Chapter Text
Victory wasn’t an option.
It’s evident in the way the sun barely flutters over demon skin as the threat left, leaving behind a battlefield that only smelled like blood and dirt, the bodies so fresh that decomposition was yet to begin.
Tanjirou’s checkered haori is in pieces, so are many of the corpses.
In the morning light, the Hashiras didn’t seem so powerful after all. There’s Kanroji, who lays limp against a crumbled wall with a white-scaled serpent in her cold hands, the animal writhing as it searches for a black and white striped haori. It’s beady red eyes search almost desperately, it’s tongue flicking out in a panic because it seemed to already know what happened to the Hashira it belonged to.
Tomioka is missing, aside from his sliced arm that sat upon ground. The only way of identifying it as his was the colorful haori that sat on the left side of his body, it was probably what had Shinazugawa reaching for it. For something, someone familiar . The flesh on the limb is dirtied and stained with blood, but the wind Hashira didn’t seem to mind as his dying strength was used to grip the fabric of the torn haori sleeve tightly.
There’s a silent apology in those last actions.
Zenitsu feels like he is invading something by staring at the corpse, so he drifts his remaining energy to the bristle fur of Inosuke’s boar mask against his fingers and the cold feeling of Tanjirou’s corpse by his shoulder. He would’ve apologized to Tanjirou’s body if it had a head, the blonde too scared to greet the sight of open muscle and a hard bone.
The battlefield is cold, silent aside from Zenitsu’s soft breaths.
Even whilst bleeding out, the blonde couldn’t help but find himself slowly accepting it. Death that is.
He tried hard, he’s sure that Jigoro would be proud.
When the blonde thinks about how easily his blade slid into the neck of Kaigaku’s, his tears only begin to slip out of his waterline and tickle his cheeks.
His tummy hurt, it hurt so bad. The tears in his stomach made him want to throw up, but he knew he couldn’t. So he just tried to push pressure against the wound and did his best to ignore the boiling hot feeling of blood upon his cheeks and palm; the back of his head pressed against the broken wall behind him.
There’s a bitter chuckle that slips through Zenitsu’s lips, his eyelashes collecting the tears as he blinked.
This is it , he mouthed into the air— his throat too sore from screaming, this is the end of it.
His fingertips caress the rough fur of Inosuke’s mask once more, as if trying to find an ounce of hope. He slightly regrets doing so, because his eyes only become more wet at the realization that.. they’re gone.
They’re gone.
We lost.
We lost, Jii-chan. We lost, and I feel like hell.
His fingers become numb as he lets the last couple tears hit the top of Inosuke’s mask, his head relaxing on the welcoming shoulder of Tanjirou’s corpse. He lets out a couple sniffles, and he can feel the morning sun seem to kiss his cheeks as his eyes flutter closed for what seemed to be the last time.
Zenitsu just wants to sleep, sleep forever.
He’s so tired, so so tired.
His eyes act as a curtain, his mind slowly beginning to shut down and his body immediately relaxing into a slack position.
He’s ready, he can see Jigoro in the distance— he’s so fucking ready to run across the grassy fields of what he can only assume is heaven and towards the older man, to cry and tell him about what it was like.
How much he enjoyed being a protector, how little he understood just how much time spent with his friends, how much he loved them.
God, he fucking loved them.
Then he wakes up.
No , no he shouldn’t be able to wake up.
That wasn’t a dream— it couldn’t have been. Nono it wasn’t a dream.
Yet his hands clench at the blanket of the hotel’s futon, his eyes burn into the old wood that made the ceiling, his breathing is irregular but it’s stronger than the ones he took at the battlefield. The golden bangs are rustled and frizzy with sweat and sleep, and his body is clean of any wounds.
No, no that wasn’t a fucking dream.
He can’t help but be in denial— because he knows he grabbed Jigoro’s hand. He knows that the sting of his stomach wound was enough of a warning that he would die, he knows that he shouldn’t be anywhere near alive.
Zenitsu tears the blanket off his skin, it feels itchy .
He shouldn’t be here.
The sounds of others sleeping in the other rooms solidify his suspicions, and reawaken a memory that he didn’t seem to find significant.
