to balance it out as soon as possible.

“What do you have in mind?” You ask.

“I think one of the reasons why you have been struggling with remembering is because you’re always on high alert!” He folds his arms across his chest.

You hadn’t realized it, but perhaps he was right. You try your best to treat him as long-time friends, but he’s ultimately just a glorified stranger that you’re rather fond of. You swallow down your last bite of dango. “Ah… my apologies?”

“No!” He barks, his tail swishing to the left in tandem with his grin. “It’s good to be vigilant at all times! But please—” he lowers his voice, enough to catch you off-guard. “Would you grant me your trust?”

Your heart flies to your throat at the sudden switch-up. Kyojuro must know that the voice he was using against you was downright bewitching, seeing as it left you a flustered mess. But with his undeniable sincerity of wanting to help — you can’t help but give in to his whims with a wordless nod, just to see what he’d had up his sleeve.

Kyojuro stands from his seat, rounding the bench to place himself behind you.

“Recalling is only effective if one is in a relaxed state of mind,” you can hear the smile in his voice. “And… when we were children, I was most relaxed when you brushed my hair!”

Brushed his hair?

The thought doesn’t get a chance to linger in your mind for long, because Kyojuro’s fingers press against your scalp with the faintest pressure. Nevertheless, it sends goosebumps prickling across every inch of your skin, zipping down your neck. You bite back a yelp, fighting to keep your head forward as you feel his nails lightly scratch at the side of your head, gently tugging at your roots.

No longer than a few strokes in, your body turns into putty. The dango stick rolls out of your hand— it takes all your willpower to remain seated upright.

“Years ago — you scolded me because you kept finding leaves stuck in my hair!” He laughs, though you’re so heavy-eyed his voice nearly blends in with the forest’s ambient noises. “You spent hours trying to untangle it, after which you began to brush it every time you came over!”

He’s right— that unruly, tousled thing had been nigh impossible to tame. It stuck out in all directions at any given time, and attempting to undo every knot was an insurmountable challenge. You’d force him down on the bench, your fingers working through twisted locks until you could run your hands through the entire length of his hair in one sweep. Kyojuro never once complained it hurt despite your forceful tugs — you eventually learn to be gentle, unraveling his hair until it was obedient enough to be put into a ponytail.

But… despite its matted appearance, his golden locks were deceptively soft to the touch. Back then, Kyojuro would tilt his head into your waiting palm, his ears folding in obediently as you began to run your fingers through his locks. His curls were pliant under your fingers, much like he was, bouncing back regardless of how many times you’d pawed at it. They fold under the weight of your hand, sticking out from between your fingers as you caress the side of his head.

(You’d lift the handheld mirror you’d taken from your mother’s dresser, showing Kyojuro his reflection. He stares at it wide-eyed, turning his head slowly, touching his hair.

He grins at you. “I’ve never seen it so… neat!”

Your chest swells with pride, and you bump shoulders, holding out the mirror. You lean into him, pressing your cheek flush to his own — cramming your small faces into the circular reflection, both beaming. The tips of his hair tickles your cheek, but you’re too busy laughing to care.)

“Did you manage to remember something?”

“Uh?” You gasp.

In the span of your recollection, you’ve unconsciously turned around, kneeling over the backrest of the bench to reach out toward his hair and bury your fingers in his strands. Kyojuro’s face is right in front of yours, and though the smile on his face shows that he doesn’t mind, you’re mortified.

You pull back, but your fingers get caught in the tangle of his half-up ponytail — so you tug him closer toward you instead. You freeze, caught between the dilemma of humiliation and not wanting to hurt him. “I’m so sorry—!”

His grasps your hand, effectively shutting you up. The grin on his face stretches wide, eyes twinkling with amusement at your predicament. Unfortunately, you do not feel quite the same. Your other hand, the one not currently in his hold, grips the edge of the bench so tightly you feel your fingers growing numb. How did this happen—? You swore you had been falling asleep just seconds ago.

“It is of no worry! We’ve tussled much worse when we were kids— in fact, this is oddly nostalgic!”

Kyojuro’s hand is still firmly over yours, the warmth of his palm radiating through your skin. It eases your panic, though only by a little. It’s always been like this — no matter the time of day nor the season, Kyojuro would always be scorching, like a walking flame, down to the tips of his fiery hair.

You remember this in full, vivid detail — of swatting away his arm during the summer, of huddling closer to him during winters. When you’d watched with bulging eyes as his footsteps literally melted snow in his wake, and when he’d been upset that he couldn’t experience an authentic snowball fight — because they’d melt too quickly under his grip.

“You’ve,” you stutter, eyes wide. “You’ve always run real hot, even during the winters.”

The sheer happiness that radiates from him is blinding. “You remember!”

Having him yell directly in your face makes you wince. Slightly calmer now, you gently disentangle your fingers from his hair. Kyojuro’s grasp still lingers over your hand, clearly too distracted by the anticipation of your answer.

“I do,” you mutter, staring at your hand. “You were right — I’ve been too on edge this whole time to recall much.”

“Let’s attempt the other way, as well!” He leaps over the backrest of the bench and seats himself, turning his entire body to face you. Before you could utter a word, his arms are already crossed before his chest and his chin is tucked in, tilting forward such that you can see the crown of his head and the anticipatory twitching of his ears.

A stunned silence passes over you.

“Y—You want me to…?” You blurt, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. Kyojuro doesn’t even bother to answer, his only response being a flick of his right ear, a clear indication of waiting.

Hesitant, your fingers gingerly reach out and remove the hemp cord that’s been keeping his ponytail up. It unravels easily under your touch, and his hair cascades down his shoulders, swallowing his face like a wave of liquid gold and scarlet. Though messy, it makes him take on a different aura— something more rugged, makes him look more like the deity he is.

Your fingers press into his hair, raking it toward the back of his skull. His eyes close in contentment, the curve of the smile on his face easing into something more relaxed. It was like this back then, as well— you’d learnt all the spots that would make him lean into your touch, the way he would press into your fingers as a silent request for more, and the fold where his ear meets his head that would make him melt.

Unconsciously, you let your nails wander to the aforementioned back of his ear, scratching it lightly. A low purr erupts from his chest, and Kyojuro’s eyes fly open. Though the smile remains on his face, you take delight in watching his face develop into an undeniable shade of red — a sight you haven’t seen since you were both children.

For some reason, the satisfaction of flustering the unshakeable deity instills an oddly large amount of confidence in you. “It seems you’ve taken much better care of your hair since then, Kyojuro-kun,” you quip, fingers brushing over the same spot once more.

Instead of cutting through the awkwardness with a laugh as you expected, Kyojuro’s shoulders droop. Perhaps the comment had affected him more than you thought it would — he suddenly looks so, so small.

Kyojuro tilts back up to look you in the eye, a sort of fond sadness washing over his face.

Then, he leans in.

He sways toward your face, strands of his hair catching on the side of his cheeks as he lowers his head. You’re paralyzed, words stuck in your throat as you watch him descend upon you. Time slows — you can see every glint of his lashes under the sunlight, the way his pupils dilate against the red backdrop of his irises. Your stomach curls into tight knots as you can only watch, motionless.

But he descends past your parted lips, and his forehead harmlessly lands against your shoulder with a soft thud. Your arms instinctively fly up to wrap around him, hands pressing his head down as his warmth seeps into your skin through the fabric of your wear.

(”They won’t get you,” you mumble into his hair. “It’s okay, Kyo-kun. I’ll make sure they won’t.” His tiny body shakes uncontrollably in your embrace. You run your hands through his hair, but it’s too matted. Your fingers get caught in it’s tangle, and you have to reluctantly remove them, opting to smooth your hand down his back instead.)