There’s a crashing of glass against a floor, followed by an angry and stern argument between what he could assume was a couple.
Next is someone sleep talking to themselves, before the rustle of a blanket follows it.
Suddenly; the passing maid pushed her cart of cleaning tools down the hall just beside Zenitsu’s room door, humming to herself softly.
His haori is neatly folded beside his futon, his sword placed beside it.
The material against his skin was a yukata, and the voice that spilled out of his lips was premature.
God, god.
He immediately gets up, tearing himself from the bed and tugging his door open.
The maid is startled by his sudden appearance, but relaxes— albeit a hesitant expression on her older features.
He can only assume how crazed he looked, red-lined and dry lips, hair messy.
“What’s.. wh-what’s the date?” He spoke, a shaky hand upon the wood of the door. She seemed confused at the question, before brushing a strand of grey hair behind her ear.
“Young man, it’s ..”
Her voice seems to fade away after he hears the answer, Zenitsu hoping that he bows thankfully at her, she doesn’t see his shaking body.
With his back against the door, his fingers sink into the strands of his hair.
“No fucking way.” The blonde cursed, staring down into the carved crevices into the wooden floor. Tugging roughly at a patch of gold hair makes the point seemingly more real, to the point that his head begins to burn at the pain. “No no.. no way.”
Zenitsu Agatsuma isn’t religious, he only prays occasionally when Jigoro forces him or when Tanjirou has asked him to when they buried corpses. Yet as he bites his nails, he can only assume that this occurrence was a curse from someone above him.
The morning light flutters upon his features, similar to that of the sunlight from the battlefield.
He couldn’t sleep, didn’t even try to.
It tickles his eyes, it starts from blinding to manageable. It’s his fault that his eyes feel irritated though, time spent crying his eyes out at the thought of suffering the loss once more.
This was a cruel joke on him, a terribly cruel joke.
Zenitsu’s already dressed in his uniform, finding the comforting yukata too much upon his skin. It was like being given a cake before being executed, he hated the idea of being comfortable whilst reliving the memories of his dead friends and the desolate field in his head.
The hours went by quickly when he sobbed into the sleeves of his clothing, and by the end of it he was exhausted mentally.
A shadow runs over his face, blocking the sun that spilled through the window. He finishes his morning tea, watery but the hotel was graceful enough to make it so the hot water was tinted enough to pass as tea.
A tweet makes him smile softly, a hand reaching up to hold his cheek as he turns to face the kasugai sparrow. It’s hazelnut features and beige fur, small beak and small body.
“Good morning Chuntaro.” He spoke gently, trying to come off fine . The way he spoke held the same hesitance, the same shaky tone.
The sparrow seemed healthy, the furry thing happily flying atop of the table, just beside the steaming cup of ‘tea’.
Zenitsu decides to raise his hand weakly, his pointer curling out to resemble a ledge that the sparrow could take comfort on.
Chuntaro irks his head to the side in curiosity, before fluttering fluffy wings out and deciding to perch upon the finger. It’s a quick interaction though, the blonde quickly letting the bird sit atop of the table again.
The bird makes itself comfortable as Zenitsu reaches for his blade, and prepares to tuck it into the white belt of his uniform. He hesitates unfolding the soft fabric of his triangle-patterned haori, the bright yellow staring back at him.
“Chuu?”
Zenitsu sighs, a bitter sigh at that before deciding to pluck it up and let it fall upon his body.
The clothing feels so much heavier than it did before, yet that’s probably just his emotions growing heavier in his heart. Chuntaro watches him slip the boy’s arms through the sleeves, and finally tuck his sheathed sword into his belt.
“We should get going…”
The sparrow let out a sound of confusion, once again baffled by the blonde’s behavior. The bird thought he had it right, considering that all the boy had showed him was a pitiful fear and cowardly attitude towards being a demon slayer.
Yet unlike yesterday, Zenitsu’s eyes seemed distant.
If Zenitsu didn’t breathe and sputter ineligible complaints when the tea cup fell over, perhaps the bird would’ve thought he was a doll.