You wonder if he can feel how forcefully your heart is beating in your chest. It feels as if it were on the verge of bursting, each heavy thud surging through your muscles, making your head spin. Something… you were missing something. Why was he crying back then? Your shoulder feels wet — tears. He’s been alone for over a decade, of course this sort of affection would be overwhelming for him—

(A hand grabs yours. You stare into the face of your younger self, tear-stained cheeks and glossy eyes. No, look closer, your child self cries, desperate, begging. It’s not tears —

— it’s blood!)

You suck in a sharp inhale, the scent of Kyojuro flooding you, grounding you back to reality. You push him away, then pull him closer again as one hand cups his cheek, and the other presses against the side of his forehead, feeling for open wounds. Your finger brushes along his temple, and you feel the slightest bump — a faint scar, blending into his hairline, barely noticeable.

Kyojuro stares at you with a perplexed expression.

“Oh, my—!” You release your hold, pushing yourself back to the furthest end of the bench and lowering your head. “I’m— I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I thought you were bleeding, and I— I thought—”

You’re suddenly aware that your shoulder is conspicuously dry. It only makes you even more mortified at the lack of excuses.

The kitsune doesn’t grow angry, though. He simply smiles — a kind you haven’t seen before. Close-eyed, gentle — a smile that makes you halt in your string of babbles, leaving you speechless. Kyojuro lifts a hand, his finger inching toward you as if to brush his palm against your cheek— but he stops himself right as you feel the heat radiating from it, and his arm drops limply to his side.

“You should head back before it gets dark!” He chirps, as if nothing ever happened. The glare of the midday sun is beginning to ease, the shadows beneath your feet fading with each passing moment. You nod, at a loss for words once again.

Just before you step through the torii gates, you turn to Kyojuro, signalling for him to turn around. He does so obediently — you wrap the hemp cord around his hair, retying his half-updo, letting the tips of your fingers linger at the back of his ears. They twitch slightly under your touch.

“I’ll see you for lunch again tomorrow, Kyojuro-kun,” you smile at him, before heading back.

As he watches your retreating figure, Kyojuro lifts a hand to his head and gingerly touches the spot where you’d caressed his scar.

At the tender age of sixteen, both you and the heir to the Kibutsuji family are wed, under blooming wisteria and the scent of jasmine flowers.

The event is a grand one— the unification of the last scions of their respective families, hundreds of years of traditions and history resting on your shoulders, the final rays of hope in a dying branch of the family. A burden all too heavy for mere children to bear.

Though you do not look into the eyes of your guests as the ceremony begins, the whispers are all too prevalent when they crowd behind you two at the Shinto shrine. Your gaze remains downward as you lift the cup of sake, taking your three sips. Each tilt of the cup is met with hushed voices behind you — pity, scorn, and those who found cruel humour in your situation. The murmurs curl their way around your neck, the alcohol burning down your throat.

How sorry I feel, for the both of them.

Their families grew much too greedy for wealth — the Gods cursed their descendants for this.

At least they will have each other for the rest of their lives.

A smooth, almost velvet-like voice calls your name, snapping you back to reality. “Look at me.”

You pause, the third and final cup inches away from your lips, and you tear your eyes away from the ripples in the cloudy liquid, meeting striking lavender irises. Your fiancé stares at you, his glare almost contemptuous. His tone is calculative, as if your answer to this singular question determines the very value of the rest of your life.

“Are you afraid?”

The question sparks something at the bottom of your heart. Fear, you have experienced plenty. The crawl of time, and with it, your inevitable deaths. You have had the past sixteen years to come to terms with it— and so has he. Your response nearly comes out as a sneer. “Afraid? I will live the remaining four years of my life with my head high. Fate will not make me meek.”

For the first time, you see him grin. His inhospitable facade cracks ever so slightly at your comment, and his eyes warm with mutual understanding. He raises his cup, still holding your gaze. “Gods be damned.”

You parrot him. “Gods be damned.”

Kibutsuji Muzan drinks his entire cup of sake, and you follow.

The banquet that follows is a blur. The both of you are whisked away by the Shinto priests and your parents, chided for impudence, for mocking the Gods whilst standing on their very land — but they ultimately let you go, for you are both still nothing but children in their eyes, pitiful, and dead soon by twenty years of age. You think Muzan hates you, and for what its worth, you’re not very fond of him, either. But arranged marriages are funny in the way that they connect two forlorn souls together — at some point in the chatter of the banquet hall, you slip your hand into his, and he wraps his fingers around yours without a word, hidden under the fabric of your sleeves.

Both of you do not consummate your marriage that night. Your bodies occupy the furthest end of the futon, as if repelled by the other’s mere existence. You lay awake, staring at the moonlight that streams through the paper of the shoji doors, and though Muzan is unmoving on the other side, you don’t quite doubt that he is awake, as well.

Morning rises, eventually. The servants announce their presence as they enter your rooms, and you can’t help but notice the different reactions to your unsullied sheets. Your husband sits up beside you, and you are ushered into different rooms to get dressed for the day.

Early afternoon, the both of you sit in the tea room, silence only occasionally interrupted by chirping of sparrows from the garden beyond. Your hands toy idly with the ceramic cup on the table, spinning it as you watch the upright tea stalk waver in warm sunlight that slips in from the outside, before falling flat into your genmaicha.

You talk first. “What plans do you have?”

Muzan looks up at you, face placid, emotionless. “I don’t quite get what you mean.”

“We have four years left, maybe lesser. Do you have anything you wish to do?”

He ponders your question for a moment, as if he was debating if he should indulge you in his secrets. “I intend to live.”

“How terribly descriptive of you,” you scoff.

“I have contacted the best doctors from all over Japan. They will be arriving over the next few months to look at my condition, and I will work closely with them to cure my ailments,” he pauses. “I have also requested that they look at you, as well.”

In any other circumstance, you would be flattered. The Muzan that you had met before your marriage was cold, and a man of few words. In fact, you don’t think you knew what his voice sounded like — you can only recall the talks of lineage and business between your parents — and both of you had only looked at each other with accusatory stares, as if blaming the other for your own predicaments.

“That’s not what I meant,” your response comes out quicker than you’d expected, almost reflexive. “I meant… something like visiting a festival. Today is Hinamatsuri, for instance.”

It is Muzan’s turn to scoff now. “Adorable. You think the servants would let us out into town, alone? It’ll be over if either one of us returns with so much as a scratch on our cheek.”

“I’ll have you know the house we currently reside in is a childhood residence of mine,” you counter, indignant. “We may have moved long ago, but I know every nook and cranny of this area like the back of my hand.”

The boy— your husband— laughs bitterly at your implication. You feel strangely offended by his remarks, wronged, almost, with the way he seemed to dismiss your confidence.

So, when lunch is concluded, you wave the servants away, feigning fatigue and insisting that Muzan would be sufficient for your care. With a bow of their heads, they withdraw into their quarters, and you grasp his hand quickly, pulling him along corridors with muted footsteps against wooden floorboards. The both of you are quiet as you navigate around the border of the house, slipping past the guards on patrol — until you reach the garden.

Its layout remained untouched — the trees and shrubbery are as exactly the way you remember them, the pond still present. A faint memory of your temari ball rolling into the waters; you hastily hop along the cobblestones in the grass, until you face the shrubbery that you were all too familiar with. Your hands reach out to brush aside branches — and get excited at the large hole still present in the wall, much smaller than you remembered, but enough to squeeze through and escape the compound.

You tug harshly at the roots that have encircled the crack, hoping to loosen it enough to fit your husband as well. You grunt as the roots barely budge, years of growth having made them resistant to your feeble strength. Disappointment seizes your heart — would that mark the end of the adventure? You had been looking forward to attending the festival the entire day — when Muzan suddenly leans over, and you feel his chest on your back, caging you against the wall. His warmth seeps through the cool fabric of your robes, the edges of his hair tickling your temples. You suppress your gasp of shock at his proximity.

His fingers wrap around yours, grasping the roots tightly, before he gives it a sharp pull — the plant comes loose from the wall, and you stumble back into him, hands still intertwined. Quickly, you let go of your grasp and spin around to pull back, the back of your hand on your mouth in embarrassment. He dusts the dirt off his hands, bemused at the situation.

“Go on. Lead the way.”

Feeling slightly foolish for having lost your composure, you quickly squeeze your way through the hole, escaping into the small alleyway it led to. Muzan grudgingly follows behind you, his larger frame clearly struggling to fit as well as you did — but he manages, and you stifle a laugh as you pick off a stray leaf that made its way into the curls of his hair.

The festival is loud and vibrant, nothing like the two of you had ever been part of before. Sure, many a times you had snuck glances out of the windows of palanquins that brought you past streets likes these— but being at the mercy of the crowds had you giddy with excitement, with stalls sell all sorts of confectionery, the scent of food rushing into your lungs with each sniff.

Muzan seemed equally overwhelmed, eyes wide as he takes in the sights around him. With his attitude, you wouldn’t have been surprised if he thought himself above celebrations like these — but something about how his face flushes with the atmosphere surrounding the both of you made you smug, even if you would never mock him for it.

You tug excitedly at his sleeve as you look at the dolls on display. “Look, Muzan! Aren’t they adorable?”

He stumbles as you pull him back to your side. With your eyes trained on the dolls, you miss the way the tips of his ears redden at the way you call his name.

“Don’t call me that in public!” He snaps, though his blush betrays his apparent dislike. In a quieter tone, he continues. “Th- What should become of us if we are recognized and ambushed?”

You grin at him mischievously. “That would certainly be an interesting end to our short lives, will it not?”

The boy stares at you, incredulous. You were indecipherable — impeccable etiquette in the presence your elders, head bowed low and voice soft with respect, yet in front of him, the words you speak and your dismissive nature toward death made you almost boorish, though the same could be said for himself at times. He grumbles, to himself, but loud enough for you to hear. “Unlike a certain someone, I still desire to live.”

As your head is turned away, he drops a few gold coins into the hands of the vendor and pockets two dolls.

Though it takes a moment longer for Muzan to loosen up, the both of you eventually learn to embrace the vivaciousness of the crowds around you. You exchange a variety of sweets; rice cakes, peppered with sweet potatoes and water chestnuts, the flavours overwhelming and tangy on tongues that have only ever tasted bland congee and bitter medicines— dried fruits, a variety of colours— you laugh when Muzan bites into a particularly tart persimmon, causing his mouth to pucker. At some point, you manage to convince him to join you at a game of Giccho, though both of your frail dispositions meant that you didn’t get very far.

Evening approaches faster than you would’ve liked — and sure enough, upon your return, the household is in a frenzy. The servants fret over Muzan’s disheveled appearance and fuss at your dirtied robes, but across the flurry of hands and heads who work to carry you off to the baths, you meet his eyes — and you’d like to think that the corners of his lips are upturned, too.

Once the both of you are cleaned and back in your rooms, the servants excuse themselves yet again, giving you thinly veiled warnings as they remind the two of you not to leave the compound without permission. You smile gently in return, but say nothing. The final servant to leave snuffs out the lantern by the doorway, plunging the room into utter darkness— save for the light of the full moon that pours in through the translucent paper of the shoji doors, illuminating your faces, looking at each other as you stand by the futons on your respective sides. There’s a tense silence that passes between the two of you. Awkward, as if you both felt the need to say something — but not quite sure how to end the day.

Surprisingly, it is Muzan that breaks the quiet first. He fumbles, uncharacteristic, but composes himself enough to kneel on the futon, beckoning you to join him. Cautiously, you mirror him, knees on the cushion, feet still partially on the tatami mat. He reaches into his pocket, before extracting something.

“I saw you looking,” is all he manages to say.

The two dolls that lay in his palms are dressed eloquently— wedding attires matching the ones you both had worn to the shrine just yesterday. You feel your heart flutter, and a grin crosses your face, holding out your hand as he deposits the toys into yours. The features on their faces are delicately painted, with details obscured in the dim lighting of the room, but you’re overjoyed nonetheless, fingers gently tracing the edges of the fabric, the smooth wooden surface of their skins.

“I love them,” you breathe. You bring them closer to the gap between the doors, admiring them under the silver light of the moon. Unbeknownst to you, Muzan watches as your hair shifts in the light breeze, the sliver of skin on your wrist as you lift the dolls to your face, and the raw tenderness you caress them with—

He looks away when you place them by an empty shelf in the corner of the room. You turn to him with a smile, none the wiser. “Let’s get a proper stand for them someday, shall we?”

The both of you drift off to easy sleep that night — still on your own ends of the futon, but your fingers brush against each other, pinkies curled under the blanket.

Two years pass, and even with his sickness, Muzan has grown taller, handsome. His features are more defined, eyes sharper, though his skin remains pale, almost lustrous, the only giveaway of the illness that has ravaged his health.

Two years pass— and he’s afraid. When the first few doctors come and go with no improvements to your conditions, he begins to worry that your illnesses are incurable. With each passing month— each passing year, when none of the cures bear miracles, his anger stews and boils over. He calls doctors ‘useless scholars’, their self-proclaimed panaceas as ‘irredeemable failures’. In your second year of marriage, he cracks, and calls you a wretched thing. Scowls at you for having accepted the deadline imposed on your being— rejects you for not pursuing life as fervently as he has been.

“What does it matter?” You simply laugh. “Life is fleeting, do you really wish to live until you are old, senile like our advisors with their asinine laws?”

On days when he is being unreasonably difficult, you break the invisible barrier between the both of you to crawl into his arms in bed, to press your head against his chest. He will fight to bite back his blush— flustered, nervous— you see through it all, and you find it endearing, for despite having spat at his own mortality, cursing the Gods— he is still boyish at heart. You press a kiss to his lips, feeling the roar of your thunderous heartbeats, chest to chest, his quickened breaths as your hands trace patterns across his back— muffled moans as his lips ghost over the skin of your abdomen, fingers trailing across every curve and dip of your bodies.

You know despite his harsh words and increasingly short temper, that he cares for you— that he’s grown protective.

You know because he does not pull away when you comb through the tangles of his hair from extended days of bed rest. That no matter the words of what he said the morning before, he embraces you with his whole being during the night.

Muzan loves you.

You know because when you collapse after being fed a concoction mixed so wrongly it borders poison, he flies into a rage so great that the sickly man nearly overpowers his guards— he presses his hands so deeply into the physician’s trachea that it leaves purple bruises as the sham flees the compound— and he weeps when your hand touches his cheek, much too cold in his arms.

“You fool,” he snarls, through his tears. “Do not die on me.”

Your head on his lap, you weakly kiss the inside of his wrist. “I will await you in hell.”

He calls for more physicians. He spends his fortune on quacks, barely keeping you alive. He insists on drinking the medicines first— lest anything untested worsens your condition. Time is running out faster for one of you, and Muzan is desperate when it gets harder and harder to rouse you from sleep.

The new doctor smirks. “If you do not take this medicine, you both will not live to twenty.”

Unfathomable hatred fills his being— his arrogance, the mocking lilt of his voice. You both will not live to twenty, and I will be there for your funerals, unspoken words echo in his skull.

Muzan swings the knife into the back of the doctor’s head.

“I swear, I will find a cure for us,” he murmurs into your hair that night, under the waning moon. Your movement is sluggish, but you nuzzle against his cheek all the same.

“Save your breath, my delusional husband,” you chuckle into the crook of his neck, eyes fluttering close as sleep takes you.

On the day he awakens a demon, you, his lover, do not follow.

Muzan mourns you in the dark of his room. He cannot attend your funeral for sunlight burns his skin, kills his physical body like the lack of your presence kills his soul— and spends all forty-nine days of grief damning the world. He despises the earth you have walked on, curses the Gods that brought you to him, and selfishly, he prays that Buddha grants you no salvation for leaving him behind— for now, he has to spend eternity without you by his side.

On the fiftieth day, his family visits him. They berate him for his failure to produce a heir and for being inadequate in his care for you. He grits his teeth.

Then, they blame you for your frail body, saying it was due to your weakness that you were never able to be loved by him—

so he kills all of them and leaves.

Muzan, the demon, scours the lands of Japan. He slaughters battalions and beheads townsfolk with the wave of his hand. He sees ghosts of your visage among the trees, and he hears your laughter in the bamboo wind chimes hanging outside houses. One night, his hunger leads him to enter the first home he comes across— but just as he is about to swing down his claws, he spots the head of an infant peeking out from behind the futon, sandwiched protectively between her parents who shake with fear— and he thinks about you, and the family you never had.

Had you taken the medicine, would he have lived a life much like this, sleeping in the futon with you and your child in his embrace?

He scowls and leaves, sliding the door shut behind him.

_______________________

A hundred years pass.

Kibutsuji Muzan, demon progenitor, adjusts his robes as he enters the restaurant he has begun to frequent — the meals were decent, though he had no need for sustenance other than flesh, but it was sufficient to keep up appearances if he was planning to spread his influence across the land. The manager, head waitress, places the appetizer on the table in front of him, her lips curved in a polite smile as she bows toward him.

“Today’s pickled radish are a specialty of the chef’s,” she elaborates. “I hope you enjoy the meal we have prepared, Lord Tsukihiko.”

Muzan hums as he takes a bite of the dish. Bland, as always, nothing comparable to the sweet, savoury scent of raw human flesh— he begins to wonder if he should hunt tonight, when the entrance to his dining room slides open.

“Master, I have brought your main course,” you bow, back straight as you keep your gaze trained on the ground.

The chopsticks in Muzan’s hands clatter to the floor.

“Kobayashi. Leave us.”

The head waitress is clearly alarmed by his reaction, but she maintains her calm demeanor as she bows, exiting the room. You, as well, are stunned by the sudden shift in atmosphere— though you quickly regain your composure and approach him, placing the tray by his table. You gesture to the dish, introducing the ingredients of today's dinner — but he is busy staring at your face, scrutinizing your mannerisms.

He interrupts your explanations. “What is your name?”

Your voice falters, taken aback. An introduction — you did not rehearse for that, most obviously, but you give him your name either way— and do not miss the way he stiffens. You try to formulate reasons for his behaviour, however you do not recognize this man no matter how hard you think, and you are sure you would never forget someone with eyes as striking as his.

“My apologies if I have offended you, Lord Tsukihiko,” you lower your head. “I am still an apprentice here, and I have much to learn from Madam Kobayashi—”

A hand darts out to grab your wrist, and had he be been any other man, you would’ve instantly torn your arm away from their grasp. Yet— you do not feel threatened by him.

“Tell me,” the way he says your name with a rasp sends shivers down your body. “Do you worship the Gods?”

Confused, you open your mouth, only to close it. He looks at you, his plum-red eyes burn so passionately —

“No,” you answer honestly. You cannot bring yourself to lie in the face of his earnestness. “If the Gods did not hate me, they would not have left me with parents that would sell me to traders when I was seven, and I would not have to crawl my way to freedom, fighting for my survival tooth and nail to be a mere server in this restaurant.”

It was most probably the wrong answer. You half expected his face to distort in rage, maybe throw the bowl of scalding soup in your face; but your client laughs. He throws his head back, shoulders shaking as he howls, as if your confession was the most humorous thing he’s heard, and yet, his hand remains on your wrist— palm warm against the cool of your skin.

He leans toward you, and you find yourself entranced by the blood-red of his irises. “Is that so?”

You nod, throat dry, but you manage to speak the first words that surface in your mind. “Gods be damned.”

His smile drops for a moment— replaced by a look you cannot quite decipher. But the corners of his lips upturn again, his deep voice sending goosebumps across your body. “Gods be damned.”

He asks for you to serve him again next time on his way out, and you are left perplexed. The waitresses titter behind you, and when they are sure he is out of hearing range, they crowd in the employee’s room, fussing over you.

“Oh, my dear! Are you alright?” Aoi chirps as she smooths over a bump in your hair. “I’ve heard Lord Tsukihiko can be awful some days— I do hope he did not hurt you!”

Shiro clicks her tongue as she turns your face in her hands, checking for scratches. “Even worse— I’ve heard he’s a womanizer. Dangerous; he lures girls with false promises and sweet nothings, then they vanish!”

“Ooh… Please do be careful, my darling… He’s undoubtedly suspicious, and even more so now that he wants you to be his personal server! Do not be fooled by his handsome appearance, you have yet to experience his foul temper!” Midori sighs, hugging you tightly. You nearly suffocate in the embrace of her ample bosom, but manage to push yourself away, clearing your throat as you smooth over your own kimono.

Kobayashi waltzes into the room, chiding the four of you gently as you scatter to return to your respective tasks. Before you can leave, she touches your shoulder lightly, a look of concern gracing her features. “I’m sure the other girls must’ve warned you, but please… be wary of Tsukihiko.”

You brush off their concerns— your residence was the inn above this restaurant, owned by Kobayashi as well. There was no need for you to leave this building at all. Your job, your needs, everything you needed to survive was right here. Rumours of this magnitude would not concern you— not of demons seeking prey in the dark of the night, nor of men who attempt to charm you into their dens, seeing as you had no plans to leave the safety and comfort of your brightly lit abode.

Under the dark of the new moon, Muzan claws at his arms. His nails leave rivulets of blood in its wake, the veins straining against his forehead as he hunches over, pupils narrowed— breaths leaving his mouth in trails of steam, fangs biting against his lower lip until it bruises and breaks skin.

There is no possibility that it is you. There is no chance; no way that you would appear before him, not when you died in his arms that night— when he felt your last breaths against his body.

No. It was just an uncanny resemblance. Something that was bound to occur within the hundred years of aimless meandering— he would come across someone like you, but wasn’t you. Your name, your face, the way you smile at him, the way you look at him—

Muzan was heartbroken when he became a demon— and it was the one thing that never did quite fix itself even with his immortality. He tried to seek solace in numerous vices— opium, alcohol, women, and human flesh— but when he looks over the lifeless bodies of the wives he’d taken, none quite ever struck the same chord as your corpse did to him.

Midori quickly ushers you to the employee’s room to prepare for your shift, tone urgent as she fixes the obi behind your back. “Do hurry, dear. Aoi is taking quite the brunt for you.”

You hear Tsukihiko even before you see him.

“You useless wench,” his deep voice drips with malice. “I told you, I do not want your hands near my food.”

Aoi does her best to placate him. “I understand, Lord Tsukihiko, but the server you requested for has not yet—”

She is cut off by a piercing clatter of ceramic against wall; you flinch at the sound as you hurriedly slip out of your wooden geta, stepping onto the raised platform with the dinner tray on your hands.

His admonishing does not cease, as if he was disgusted at her simple presence. “Are you so illiterate that you do not understand the meaning of ‘leave’? You are a waste of your parent’s effort, to think that—”

You quickly rap at the doors, before sliding it open, bowing low in the presence of Aoi and Tsukihiko. His tangent is thankfully cut short by your appearance.

“I will take my leave now, Lord Tsukihiko,” your colleague bows quickly, before brushing past you, leaving a warning touch on the small of your back as she exits the room. You hurriedly shuffle to his side, kneeling as you slide the tray onto his table, not meeting his eyes. You extend your hand, ready to introduce the dinner platter laid out in front of him— when he grabs your wrist once again, stopping you.

“Look at me.”

As if controlled by the velvet of his voice, your eyes dart to look at the man. His voice is commanding, mesmerizing. “Are you afraid?”

You did not intend for it to come out as a scoff, but it does, anyway. “Afraid? You just berated a friend dear to me. I am angered, if anything.”

This time, you think. This time, he would fling the steaming bowl of soup at you.

But he does not. Curiosity makes itself known on his expression, and he releases his hold on you.

“Stay here,” he demands. “Do not leave this room.”

Angered you may be, but he is ultimately the most well-paying customer, so you remain. He takes his meal in silence, as you shuffle to the corner of the room to pick up the pieces of konbu and shards laying on the mat from his assault on Aoi. You would have to remember to tell Madam Kobayashi to replace the square of the tatami— the sauce has made its way into the bamboo weaving of the mat, leaving an unsightly stain.

Once you have decided that there was nothing much else to be done in the room, you settle into a kneel, back straight— eyes trained on your customer who displays his obvious disinterest in the food. He picks at the rice, as if every grain laid in front of him was as tasteless as sand.

Despite his terrible temper, he is stunning, you have to conclude. His skin is pale, almost luminescent even in the dim lighting, but it accentuates the sharpness of his cheekbones. His hair waves and curls around the sides of his face, giving him an almost sort-of youthful look to his features, contrasting nicely with the deep red of his eyes. The way his forearms flex with each movement of his chopsticks do not make you doubt that his physique must be impressive under the layers of his kariginu.

“Tell me, wretched thing,” he speaks. You feel a muscle under your eye twitch at the name. “What do you think my given name is?”

Again, he has a way with questions that leave you baffled. You wrack your brain for an answer— but it comes up blank. He is staring at you with expectation, chopsticks placed on its holder, food barely touched— but no matter how hard you try to come up with a name, any name, nothing feels right on your tongue. You shake your head at him.

“Then, do you think the name Tsukihiko suits me?”

You shake your head again. He seems satisfied by your answer.

“I want you here the next time I come.”

Despite the repeated warnings from the other girls, you find yourself falling for him with each visit. It is a horrible choice, you know— perhaps if he had just been a touch more unattractive, if the look in his eyes had been lackluster, or his head balding, you might’ve thought of him as nothing more than a nuisance— but you realise quickly, he gets softer, gentler with your presence.

He calls you demeaning names, but his touches say otherwise. He caresses the inside of your wrist with such tenderness you begin to wonder if you were both lovers in a past life. Images of his lips gracing your temple crosses your mind during daydreams, and thoughts of his hands on you implant themselves into your dreams, causing you to awake in cold sweat.

The announcement of his arrival leaves butterflies in your stomach. You fly down the stairs, adjusting your kimono under the pretense of pacifying his Lordship, but at some point, your desire warps from one of urgency to one of excitement; of looking forward to meeting him, despite his sharp words and piercing glares.

“Sit beside me,” he commands. You flush, turning your head away. It is not like you did not crave his touch, but you acknowledge the boundaries that have been set by Madam Kobayashi— for your safety.

“My apologies, Lord Tsukihiko, but such contact is not appropriate of a server and their customer.”

He snaps. “Must I repeat everything for you? Have you already gone senile in the weeks of my visits?”

Your body is beside his in an instant, leaving mere centimeters between the both of you. Silence fills the room.

He turns to you. “Do you yearn for me?”

The bluntness of the question strikes you dumb. You stammer, feeling your face warm as your hand flies to your mouth. “N-No, Lord Tsukihiko. It is presumptuous for a server like me to even be in such proximity of noblemen like you—”

His hand wraps itself around your arm, and for once, you get a glimpse of his real strength, previously hidden behind ghostly touches. “Do not lie to me, wastrel. I can smell the desire rolling off your skin. Answer me truthfully.”

He tugs you toward him, face downturned into a scowl, so close you instinctively hold your breath. You can almost count the eyelashes adorning his eyelids, spot the faint lines of his under-eye, admire the smoothness of his skin. His eyes drill holes into you, carmine hue flooding your brain like serotonin, and you crack first— breaking your line of sight to dart down toward his lips. Matching the rest of his skin, they are pale with a dust of pink, giving him an almost ethereal sheen.

You are not quite sure what overcomes you at that moment. You tilt your body toward him, not quite leaning all the way— and he meets you, lips sliding over each other, like it was always meant to be.

It becomes a battle of dominance, with the way you grab the back of his robes, and his forcefulness that pushes you onto the mat. The shove knocks the wind out of you, and you break away to gasp, but you pull him down on you as quickly as you fell, and you feel his tongue run along your teeth, exploring the inside of your cheek, mashing your lips together with such force you think drool slips down the side of your chin.

His eboshi slides off, unraveling his raven hair to cascade around your face, curtaining you away from the rest of the world— you feel only him, the brush of his lips along your jaw, the imprints of his fingers on your body.

In a moment too fast, he pulls away, allowing you to sit up and gasp for air. Your sleeve flies to your mouth, quickly wiping away the traces of saliva that remained on your swollen lips.

He wraps his arm around your waist, tugging you close. “Leave this place. Come with me.”

“My Lord,” you manage to utter in between pants. Your eyes flutter as the weight of your indecent actions begin to realize upon you. “Please, do give me a moment to consider— this is- this is much too fast.”

What comes out of his mouth is nearly a snarl— a glint of light catches on his particularly sharp canines, almost inhuman, but he retracts, releasing his hold on you.

“Let it be known that I am only making this exception for you,” his threat is not as daunting when his face is red, akin to yours. “When I come for dinner tomorrow, you will have your answer ready then.”

He leaves you in a blushing, messy heap as he stalks out of the room, and you see the smear of red on the base of his neck before he closes the door behind him— your lipstick. Shakily, you raise your sleeve to your face, and smell his scent faintly on the fabric.

Muzan does not get his answer, because that very night, an inebriated patron knocks over a tea candle by the doorway, setting the compound ablaze— taking you with it.

The offender is captured and jailed, but otherwise fairly unscathed. After all, he had been the one closest to the entrance. But his mangled body is later found in the confines of his cell, mouth open in a silent scream as he is strung up by his intestines, chunks of flesh torn from his body and discarded on the ground by his corpse. The police do not catch his murderer.

_______________________

Two hundred years since Muzan was reborn anew, he sees you again.

This time, you are a plain face amongst the crowd of commoners that have been gathered outside a village. Your face blatantly displays your anxiousness, bottom lip chewed raw from anxiety. The villagers are equally confused, unsure why they have been rounded up by the shogunate’s army in the dead of the night, led to a field not far from their homes. Parents comfort crying children, and your arms are around an old lady, supporting her shivering form, clearly not meant to withstand long periods of standing, especially not in the freezing temperatures of a chilly autumn night. The flickering fires from the soldiers’ torches do nothing to alleviate the rising fear of the masses.

Muzan pushes through the crowd, coming to a stop in front of you.

You’re startled by his appearance— he is not dressed like the peasants around you, nor donning the typical armour protecting the armies that have you surrounded. Rather, his robes are clearly one of nobility, of wealth. He stares down at you as the general pulls open a scroll in front of the crowd, reading the Emperor’s decree—

In light of the new changes of the ruling Shogunate — Shōgun Minamoto no Yoritomo declares that villages who provided rations to the opposing clans — Shall be executed to prove the rising dominance of the superior Minamoto Clan.

The crowds around the both of you whimper loudly, some fainting, bodies making a dull thud as they hit the dirt. The village men are enraged at the blatant cruelty, and a daring handful flee— only to get gored as they try to push past the soldiers in desperation. Blood pools at your feet, black and sticky under the unsteady light of the torches. Your grip tightens around the old lady’s back, and he sees your face blanch at the wet squelch of blade against flesh, though you keep your eyes trained on him.

His eyes narrow at your pitiful sight.

“Are you afraid?” He asks, watching you quiver.

The old lady raises her hand to pat yours, mumbling comforting words in your village’s dialect. You nod reassuringly at her, blatantly ignoring Muzan’s question in favour of easing her worries. You are lucky he is a patient man— if only for you.

Finally, you turn back to him, your tone almost a sneer. “Afraid? We are not afraid— true fear is the Shōgun's cowardly ways of attempting to control us. Courage is standing up to his armies.”

“Silence!” A soldier barks from behind you. He unsheathes his blade, ready to strike you down for your words.

Insolent filth.

Muzan is faster. The soldier’s head is on the floor before his katana even leaves its saya.

You watch the silhouette of his head roll away into the shadow of the night, thankful the darkness blots out the grisly details. The soldiers murmur in confusion at Muzan’s appearance and the sudden death of their comrade. Ignoring them, the demon grips your chin, pulling it up to face him.

He says your name, like he’s said it the thousands of times before. Your eyes widen. “H-How do you know—”

“I will give you a choice. You either remain here and die pitifully with the rest of your village, or you come with me.”

A pause. You consider his words, the decision heavy.

You stutter. “If- If I follow you, will my family be safe?”

Ah. The demon follows your eyes, the way your hand is protectively wrapped around the old lady, and he spots a group of children not too far away, clearly afraid— but still ready to charge him should he hurt you.

The demon clicks his tongue. “No.”

“Then I will not abandon my family.”

Another woman beside you cries, face in her hands as the older man comforts her. They both yell something at you in their dialects— most likely begging you to leave them behind. You argue back, tears in your eyes— but you have already made your mind, and Muzan has made his.

Wrong. You would never have family. You would never care for anyone but him— you are not his lover.

He turns his back, and vanishes into the night as the screams of villagers pierce through the air and are cut short, one by one.

Muzan would return five years later, to overturn the same rulers responsible for your death.

As he lets the new ruling Hōjō Clan shower him with praises and riches, he thinks to himself sourly— that in hindsight, it is very much like you to stand for your morals, stubborn, even in the face of death.

_______________________

It is another hundred years before he finds you again, and the sight before him almost boils him alive with jealousy.

Another man caresses your face, and you are giggling abashedly as he feeds you a dried fruit cake. Your friends around you guffaw, poking lighthearted fun at your displays of affection, cooing over the pair of lovebirds.

The sight makes Muzan sick. He thinks he could hurl right there. Every inch of him screams— tells him to launch himself at the couple, tear the man limb to limb for having dare kiss you like that— his lover— not that pathetic scoundrel's—

All he can do is seethe from under the shade of the forest, watching your group of companions frolic under the sun.

Just you wait until night, vile dog. I will skin you alive, tear out your entrails and make you watch me feast on every single one of your organs. You will die a slow, painful death.

His bloodlust is so great that you, a mere human, look over your shoulder multiple times— but he knows you will not spot him hidden amongst the thicket of the trees. He stalks you and your lover along the edge, watching him slide a bejeweled hairpin into your bun, fawning over you in front of the vendor who chuckles about young love.

Then after long, agonising hours— the both of you head back. The long shadows cast by the setting sun seem a little more ominous— the way his hand grips your shoulders tighten as you both cross the entrance—

The shoji doors slide close behind you two, and there is shuffling, muffled conversation. You light the lantern in your room, and Muzan watches as the man’s silhouette raises his fist— bringing it down on your kneeling figure.

Your screams pierce the air— sobs and the sound of fists hitting flesh punctuate the night, your figure fighting back as he relentlessly rains blows down on your body, cursing you, your existence. Powerless as you are, you still yell back scathing insults, throwing vases, books at him. The man grabs your head and pulls roughly on your scalp as he shrieks at you. He tears out a chunk of hair, with it, your—

Muzan flings open the doors, tearing it from its rails. Buried deep in your torso, the man twists the hairpin into your stomach, watching its jewels glint heinously with each turn. Your eyes turn to the door.

The blood of your abuser coats your hands as his torso is ripped open from throat to groin, leaving him flailing on the floor of the tearoom. It does not last— his movements quickly cease, reduced to twitching as his organs spill out from him.

Despite the gruesome scene in front of you, your eyes are trained on the demon that just intruded on your abode. Yes, you've heard the stories about them, dangers roaming in the night to hunt for humans— you know he is one because of his ghostly skin and narrow pupils stark against ruby eyes— his fangs, revealed by the way his lips are pulled back into a snarl, claw-like nails on his fingers, wet with blood— he resembles a wild beast hunting, even with his disorienting beauty.

You take one step toward him— the adrenaline is beginning to wear off. Two steps— Muzan catches you and you slump into his arms, cheek pressed against the cool silk of his clothes as you two lower into a kneel on the wooden floorboards of the engawa.

“Are you here to consume me, demon?” You whisper. Blood pours out of your mouth, and you think the last few words sound more like a gurgle than coherent speech. His hold on you tightens ever so slightly.

“No.”

Your bloodied hand reaches out to touch his cheek, eyes glinting as the both of you soak into the embrace of each other. You study his face, blindingly gorgeous, and you think it is a shame that you can only admire him in the moonlight. The wound in your torso burns.

“I have not met you before, stranger. Is it odd for me to think we may be soulmates?”

His gaze on you does not waver. “No.”

You chuckle. “How terribly descriptive of you.”

You let your eyes trail toward the full moon behind him, and there's some part of you thankful that you have been blessed with his presence. Something flashes across the demon's face— his hand reaches out to brush aside a loose strand of hair from your temple. It falls stiffly, hardened with blood and sweat.

“Why is it that even though I know you must have killed countless, I do not fear you?” You hum, eyelids slipping close. “We must've been lovers in our past life.”

He lowers his head to you. “We were.”

Blood spews in greater volumes. “The Gods are truly despicable for only letting us meet now, my love,” your voice is faint now, barely a murmur.

He swallows thickly, taking in your weak smile, basked in the blue tint of the moon. “Gods be damned.”

You do not respond.

_______________________

This time, you are soldier serving under the rule of Ashikaga. Your face is hardened, having seen pointless bloodshed— having been on the other side of the massacres. You tear down his gift for you, the Hōjō Clan falls by the hands of your leader.

And now, you face him, bows drawn as you aim between his eyes.

“Demon,” you frown. Your fellow soldiers flank your sides, their lanterns sway in the warm breeze of a summer night.

“Human,” he purrs.

Instantly, your face is in his hands. The throats of your comrades are slashed open— you do not see, but you hear the gargles, then the thuds of their bodies landing on the ground behind you. You thrash wildly.

“Unhand me— fiend,” you barely choke out, kicking his chest. He does not budge. “Your— actions— do not— daunt me; I am not— afraid.”

Muzan plunges his hand into your stomach, and you scream— his blood surges through your veins, and he grins, eyes wide with the satisfaction of success. Finally. Finally— he would turn you into a demon— you will finally remain by his side, putting an end to the endless cycle of reincarnation, you will be his once and for all, and you—

With a last thrash, you bite down on his palm. Your body rejects him, and bursts in his hands. Blood showers down on him, sliding down his cheek, your scent shrouding him as if to mock his effort.

The demon stands still, frozen, the silence of the aftermath deafening. Then, he curls over, shaking with guilt— rage— resentment— and lets out an anguished cry into the unforgiving night.

_______________________

He watches you from the shadows. Since then, Muzan had loathed his very own existence— for he had been the one to kill you, to make you suffer. He still recalls with vivid detail the way your flesh swelled under his hands— the way your eyes stare at him with such contempt before you exploded before him.

So this time, he thinks that maybe he should leave you be— let you have a break from his interventions. To watch you live a life happy, to watch you love someone (as displeased as it may make him), grow old and doddery, and die, so that he can find you in your next life.

Instead, he watches as the same illness ravages your body like it did five hundred years ago. Like a sick joke, you are dead before twenty, yet again.

_______________________

It must be his torture— this goes on, always, as if that one childish promise you both shared at your wedding offended the Gods to curse you beyond not one, but the rest of your lifetimes.

He watches you, a geisha poisoned by a jealous maiko.

A court noble that kills yourself at the loss of your ruler.

Your corpse, frozen by the most brutal winter storm that graces Japan.

His search for the blue spider lily grows more desperate — if he got his hands on it, he could save you. Turn you immortal as he did, let you stay forever by his side.

“Incapable—!” He sends the head of Gyokko flying across the castle. The rest of the Upper Moons do not flinch. “I tell you to bring the blue spider lily to me, six of you— and you cannot get the job done?”

He has been in an especially bad mood. The past hundred or so years, he has been unable to locate you, even after scouring the most remote of villages and the most crowded of regions. The influx of foreign interference has thrown Japan into chaos, as humans begin to bleed into areas where civilization was once sparse, hampering his search for you.

“Tell me, why should I keep you here? You serve only one purpose, and you have yet to fulfill that. Am I asking for too much?” A threat laced with poison, to obscure the building frustration that lay underneath. “Tell me, Douma. Am I so incompetent in my guidance that you six struggle to find one flower?”

“No, my Lord!” Douma chirps. “In fact, I would say your Lordship has been nothing but excell—”

The top half of Upper Moon Two’s head flies off, blood splattering against the wall. With a flick of Muzan’s wrist, the Upper Moons are returned to earth. He wipes Douma’s blood off his hands with a handkerchief, tossing it onto the ground, disgusted.

He must find you. This will be the first and last time he misses your reincarnation — he will not tolerate another bout of failure, not when it matters the most. He will search under every rock, tear down every house, strangle every last human if it meant having you by him again.

Until— instead of him finding you, you find him first.

You’re breathtaking, under the light of the full moon. The trees towering over both of you cast soft shadows across the grounds, but he recognizes you all the same. Your body is braced, heckles raised as you face him, hand on the nichirin blade affixed to your belt, the demon slayer uniform on your frame.

“Demon,” you spit. The sound of your blade being drawn cuts through the cicadas in the dark forest.

He’s enraptured— you look just as you did the very first time he met you, more so than any reincarnations. Your resemblance was so uncanny, he could— he could almost fool himself into thinking you’ve lived all this while, hiding away from him.

“My name,” he utters. “Say my name.”

Your posture falters at the ridiculous demand. “What—? How would I know your name, demon—”

There’s a pause as the cogs in your head turn. He knows you realize it too, because your demeanor shifts, your grip slackens for just a split second, before you swing your sword toward him with vengeance hundredfold, eyes brimming with fury.

The voice that comes out of you is one filled with spite, but the words could not be any sweeter on your tongue.

“Kibutsuji Muzan!”

He thinks he could weep with how he has longed to hear you call his name. You turn to your kasugai crow, perched somewhere in the trees.

“Call for the nearest Hashira!” You bark, the sharp clash of blade against claws nearly drowns out your order. “Tell them that Kibutsuji Muzan—”

Your crow hits the ground with a muted thump, twitching, wings severed. Your eyes widen with horror— with rage— you swing your blade at him, screaming. “You fucking demon!”

Muzan grabs the hilt of your blade with ease, sliding it back into the saya by your belt. You swing your free arm toward him, teeth clenched as your arm lashes— but he catches your wrist, bringing you up against the bark of the nearest tree, pinning you with such force it knocks the wind out of you. The action disorients you, but you do not hesitate to thrash in his grip, swinging your legs out to kick him as hard as you can.

Your name slips from his mouth. It is unintentional, but it gets you to stop writhing in his grip. Your chest heaves. “Why do you know my name?”

He leans into you— you cringe back, pressing yourself as far back into the trunk as you can. The scent rolling off him is sickeningly sweet— horrifyingly pleasant, for a demon who has done nothing but consume humans. Tears begin to pool out the corners of your eyes, and you squeeze them shut, feeling the droplets roll down your cheeks.

“Tell me, slayer. Why do you cry?” He asks. “Are you afraid?”

You shakily scoff, sniffing as you weakly struggle against his hold. “Afraid? Anything but. I am frustrated— at my own lack of power. I am regretful— for all the things I have yet to do. I am outraged— at your pity for me.” You scowl at him, his face inches away from yours. “Stop humiliating me. Just kill me.”

He scans your face, the blotchy redness of your cheeks, stained with tears.

(He’s only ever seen you cry once, a long, long time ago when he was still human— you sob for him in as he rests his head in your lap, on a particularly bad day when the illness polluted his mortal body. When he would not stop tasting bile at the back of his throat, but you press your cool fingers against his scorching forehead, gently wiping away the traces of vomit on his mouth, tenderly feeding him congee when his stomach refuses to keep anything else down. You sob for him when you think he would leave you that day— when he struggles to sit up from bed, but the bout passes, and he recovers. You did not.)

His voice is soft. “Do you remember loving me?”

Your reaction is so visceral, the force at which you lurch in response so great he nearly breaks his hold. Recognition crosses your features for a split second— but it morphs into disgust.

“Then,” he tries to coax it out of you. “do you worship the Gods?”

Blood runs down your mouth from how hard you are biting your lip, and you grimace at him from beneath your lashes.

“No. They obviously do not care for humanity,” you snap. “To have placed the blight that is Kibutsuji Muzan— on earth. If the Gods truly loved us, they would not have brought demons onto this land.” Your lips curl up into a shaky grin, not of absurdity, but of hate. “Gods be damned.”

Muzan kisses you.

He presses his lips against yours with such force your teeth clash— it is not pleasant, but it is a kiss of desperation and anguish— he holds your face with his other hand, almost devouring you with how he leans into you, tasting your blood, your tears. You bite down on his tongue, hard— it does nothing to him. You yell, but it is muffled by his mouth.

“You motherfucker!” You scream, when he finally pulls back. You thrash even more wildly, but you are helpless, bound by his inhuman strength. “How dare you, you scum! We’ll kill you!”

He leans into your shoulder, forehead against your collarbone. You bite his jugular— he lets you. You sink your teeth deep into his neck with the full intention for it to hurt— to show your contempt— it draws blood, and he lets it trail down his chest.

After some time, you finally release him. Your tears have run dry, and you can only glare at him.

His voice is soft. “I will see you again in a hundred years, love.”

You spit his blood onto the ground beside you. “I await you in hell.”

Your head rolls onto the ground, and your lover leaves your body slumped against the tree.

_______________________

This is retribution, he thinks, as the sun burns away his body. In the light— the last he will ever see, the warmth of the rays feel like your hands against his cheeks.

Muzan burns in hell for what feels like an eternity. You are not there.

_______________________

_______________________

“Toshikuni!” A voice calls from the door. Two sharp raps— then it creaks open.

“Toshikuni,” his adoptive mother smiles warmly. “I’ve brought your medicine. Please have it with your lunch.”

The child scowls as he watches his mother set the tray by his bedside table. She fusses over him, pulling the blanket across his lap, pressing her hand against his forehead to feel for his temperature.

“Thank the heavens your fever broke yesterday! It was a disaster, that infection from your IV drip,” she bemoans, drawing open the curtains beside him. “It is a lovely day today. Let’s leave the windows open, shall we?”

“Mother, I can handle myself—”

“Oh! The children are playing by the oak tree again,” she clicks her tongue. “It would be nice if you could recover fast and befriend them, yes?”

The estate is a grand one— its land stretched acres, but after the death of his parents, his relatives decided it would be better to open the gardens for the children of the town to visit occasionally, filling up the otherwise quiet residence with laughter and play.

“Please close the window, Mother. My room is on the first floor, it is prone to insects crawling in—”

“Nonsense, Toshikuni!” She chirps, pushing the window further. “We can always chase insects away. The outside air will do you some good.”

The child glowers, but his Mother pays his temper no heed, bidding him a cheerful goodbye as she closes the door behind her. She was right, he reluctantly admits. The fresh breeze was nice against his skin, and the sunlight warm on his cheeks. He lets his eyes close, feeling the heat of the day seep into his room.

A small face peeks up from behind the windowsill. “Hey.”

He grudgingly opens his eyes to glare at the perpetrator. “Insects,” he mutters under his breath.

You push yourself up further, hands resting against the window. “Rude!” You place your chin in your hand, studying him. “I always see you in bed. Aren’t you bored?”

He turns his head away, scoffing. “Does it look like I have much of a choice, here?”

His indignant tone does little to scare you away. You lean in further. “Your name is Toshikuni, right? I heard the nice lady call you that.” Your hands raise to cup against your mouth, whispering loudly. “Between you and me, I don’t think it suits you very well.”

He feels heat rise to his cheeks as his attention focuses on you. “It’s not my real name. Mother and the servants just call me that.” He pauses. Against his better judgement, he continues. “My real name is Kibutsuji Muzan.”

The grin that breaks out on your face is as blinding as the sun above. You lean as far in as you can manage, grabbing his hand between yours. “I think that name suits you!” You yell. Muzan startles, a blush erupting across his face as he watches you beam at him. You tell him your name, like an eternal pact of friendship, squeezing his fingers. In the distance, someone calls your name— you release your grasp, squirming backward out the window as you turn to the group of children by the oak tree in the distance. There’s a feeling of disappointment as he watches you face away, shouting back a response to them. His fingers flex in the absence of your touch.

But just as quickly, you turn back to him, smiling. “Muzan! You know, Tanabata is tonight— do you wanna come?”

Your hand is extended toward him, crossing into his space from beyond the window. Your eyes sparkle in the sunlight, anticipation evident on your features, the promise of Tanabata hanging in the air.

The boy hesitates— your smile falters. “Are you afraid?”

The question sparks something in him. “Afraid?” He scoffs.

Muzan takes your hand, climbing over the windowsill— and jumps into your outstretched arms.

Twenty years later, a man sits under the shade of the oak tree, a book in his hand.

There’s a shout from a distance— he looks up, and is promptly tackled, the little girl’s sundress fluttering in the breeze. She looks up at him, eyes bright, a missing tooth in her grin. "Papa!"

You appear after a short delay, hands on your knees, doubled over and catching your breath. “Wait— darling—” you pant. “Who did you even take after, to have so much energy?”

Muzan hums to himself as he carries his daughter in one arm, hoisting her up. “Well, she’s definitely a papa’s girl, isn’t she?” He pinches her cheeks. She giggles, burying her nose into his hair.

The breeze is cool in the spring air, a respite from heat of the cloudless sky. Muzan holds out his arm, and you link yours together.

The three of you head home.

END.

if you enjoyed this, please feel free to like, reblog or leave a reply. i'm also grateful for any feedback regarding my work— I write as a hobby, and am always looking to improve it.

“You inspire me,” he begins. His breath catches. “Your strength, your kindness… every day I find myself looking for you. Thinking of you. Wishing to share even the smallest things with you.”

The yearning in his voice is unmistakable. It’s the kind that forms slowly, like embers gathering enough heat to bloom into flame. He takes a breath that seems to steel him, but he speaks gently.

“My heart races when you are near! It refuses to quiet itself.” A tiny laugh escapes him. “I-- I care for you. Deeply. More deeply than I realized until it became impossible to contain.”

For a moment he looks down, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, the bold Flame Hashira searching for courage in the silence you share.

You step toward him. The answer was already written in your chest, steady as a heartbeat. When you reach out, your hand brushes his, and his fingers tighten around yours at once.

“Kyojuro,” you say, and his name feels like a promise. “I feel the same.”

His head lifts sharply, eyes wide with a happiness so pure it makes your breath catch. His smile spreads, but this time it’s gentle, almost reverent.

“Truly?” he whispers, the word barely a spark.

When you nod, his smile becomes ten times wider and warmer. He holds your hand as if it’s a treasure he’s been entrusted with, thumb brushing your knuckles in a gesture far more tender than his usual boldness.

“I will cherish this,” he says, voice low, “and I will cherish you.”

Suddenly, he straights his back tight, looking at you deeply in the eyes. "I will start courting you tomorrow! Or even right now, if you let me."

You can help but laugh, lowering your gaze a little. You take another step towards him, grabbing his other hand in the action, now you were holding him.

"But I'm already yours, Kyojuro."

He blinks fast, like he can't believe your words. He had this whole plan in his mind and now your totally messed it up. Even if it was for good, you left him speechless.

“Already… mine?” he repeats, voice unsteady, as if tasting the words will make them real.

You watch the realization bloom across his face. It hits him all at once, and he looks down at your joined hands like they’re a miracle he never quite believed he deserved.

He breathes out your name, so softly it barely counts as sound. Then he squeezes both your hands, warm and certain.

“I still want to court you,” he says with no hesitation. Just pure sincerity. “Even more now. You deserve to be adored properly. Treated with intention. Shown how important you are.”

His voice grows firmer with each word, not loud, but grounded the way a flame steadies when it finds something to cling to.

“A relationship does not begin and end with a confession,” he says, eyes searching yours. “It should be nurtured. Honored and celebrated. I wish to do all of that for you.”

He swallows, cheeks warming with a heat that isn’t fire but feels just as bright.

“I want to bring you small things that remind me of you. Train with you, walk with you, sit beside you when the day grows long.” His thumb glides slowly across your fingers. “I want you to feel desired, cherished and supported. Every day. Every moment.”

The strange part is, he’s not grandstanding. This isn’t bluster or dramatic flair. He’s not performing for you. He’s revealing himself, piece by glowing piece, and it leaves the air trembling between you.

You lift one of his hands and press your lips to his knuckles. The gesture startles him at first, then melts him entirely. You feel it in the way his breath stutters and his fingers cup your cheek without thinking.

“Allow me,” he whispers, leaning closer, “to spend as long as I live proving it.”

His forehead meets yours, warm and steady. The world around you seems to hush of its own accord, as if the wind itself wants to give you space.

“Tomorrow,” he says, voice just above a breath, “I begin a courtship worthy of you.”

You laugh, but your chest aches with affection. “You can start today, you know.”

His grip tightens, and a bright glow spreads across his face.

“Then today,” he declares softly, “is the first day.”